sonofabiscuit77 (sonofabiscuit77) wrote,

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Fic: Treasure - Chapter Three - (Sam/Dean - NC-17)

Back to Chapter Two


Dean has a routine. Friday afternoons, after Red Team training, he goes to Rick’s. There’s a couple of hours when the bar is quiet, when he can sit and drink and feel like that guy he used to be, the one who isn’t living on a military compound in a dystopian world where most of humanity is already extinct. He can imagine that he’s still Dean Winchester, hunter, and that Sam – Sam with both legs and not smelling of formaldehyde – is about to swing by any moment with pages of research and the answer to their current case.

He takes his usual spot at the bar, propping his chin on his hands, elbows on the polished wood.

“How are things going, Mr. Torrance?”

He smirks and glances up to see Rick slide into view, dark hair slicked back and a bar-rag tossed over one shoulder.

“Things could be better, Lloyd, things could be a whole lot better,” he says, slipping into character.

“And what will you be drinking, Sir?”

“Hair of the dog that bit me, Lloyd.”

Rick chuckles and turns to deposit a just-poured glass of something golden brown and delicious in front of Dean. “There you go, Sir.”

Dean sticks one hand in his pocket and draws it out, making a show of holding out his bare palm. “Say, I seem to be a little light right now. How’s my credit in this joint, Lloyd?”

“You’re credit’s fine, Sir, just fine.”

Dean nods and raises the glass to his lips for a long refreshing sip. He sighs gratefully and places the glass back on the bar, raising his hand to point his trigger-finger at Rick.

“You are a prince among bartenders, Lloyd, a prince among bartenders.”

“I don’t think that’s the line,” says Rick with a smirk, fake British accent fading away and regular Philly fading back in.

Dean shrugs, ditching his patented Jack-impression. “Meh, whatever. I’m improvising. And dude, you have no idea how much I needed this.” He takes a savoring sip, smacking his lips together. God it tastes good, so much better than the home-brewed rot-gut Rick usually serves up. It pays to have an in at this joint, even if that in just consists of a shared geek-on for The Shining.

Rick chuckles and moves along the bar, swishing his disgusting looking rag along the chipped wood. He dips down behind the bar for a second then reappears with something in his hand, turning back to call, “Hey, gotta show you something.”

“Yeah, what?”

He grins and drops a CD in a plastic wallet in front of Dean.

“It’s a CD.”

“Yeah,” says Rick, pushing it across the bar towards Dean with one finger. “Take a closer look.”

Dean flicks his gaze from Rick’s enthusiastic expression back down to the CD. It’s a home-burnt one, the kind that was already on the way to becoming obsolete back before the world ended, replaced by I-Pods and Nanos and whatever else little pieces of flimsy, kiddy-colored crap the kids were going for. Not that he cared, he’d always hated CD’s, damn things were not a patch on classic vinyl or even cassette tapes.

“Look at the track list,” Rick prompts excitedly.

Dean gives him a look, and reads off the label: “Rick’s Party Mix!.”

“Yeah! Exactly! It’s my own mix, all the favorite tracks from the karaoke here. A few of yours too, man. Every Rose Has Its Thorn? November Rain? Dream On? Hey, hey? Whatcha think?”

“It’s a mix-tape,” Dean states, eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

“A mix CD! For morale.”

“You made a mix tape of power ballads for morale. Sorry, man, just ain’t seeing the connection here.”

“Dude, you been livin’ under a rock, or what?” Rick scoffs. “Spring Fling? The big dance? It’s Mrs. Fitzgerald’s idea, I reckon she’s just hoping that a load more single folk will hook up, more babies for her machine I guess. But I’m holdin’ it here –“ He spreads his arms, taking in the entire bar. “It’s gonna be awesome. April 14th, you should totally come. Trust me, everyone’s gonna be hookin’ up. And you could do with the action. Gotta give your right hand a break at some point, man.” He snickers at his own joke, smirking at Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes at him. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Rick smirks again and Dean glances back down at the CD, trying not to think about the stupid fucking dance, ‘cause seriously, a fucking dance? In his bar? The bar where he drinks?

Was nothing sacred anymore?

“So what’s with the CD?” he asks after a moment. “What’s that got to do with this dance?”

“Oh right, yeah, so I’m gonna give them away to every couple who comes, like party favors. I’ve started copying them already. You know how it is with the electrical shortages; I can only manage one or two a day at the most, gotta start early. You can keep that one. Give it to some lucky chick.”

He immediately thinks of Sam, and hides his grin, sliding the CD into the pocket of his pants. Rick winks at him and turns to pass out through the swinging doors at the back to the storeroom.

“Commander Winchester? I haven’t seen you in a while,” another voice greets him.

He looks up to see Dr. Gerard sliding onto the stool beside him. “Doc,” he nods in acknowledgement. “How are things?”

The doctor shrugs his shoulders, flicks an envious glance at the finger of whiskey left at the bottom of Dean’s glass. “Things are fine. In fact, I just came off a long surgery. Anna Pilkington delivered twins. C-section, rather a complicated one. Still, mother and babies are doing fine.”

Dean nods, he has no idea who Anna Pilkington is, and quite honestly, doesn’t particularly care. There are kids being born every single day on this base. He just hopes the poor bastards know what they’re in for.

“Sam called me into the lab yesterday,” the doctor says after a minute or so of awkward silence.

Dean resists the urge to flinch at the sound of his brother’s name on the doctor’s lips. This is the guy who took off Sam’s leg, and okay so he knows it’s totally illogical to resent him for it – for doing what’s supposed to be his damn job – but Dean’s never been logical when it comes to Sam, and he’s never been able to forgive the doctor for maiming his brother.

“Did he?”

“Yes, he asked me to take a look at some tests he’d run on a mutant they’re keeping down there. He needed a medical opinion.” He leans in, lowers his voice. “The results are remarkable.”

“They’re breeding,” Dean says.

The doctor nods, licking his lips, that same bright spark of excitement in his face as was on Sam’s the other day.

“For all intents and purposes, yes. Which is incredible, in itself.” He breaks off, blows out a long breath. “I think I disappointed your brother. He wanted me to give him some medical reason for it, but I couldn’t.”

“So, they’re not breeding?” Dean asks, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“No, yes, well,” the doctor pauses, chuckles grimly. “When we compared the new creature’s DNA with an older specimen, an infected, mutated human, there was no other explanation. The fundamental patterns, the genetic coding is completely different. But how they’re doing it? I have no idea.”

It makes no sense. That’s the bottom line. Just like the entire past five years, just like their lives right now. They beat Lucifer. Sam beat Lucifer. They beat the devil and angels and heaven and hell. They saved the world. And yet still humanity dies. None of it makes a lick of sense.

“I took a look at the creature myself. It looked nothing like the ones I remember from three years ago. The physiognomy is different, the musculature. They are evolving right in front of us.”

Dean smiles thinly. “Right. Souped up evolution. That’s what we’re up against. Christ, we really are doomed.”

“Your brother doesn’t think so.”

“No, well, Sam doesn’t give up. He never has.”

“No, he doesn’t,” the doctor agrees. “I never knew a patient before him who was so driven, so single-minded about his recovery.”

“Well, that’s Sammy.”

They fade into an awkward silence; Dean drains the rest of his glass and turns to the doctor.

“Well, see you around, Doc.” He smacks the guy on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary perhaps, but whatever, and leaves the bar.


“This is for me?”

Sam regards Rick's Party Mix dubiously.

“Yeah, a mix CD of famous love songs for my special girl,” says Dean, trying and failing to keep the glee from his voice. “November Rain? Lady? I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)? Romeo and Juliet? I Need A Hero? All your favorites!”

“Right,” Sam says. “Hilarious.” He drops the CD onto the table. “You’re totally hilarious, Dean.”

“Dude, c’mon, I thought that was worth at least a blowjob?” Dean says, turning what he hopes is his most winning smile on his brother.

Sam snorts, and gives him an incredulous look. “A crappy home-made CD of power ballads is not worth a blow job.”

“Well, can’t you just do it anyway? ‘Cause you love my dick so much? C’mon, man, you haven’t blown me in freakin’ ages!”

Sam laughs out loud, tossing his head back, his eyes shining with real amusement and affection. Dean watches him, that warm feeling in his chest, hooking at his insides.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Sam says, but he’s smiling. He pushes back his chair, the legs scraping on the tile. He’s not wearing the prosthetic, his left pants leg hanging loosely around his thigh. He pats his one knee. “C’mere.”

Dean moves to sink down into his brother’s lap, straddling his thighs and hooking his feet around the legs of his chair. He can feel the edges of his brother’s stump against his ass, and he shifts forward a little, pressing his crotch and his rapidly hardening cock into Sam’s flat belly, feeling Sam’s own cock start to come awake under him.

“Hey,” Sam murmurs. He cups Dean’s cheek, turns his face so their eyes meet. He’s smiling, that small, private, can’t-hold-it-back smile, thumb brushing tenderly along Dean’s lower lip.

“Hey,” Dean says, he flicks out his tongue, works it against the pad of Sam’s finger. He tastes of food, soap and that vaguely lab-tang of chemicals and formaldehyde.

They kiss for a while, just the sound of their lips and mouths and tongues smacking and slurping and sucking in the quiet room. Sam’s still got his hand on Dean’s cheek, the other around his back, holding him in place, while Dean’s hands frame his brother’s face, fingers disappearing into his hair. He pulls away, dragging Sam’s bottom lip between his teeth, then letting it go, seeing it slip back into place with a slick popping sound.

“You wanna fuck?” he says.

Sam blinks, swoop of his eyelashes up and down. “Yeah,” he says. He sounds hoarse, and he clears his throat. “Want you to ride me, like this, right here.”

“Think the chair can take it?” Dean kicks one foot against the chair leg, quirks up an eyebrow.

“It can take it!” Sam’s response is gravelly, and Dean feels his stomach clench, spin and topple, heat bursting up all the way from his groin, making his fingertips tingle.

He licks his lips and climbs off his brother. He undresses quickly, no finesse, no dragging it out, just flinging off shirt, pants, undershirt and shorts and throwing the lot to the floor. He hurries over to the nightstand, snatches up the lube he’d wheedled out of Creepy Benson in Medical Stores. He waves it in the air, says: “You wanna do it, or me?”

“You do it,” Sam says, and Dean smirks, licks his lips again. “Okay.”

He climbs onto the bed on all fours, sees Sam turn his chair, angle his body so he can watch him. Sam’s cupping himself through the thin scrub pants, his cock big and thick and indecent, outlined in the pale blue cotton. The sight reminds him suddenly of a story Sam told him years ago: sixteen year old Sammy in gym class, all the girls staring at him in his gym shorts, how embarrassed he’d been with his long gangly limbs and awkward body, how all the girls had stared at him – at the outline of his big cock in those tight little shorts. Sam had told him the tale afterwards, blushing and breathless and coy, watching for his big brother’s reaction, slicking that little pink tongue over his lower lip, knowing exactly what he was doing to Dean, and Dean had made him put on those little shorts, watched how they hugged his ass and showcased his long slim cock. He’d pushed Sam to the floor, climbed on top of him and ripped down the shorts, going down on his brother right there and then in the middle of that crummy motel room in Akron, Dad about to walk through the door at any minute.

Dean shivers at the memory, squeezing lube onto his fingers and coating the first two digits. He blinks, locks his gaze with Sam’s and then slowly, pushes one finger, then another, up inside himself. He works them in and out for a couple of minutes, the only noise in the room the slippery sound of his fingers and Sam’s harsh, quickened breathing.

Sam stares at him, lips parted, fingers fumbling with the drawstring of his scrub pants. He wriggles them down over his hips then tugs off his shirt, hair standing up all which ways. He licks his lips unconsciously, and Dean stares back at him, eyes drawn down to the place where Sam’s enormous hand is playing with that goddamn freaking tent-pole he calls a dick. Sam raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks on each one, lips and cheeks hollowing around each digit. He slicks up his cock like that, with just his own spit, skimming shiny fingertips over the fat red head, and down the big straining length until it’s dripping and glossy and fucking obscene.

“Jesus, okay, that’s it, I’m done,” Dean pants. He hasn’t opened himself up enough, he knows that, but he doesn’t care. He hasn’t got the patience; he needs Sam to be inside him, like, now. He wipes off his sticky, gross fingers on his discarded shorts and jumps off the bed, feeling that weird squelching in his ass as he moves. It’s uncomfortable and disgusting and he can already feel it starting to dribble down his thighs, but it’s all worth it, at least it all will be worth it, really damn soon.

He stands over Sam, straddling his chair, dick at full-mast, almost poking Sam in the eye. Sam tilts his head back, smirks evilly.

“Turn around, Dean,” he says.

Dean swallows, coil of heat simmering in his groin and gut as he turns around, putting his ass in his brother’s face. Sam grabs his hips, long fingers spread-eagled across his ass-cheeks, parting him open, thumbs digging into his hip-bones hard enough to leave marks. Dean’s breathing stutters for a couple of beats, he curls his fingers around the edge of the table in front of him, tensing and shivering as he feels his brother’s hot breath puffing against his exposed asshole.

“All shiny and wet for me,” Sam murmurs. “All opened up. Are you ready? Can you take me?”

Dean shudders, clings to the table. “Yeah, I – I’m ready, Sam.” His voice is hoarse, broken and guttural, his cock bobbing around, so damn hard.

Sam chuckles, he presses his lips to the top of Dean’s ass crack, kisses him, just an evil hint of tongue, lingering, tasting.

“You taste so good,” he growls. “If you weren’t full of lube, I’d eat you out, Dean. Push my tongue up your ass-crack and taste your insides.”

He tightens his grip on Dean’s hips, and forces him down, into his lap, onto his cock. Dean gasps for breath, scrabbles harder for a hold on the table, shaking as he feels Sam’s cock push at his entrance. Man, it’s big, and man, it fucking hurts. He’s never gotten used to this part, just how freaking painful this part is – the part when Sam shoves that freaking monster up his poor stretched asshole. Sam stills for a second, and curls his arm tightly around Dean, big hand splayed over the place where Dean’s heart is trying to thump its way out of his body. He leans in, presses a couple of soft kisses to Dean’s back, reassuring and adoring.

“Hey, hey, relax, breathe, it’s okay, just relax…”

Dean forces his body to obey, forces his muscles to let go, to remind his stupid brain that they like this. This is good. This is awesome. This is sex with Sam. This is the best fucking thing in the entire goddamn universe.

He sinks down onto the rest of Sam’s cock.

“Fuck, Sammy, fuck,” he mutters.

Sam laughs, a little hysterical, breathy and incoherent, peppering more kisses, slurping his tongue over Dean’s back, and that’s gotta be gross. He can feel how much he’s sweating, but Sam doesn’t seem to give a fuck, just intent on covering as much of Dean’s back as possible with his mouth, lapping up his sweat.

He starts to work himself up and down on Sam’s cock, feet braced on the floor, hands braced on the table, Sam’s arms around him and his face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck. The back of his left knee is covering the place where the rest of Sam’s left leg used to be, and it’s no longer strange, that lack of something. It’s just Sam, Sam how he is now, Sam who may have lost parts of himself to this – to the never-ending fight – but Sam who is still his, still completely his.

He winds his arm up and around the back of his brother’s neck, bringing their bodies flush together. Sam thrusts up, again and again, until Dean is bottoming out, gasping and speechless with the sensation of his brother’s cock splitting him open. Sam opens his mouth over the tendon in Dean’s throat, mouths at it. He can’t bite, they can’t risk it, not when so many people would see, and Dean feels a pang of loss for it, for what they used to do so thoughtlessly when it was just the two of them. Instead he pushes down harder, impaling himself completely, hearing Sam cry out helplessly.

“Oh God, Dean, oh God…”

He can feel the flood of his brother’s release inside him; feel the burst of hot sticky warmth and the twitching and throbbing of Sam’s cock. Sam grips onto him tighter, shudder running through his body, he bends to place haphazard kisses along Dean’s jaw. “Christ, Dean, so good, God…” mangled words mixed up with crazy wet kisses.

Dean smiles blissfully, and pats his brother’s arm. He pulls out of his grasp, stands up, legs shaky as Sam’s cock slides out of him. He twists around, 180 degrees, and straddles his brother’s lap once more, chest to chest, face to face.

“Finish me,” he orders.

Sam blinks dazedly and makes a fist around Dean’s erection. He hasn’t come yet, doesn’t usually come when Sam’s inside him, but he’s close, goddamnit, he’s close.

He presses his forehead to Sam’s cheek, breathes in his scent as Sam gives his dick a couple of lopsided tugs. That’s all he needs, and he’s coming into Sam’s fingers, panting into the side of Sam’s face.

They stay like that for a couple of minutes, getting their breath back. Dean winces and gets up off his brother’s lap, limping as he moves to collapse onto the bed. He sprawls onto his back and sighs, chest still heaving up and down with exertion and body tingling all over.

“Man, that – that – was awesome,” he pants.

Sam chuckles and Dean hears the sound of the chair scraping back, Sam getting to his feet (well, foot) and hopping to the bed. He sinks down and reaches to run a lazy hand through Dean’s sweat drenched hair.

Dean peers up at his brother; Sam’s looking down at him, his face is still flushed, lips cherry red, eyes dark and liquid.

“It wasn’t bad,” Sam says.

“Fuck you, it was awesome. I’m gonna be feeling it for days.”

It’s true. He can feel that throbbing sticky feeling in his ass, feel the dribble of come and lube trickling down onto the bed.

“I think I’m leaking onto the sheets,” he says.

Sam shoves him in the side, forcing him to roll over. Dean laughs, props himself up on one elbow to view the sticky patch where he’s been laying.

“You’re sleeping in that,” Sam says.

“Man, first you fuck me then you make me sleep in the wet patch. What kinda deal is that?”

“Oh, yeah, you got it so bad.” Sam smirks at him and scoots up the mattress until he’s sitting at the head. He spreads his legs, pats the space between them. Dean crawls into the V of his thighs; lets Sam wind his arm around his chest and lean down to kiss the side of his mouth. “Imagine if your guys could see you now, Dean. Their big bad commander. Letting his little brother fuck him in the ass and then cuddle with him.” His voice is deep with amusement and that possessive edge that makes the hairs on Dean’s scalp prick up.

“We’re not cuddling,” he says.

“Sure we are,” says Sam. “And you love it.”

He makes a scoffing sound but he doesn’t bother denying it out loud. Sam’s got his number as always. And it’s these kinds of moments that make everything worth it, that remind him why they’re still here, why they haven’t taken Castiel up on his offer yet. He has no idea what Heaven’s really like, but he doubts that you get to do what they just did in Heaven.

He places one hand on Sam’s left thigh, traces a soft pattern in the skin just above the end of his stump. “This looks better,” he says. It does look better, the rash not quite as red and virulent as a few days ago. He cups his palm around the end stump, brushes his fingertips over the shiny smooth skin.

He can remember the first time they’d had sex after Sam’d recovered from his operation. Afterwards Sam had cried, real fat tears flowing down his face, and Dean had watched him in mingled horror and disbelief and wondered if he’d broken his brother.

“I thought you’d never want me again,” Sam had eventually managed to sob out, burying his face in Dean’s chest and smearing his wet sticky tears all over Dean’s skin like he was four years old again.

“You dumb fuck,” Dean had chastised him and Sam had laughed, shaky and teary-eyed, and called him an insensitive asshole.

Later Dean had said it better: “You’re still Sam, you’re still my brother. I’m always gonna want you.”

Sam drops his hand down on top of Dean’s, twines their fingers together, forcing his hand away from his leg and back down to the mattress.

“You know you don’t have to touch it to prove anything to me,” he says quietly.

“Huh?” Dean turns his head to look at his brother, genuinely confused.

Sam’s not looking back at him, eyes locked on some neutral boring spot on the opposite wall. “You know what I mean, Dean. You don’t gotta pretend that it doesn’t bother you, when I know it does.”

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Right, yeah, ‘cause I’m totally fakin’ it with you. ‘Cause I can’t stand touching you anymore and that part just then when you fucked me up the ass was just a really sticky dream.”

Sam makes no response, but Dean can hear him grinding his teeth, his expression gone cold and set.

“Okay, fine, whatever, feel sorry for yourself, Sam! Jesus!”

He gets off up the bed and stalks to the bathroom.

Two minutes into his three minute shower, Sam comes in, hopping on one crutch. He lowers himself to the edge of the bathtub, sitting on the end rim, eyes locked on somewhere around Dean’s knees.

He waits until the shower switches itself off before he sighs and looks up at Dean. Dean blinks the water out of his eyes and meets his brother’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says.

Dean shrugs. “You don’t got anything to be sorry for, but okay, apology accepted.” He steps out the tub, grabs up the towel and starts to dry himself off.

“It’s just that – I’ve been thinking, and I think that maybe you should ask someone to the Spring Fling dance, like Navarro’s sister for example.”

He blinks at his brother. “Come again?”

Sam sets his mouth, meeting Dean’s gaze. “You heard, Dean. I think you should ask Navarro’s sister to the dance. I think it would be a good idea.”

“In what freakin’ world would that be a good idea?” Dean snaps. “Christ, Sammy, you remember what happened to the last woman I was with, right? You remember what happened with Lisa and Ben? You remember how I had to put a bullet in their heads after they tried to fuckin’ eat me? You remember all that? You remember what a cluster-fuck it was even before the part where they tried to fuckin’ eat me? You remember how I only went to them in the first place ‘cause you were dead and ‘cause it was your dying wish? You remember how she dumped my screwed-up ass and I was fuckin’ miserable? You do remember all that, Sam? All that wasn’t some Bobby Ewing shower deal.”

He knows his voice is getting louder, that he’s almost growling. But Sam’s gone from looking all serious and stubborn to just looking faintly amused, that annoying little teasing crease between his eyebrows.

“Please tell me this ain’t some bullshit you’re better off without me Dean deal, ‘cause I can give you my answer in three simple words: No. Fucking. Way. You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy!”

“Are you done?”

Dean grits his teeth, nods abruptly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m done. For now.”

Sam ducks his head and when he looks up again Dean can see that he’s trying to hold back a smile and not making a good job of it. The little shit’s laughing at him.

“Dean, listen to me, just think about this for a moment. This isn’t just about you and me. This is about us – our position here – what we’re trying to achieve here. People are getting suspicious, hell, they’re already suspicious. They think our relationship is weird. They don’t say it to you because you’re Commander Dean Winchester, the great Red Leader; you’re Sanders’ golden boy. But I hear it and sometimes I get it to my face –“

“Who the fuck is –“ Dean interrupts, anger flaring. If any fucking asshole has said anything to Sam, if anyone has –

“Dude, no.” Sam holds up a hand. “I can handle it. Jesus, Dean, I can look after myself. You know that. But, this is real. This is something we gotta deal with. People are beginning to suspect that something weird – that – well. They’re starting to suspect the truth, man. They think we’re too close. They talk about how you turn down every chick that comes onto you. They talk about how both of us are being selfish by not having a family, or contributing to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s big plan.”

“Ugh, that argument is fuckin’ bullshit, Sam!” he interrupts. “I know Mrs. Fitzgerald has this big hard-on for repopulating the Earth starting with our little compound family. But seriously, come on! Would you wanna be born into this?” He throws out his arms, taking in their room, the compound, the fucking Pacific Northwest, the continent of North America, the entire damn world. “We’re fighting for our lives and we’re outnumbered. D’you think all those poor babies being popped out down in the infirmary are gonna thank us when they realize what we’ve left for them?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, Dean, but getting back to my point: this isn’t about me pushing you off onto some poor unsuspecting chick for your own good. I don’t want you to get involved with someone else. I don’t want to share you, Dean. Jesus, dude, you know that. This is not about that; it’s about how we look to everyone else. If you ask someone to the dance then it’ll send out the right message, it’ll deflect attention away from us. Just ask Navarro’s sister, she’d say yes in a heart-beat. She’s pretty gone for you.” That last part comes out a little snitty despite Sam’s best efforts at trying to sound all rational and practical.

“Which is why there’s no freakin’ way I’m asking her! It ain’t fair. On me or on her! I’m not stringing her along; I can’t believe you would even suggest that!”

Sam rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “Dean…”


“I know you don’t like the idea, but I think we should seriously consider it.”

“Why? Why don’t you ask some chick to the fuckin’ Spring Fling if you’re so keen on deflecting people’s attention away from us?”

“Because there’s no one who’d go with me.”

“Bullshit! There are tons of chicks who’d jump at the chance to go with you. You’re just chicken-shit.”

“Right, tons of chicks, sure,” Sam scoffs. His jaw is clenched, the muscle ticking ominously at the edge of his pressed together mouth. “Tons of chicks who want to attend the dance with a cripple, a guy who can’t even dance! A guy with one leg who spends all his time locked up with mutants, a guy that half the base thinks is in creepy incestuous love with his brother! Oh, yeah, I’m a catch.”

“Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself. Again.”

He leaves the bathroom, hearing Sam scrabbling around for his crutch, taking after him. He stands in the middle of their room, trying to remember if they did some laundry and if he has any clean boxers or if – oh gross – he’s gonna have to wear the ones he used to mop up his and Sam’s jizz.

“In the corner,” Sam says, gesturing to the bag of clean laundry with the end of his crutch.

“Oh right, yeah, thanks.” He bends down to heave the bag up on the bed.

“For the record, I did ask someone,” Sam says.

“What?” He does a double-take, shorts half-way up his legs.

“I did ask someone to the dance.”

“Yeah? Who?” He pulls the shorts all the way up, tucks in his cock and balls.

“Yeah, there’s this – uh – nurse, called Julie Ross. She’s friendly with Suzie, comes by the lab sometimes. I asked her and she turned me down, made some bullshit excuse about needing to work. She doesn’t need to work, Suze told me before I even asked her that she was free that evening. I guess I should be grateful that she even bothered to come up with an excuse instead of just turning me down flat.”

Dean hesitates, caught somewhere between angry (and jealous) resentment at Sam being interested enough in some chick to even bother asking her to the dumb dance and cold hard fury that the same chick had the gall to turn down his brother. How fucking dare she? He swallows hard, thins his lips, not looking at Sam.

“Right, I see.”

“Yeah, so, I’m not chicken-shit.”


“Dean, c’mon, it wasn’t like that.”

“You wanted people to think you weren’t in creepy incestuous love with your big brother. Right, yeah, I heard it, Sam. I heard you loud and clear. Except – maybe did you think that perhaps I don’t give a flying fuck what other people think of us? That I don’t care if other people think that we’re in love with each other.”

“Dean, you can’t be serious –“

“The world is fucked, Sam!” he interrupts, cutting Sam off. “I keep sayin’ this, but no one listens. We’re all doomed. We’re gonna last for however much longer and then we’ll die. Either you’ll go first and then I’ll put a bullet in my head and follow you, or it’ll be the other way round. We got maybe a couple of years left here, until those things out there figure out a way to get in and finish us off. I don’t wanna spend however long we do got left fuckin’ around playing politics and pretending to be something I’m not, leading on some poor chick or making out like you ain’t everything to me.” He pauses, licks his lips. “I don’t want that and I don’t understand why you care what they think so much. You never used to give a crap! I remember when we were out there – we didn’t care who saw us when we rolled up in a two-horse town and started making out in the motel parking lot or getting rooms with one fuckin’ bed. We didn’t care who knew about us!”

“That’s not true,” Sam retorts. “You never let me tell Bobby. All those years and you always refused to come clean.”

Dean throws his head back in exasperation. “That wasn’t about me! That was about Bobby! You think he would’ve thanked us for telling him that we were screwing each other? Not damn likely!” He breaks off, snorts, “Anyway, he probably knew. He wasn’t dumb.”

“No, no, he wasn’t,” says Sam.

Dean turns his head, watches his brother sink back down into the chair where they’d just fucked, the chair where they’d had that awesome sex only fifteen minutes ago. It’s amazing how he can feel nostalgic for something that happened only fifteen minutes ago, but he is, wishing they could go back to that moment when Sam was pushing inside him and growling his name, instead of right now, when they’re fighting with each other. Again.

Sam leans forward, rests his elbows on the table, dropping his head into his hands. Dean watches him for a second, then sighs and crosses the room. He places one hand on top of Sam’s messy hair, carding his fingers gently through the thick dark strands and scattered threads of grey.

Sam lifts his head, blinks up at Dean. His eyes look very big from this angle, his expression open and uncertain, and Dean feels a tug in his chest, his throat going dry, like swallowed sand. Sometimes he thinks he has a handle on how much he loves his brother, on how much Sam means to him, and then Sam will say something or do something or look at him in a certain way and Dean will know all over again that he’s never going to be able quantify this – this thing they share. He’s never going to be able to count all the ways.

Sam blinks again then nods. “You’re right, I know you’re right. We don’t know how much time we got left. We should live like we got no regrets, like every day’s our last.”

“And all those other clichés,” Dean adds, lips cracking up into a faint smile.

The edges of Sam’s mouth twitch. “Yeah, all those clichés, carpe freaking Diem, right?”

“Right,” Dean agrees. “So no stupid dance? I mean, I already gave you the free CD – no other damn reason to go.”

Sam chuckles, his smile widening, those dimples slicing into his cheeks. “No dance.”

Dean pats his cheek, thumb brushing against his bottom lip, down to the cleft in his chin. “That’s my boy.”

On to Chapter Four
Tags: spn fic, treasure
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