title: samson went back to bed.
word count: 2 040 words.
summary: Sam is driving and John is angry and Dean is bleeding something fierce, but he doesn’t really care.
warning: wincest; slightly AU, but not really; spoilers for devil's trap.
feedback: i need it like dean needs sam.
disclaimer: not mine, kripke owns all. the title is from samson by regina spektor.
samson went back to bed.
They drive for miles and don’t really get anywhere, but that’s okay because Dean can feel the Colt against his thigh.
He tries not to think about it.
The road is solid beneath the Impala’s wheels, and Dean’s trying to hold the blood inside his chest, cupping it with his right hand, but he knows it’s useless. It’ll just keep coming.
Sam drives fast and sure and John radiates anger in the passenger seat and Dean bleeds. It’s kind of like old times.
He hears a truck horn blast twice in the distance, feels Sam look at John out of the corner of his eyes.
“Just keep driving,” John says, looking out the window. “That truck’s got to be at least a mile away.”
Sam nods, longer than necessary, and that’s that.
Yeah. Old times.
They get to the motel and Sam lends Dean his shoulder. Easier this way.
John refused to go to the hospital.
“Do you have any idea what they’ll think when we walk in there? Bloody and beat up?” he yelled, turning from the window to look at Sam.
“Yeah.” And Sam’s voice was all defiance and don’t-give-a-fuck and just-watch-me and it made Dean proud. “Yeah, and I don’t care. Dean needs a doctor.”
“What he needs,” John said, “is for us to get to a motel. I’ll take care of it.”
Sam shook his head and snorted. Dean coughed.
Dean pressed his right hand to his stomach and swallowed a mouthful of blood.
“Just get us to a motel. We’ll be fine.”
Sam looked at him through the rear-view mirror, lips curled into a snarl. He shook his head again, but didn’t say another word.
Now, he carries Dean into their room and sits him on the bed. Dean watches as he grabs the salt right out of John’s hands and does the job himself. Getting pretty good at it, too.
“Dean,” John says, low. “Come here. I’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll need some stitches.”
Sam doesn’t look up as Dean stretches out on the bed, and his hands don’t shake.
He’s drinking the last of the alcohol right out of the bottle, and he doesn’t care.
Dean isn’t really surprised to see two deep gashes on his chest when he removes his shirt, but the look on John’s face is making him nervous. He watches his father get out his kit and watches him thread a needle and watches Sam place a chair between the beds so he can hold Dean’s hand.
“Dude —“ he starts.
“Fuck the no chick flick moments, alright, Dean?” Sam’s grip is tight and sure, like the way he drove the Impala, and Dean can see the veins.
John doesn’t say anything. Just prepares the needle and sits on top of Dean. In case he has to be held down. Dean nods.
When the pain becomes too much to bear and he starts to huff his breath through his teeth, Sam only tightens his fist.
He wakes up when the bed dips to his right. He reaches for the gun he didn’t hide under the pillow, but Sam says, “It’s only me.”
And that’s that.
He wakes up again when Sam twitches in his sleep. It lasts seven minutes and twenty-three seconds. Dean counts his breaths and Sam’s, and there’s another person in the room.
Dean turns his head to the left, to the other bed, and it’s John, sleeping with one hand under his pillow. Dean watches his chest rise and fall, times his own breathing to match.
It’s stupid, but it really is like old times.
In the morning, Sam won’t let Dean stand up.
“You have to sit and let your body heal itself,” he says and Dean rolls his eyes. “Really.”
“Whatever. What good am I if I can’t get out of bed?”
“Dean,” John says, and Dean hates that he still falls silent immediately. “Sam’s right. We have to lay low for a while so you can get better.”
“But what if —“
“I’m going to go around town, check if anyone’s heard anything, seen anything. I won’t be long. You two stay here.”
He’s gone without another word. Sam doesn’t even bother arguing.
Dean flops his head onto the pillow. “Man, I gotta piss.”
“You want me to get you a bedpan?” Sam looks up at him, and the solemn color in his eyes makes Dean laugh for the first time in days.
Sam smiles; grins. He opens his laptop, and Dean clutches his chest.
The day passes quietly, and Dean’s mind boggles. He sleeps for a few hours, and yeah, okay. That does make him feel a little better.
Sam clicks away on the laptop and Dean doesn’t have the sense to ask him what he’s doing. He probably doesn’t want to know anyway.
John comes back a little after nightfall, and he’s got some leads to check out, but it’ll have to wait until morning, because he doesn’t want to leave his boys alone in the dark.
That last part goes unsaid, but Dean gets it. He gets it loud and clear.
Sam sleeps next to him again, and twitches a little every now and then. Again. Dean wants to shake him awake and ask him about this new development, because it sure as hell has never happened before, but he doesn’t. He lets him sleep.
Dean gets up to go to the bathroom around three in the morning and then walks the length of the motel room six times, just because he can. He stretches his arms above his head and rolls his neck.
He looks at John. He doesn’t really know exactly what’s going on, doesn’t know what leads he has to check out, when they’re leaving again, where they’re fucking going. But it doesn’t matter. Not really.
Sam makes a noise in the other bed and Dean hopes it’s not a nightmare. He doesn’t want to have to wake him up.
Sam turns over in his sleep and slides a hand into the negative space where Dean used to be.
There’s nothing there.
Sam opens his eyes, says ‘get the fuck back into bed, asshole’ without moving his lips, because John is a light sleeper. He’s a Winchester. Dean climbs back in and tries not to think about why.
Dean’s up and moving the next day, enough of this ‘let your body rest’ bullshit. He spars with Sam all morning, John calling out tips and instructions every few minutes, and it’s just like old times.
Sam grunts more than usual and looks at John with that same defiance he always had, and Dean takes the opportunity to get him in the gut.
“Pay attention, Sammy,” John warns and Sam punches Dean so hard that he actually falls to the ground.
He looks up through the haze of fog in his head and hears John say, “Well, game’s up. You need to stay in shape.”
Dean watches Sam until John is out the door, off to follow up on those leads or sacrifice a virgin for all Dean cares.
His jaw hurts like a bitch.
“Have you and dad talked?”
They’re eating take-out on the floor between the beds and Dean’s mouth is full of rice and half a chicken ball, but he shakes his head.
Sam picks at his food with his chopsticks and says, “No?”
Dean swallows. “No. Why? About what?” Sam rolls his eyes because, yeah, Dean knows about what. “No.”
“Me neither. I don’t really know what to say. Sorry I didn’t shoot you?”
“Whatever, man. Let’s just concentrate on what we’re gonna do. We have to leave eventually. Sitting around isn’t helping.”
Sam twirls his rice, says, “Do you get the feeling something’s wrong?”
Dean looks up. “Nah, man. It’s just like old times. The only thing that’s different is your twitching.”
Sam doesn’t say another word and Dean eats his food too fast. Old times.
Dean jerks awake to the fading memory of truck headlights and screeching metal; the feeling of hitting his head hard and fast.
He feels a hand on his arm, and it’s Sam holding onto him. “You okay?” he whispers.
Dean nods and sinks down into the bed.
“And I twitch?” Sam asks with a little smile, only at the corner of his lips. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking closely.
“Fuck you.” Dean moves his neck from side to side and Sam’s hand is still gripping his arm. “Sammy.”
Sam puts a finger to his lips and nods toward John in the other bed. Sam holds his arm for a few seconds longer and then releases it, releases him. His eyes are shadows but Dean can still see them. Close.
Sam lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, and Dean turns to face him. “Sammy.” Dean’s fingers close around his wrist and Sam moves into him.
The negative space between them is shrinking, and Sam is kissing him, hand in his hair, thigh against thigh. Dean kisses back. Tongue, teeth, urgency.
Sam rolls them until he hovers above Dean and the hand in his hair travels down his body to push at his dick through his boxers. Dean’s gasp echoes in the room, and Sam puts his other hand over his mouth.
“Shh,” he whispers. “Dad will hear you.”
Dean arches up into his hand.
Sam pulls away only to return with hand on dick, skin on skin, eyes on eyes. Dean pants against Sam’s hand as he is jerked off under the covers of a motel bed with his father sleeping three feet away.
Sam’s grip his almost painful. Slow and sure, not at all like how he drives, but kind of like how he pours salt. How he speaks Latin. Dean moves his hips along with Sam’s hand and he doesn’t care that the bed is starting to squeak just a little. He doesn’t care.
Sam’s eyes are open and watching him, and Dean watches back. He realizes that his hands are hanging limply on the bed, so he reaches up to touch his brother. He clenches his hips and pulls him in. He can feel him, hard against his thigh, and he bucks his hips.
Sam breathes a little harder, so Dean does it again. They’re moving together on the cheap motel sheets and trying not to scream. Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck, sucks on his pulse point and bites him just hard enough to leave a mark.
John will probably notice it in the morning.
Sam’s hand is moving faster and faster, and Dean wants this to last a little longer. Wants this. He pumps his hips two more times and that’s that, and Sam shudders against him. He nearly bites his tongue.
When Sam lifts his head, he looks over at John. Dean doesn’t; he slides his hands up Sam’s sides and brings him down closer. Sam’s eyes are shadows, but Dean can see. He kisses him, tongue against tongue, and yeah. He understands now. Something doesn’t really feel quite right.
In the morning, John looks at his neck and doesn’t say a word. His eyes are different, though, slightly. A little paler than usual. A little more yellow.
Dean can’t wrap his brain around it. Old times are over and done with and something feels a little wrong.
John leaves again, checking out those leads, and Sam won’t come out of the bathroom. Dean is left alone in the middle of the motel room but he doesn’t really care.
They’re driving fast and sure, because Sam’s got the wheel and that’s the way it always is. John is silent and Dean’s trying to catch his own blood.
None of it really matters, though, because he can feel the ground beneath the tires and the Colt against his thigh.
It’s warm. He tries not to think about it.
The road is leading them out of town and Sam says there’s a hospital not too far away and Dean can just barely hear a rumble in the distance.
It must be a truck. Sam is driving and John is angry and Dean is bleeding something fierce, but he doesn’t really care.
It’s too late anyway.
comments? criticisms? any feedback is welcome.