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It's day 3, and I'm only on season 2. Is anyone surprised by this? Regardless, here is today's ficlet, set after All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2. (The ep that still wins for my favourite Sam speech ever. Probably.)

Already Taken
Sam/Dean, 469 words

Dean keeps them driving, right into the new day. Sam sleeps through the sunrise, which is just fine with him — he's not much in the mood for even symbolic hope just now. He didn't think he was much in the mood for sleeping, either, but he supposes being dead and then alive again probably takes it out of a guy.

He wakes when the car finally stops, to deserted road, only wild grass on either side. Dean's hand is on his shoulder, warm and staying too long.

"Where are we?" Sam asks, but Dean doesn't answer.

"Come on," he says, and gets out. Sam follows, leans against the car and waits. The world's full of stillness and gathering light; a day that could turn into anything, and Dean's only got 364 moments like this left. Sam wants to yell at him, but there aren't words for what Dean's done.

"What are we doing here?" he asks, instead, and Dean says, "It's my turn now," like he sold his ability to answer direct questions along with his soul.

"You had yours," he says, when Sam just raises his eyebrows. "After the rawhead."

They've never talked about it, never repeated that fumbling night in the dark, either. Sam sucks in a breath, and Dean says, "You were dead," like he might say they're out of gas, or they're running low on cash. Then he pushes into Sam's space, as if they're gearing up for a fight, and he says, "Sammy," more scared and lost than he's ever sounded.

Before Sam can react, Dean's shoving him back against the car. His hold is hard enough that it'll bruise later, and he kisses him even harder. Sam's got no issue with that; if Dean's desperate, Sam is, too. Dean's always been his, this constant sure thing Sam's carried with him all his life. So certain he never needed to be possessive about it, got to be stupid and selfish and careless of it. Not anymore. He bites down, drawing blood and not caring. He leaves bruises of his own on Dean's body, any place he can reach, and when he gets his hand into Dean's jeans, his strokes are vicious, relentless, right until Dean comes, folds into Sam so Sam can wrap around him. And that's what Sam wants, a victory he'll take as proof of what Dean should always have known.

"They can't have you," he says, mouth against Dean's neck. "I won't let them."

Dean huffs out a breath. "Not sure you'll have much say in it, Sam."

That's so stupid it doesn't need a response, but Sam digs his fingers harder into Dean's shoulder. And for luck, like he did all those months ago when Dean first thought Sam would just give up and let him go, he says, "Watch me."
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