Justine Delarge (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
justinedelarge) wrote2013-05-13 12:50 am
justinedelarge) wrote2013-05-13 12:50 am
Entry tags:
Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 51: Christmastime Is Here
Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 51: Christmastime Is Here
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest, minor blood play
Word Count: 4437
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own. But I do own what I do own, such as my original characters.
Summary: Dean calls home again. Sam and Dean have a memorable first Christmas morning together.
Dean waited until he was sure Sam was completely, utterly and peacefully asleep before he stirred. Sam hadn’t even needed to use the headphones and the cassette tape with the Thetan binaural beats. He just wrapped his hand around Dean’s amulet, murmured a contented sound against Dean’s chest, and fell asleep.
Dean extricated himself carefully, wincing as he tugged the amulet from Sam’s fingers. But Sam remained asleep.
Dean pulled a small folded paper bag from an interior pocket of his duffel bag, grabbed his sweats and t-shirt from the floor, shut the bedroom door behind him quietly, and padded naked into the living room. He pulled on his clothes quickly, and removed the comics section from his coat pocket. Sitting at the small table, he opened the bag and let the object inside roll out into his hand. He looked at it for a moment, then gave it a quick squeeze and put it back in the paper bag. He folded the top of the bag down several times, then wrapped it up in the comics page, centering it on the image of a giant goofy dog with his tongue hanging out. His fingers moving deftly, he creased and folded the paper intricately, tucking the end flaps into little pockets he’d created, sealing the package tight without a scrap of tape or ribbon.
He set it down on the table, and rubbed his hand over his jaw, trying not to look at the phone. After a long moment, he blew out a long breath. Rising slowly to his feet, he opened the cupboard and took down the bottle of top-shelf bourbon he’d grabbed when they ran away from Bobby’s house in the middle of the night. He poured two fingers into a coffee cup and swallowed a third of it in one long sip. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
“I was going to say Eldrich and Jones Funeral Home., but there are only two people that’d call this number at this time of night.”
“Hey Bobby.”
“Tell me you’re at the bus station and need me to pick you boys up.”
Dean’s exhalation, sad and weary, was Bobby’s answer.
“I was sure hoping you two would be home for Christmas.” Bobby’s voice was sleep-rough, and every bit as sad and weary as Dean’s sigh. “Your dad was too.”
“I know.” Dean stared at the far wall.
“Where are you?”
“Bobby. I can’t tell you that and you know it.”
“Ok. Where…crap. What kind of…damn it, Dean, you gotta tell me something.”
“We’re safe. I swear. Couldn’t be any safer. And we’re… Bobby, we’re ok.”
“Sam?”
“He’s asleep.” Dean kept his voice low, so Sam wouldn’t wake up. “Which is awesome. He…” Being a voice on the phone, not in Bobby’s presence, made it easier to say things he would have held back in person. “He wasn’t sleeping. Like, at all. He kept having nightmares about the torture, but it was Dad doing it to him.”
On the other end of the line, Bobby sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“It’s been awful. Him knowing what Dad did. I don’t think he slept more than five minutes total in the first three days after we left. But he’s better now. A whole lot better. It’s good for him to be away. Just him and me.”
Bobby coughed. “I’m genuinely glad for that. So, uh, how are you two fixed for expenses?”
“I got it covered.”
“What did you—“
Dean cut Bobby off. “Nothing Dad hasn’t done a hundred times to keep us in Kool-Aid and hot dogs.” He couldn’t blunt the sharp edge of his anger.
“Listen. I’m not excusing the man when it comes to how he raised you boys. You know better than anyone how much I’ve got to say on that particular fucking subject.”
Dean laughed, a bitter, hollow sound, and swallowed the rest of the bourbon in one gulp. He’d heard an earful from Bobby on multiple occasions on what a bad job John was doing with him and Sam.
“But…” Bobby paused as if choosing his words carefully. “Imagine what it must have been like for him.”
“Bobby, I don’t—“
It was Bobby’s turn to cut him off. “No. Listen.” His voice was urgent. “Just try to imagine what it was like for him, to see the love of his life. Murdered in front of him. By something …unnatural. How would you feel in his place?”
Dean suddenly pictured Sam, pinned to the ceiling, a ghastly blood-bloom unfurling on his stomach, a corona of fire roiling behind him, his face contorted in a scream for help, help that Dean, reaching up despite the searing heat, was powerless to give. He gripped the coffee cup hard and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the image.
“Imagine what that would do to a man. And then she was gone, and there he was, all alone, with a four-year old son and a baby boy. She was gone. Something like that… Dean, it’s hard to keep on breathing after that. Let alone raise two little boys right.” Bobby took a deep breath. “I’m not saying his reason was enough. But…can you feel how something like that might break a man?”
His Sammy. Burning. Screaming for him. Burning. He slammed the coffee cup down on the table, shattering it.“Stop!” He sucked in a shuddering breath, raised his hand, turning it, checking for cuts. He was lucky. “Yeah. I get it.”
“He’s done a lot of wrong to you boys, but he loves you. And he’s trying.”
“Really.” Dean’s voice was flat.
“Gonna have to take my word on that, Dean, until you come home and see for yourself.”
“Well, don’t leave the light on.”
Dean could almost hear Bobby biting back a sharp retort. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t call to be an asshole. I just wanted to say that we’re ok. We’re really ok. We’re in a good place, and it’s safe, and we’re just gonna lick our wounds for a while, alright? And…uh, we miss you.” It was complicated, sure, but it was true.
“I miss the hell out of you.” Bobby’s voice was choked. “And… you know how sorry I am. Dean. Don’t you? And Sam?” His voice cracked, and he coughed to hide it.
Dean stacked the shards of the coffee cup into a pile. “It’s killing you, Bobby. I can hear it.”
Bobby made a sound that could in no way be camouflaged as anything other than a sob.
“I can’t promise you Sam’s ever gonna forgive you or Dad. Hell, I can’t promise that I will. But…I want to. And I know he does too.”
“I can live with that.” Bobby sniffed. “I’ll take that.”
“So, any news on the whole, you know, demon thing?”
Bobby related what little they’d dug up so far, and ran down all the efforts they were making to learn more. Dean nodded, not sure if he was disappointed they hadn’t learned anything concrete yet, or relieved the demon’s purposes were still a blissful mystery.
“Now, I’m not gonna push you to tell me where you are or get you to come home, ‘cause I want you to keep calling me, ok?”
“Ok.” Dean couldn’t repress a smile.
“That’s my deal with you. But. You gotta remember, Reggie’s out there looking for you, and he will find you sooner or later. And I’d bank on sooner.”
Dean knew. But he also knew that they’d found a place where even Reggie couldn’t get to them if they didn’t want to be gotten to.
“I’m sorry everything went down like this, Bobby. Sam was…” Dean’s voice got choked up. “He was really looking forward to Christmas at your place this year. With everyone.”
“You’re killing me here, kid.”
“Sorry. I… look. I gotta go. Just…don’t worry about us ok?”
“Try telling the desert to not be bone-dry.”
“Don’t worry about us too much, then. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Well, when you two do come home, I’ve got a real special present for you. Been working on it for a few months now. So…don’t stay gone too long, ok?”
Dean dropped his head. “We’ll try.”
“You call me now. And…Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Dean glanced around the apartment, plain and spartan, devoid of any of the trappings of the holiday. When his eyes fell on the package he’d wrapped up for Sam, his mouth softened into a smile. “Merry Christmas, Bobby.”
Dean threw the broken coffee mug in the trash, and made his way down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. He opened the door slowly, tucked the wrapped present back into his duffel bag and sat down.
Sam stirred, rising into wakefulness. “Dean?”
“I’m right here, Sammy.”
“Where’d you go?” Sam reached for him, hands already gone damp with panic sweat.
“Shhh. I’m right here.”
Sam grabbed him like he’d been missing for hours. “Where’d you go.” His hands clutched Dean’s clothing. “You’re all dressed. Dean?”
Dean reached for Sam just as fiercely. Sam. Burning on the ceiling. “Sammy.” He brought his mouth down onto Sam’s.
“What were you doing?”
Sam’s hands in his hair. His teeth nipping his skin. Dean shivered.
“Bobby. I was calling Bobby,” he gasped.
“In the middle of the night? Why?” Sam pulled Dean’s shirt up and over his head.
“Christmas. Sam. I… I couldn’t let them just sit there, waiting for us.”
Sam pressed his forehead against Dean’s. “You’re so much better than me.”
“So not true.”
“Yeah it is.” Sam’s hands were at Dean’s waistband. “Off. Get them off.”
Dean peeled his sweats off. Sam straddled him, grinding against him, no shyness in him, just primal need.
“Jesus, baby boy. Missed me that much?”
Sam reached between them, took hold of both their cocks in his large hand, stroking them simultaneously. “Yeah.”
Dean arched his back, rutting against Sam. “So fucking needy. Want me so bad, don’t you.”
Sam groaned. “Always.”
“How fast can you come for me, baby boy?”
The answer, as it turned out, was pretty fucking fast.
Sleep came again, easily, to both of them. When they awoke, it was morning.
Christmas morning.
Sam kissed Dean on the nose, then pulled on his boxers and jeans and ran into the kitchen. He pulled the box of pie leftovers out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter, then made a pot of strong coffee. He turned the TV on and tuned it to the channel with the flickering fire and the classic Christmas carols, Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney and all the rest. Once the coffee was almost completely brewed, filling the apartment with the rich scent, he went back in the bedroom and kissed Dean awake.
“Wha… ungh. Sam.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“It’s fucking early. What are you, six?” Dean fake-glared at Sam blearily.
“Christmas, Dean.” He brought his lips close to Dean’s ear. “There’s pie.”
Dean sat up. Sam practically dressed Dean and shoved him into the bathroom. “Brush your teeth.” While Dean scoured his teeth and gargled with Listerine, Sam pulled out three small packages, already wrapped in shiny pages from a car magazine, done while Dean slept, that second night in Cheyenne. He placed them on the little kitchen table, arranging them so there was equal space between them. He poured Dean’s coffee, and doctored up his own.
Dean came into the kitchen as Sam was opening the box and setting the pie leftovers onto the counter. He pulled Sam close and kissed him.
“Ugh. You taste of Listerine.”
“Better than morning breath.”
Sam made a face like he wasn’t sure about the accuracy of that statement.
“Coffee. And pie. And you. And coffee. And pie.”
“S that your To Do list?”
Dean’s mouth twitched in that little smirk reserved for when he saw Dad’s Impala waxed and gleaming like sin on wheels, and when he saw his sweet baby brother spread out naked for him. Sam blinked rapidly, biting his lip.
“Did you just…you did.”
“What?”
“Bat your eyelashes at me.”
“Shut up.” Sam blushed.
“And now you’re blushing.”
“Cut it out.”
“Samantha.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“You love my dick.”
Sam shoved a mug into Dean’s hand.”Coffee. Drink. Now.”
Dean sat down and took a huge swallow of coffee, grinning. Sam joined him, and put all the partially-eaten slices of pie onto a plate.
They drank coffee and ate pie, Sam’s sock-covered foot rubbing against Dean’s shin gently. Dean let Sam have all of what remained of the pumpkin pie, but Sam insisted on feeding him a bite, and then kissing him right after. “Mmmm.”
“We’re going back there tomorrow and getting a whole damn pumpkin pie.” Dean made a mental note, because he really wasn’t joking. Sammy loved pumpkin pie, and he was going to make damn sure Sam had plenty of it.
They savored the banana cream and lemon meringue. The berry pie slices were inhaled. “You know, pie for breakfast is actually healthy.”
Sam sat back and tilted his head in a way that said, “Do tell.”
“If it’s fruit pie. This right here? Blackberry and what, blueberry?” Sam nodded. “Those are like, superberries. Full of antioxidants and shit. And fiber.”
Sam pursed his lips, unable to dispute that.
Dean continued. “It’s not too sweet. No more sugar than when we have oatmeal or cold cereal. Way less sugar than pancakes or muffins. Especially if you get a no-sugar-added pie.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “That’s true.”
“OK, the crust. White flour and fat. Now, if you do a single-crust pie, that’s not that much crust per slice. And it has grains in it, which IS part of a balanced breakfast. You can’t go all protein. You told me that. You need some grains.”
“Go on.”
“So, sure, it’s simple carbs, but the fiber from the berries or apples balances that out. ‘Cause it all mixes up in the stomach, right?”
“Right.” Sam’s expression was deeply amused.
“Ok, so. Fat. You need fat. If you had a low-fat crust, you couldn’t absorb all the fat-soluble vitamins in the fruit. Berries have… wait… I got this… Vitamin E and K. Right?”
“You really were listening when I was doing my nutrition homework. Literally.” Sam shook his head in awe.
“And the fat slows how fast you absorb the white flour in the pie crust, so it doesn’t make your blood sugar spike and crash. Right?”
“You’re totally right.”
“And fat helps with… sa… sa-tie… how the hell do you say that again?”
“Satiety.” Sam’s mouth curled up in a grin of pure pride.
“Right. Makes you feel full, so you don’t crave more food. Like, exactly what Chinese food doesn’t do.”
San bowed his head, and broke into a slow clap. “You’re right.”
“I am?” Dean beamed, a little surprised.
“You actually are. Throw a few walnuts in, and fruit pie would actually be a pretty healthy breakfast. A hell of a lot better than pancakes and syrup with bacon.” Sam smiled at Dean. “See. I told how smart you were.”
Dean blushed furiously, but looked pleased as hell.
Sam kept looking at the little packages on the table. Dean glanced down, as if embarrassed.
“Hey, it’s ok. It… there’s been a lot going on. Christmas kinda snuck up on us. I don’t care that you didn’t get me anything. I mean, I got the best present of all. I got you.” Dean felt the warmth of Sam's smile on his skin. Sam meant it.
“And it’s not much anyway. So… yeah. You wanna open them?”
Dean took Sam’s hand. “Yeah. On the couch.”
They sat on the couch with their coffee. Sam felt the packages, identifying which one was which, and handed Dean the first one. On the TV, the fire log flickered, and Bing Crosby crooned The Little Drummer Boy.
Dean eyed the photo of the Dodge Charger on the paper wrapping, and then tore into the package.
“Awesome!” Dean held a beautiful specimen of fool’s gold in the palm of his hand. He turned it this way and that, admiring the bright, gleaming striations. “Thanks, Sam!”
Sam smiled even wider, dimples deepening, and drank in the delight on Dean's face unmasked by the facade of coolness he usually wore. Dad almost always drove past the roadside attractions that Dean clamored for just a few minutes to visit, and when he did stop, he never bought souvenirs.
Dean held it for a moment longer, as if he was loathe to put it down.
“Here.” Sam handed him the second package, wrapped in a photo of a burgundy Plymouth Barracuda.
“Sweet.” Dean opened that package more carefully, not wanting to rip that picture. He saw what was inside. “Dude. No way.”
Sam grinned. “You like it?”
Dean held the trilobite fossil in both hands, his face lit up. “Trilobite!”
“You always wanted one.”
“I always wanted one,” Dean echoed. “And you… you got one for me.”
Sam pushed the third one toward Dean. It was larger, the size of two fists. “I hope you like this one. I wasn’t sure.”
Dean peeled away the paper, featuring a Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. He fell silent at what he saw. The geode was a double: two perfectly equal shapes joined as one, side by side, each one ringed with green the color of Dean’s eyes, with a center ring the same shade of blue Sam’s eyes turned in the sunlight.
“It’s a malachite/azurite double geode.”
“Sammy.”
“Do…do you like it?”
Dean’s eyes welled up. “God, Sammy. It’s… it’s perfect.” He tore his eyes away to meet Sam’s gaze. “It’s us.”
Sam closed his eyes. Dean understood.
Dean’s mouth brushed across his, soft and somehow the exact, precise temperature and texture that felt perfect to Sam. Just right.
“Look at me.”
Sam opened his eyes. Dean pulled a small package from his jeans pocket and held it out to Sam.
“But…”
“I’ve had this for a long time. Been waiting to give it to you.”
Sam laughed when he saw the cartoon dog on the center of the package. He turned it over, and his eyes widened to see that it was simply wrapped by folding, not tape or string. He opened it with exquisite care, taking as much pleasure in the adept way Dean had manipulated the paper as in the fact that Dean had a Christmas present for him after all. Dean basked in the warmth that flooded him to see Sam noticing what he had done, appreciating every single crease and fold.
Finally, Sam smoothed out the comics into a flat, uncut sheet, and picked up the small plain paper bag inside. He looked at Dean.
“Go on.”
Sam unfolded the bag, and upended it over his outstretched palm.
A silver ring fell out.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was just a whisper.
A silver ring exactly like the one Dean wore on the ring finger of his right hand.
“How did you…”
Dean looked up at Sam through his thick eyelashes, green eyes soft and hopeful. “I had it made for you.”
Sam’s hand shook. Dean closed both his hands over Sam’s, folding his fingers over the ring. “I thought… you could wear it on your right hand, like me, for now. No one would know. What it really means. And then…when we…” Dean was fumbling for words, which was entirely unlike him. “When we get married.”
Sam’s lips parted, and he made the softest little gasp Dean had ever heard.
Dean pressed on. “When we get married, we can wear them on our left hands.”
Sam lifted his hand free, uncurled his fingers, held his hand open. Dean picked up the ring. Sam turned his hand over and gave it to Dean. With trembling fingers, Dean slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Sam’s right hand.
Sam slipped his hand into Dean’s right hand, gently pulling him forward into a kiss. The rings met with a satisfying click. They both smiled, lips still joined, then Dean leaned forward and deepened the kiss, twining the fingers of his other hand into Sam’s hair.
Finally, they broke the kiss. “You like it?”
Sam stared in awe at the ring on his finger, the exact twin of Dean’s ring, then up at Dean. “It’s… I can’t even…”
Dean’s smile was radiant. “You like it.”
“Best Christmas ever.”
“There’s something else.”
Sam’s eyes went wide.
“I want to put my mark on you.”
Sam’s breath stopped.
“I thought… a tattoo or something… but then I thought of something we could do ourselves.”
“What?”
“Our initials. But maybe that’s stupid—“
Sam shushed Dean with his mouth on his. “Our initials. Like in the Impala.”
S.W.
D.W.
“Dean. That’s perfect.”
“Yeah?” Dean’s face lit up.
“Right now?”
“If… if that’s…”
“Yes.”
Dean took Sam’s hand and led him to the bedroom. “Where do you think?”
Sam lay back, pulled up his t-shirt and pulled the waistband of his sweatpants down. He trailed his finger along the diagonal line of muscle running downward from his hipbone. “Here.” He touched a spot inside that groove, just above his pubic bone. “No one would see it here unless I was naked.”
Dean blew out a shaky breath. “That’s perfect.”
Sam lay flat on the bed, gazing up at Dean. “Do it.”
Dean dug out his Zippo, brought the sharp edge of the blade through the flame to sterilize it. “You ready?”
“Yes.”
Dean wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the ornate knife.
”Don’t just scratch me. I want it to last forever, Dean.”
Dean’s breath came fast and harsh, and when Sam lowered his mouth, his tongue laving his skin, licking up the drops of blood, Dean grabbed Sam’s hair. “God, Sammy…” Sam brought his mouth down, sealed his lips around the S, and sucked.
And Dean came. Just from that. Just from Sam’s warm, wet mouth sealed over the mark he’d made on his skin, claiming Dean as his own, the mark that would forever be there, Sam’s initials cut into his flesh, visible to anyone to whom Dean might find himself in front of naked. A mark making it clear that Dean already belonged to someone. To Sam.
Dean came sharp and fast and hot, surprised cries driven out of him. And when Sam, equally surprised, shifted his mouth over to swallow it down, the sight of Sam’s blood-smeared mouth on his cock made him buck and groan, his orgasm kicking up three notches. He’d barely finished twitching before he pulled Sam up to straddle his face, pulled his sweats down, brought Sam’s leaking cock to his lips and sucked a shuddering, wall-pounding orgasm out of him.
Sam collapsed at Dean’s side, gasping for breath.
“You alright?” Dean peered at Sam.
“Hell yes.” Sam blinked rapidly, like he was stunned. “Hell yes.” He looked at Dean’s wound. “You? Did I go too deep?”
Dean sat up and looked at the cuts. Deep enough to scar nicely, but not enough to cause structural damage. “I’m good.” Dean started to laugh. “I’m real good.” He wiped his mouth, smearing blood on the back of his hands. “I love you more than life itself, Sammy, but you gotta admit…we’re a little weird.”
Sam dissolved into laughter. When they’d finally settled down, Sam picked up his knife. “Better clean these.” He paused, staring at the blade, Dean’s blood along the edge. His eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he took Dean’s hand, brought it to his stomach, catching a few droplets of his blood on Dean’s thumb. He brought it to his blade, and gently smeared it along the surface. The knife blade grew warm, and to the surprise of both of them, the blood was absorbed into the surface, leaving it as clean as it was when it was pulled from its sheath.
Dean stared at the knife. “Sam. Is that…”
“Nothing to be afraid of.” Sam’s face showed surprise, but not fear.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I am. I don’t know how, but I am.”
Dean picked up his knife, Sam’s blood clinging to the sharp edge. He did what Sam had done, bringing Sam’s hand to his stomach, bloodying his fingertips, and smearing it along the side of his knife blade. Sam gasped as the knife warmed beneath his fingers, and drank in their combined blood, leaving the blade clean.
“What made you think to do that?”
“I don’t know. It just… seemed like that’s what the knife needed.”
To anyone else, that would have triggered alarm bells. But Dean Winchester was not anyone else. Holding the knife in his hand, the twin of the one Sam held, crafted by perhaps the finest knife-maker the world had yet seen, Dean searched his instincts and knew, just as Sam knew, that this was nothing to be afraid of.
.
Author:
justinedelargeFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest, minor blood play
Word Count: 4437
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own. But I do own what I do own, such as my original characters.
Summary: Dean calls home again. Sam and Dean have a memorable first Christmas morning together.
Dean waited until he was sure Sam was completely, utterly and peacefully asleep before he stirred. Sam hadn’t even needed to use the headphones and the cassette tape with the Thetan binaural beats. He just wrapped his hand around Dean’s amulet, murmured a contented sound against Dean’s chest, and fell asleep.
Dean extricated himself carefully, wincing as he tugged the amulet from Sam’s fingers. But Sam remained asleep.
Dean pulled a small folded paper bag from an interior pocket of his duffel bag, grabbed his sweats and t-shirt from the floor, shut the bedroom door behind him quietly, and padded naked into the living room. He pulled on his clothes quickly, and removed the comics section from his coat pocket. Sitting at the small table, he opened the bag and let the object inside roll out into his hand. He looked at it for a moment, then gave it a quick squeeze and put it back in the paper bag. He folded the top of the bag down several times, then wrapped it up in the comics page, centering it on the image of a giant goofy dog with his tongue hanging out. His fingers moving deftly, he creased and folded the paper intricately, tucking the end flaps into little pockets he’d created, sealing the package tight without a scrap of tape or ribbon.
He set it down on the table, and rubbed his hand over his jaw, trying not to look at the phone. After a long moment, he blew out a long breath. Rising slowly to his feet, he opened the cupboard and took down the bottle of top-shelf bourbon he’d grabbed when they ran away from Bobby’s house in the middle of the night. He poured two fingers into a coffee cup and swallowed a third of it in one long sip. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
“I was going to say Eldrich and Jones Funeral Home., but there are only two people that’d call this number at this time of night.”
“Hey Bobby.”
“Tell me you’re at the bus station and need me to pick you boys up.”
Dean’s exhalation, sad and weary, was Bobby’s answer.
“I was sure hoping you two would be home for Christmas.” Bobby’s voice was sleep-rough, and every bit as sad and weary as Dean’s sigh. “Your dad was too.”
“I know.” Dean stared at the far wall.
“Where are you?”
“Bobby. I can’t tell you that and you know it.”
“Ok. Where…crap. What kind of…damn it, Dean, you gotta tell me something.”
“We’re safe. I swear. Couldn’t be any safer. And we’re… Bobby, we’re ok.”
“Sam?”
“He’s asleep.” Dean kept his voice low, so Sam wouldn’t wake up. “Which is awesome. He…” Being a voice on the phone, not in Bobby’s presence, made it easier to say things he would have held back in person. “He wasn’t sleeping. Like, at all. He kept having nightmares about the torture, but it was Dad doing it to him.”
On the other end of the line, Bobby sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“It’s been awful. Him knowing what Dad did. I don’t think he slept more than five minutes total in the first three days after we left. But he’s better now. A whole lot better. It’s good for him to be away. Just him and me.”
Bobby coughed. “I’m genuinely glad for that. So, uh, how are you two fixed for expenses?”
“I got it covered.”
“What did you—“
Dean cut Bobby off. “Nothing Dad hasn’t done a hundred times to keep us in Kool-Aid and hot dogs.” He couldn’t blunt the sharp edge of his anger.
“Listen. I’m not excusing the man when it comes to how he raised you boys. You know better than anyone how much I’ve got to say on that particular fucking subject.”
Dean laughed, a bitter, hollow sound, and swallowed the rest of the bourbon in one gulp. He’d heard an earful from Bobby on multiple occasions on what a bad job John was doing with him and Sam.
“But…” Bobby paused as if choosing his words carefully. “Imagine what it must have been like for him.”
“Bobby, I don’t—“
It was Bobby’s turn to cut him off. “No. Listen.” His voice was urgent. “Just try to imagine what it was like for him, to see the love of his life. Murdered in front of him. By something …unnatural. How would you feel in his place?”
Dean suddenly pictured Sam, pinned to the ceiling, a ghastly blood-bloom unfurling on his stomach, a corona of fire roiling behind him, his face contorted in a scream for help, help that Dean, reaching up despite the searing heat, was powerless to give. He gripped the coffee cup hard and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the image.
“Imagine what that would do to a man. And then she was gone, and there he was, all alone, with a four-year old son and a baby boy. She was gone. Something like that… Dean, it’s hard to keep on breathing after that. Let alone raise two little boys right.” Bobby took a deep breath. “I’m not saying his reason was enough. But…can you feel how something like that might break a man?”
His Sammy. Burning. Screaming for him. Burning. He slammed the coffee cup down on the table, shattering it.“Stop!” He sucked in a shuddering breath, raised his hand, turning it, checking for cuts. He was lucky. “Yeah. I get it.”
“He’s done a lot of wrong to you boys, but he loves you. And he’s trying.”
“Really.” Dean’s voice was flat.
“Gonna have to take my word on that, Dean, until you come home and see for yourself.”
“Well, don’t leave the light on.”
Dean could almost hear Bobby biting back a sharp retort. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t call to be an asshole. I just wanted to say that we’re ok. We’re really ok. We’re in a good place, and it’s safe, and we’re just gonna lick our wounds for a while, alright? And…uh, we miss you.” It was complicated, sure, but it was true.
“I miss the hell out of you.” Bobby’s voice was choked. “And… you know how sorry I am. Dean. Don’t you? And Sam?” His voice cracked, and he coughed to hide it.
Dean stacked the shards of the coffee cup into a pile. “It’s killing you, Bobby. I can hear it.”
Bobby made a sound that could in no way be camouflaged as anything other than a sob.
“I can’t promise you Sam’s ever gonna forgive you or Dad. Hell, I can’t promise that I will. But…I want to. And I know he does too.”
“I can live with that.” Bobby sniffed. “I’ll take that.”
“So, any news on the whole, you know, demon thing?”
Bobby related what little they’d dug up so far, and ran down all the efforts they were making to learn more. Dean nodded, not sure if he was disappointed they hadn’t learned anything concrete yet, or relieved the demon’s purposes were still a blissful mystery.
“Now, I’m not gonna push you to tell me where you are or get you to come home, ‘cause I want you to keep calling me, ok?”
“Ok.” Dean couldn’t repress a smile.
“That’s my deal with you. But. You gotta remember, Reggie’s out there looking for you, and he will find you sooner or later. And I’d bank on sooner.”
Dean knew. But he also knew that they’d found a place where even Reggie couldn’t get to them if they didn’t want to be gotten to.
“I’m sorry everything went down like this, Bobby. Sam was…” Dean’s voice got choked up. “He was really looking forward to Christmas at your place this year. With everyone.”
“You’re killing me here, kid.”
“Sorry. I… look. I gotta go. Just…don’t worry about us ok?”
“Try telling the desert to not be bone-dry.”
“Don’t worry about us too much, then. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
“Well, when you two do come home, I’ve got a real special present for you. Been working on it for a few months now. So…don’t stay gone too long, ok?”
Dean dropped his head. “We’ll try.”
“You call me now. And…Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Dean glanced around the apartment, plain and spartan, devoid of any of the trappings of the holiday. When his eyes fell on the package he’d wrapped up for Sam, his mouth softened into a smile. “Merry Christmas, Bobby.”
Dean threw the broken coffee mug in the trash, and made his way down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. He opened the door slowly, tucked the wrapped present back into his duffel bag and sat down.
Sam stirred, rising into wakefulness. “Dean?”
“I’m right here, Sammy.”
“Where’d you go?” Sam reached for him, hands already gone damp with panic sweat.
“Shhh. I’m right here.”
Sam grabbed him like he’d been missing for hours. “Where’d you go.” His hands clutched Dean’s clothing. “You’re all dressed. Dean?”
Dean reached for Sam just as fiercely. Sam. Burning on the ceiling. “Sammy.” He brought his mouth down onto Sam’s.
“What were you doing?”
Sam’s hands in his hair. His teeth nipping his skin. Dean shivered.
“Bobby. I was calling Bobby,” he gasped.
“In the middle of the night? Why?” Sam pulled Dean’s shirt up and over his head.
“Christmas. Sam. I… I couldn’t let them just sit there, waiting for us.”
Sam pressed his forehead against Dean’s. “You’re so much better than me.”
“So not true.”
“Yeah it is.” Sam’s hands were at Dean’s waistband. “Off. Get them off.”
Dean peeled his sweats off. Sam straddled him, grinding against him, no shyness in him, just primal need.
“Jesus, baby boy. Missed me that much?”
Sam reached between them, took hold of both their cocks in his large hand, stroking them simultaneously. “Yeah.”
Dean arched his back, rutting against Sam. “So fucking needy. Want me so bad, don’t you.”
Sam groaned. “Always.”
“How fast can you come for me, baby boy?”
The answer, as it turned out, was pretty fucking fast.
Sleep came again, easily, to both of them. When they awoke, it was morning.
Christmas morning.
Sam kissed Dean on the nose, then pulled on his boxers and jeans and ran into the kitchen. He pulled the box of pie leftovers out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter, then made a pot of strong coffee. He turned the TV on and tuned it to the channel with the flickering fire and the classic Christmas carols, Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney and all the rest. Once the coffee was almost completely brewed, filling the apartment with the rich scent, he went back in the bedroom and kissed Dean awake.
“Wha… ungh. Sam.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“It’s fucking early. What are you, six?” Dean fake-glared at Sam blearily.
“Christmas, Dean.” He brought his lips close to Dean’s ear. “There’s pie.”
Dean sat up. Sam practically dressed Dean and shoved him into the bathroom. “Brush your teeth.” While Dean scoured his teeth and gargled with Listerine, Sam pulled out three small packages, already wrapped in shiny pages from a car magazine, done while Dean slept, that second night in Cheyenne. He placed them on the little kitchen table, arranging them so there was equal space between them. He poured Dean’s coffee, and doctored up his own.
Dean came into the kitchen as Sam was opening the box and setting the pie leftovers onto the counter. He pulled Sam close and kissed him.
“Ugh. You taste of Listerine.”
“Better than morning breath.”
Sam made a face like he wasn’t sure about the accuracy of that statement.
“Coffee. And pie. And you. And coffee. And pie.”
“S that your To Do list?”
Dean’s mouth twitched in that little smirk reserved for when he saw Dad’s Impala waxed and gleaming like sin on wheels, and when he saw his sweet baby brother spread out naked for him. Sam blinked rapidly, biting his lip.
“Did you just…you did.”
“What?”
“Bat your eyelashes at me.”
“Shut up.” Sam blushed.
“And now you’re blushing.”
“Cut it out.”
“Samantha.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“You love my dick.”
Sam shoved a mug into Dean’s hand.”Coffee. Drink. Now.”
Dean sat down and took a huge swallow of coffee, grinning. Sam joined him, and put all the partially-eaten slices of pie onto a plate.
They drank coffee and ate pie, Sam’s sock-covered foot rubbing against Dean’s shin gently. Dean let Sam have all of what remained of the pumpkin pie, but Sam insisted on feeding him a bite, and then kissing him right after. “Mmmm.”
“We’re going back there tomorrow and getting a whole damn pumpkin pie.” Dean made a mental note, because he really wasn’t joking. Sammy loved pumpkin pie, and he was going to make damn sure Sam had plenty of it.
They savored the banana cream and lemon meringue. The berry pie slices were inhaled. “You know, pie for breakfast is actually healthy.”
Sam sat back and tilted his head in a way that said, “Do tell.”
“If it’s fruit pie. This right here? Blackberry and what, blueberry?” Sam nodded. “Those are like, superberries. Full of antioxidants and shit. And fiber.”
Sam pursed his lips, unable to dispute that.
Dean continued. “It’s not too sweet. No more sugar than when we have oatmeal or cold cereal. Way less sugar than pancakes or muffins. Especially if you get a no-sugar-added pie.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “That’s true.”
“OK, the crust. White flour and fat. Now, if you do a single-crust pie, that’s not that much crust per slice. And it has grains in it, which IS part of a balanced breakfast. You can’t go all protein. You told me that. You need some grains.”
“Go on.”
“So, sure, it’s simple carbs, but the fiber from the berries or apples balances that out. ‘Cause it all mixes up in the stomach, right?”
“Right.” Sam’s expression was deeply amused.
“Ok, so. Fat. You need fat. If you had a low-fat crust, you couldn’t absorb all the fat-soluble vitamins in the fruit. Berries have… wait… I got this… Vitamin E and K. Right?”
“You really were listening when I was doing my nutrition homework. Literally.” Sam shook his head in awe.
“And the fat slows how fast you absorb the white flour in the pie crust, so it doesn’t make your blood sugar spike and crash. Right?”
“You’re totally right.”
“And fat helps with… sa… sa-tie… how the hell do you say that again?”
“Satiety.” Sam’s mouth curled up in a grin of pure pride.
“Right. Makes you feel full, so you don’t crave more food. Like, exactly what Chinese food doesn’t do.”
San bowed his head, and broke into a slow clap. “You’re right.”
“I am?” Dean beamed, a little surprised.
“You actually are. Throw a few walnuts in, and fruit pie would actually be a pretty healthy breakfast. A hell of a lot better than pancakes and syrup with bacon.” Sam smiled at Dean. “See. I told how smart you were.”
Dean blushed furiously, but looked pleased as hell.
Sam kept looking at the little packages on the table. Dean glanced down, as if embarrassed.
“Hey, it’s ok. It… there’s been a lot going on. Christmas kinda snuck up on us. I don’t care that you didn’t get me anything. I mean, I got the best present of all. I got you.” Dean felt the warmth of Sam's smile on his skin. Sam meant it.
“And it’s not much anyway. So… yeah. You wanna open them?”
Dean took Sam’s hand. “Yeah. On the couch.”
They sat on the couch with their coffee. Sam felt the packages, identifying which one was which, and handed Dean the first one. On the TV, the fire log flickered, and Bing Crosby crooned The Little Drummer Boy.
Dean eyed the photo of the Dodge Charger on the paper wrapping, and then tore into the package.
“Awesome!” Dean held a beautiful specimen of fool’s gold in the palm of his hand. He turned it this way and that, admiring the bright, gleaming striations. “Thanks, Sam!”
Sam smiled even wider, dimples deepening, and drank in the delight on Dean's face unmasked by the facade of coolness he usually wore. Dad almost always drove past the roadside attractions that Dean clamored for just a few minutes to visit, and when he did stop, he never bought souvenirs.
Dean held it for a moment longer, as if he was loathe to put it down.
“Here.” Sam handed him the second package, wrapped in a photo of a burgundy Plymouth Barracuda.
“Sweet.” Dean opened that package more carefully, not wanting to rip that picture. He saw what was inside. “Dude. No way.”
Sam grinned. “You like it?”
Dean held the trilobite fossil in both hands, his face lit up. “Trilobite!”
“You always wanted one.”
“I always wanted one,” Dean echoed. “And you… you got one for me.”
Sam pushed the third one toward Dean. It was larger, the size of two fists. “I hope you like this one. I wasn’t sure.”
Dean peeled away the paper, featuring a Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. He fell silent at what he saw. The geode was a double: two perfectly equal shapes joined as one, side by side, each one ringed with green the color of Dean’s eyes, with a center ring the same shade of blue Sam’s eyes turned in the sunlight.
“It’s a malachite/azurite double geode.”
“Sammy.”
“Do…do you like it?”
Dean’s eyes welled up. “God, Sammy. It’s… it’s perfect.” He tore his eyes away to meet Sam’s gaze. “It’s us.”
Sam closed his eyes. Dean understood.
Dean’s mouth brushed across his, soft and somehow the exact, precise temperature and texture that felt perfect to Sam. Just right.
“Look at me.”
Sam opened his eyes. Dean pulled a small package from his jeans pocket and held it out to Sam.
“But…”
“I’ve had this for a long time. Been waiting to give it to you.”
Sam laughed when he saw the cartoon dog on the center of the package. He turned it over, and his eyes widened to see that it was simply wrapped by folding, not tape or string. He opened it with exquisite care, taking as much pleasure in the adept way Dean had manipulated the paper as in the fact that Dean had a Christmas present for him after all. Dean basked in the warmth that flooded him to see Sam noticing what he had done, appreciating every single crease and fold.
Finally, Sam smoothed out the comics into a flat, uncut sheet, and picked up the small plain paper bag inside. He looked at Dean.
“Go on.”
Sam unfolded the bag, and upended it over his outstretched palm.
A silver ring fell out.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was just a whisper.
A silver ring exactly like the one Dean wore on the ring finger of his right hand.
“How did you…”
Dean looked up at Sam through his thick eyelashes, green eyes soft and hopeful. “I had it made for you.”
Sam’s hand shook. Dean closed both his hands over Sam’s, folding his fingers over the ring. “I thought… you could wear it on your right hand, like me, for now. No one would know. What it really means. And then…when we…” Dean was fumbling for words, which was entirely unlike him. “When we get married.”
Sam’s lips parted, and he made the softest little gasp Dean had ever heard.
Dean pressed on. “When we get married, we can wear them on our left hands.”
Sam lifted his hand free, uncurled his fingers, held his hand open. Dean picked up the ring. Sam turned his hand over and gave it to Dean. With trembling fingers, Dean slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Sam’s right hand.
Sam slipped his hand into Dean’s right hand, gently pulling him forward into a kiss. The rings met with a satisfying click. They both smiled, lips still joined, then Dean leaned forward and deepened the kiss, twining the fingers of his other hand into Sam’s hair.
Finally, they broke the kiss. “You like it?”
Sam stared in awe at the ring on his finger, the exact twin of Dean’s ring, then up at Dean. “It’s… I can’t even…”
Dean’s smile was radiant. “You like it.”
“Best Christmas ever.”
“There’s something else.”
Sam’s eyes went wide.
“I want to put my mark on you.”
Sam’s breath stopped.
“I thought… a tattoo or something… but then I thought of something we could do ourselves.”
“What?”
“Our initials. But maybe that’s stupid—“
Sam shushed Dean with his mouth on his. “Our initials. Like in the Impala.”
S.W.
D.W.
“Dean. That’s perfect.”
“Yeah?” Dean’s face lit up.
“Right now?”
“If… if that’s…”
“Yes.”
Dean took Sam’s hand and led him to the bedroom. “Where do you think?”
Sam lay back, pulled up his t-shirt and pulled the waistband of his sweatpants down. He trailed his finger along the diagonal line of muscle running downward from his hipbone. “Here.” He touched a spot inside that groove, just above his pubic bone. “No one would see it here unless I was naked.”
Dean blew out a shaky breath. “That’s perfect.”
Sam lay flat on the bed, gazing up at Dean. “Do it.”
Dean dug out his Zippo, brought the sharp edge of the blade through the flame to sterilize it. “You ready?”
“Yes.”
Dean wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the ornate knife.
”Don’t just scratch me. I want it to last forever, Dean.”
Dean bit his lip and brought the sharp tip of the blade down. It cut into Sam’s skin like butter, so sharp that Sam didn’t even feel it. He formed the D with four quick cuts, blood welling up immediately, and made a small cut, twisting the blade, for the period. He glanced at Sam, checking to see if it was ok. Sam’s face was flushed, his pupils blown.
“Keep going.”
Dean made four more cuts, forming the W, and carefully dug in and rotated the knife to make the second period. There was more blood than he had expected, little rivulets dripping down Sam’s skin. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t set out a towel. Without thinking, he leaned over and brought his mouth to the wound.
Sam gasped. Dean looked up, fearful that he’d crossed a line, pink mouth smeared with Sam’s blood. Sam’s hands, gentle on the back of his head, urging his mouth back down, reassured him.
Dean traced the lines his knife had cut into Sam’s skin with his tongue. Four lines for D. Twirling his tongue as punctuation. Four lines for W. Another slow twirl of the tongue to put a point on it. “Mine. You’re mine, Sammy.”
Sam shuddered. “Always been yours.”
“Always gonna be.” Dean’s voice was rough, demanding. “And I’m yours too.” He leaned over Sam, red mouth curled into a smile. “Gonna mark me too, baby boy?”
Sam pulled Dean to him, kissing him fiercely, licking the taste of his blood from Dean’s mouth. “Yeah.”
Dean fell over onto his back, and undid his jeans. Sam shoved his shirt out of the way, picked up his knife, and straddling Dean’s legs, he brought his knife down. Dean’s flesh yielded to Sam’s blade, parting where Sam wanted it parted. Four cuts for S. Four cuts for W.
Dean’s breath came fast and harsh, and when Sam lowered his mouth, his tongue laving his skin, licking up the drops of blood, Dean grabbed Sam’s hair. “God, Sammy…” Sam brought his mouth down, sealed his lips around the S, and sucked.
And Dean came. Just from that. Just from Sam’s warm, wet mouth sealed over the mark he’d made on his skin, claiming Dean as his own, the mark that would forever be there, Sam’s initials cut into his flesh, visible to anyone to whom Dean might find himself in front of naked. A mark making it clear that Dean already belonged to someone. To Sam.
Dean came sharp and fast and hot, surprised cries driven out of him. And when Sam, equally surprised, shifted his mouth over to swallow it down, the sight of Sam’s blood-smeared mouth on his cock made him buck and groan, his orgasm kicking up three notches. He’d barely finished twitching before he pulled Sam up to straddle his face, pulled his sweats down, brought Sam’s leaking cock to his lips and sucked a shuddering, wall-pounding orgasm out of him.
Sam collapsed at Dean’s side, gasping for breath.
“You alright?” Dean peered at Sam.
“Hell yes.” Sam blinked rapidly, like he was stunned. “Hell yes.” He looked at Dean’s wound. “You? Did I go too deep?”
Dean sat up and looked at the cuts. Deep enough to scar nicely, but not enough to cause structural damage. “I’m good.” Dean started to laugh. “I’m real good.” He wiped his mouth, smearing blood on the back of his hands. “I love you more than life itself, Sammy, but you gotta admit…we’re a little weird.”
Sam dissolved into laughter. When they’d finally settled down, Sam picked up his knife. “Better clean these.” He paused, staring at the blade, Dean’s blood along the edge. His eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he took Dean’s hand, brought it to his stomach, catching a few droplets of his blood on Dean’s thumb. He brought it to his blade, and gently smeared it along the surface. The knife blade grew warm, and to the surprise of both of them, the blood was absorbed into the surface, leaving it as clean as it was when it was pulled from its sheath.
Dean stared at the knife. “Sam. Is that…”
“Nothing to be afraid of.” Sam’s face showed surprise, but not fear.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I am. I don’t know how, but I am.”
Dean picked up his knife, Sam’s blood clinging to the sharp edge. He did what Sam had done, bringing Sam’s hand to his stomach, bloodying his fingertips, and smearing it along the side of his knife blade. Sam gasped as the knife warmed beneath his fingers, and drank in their combined blood, leaving the blade clean.
“What made you think to do that?”
“I don’t know. It just… seemed like that’s what the knife needed.”
To anyone else, that would have triggered alarm bells. But Dean Winchester was not anyone else. Holding the knife in his hand, the twin of the one Sam held, crafted by perhaps the finest knife-maker the world had yet seen, Dean searched his instincts and knew, just as Sam knew, that this was nothing to be afraid of.
.