Word count: 6545
Warnings: incest, explicit sex that isn't amazing, older Sam & Dean (ages 40/44)
Summary: Based on the prompt "snowed in". There's an epic snowstorm in Kansas. Sam and Dean are stuck in the bunker, doing the gardening and cooking, arguing about climate change, having average sex, and (sort-of) talking about their relationship. Domestic Winchester future-fic, set about eight years post season eight. (No spoilers for season nine)
Gift for riyku for spn_j2_xmas, and based on her prompt "snowed in". As you can see, I was very creative with the title! I tried to incorporate a few of your likes into this, curtain!fic and future non-AU fic, sort of incest!kink, some small degree of schmoop and boys being boys.
Thanks to my lovely beta dear_tiger as always for her helpful suggestions and support <3 And special thanks to bertee for arranging this whole thing ;-)
The door slammed shut. Sam looked up from his laptop screen; Dean was standing on the platform above him, dusting the snowflakes from his hair and shoulders. A draft of cold air hit Sam and he shivered as he watched Dean clomp down the stairs. Snow fell off Dean’s biker boots, leaving wet trails behind him.
"It's like the Pass of Caradhas out there," Dean said.
Sam snorted. "You're such a dork.”
"Like you don't get the reference." Dean unzipped his fleece ski jacket and tossed it over a chair. Sam watched the snow, now rapidly turning to water, slide off the waterproof material and drip onto the floor, forming a small greasy puddle under the chair.
"I'm wasting my time out there, man. I clear a couple of feet then I turn around and it's freakin' covered again,” Dean said gloomily. He stomped over to the sideboard where they kept the fancy whiskey decanter and lead crystal glasses. He poured a couple of measures and took a long swig of his drink before handing the other to Sam.
"I'm telling you, Sammy, what’s going on out there – it ain’t natural.”
"Hmm," Sam said.
"I mean, it's October, dude."
Dean leaned on the table, fingers tapping impatiently against the wood surface. “So, what you got?”
"Why don't you come here and see for yourself?”
Dean dropped his hand to Sam’s shoulder and bent over to peer at the screen. Sam tilted his head back and looked up at his brother.
"Couldn't be bothered to shave again?" he said.
Sam reached up and scratched his fingers over the thick bristles on Dean's chin.
Dean batted his hand away. "Quit it." He was still trying to read, squinting awkwardly at the screen.
"You should put your glasses on," Sam said.
"You should keep your opinions to yourself, wise-ass."
Sam laughed and Dean made to whop the side of his head but Sam had been clued into that particular move since he was six years old and jerked his head away with perfect timing. Dean scowled at him and picked up his glass, moving back to the sideboard and the decanter.
“Just tell me what it says, Sam," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” Sam said. “Nada, squat. A big fat pile of nothing.”
“Uh-huh. Nothing. I can't seem to find any supernatural reason why we're having so much snow in October.” He took a sip of his drink. “In fact, I’m beginning to think that this has nothing to do with the supernatural at all, but is just a freak weather thing, or---" he hesitated and then shrugged, "climate change."
Dean gave a contemptuous snort. "Climate change?"
"Climate change is bullshit."
"I'm aware of your views on climate change, Dean."
"Yeah, well," Dean muttered darkly. He put the decanter down with a thump. "Biggest load of bullcrap---"
Sam got up from his seat. "You know what? Why don't you see if you can find something and I'll go and do something else somewhere else?"
He could feel Dean glaring at him as he made a hasty retreat.
Sam bent over to press his fingertips to the soil around his tomato plant. His fingers came away dry so he poured the mixture of water and plant feed from his watering can liberally over the plant, inhaling the fragrant, viney scent of ripening tomatoes. He replaced the can when he judged the plant had had enough and shuffled on to the next plant, taking care to keep his knees on the vinyl car seat he used to cushion his knees from the hard paving slabs of the greenhouse floor. A lifetime of hunting and a casual disregard for the state of his body in general had finally caught up with him, leaving him with joints that proved more susceptible to stresses and strains than those of most forty year old men. In the last couple of years, the pain in his toes and knees had gotten so bad that Sam privately suspected he may even have developed arthritis. He hadn’t yet shared that suspicion with Dean; the mixture of concern and mockery would be too much to handle.
Finished with the tomato plants, Sam shuffled on to his zucchinis and cucumbers. After that came the chilli plants, peppers, watercress and lettuces, and when he was done with the fruit and vegetables, his impressive herb garden. The work was routine, totally absorbing, and it never failed to be equally parts soothing and deeply satisfying.
He started gardening about eight or nine years ago, not long after they'd made the bunker their permanent residence. They discovered the greenhouse around the same time they discovered the dungeon, although it hadn't excited either of them nearly as much. It was in a shabby, sorry state back then. Choked with dead plants and weeds, just a few hardy specimens growing rampant thanks to a hole in the enormous skylight where the rain had gotten in.
It was on one of their supply runs that it finally occurred to Sam that it might be a better and more economical idea for them to grow the herbs and plants they used as part of the job. The Men of Letters’ supplies had run short long ago and it was obvious from the cursory inspection Sam made of the greenhouse that their predecessors had indeed grown the herbs and plants that figured so often in the volumes of spells, curses, hexes and protection charms that Sam found in the library. He mentioned the idea to Dean, but Dean wasn’t as enthused, just making a face and saying, "Knock yourself out, man." Not that Sam expected anything else from his brother. They'd also discovered the garage and the classic cars by then and any spare time Dean had was completely absorbed in all things mechanical and combustion-engine-related. Gardening was never going to grab his attention.
He didn't need Dean's assistance, though, and the time apart from each other was good for them. Healthy, he thought as he got to work repairing the greenhouse, clearing out the beds, planting seeds and even starting his own compost heap in one corner of the really freaking huge greenhouse. Having separate interests and separate hobbies, not being together 24/7; it all meant that they’d appreciate each other’s company even more when they did come together at the end of the day.
He consulted books and manuals and even followed the Men of Letters’ detailed instructions regarding the rituals required to produce the most powerful strains of herbs. He planted deadly nightshade, hemlock, rosemary, valerian, sage, comfrey, thyme, mint and even meadowsweet. They flourished, and now, eight years later they were packing some serious herbal firepower.
Sam looked up to see Dean wander in, holding their old cooler in one hand. Dean plonked it down and pried off the lid. He removed a couple of beers and held one out to Sam with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah, okay, give me a minute," Sam told him.
Dean popped the caps on the beers and sat on the cooler. He took a pull on his beer and tipped his head back to squint up at the huge skylight that dominated the roof. "You think that's gonna hold?"
Sam craned his head back to follow Dean's gaze. The snow was piled up on top of the skylight, blocking what feeble grey light there was outside from coming through. If it was anything like the snow outside on the ground then it was probably at least twelve inches deep by now.
"I hope so," he said.
Dean nodded thoughtfully and took another pull on his beer. "Yeah, me too. I ain't getting up there to fix it if it collapses."
"Well, hopefully, it'll stop snowing soon," Sam said.
"You said that two days ago."
Sam sighed and straightened up. He picked up a rag and started to clean his dirty hands. "What d'you wanna do about it, Dean? There's nothing we can do. We just got to wait it out."
Dean didn't say anything to that. He took another swig from his bottle and gestured at Sam with his free hand. "Hey, c'mere."
"You look all hot, standing there, like, dirty and shit. It suits you, this gardening thing."
"Yeah. You got dirt - like - here--" Dean gestured at his cheek, his expression now turning into something resembling a leer as he watched Sam.
Sam touched his cheek. "Here?"
"Yeah, there. And all over," Dean added, and now definitely the look on his face was a leer. He jerked his head at Sam. "Hey, c'mere and suck me off." He spread his legs and tapped a beat on the inside of his thigh. "It'll be totally hot."
Sam dropped his eyes to his brother's crotch, noticing that Dean was indeed getting hard, the shape of his cock becoming obvious through his old jeans. He licked his lips and lifted his gaze to meet Dean's.
Dean smirked at him and raised his eyebrows in his familiar come hither expression. He slid the hand not holding his beer to his crotch and cupped himself. "I got something for you, Sammy, and I know you're gonna like it."
"You're unbelievable," Sam said. He turned to pick up his gardening sheers. "And full of shit. I got stuff to do, Dean. It'll have to wait."
"But I brought you beer," Dean protested.
"I'll make dinner?" Dean offered.
Sam hesitated, considering. "What will you make?"
"Burgers, just as you like them. We got some steak left. And I'll even make that warm salad shit you love. You got some tomatoes and peppers there, right?"
Sam nodded and picked up the bowl of ripe fruit and vegetables he'd harvested. "Yeah, we got the last of the season here."
"Right. I'll use that. I'll make you a fucking awesome dinner, and then you'll blow me because it will be so incredibly awesome and because you love my dick that much."
"Will you actually eat some of the salad?"
Dean rolled his eyes, but he nodded. "Yeah, yeah."
"Okay, you got yourself a deal," Sam said.
Dean was a good cook. His repertoire was maybe a little limited, (anything without meat was anathema to Dean), but what he did deign to make always tasted good. For someone raised on diner food and take-out, he had a surprisingly good palate, and since they'd started growing a lot of the ingredients Dean added to the food he cooked, it had gotten even better. Dean even started experimenting with the different herbs, and although some of his experiments were not completely successful, most of his food was delicious. In fact, on a few occasions, Sam had been in the middle of making a hex bag only to find Dean had used the last of their rosemary or sage in the pot-roast.
Dean didn't disappoint this time. The burgers were excellent. And the warm salad - for some reason, Dean actually ate salad if it was warm - was also perfect. Sam mopped up the last of the juices with his bread and grinned at his brother.
"Good, huh?" Dean said.
"Don't say I don't treat you right, bitch."
"I never say that," Sam protested.
"Hmm," Dean said, not convinced. He leaned over the table to refill Sam's wine glass. The Men of Letters had kept an impressive cellar, and although some of the wine had proven undrinkable, most bottles they tried were fine. Or at least they tasted fine to Sam and Dean. Not that they would know a three dollar bargain bin wine from a Chateau Whatever super-expensive one.
Dean grabbed another hunk of bread and mopped up the juices from the roasting pan, chewing loudly and sighing appreciatively as he ate. Sam sipped his wine, tuning out his brother's disgusting table manners and concentrating on the music coming from the old phonograph which was playing one of Dean’s favourite jazz records. Finally, Dean finished his demolition of their leftovers, leaned back in his chair and sighed with deep satisfaction.
“Guess we should make a start on the dishes. Place ain't gonna clean itself."
“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it,” Sam offered. “You cooked.”
“Okay, if you insist,” Dean said, getting up from his chair and beating an impressively fast retreat, bottle and wine glass in tow.
Sam hummed along to the music as he washed and dried and cleaned down the stove and worktops. As usual, Dean had wrecked the kitchen in the process of cooking, using as many pots and pans as he could lay his hands on. Sam didn’t mind too much, though, the meal had been worth it, and like the gardening, he found the boring domestic chores soothing and therapeutic.
Dean was sacked out on Sam's bed by the time Sam finished and went looking for him. He was wearing his glasses, a two day old newspaper open on his lap and his half drunk glass of wine on the nightstand. He looked relaxed and easy and completely at home. Sam hung back in the doorway and watched him.
“Dude, quit staring. It’s creepy,” Dean said, not bothering to look up from his reading.
Sam laughed and padded into the room. “Just thinking.”
“Yeah? What?” He glanced up at Sam, glasses falling down his nose a little so he was peering over the rims at Sam.
"You,” Sam said. “The facial hair, the glasses, the newspaper, the wine. It’s like you’re a real bonafide Man of Letters, Dean.”
“No, for real.” He sank down on the end of the bed and put his hand on Dean's ankle where his jeans had ridden up a little, exposing a pale, hairy strip of skin. He ran his fingers over Dean's ankle bone, feeling the rough scratchy scar Dean had gotten years ago from one of the many bitter and homicidal Greek gods they'd put down.
Dean gave him a pointed look as he folded the newspaper.
“I think it’s cute,” Sam said. “Except for the facial hair. I’m not sure about that.”
“Whatever.” Dean pulled his foot from Sam's grasp and poked him in the thigh. “Hey, don’t you having something to give me. A repayment, Sammy?” He raised both eyebrows, the familiar leer sliding over his face and animating his expression.
Sam held his gaze for a long moment, then he grinned, and pounced.
Dean yelped and tried to move, but he wasn't going anywhere. Sam had already straddled his brother's body, his knees braced either side of Dean's thighs and one palm splayed on Dean's chest to keep him down. He slid his hand down Dean's torso, slow and caressing, and toyed with the hem of his sweater.
"Off," he commanded.
Dean gave him a sly look and obeyed, twisting his body to shimmy the sweater off over his head, and toss it to one side.
"Here, wait," Sam said. He removed Dean's glasses where they'd gone askew and placed them carefully on the nightstand. "There. Don't want you to break them again."
Dean rolled his eyes at him, but the look didn't work quite as well as normal, with his hair all ruffled up from the static. Sam cupped his cheek, the thick feel of his almost beard unfamiliar against his palm. He leaned down and brought his mouth to Dean's.
That part was familiar at least: the way Dean sunk into the kiss, the way his hand dropped to span Sam's hip, the way his fingers worked under the waistband of Sam's jeans to grab his ass. Sam groaned, shifting his hips forward and tilting his head to one side to get a better angle.
Dean broke off the kiss and shuffled down the bed, one hand still groping Sam's ass and the other knotted in Sam's shirt. "Mmm, Sammy, c'mere."
Sam went with him, sliding both arms around Dean's body to hug him in even closer. He dug his knees into the mattress and rolled them, bringing Dean up on top.
He cupped the back of Dean's neck and stared up into his eyes. "Hey there," he said.
"Hey yourself," Dean said.
"What d'you wanna do? Still want a blowjob?"
"Why? You offering something else?"
Sam felt his face flush. "Yeah, maybe."
Dean grinned slowly. "Yeah? You offering up your ass, Sam?"
“Maybe. You wanna take it?"
"You bet I do," Dean growled, and he ducked down to take Sam's mouth in a longer, harder kiss.
When they broke apart this time, they were both panting, and Dean's fingers were fumbling impatiently with Sam's fly. Sam batted his brother's hands away and popped open the buttons. Dean gripped the waistband of Sam’s jeans and yanked hard, tugging the pants the length of Sam's body and over his feet so the legs turned inside out. He tossed them aside disgustedly.
"Smell like freakin' compost," he muttered.
"That's 'cause it is freakin' compost,” Sam said.
Sam watched his brother peel off his jeans and boxers until he was wearing just his socks and an ancient undershirt. His hard cock bobbed as he bent to get the lube out of the dresser. He looked ridiculous and not at all sexy, but that didn't matter because he was still Dean, and Sam couldn't remember a time when he didn't want to have sex with Dean. Sam shuffled to the edge of the bed and lifted his leg to poke his brother’s ass with his toe. Dean pushed his foot away, annoyed.
"Quit it. I swear to God, like a child sometimes."
Sam snickered and flopped back on the bed. Dean was still rummaging around the drawer, swearing under his breath. Sam tried to remember the last time they’d needed the lube. It had been a while. Most of the time, they couldn’t be bothered to go all the way with what Dean loved to call the “buttfucking”, contenting themselves with blowjobs and handjobs and sometimes just lazily and tiredly rubbing against each other if it had been a really long day.
“Ha!” Dean exclaimed and spun around, holding the small tube of lube aloft. “I knew we still had some.”
Sam sat up and pulled off his undershirt. Instantly gooseflesh sprung to his bare arms and chest. Normally, they would've set up a space heater, but with the power outage across most of Kansas, they were relying on the bunker's generator and Sam didn't know how long that would last.
“C'mon, Dean. It’s fucking freezing. Get under here.”
He shuffled under the blankets, holding them open for Dean to slide in next to him. Dean burrowed into him, pressing his face into the crook of Sam’s neck and breathing wetly into his skin. His dick pressed hot and fat into Sam’s hip as he slid one hand down to cup Sam's balls.
“You wanna get yourself ready, or you want me?” he said.
Sam rolled away from him and onto his front. “You,” he said, the word coming out muffled as his mouth pressed into the pillow.
Sam felt the covers fall away as Dean raised himself up to loom over him. “Ass in the air, little brother.”
Sam pushed himself up on his elbows, curving his spine so his ass pressed back into Dean’s body. Dean’s hand slid around to cup his hip and he heard the snap of the lube bottle and the slippery squelch of Dean coating his fingers. Dean leaned over him to drop a kiss on his shoulder blade and then his fingers were stroking and circling Sam’s opening. Sam tensed, feeling a ripple of pleasure rock through him. He suppressed a groan, his face buried in the pillow, as Dean’s finger slid inside him with a slippery, squelching sound.
Occasionally, Dean took it soft and slow. Occasionally, he would kiss Sam for what felt like hours, lavish affection on him and call him stupid names and endearments. Those occasions tended to be when he was drunker than he was right now. Most of the time, Dean just wanted to get his rocks off. This was obviously one of those times.
After a few minutes of working his fingers in and out of Sam, Dean pulled his hand free and slapped Sam’s ass. Sam braced himself, raising his head from the pillow to take a deep breath before he felt Dean grab his hips with both hands, line up his cock and slowly push inside.
Sam clenched his fingers around the edge of the mattress and hissed. Dean paused and said, “Hey, you okay, man? I know it’s been a while."
Sam unclenched his right hand and reached behind him, feeling for his brother's hand. Dean caught up his hand and linked their fingers together. Sam squeezed hard.
"Go on, it's okay," he huffed out.
“Okay, well, if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Dean!”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Sheesh.” Dean pushed his hips the rest of the way forward. Sam felt his brother’s balls slap against his ass and he suppressed the hysterical urge to laugh. They hesitated like that for a couple of seconds, Sam silently willing his body to relax around Dean's cock.
"You still wearing your socks?"
"It's cold in here," Dean said, his tone a shade defensive.
Sam pushed out a laugh and pulled his hand from Dean's grip. He flattened his palms to the mattress and shuffled his knees. They were beginning to ache and he hoped that Dean would be quick this time. He was already regretting his hasty decision to offer up his ass to his brother; he should've known Dean would say yes.
"Get on with it. I'm freezing my balls off here."
Dean snorted but he got moving again, snapping his hips forward and slamming into Sam. Sam braced himself to take it, willing Dean to find the sweet spot. It was okay so far, but he was hardly seeing stars and his own cock had softened a while back without any direct stimulation. Gone were the days when being fucked in the ass by his brother could make him come untouched. In fact, he was pretty sure it hadn't happened since he was sixteen; back in the days when he and Dean would grab any moment they could to get off together.
He closed his eyes, remembering how he would sit in the backseat of the car behind Dad, just so he could stare at Dean in the passenger seat for hours and hours. He would watch Dean page through the road atlas or Dad's journal, watch his fingers brush over the pages and remember what they looked like jacking his cock. He'd watch the flutter of Dean's eyelashes as he read, watch how he would thoughtlessly wet his lips and rest one hand high up on his leg in the juncture of his thigh and crotch, that soft, sweaty place where Sam loved to inhale his brother's scent. His cock would fatten, getting harder and harder, the heat pooling unbearably in his belly as he shifted in his seat, on edge with want and desire. Dean would turn around to say something to him, and Sam would cup his erection and raise an eyebrow at his brother, and Dean's eyes would go wide and hot. He'd flush and lick his lips, casting a worried, distracted glance at Dad in the driver's seat, and Sam would know that Dean would be hard too, the two of them willing Dad to stop as the air in the car got heavier and hotter.
When Dad finally did stop then it would all happen so fast. They'd chase each other into the men's room, bundle each other into a stall, and Dean would sink to his knees and stare up at Sam through his eyelashes. Sam would lean his head back against the stall wall, unzip his pants and feel Dean's mouth close around the head of his cock. It would be fast: two minutes and Sam would come all over his brother's face and slump boneless and grateful against the door.
When they got back into the car, he would watch Dean and Dad talk about their latest case and he would think about Dean kneeling on the bathroom floor with come on his face and his own hand down his pants to jerk himself off. He would think about Dean scrubbing his face clean with scratchy paper towels and how he'd thrown Dean against the sink to kiss and kiss him and kiss him some more. He would think about kissing the taste of himself from his brother's mouth and how when Dean patted his cheek and said, "We gotta go back now, Sammy," even his breath would smell of Sam.
"Sam? You with me?"
Dean's voice jerked him out of the memories. Sam exhaled and swallowed, saying, "Yeah, yeah, Dean."
"Hey, c'mere," Dean's hand snaked around him, fondling his balls and squeezing his half-hard cock. "C'mon, Sammy, c'mon little brother, get hard for me."
Dean jacked Sam's cock as he pumped his hips, rhythm faltering a little as he tried to do both at once, but Sam didn't mind. He was thinking about a motel in Amarillo where they'd gone skinny-dipping at midnight when Dad was out at a bar. He was thinking about the gooseflesh on Dean's arms and legs and how Dean's skin had felt clammy and pimply under his fingertips. He was thinking about pinning his brother to the side of the pool and running his ghost-white fingers through Dean's night-black hair and kissing him until their lips were sore and they were both shivering from the cold.
He was hard again, Dean was panting into his neck, and Dean's cock was twitching inside him which meant Dean was finally - finally - close to coming.
"Sam," Dean breathed and his fingers dug into Sam's hip, his other hand stuttering on Sam's cock as his orgasm hit. Dean gasped, his dick pulsed inside Sam's ass and then Sam could feel the hot sticky flood of his brother's come filling him up. Dean dropped his forehead to Sam's back and breathed in and out for a few beats, hot gusts of air against Sam's cold skin that made Sam feel ticklish.
Sam gritted his teeth as Dean withdrew, feeling the sticky, rapidly cooling come smear the inside of his thighs and crack, and start to drip down his leg.
Dean rolled away and sighed happily, sprawled out on his back, a boneless, dopy expression on his face.
Sam kicked him and Dean turned his head to glare. "Dude, way to ruin the afterglow."
"What afterglow?" Sam waved a hand at his once again only half-hard dick.
Dean frowned at him. "Oh, for fuck's sake. You didn't come?"
"No, Dean, I didn't come."
"Okay, Jesus, fine. What do you want then?"
If Sam wasn't so frustrated and horny he'd laugh at Dean's petulant, irritable tone, but his ass throbbed, his knees ached and his cock was sick of getting hard and getting nothing from it. He'd never been a fan of orgasm denial.
"Suck me off," Sam said. He curled his arm around his brother, sliding his hand up to cradle the back of Dean’s neck and tug him towards him. "C'mon, Dean, suck my big fat cock."
Dean sighed manfully, but he got to his knees and moved to straddle Sam's thighs. He curled his fingers around the base of Sam's dick and narrowed his eyes at him. "You used to come when I fucked you."
"Yeah, ten years ago maybe. Now quit whining and do it," Sam told him.
"Alright, alright." He lowered his head and fastened his lips around the head of Sam's cock. Sam sighed happily and closed his eyes, giving his body over the pinpoint of sensation that was his brother's tongue licking around the crown of his cock, tracing the vein on the underside, tonguing his balls before gliding back up again and swallowing Sam's cock whole.
For all his bitching and moaning, Dean was really fucking good at sucking cock. It was a genuine tragedy that he refused to do it as often as Sam wanted.
"You know, Sam," Dean said, lifting his head and making a face as he spat out a couple of pubes, "the deal was for you to suck me off."
"Get on with it," Sam growled.
Dean scowled but he bent his head to the task once more.
Despite Dean's complaining, it seemed fast to Sam. A few bobs and glides of Dean's head, a few licks and flicks of his tongue, and Sam was shooting, laying one hand on the top of Dean's head to make sure he took it all. Dean lifted his head when he was done and glared at him again.
"I hate it when you do that," he said.
Sam lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. He didn't care. He'd finally gotten to come and he'd come in Dean's mouth, or at least over his lips, chin and neck. He'd never get tired of seeing his big brother with his come on his face.
Dean made a big show of wiping off his face with the back of his hand and then wiping off his hand on the covers. He reached for the glass of red wine on the nightstand and took a long sip, swilling it around his mouth before swallowing.
"Gross," he said, making a face at Sam.
"What do you expect?" Sam said.
"I dunno. Sometimes wine goes with salty stuff, like garlic bread."
"My come does not taste like garlic bread, Dean," Sam said.
Dean placed the glass back on the side and tilted his head, considering, "Actually, it kinda does."
Sam shoved his brother in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his side. "Shut up. You're full of shit."
Dean laughed, and rolled slowly off the bed. He got to his feet and padded across the floor searching for the rest of his clothes. He looked even more ridiculous than he did before, naked except for his thick woolly socks, mostly flaccid cock sticky and shiny with lube, bouncing against his balls. He bent to pick up his undershirt and pulled it on over his head, shivering theatrically.
"Still fucking freezing in here."
"Yeah," Sam agreed.
"Maybe we should look into it some more tomorrow." He snatched up his shorts and pulled them up his legs, tucking his cock inside. He made a face and wiped his sticky fingers on the front of his shirt.
"Look if you like. I didn't find anything."
Dean shook his head disgustedly. "Fucking climate change."
"It is a recognised scientific phenomenon, Dean."
"Whatever. Here." He tossed Sam's sweater and shorts at him. "Get dressed, or you'll freeze your balls off in here. I'm going for a shower."
Sam found him a few minutes later in the bathroom. He'd put on his favourite robe and slippers and had a towel slung around his neck. He was standing at the sink, toothbrush in hand, baring his teeth at his reflection.
“So you gonna shave tomorrow?” Sam said as he crowded into him.
Dean spat into the sink and looked up again. “Huh?”
“Shave. You should shave tomorrow,” Sam said.
“Why?” He popped the toothbrush into the holder and tilted his head from side to side, admiring his reflection. “I think I look hot.”
“There are grey hairs.”
“It reminds me of Dad,” Sam said quickly.
Dean caught Sam’s eyes in the mirror; he looked a little shell-shocked. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, “Really?”
“Yeah. Kinda. Sorry, man.”
Dean nodded then pulled away, putting his back to Sam as he towelled off his face. He sighed and replaced the towel on the rail. “I guess it was always gonna happen...one of us ending up looking like him.” When he turned around again, his expression was wry, almost rueful.
Sam stepped towards him and leaned in, pressing his forehead to his brother's temple. He kissed his cheek just above the thick bristles then moved back. “Hey, for the record, it kinda suits you. It’s just that—“
“I look like Dad,” Dean finished.
“Right,” Sam nodded. “And that’s...it’s just weird.”
Dean sighed and squeezed Sam's shoulder. “It’s okay, Sam. So, tomorrow, it goes.”
Sam watched him pad out the room and down the hall towards his own room. He turned back to the mirror and picked up his toothbrush.
Sam woke up alone. He rolled over onto his side; there was no dent in the pillow which meant Dean hadn't slept with him. It wasn't unusual. Dean usually preferred his own space, bitching about Sam's snoring or sweatiness or nightmares interfering with his precious beauty sleep.
He stared at the untouched pillow and thought about their conversation last night in the bathroom. It reminds me of Dad, he'd said about Dean's beard, and it was true. It happened a couple of days ago: glancing up from his computer to see this dark-haired, broad-shouldered, bearded guy in a plaid shirt and leather jacket loom in his peripheral vision and his brain stuttered, Dad? until Dean started speaking. He glanced down at his hands where they rested over the keyboard and noticed that that they were shaking. It made him feel weird for the rest of the day and made him think about their relationship in a way he hadn't for so long.
He read a story in the paper that same day; a father arrested for molesting his fourteen-year-old son. His stomach churned and the bile rose to the back of his throat. He threw the paper in the trash, covered it with potato peelings and rotten vegetables to hide it from view, and he went to find Dean. Dean was in the garage, working on the Impala, and Sam went up to him and hugged him from behind. He pulled Dean tight against his chest and breathed raggedly into the back of his neck.
Dean jumped in surprise, trying to pull away from him. When he realised Sam wasn't going to let him go that easily, he gave in and relaxed into the awkward, backwards embrace, one hand going up to pat Sam's hands where they twined around his chest. I love you. I love you... Sam wanted to say. But he didn’t do that because he and Dean never said shit like that to each other. He felt sick and the picture of the father in the paper was still there behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes and breathed in the sweaty, engine-grease scent of Dean.
Dean knew better than to ask him what was wrong. When Sam finally let his brother go, Dean jerked his head towards the cooler sitting by the car and told him to help himself. He drank his beer and watched his brother lean over the open engine, humming along to Aerosmith on the radio. The normalcy of it, the fact that he'd been watching Dean work on this same car since he was six years old and Dean was ten crossed his mind as he sipped his beer. As if hearing his thoughts, Dean looked up from the engine, a smudge of grease on his cheek and a lopsided, uncertain smile on his face which always reminded Sam of the smart-assed, over-compensating ten year old he used to be. I love you, he wanted to say again, and, It's okay, it's not like that for us. What we have isn't like that. What we have is good and I wouldn't change a thing.
He shifted restlessly in bed and pushed the covers aside. He swung his feet to the cold floor, feeling for his slippers. He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared down at his long bony feet, not quite fitting into the slippers because his feet were too big and it was freaking impossible to get shoes to fit, never mind slippers. He sighed and stood up, padding to the dresser to pull on his robe. He left his room and went to find his brother.
Dean was scrambling eggs at the stove when Sam found him. He was grateful for the relative warmth of the kitchen after wandering the freezing, draughty hallway. He dropped tiredly to one of the kitchen chairs and pulled his robe around him. A moment later a steaming cup of coffee was deposited in front of him.
“Sorry, no cream this morning,” Dean said, sounding annoyingly cheerful. “You’re gonna have to drink it black like a real man.”
“Fucking snow,” Sam murmured, pulling the sugar bowl towards him and stirring in two heaped spoonfuls.
Dean got two plates down from a cupboard and tipped the scrambled egg mixture onto them. There were tomatoes and peppers and onions and chillies mixed in and they smelled and looked wonderful. Dean dropped both plates onto the table and sat down.
Sam glanced up at him and blinked in surprise “You shaved,” he said.
Dean shrugged. “I did.”
Sam smiled slowly, feeling a weight lift from his chest. "Good. You look like you again."
Dean gave him an unimpressed look. "And I didn't look like me before?"
"It was... weird. I don't know. It was like... I'd see you from the corner of my eye and for a second I'd think---" He broke off and wet his lips, staring down at his plate of food. "It's stupid. He's been dead for ages."
Dean cleared his throat, and Sam jerked his head up to look at him. "It's okay. I get it, Sammy."
The look on his face was wry, kinda introspective, and Sam wondered suddenly if Dean had seen that story too, if he'd read the newspaper report or seen something on the TV or heard something on the radio. They never talked about it - about what they were and what they did together. Dean would call him "little brother" when they fucked around and those two words spoken in Dean's low, gravelly voice could get Sam hot like nothing else in the world, which Dean knew of course. Sam forced the thought away.
"Sometimes I wonder what he'd think of this place," Dean said.
"I think he'd approve," Sam said. "After all, he was the real legacy."
"Yeah. Could you imagine what it might've been like? Growing up here, being real Men of Letters?"
"We are real Men of Letters."
"Speak for yourself."
Sam rolled his eyes at him. "You are a Man of Letters, Dean. You might not have the beard anymore but you still have the robe and glasses."
Dean laughed and nudged Sam's plate towards him. "Eat your eggs, bitch."
Sam grinned at him and picked up his fork.