laurificus: (Default)
Title: Planned Acts
Author: [personal profile] laurificus
Pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: Adult
Word count: 1,244
Summary: "I figure I've got at least forty-five minutes of optimism in me."

Notes: Coda to 721, so spoilers for that. Thank you, as always, to [personal profile] mollyamory for the beta.

***

Planned Acts

"Megatron," Dean says, hours later, conversationally disgusted. He drains his beer and doesn't reach for another, settling back against the car and turning the empty bottle in his hand. It catches the moonlight, brightness dancing in a circle over his arm as he does. He'd make a pretty good picture, Sam thinks, even for people who aren't obsessively interested in him. "You've been wrong about a lot of shit, Sammy, but the rest was at least forgivable."

Sam shrugs, smiles some, because there's no spell Dean can't break just by opening his mouth. "I was very recently hallucinating the devil," he says. "I was institutionalised and everything. I plead extenuating circumstances."

Probably he's more drunk than he thought, to say all that. Dean's still touchy about the whole thing. Like Lucifer's Voldemort or Sauron, say his name and he'll find Sam in the dark again. But Dean just kicks him, a half-hearted, lazy twitch of his foot against Sam's ankle. Sam doesn't bother reacting. He's feeling lazy, too, content and a little buzzed. He goes back to looking at the sky. The stars are bright here, this quiet stretch of road where there's nothing but wild grass on either side for miles. Tiny miracles, Sam thinks, the kind of moments you can build a life on. Assuming the world doesn't end first, obviously.

Dean pushes harder against his ankle, the rough toe of his boot applying pressure just edging into pain. He eases up when Sam looks at him. "So starved for attention, Jesus," Sam says, and Dean flips him off with the hand not holding the beer bottle. That hand winds up on Sam's wrist when he's done, fingers curling just hard enough around it that Sam can feel the gun calluses on his fingers. It's surprising, good. A shot of heat in an already warm night. Sam doesn't say anything, just watches, and Dean smiles at him. A small, quiet thing, as real as anything Sam's seen from him in months.

"You are good, right?" Dean says. "Crazy-wise. Cas--Cas said you were."

Sam nods. Not always, he knows, anymore than Dean is. Going to Hell is sort of like getting Malaria: a persistent infection that never really lets go. That's a worry for another time. For now, he's fine, his head and his memories quiet.

"Think we dodged a bullet," he says. He edges towards Dean, no more than an inch of cool metal between them, so they're close enough for Sam to lean in and rest his shoulder against Dean's. Dean leans into it, and that's another shot of courage to Sam, more vital than the beer. "How are you doing, crazy-wise?"

This time, it's Dean who shrugs, but he stays where he is, and he hasn't let go of Sam's wrist. As answers from him go, it's extremely voluble. "You know me," he says. "Got more issues than a psych ward." He tightens his grip, tugs Sam to him, as if they weren't already on the brink of too near. His thumb is sliding over the jutting bone at the side of Sam's wrist, slow and insistent. "It'll probably end like it always does. But I figure I've got at least forty-five minutes of optimism in me."

"Yeah?" Sam half-whispers it, because the hope he can feel spinning out between them is fragile, too necessary for Sam to fuck up. He's spent his life grabbing for whatever he wants, always asking for too much; this time, he can be different.

"Sure," Dean says. "Cas is awake, and we got a lead for the first time in months." He grins, crooked and bright. "We don't know what to do with either, which could be a problem. But you know. It's better than before."

"Yeah," Sam says, like he's on repeat, but he should plead extenuating circumstances for that, too. His words have always been useless around Dean, his first and best defence stripped away by all the ways Dean is the answer to everything. But Dean, who never manages hopeless or beaten quite as well as he means to, is looking at him expectantly. And Sam, Sam feels like he's been given a second and third and probably a fourth chance. The world's on course with disaster again, but it feels like it's his again, too, or maybe that's just Dean. Maybe that's the same thing.

And maybe, when it comes right down to it, Sam hasn't learned a thing. He's still the guy who brought the devil out and went back into the earth with him, because he's turning now, that same reckless certainty moving him onward. "What do you want? A fucking invitation." He sits forward and leans in, half a second for Dean to move away. Dean doesn't; he's fisting his hands in Sam's t-shirt and yanking him in by the time Sam gets to his mouth. A beat, where they just clutch stupidly at each other, and they're kissing, a cataclysmic thing, here where there's no one to see. Like opening that box before, only this is just for them, Dean's tongue running over Sam's teeth, Sam's fingers mapping Dean's cheekbones, and Sam feeling lit up by revelations, by this whole other language he's been primed his whole life to understand.

Dean says, "I want," and Sam says, "What? Anything," and he's not nearly as ashamed as he should be by how desperately helpless he is. Not then, and not later, when Dean holds him up against the car, works him off in slow, fierce strokes. Sam's jeans around his ankles, his body rocking relentlessly forward towards Dean, and Dean's rhythm going gloriously to hell as Sam wraps his own fingers round his dick, says, "I'm thinking of this as the warm up act, just so you know." And he is. Now that Dean is in reach, Sam's got lists and plans and so many fucking things he wants to do.

"You always were an ambitious son of a bitch," Dean says, his breath coming hot and fast against Sam's neck. Sam is, where Dean's concerned most of all, but it can wait. Has to, because Dean's pressed up against him now, Sam trapped between him and the car, and Sam is lost. Done for, willingly this time, everything given up for Dean. Nothing to be ashamed of in that, either, not when Dean's as bad as he is, mumbling Sam's name over and over like it's the only thing left to him. They're both shaky and wrung out as they come down, and Dean holds him fast, fingers pressing hard against his shoulders like there's something here he can hang onto. And somehow that's better than anything, because Sam can be that, now, finally, after everything.

"Forty-five minutes, you said." Sam can't keep his mouth off him, the stubbled line of his jaw, or the hopeful, smiling curve of his mouth. "We still got time for another round, if you think you can handle it. But you shouldn't feel bad if you can't keep up with me, Dean."

Dean bites down, far from gently, teeth latching on where Sam's neck meets his shoulder. "My interest in sex with you dips in direct proportion to the amount you talk," he says, but fuck if he isn't smiling still when he looks at Sam.

Tiny miracles, Sam thinks again. He smiles back, loops an arm around Dean's shoulders.

***
Music:: Tom McRae - Still Love You
Mood:: 'awake' awake

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