Heading out to case the promise land

I believe a theme of stories I will write this summer is going to be SAM IS AWESOME OMG! ALSO, DEAN LOVES HIM! Just preparing you, in case that is not your thing. *g*

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A Guy Falls Down a Hole
by laurificus, Sam/Dean, 2,549 words
Dean's trying not to feel too glad. Doesn't seem right when the world's maybe gone to shit again.

For mollyamory, who asked for one thing, and got...this. And still she betaed, for which I thank her. All remaining mistakes are mine.

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A Guy Falls Down a Hole

"You will confess your love unto me, your Lord," Cas says. He's deadly, terrifyingly serious, in every sense. Dean is terrified. It's not like he doesn't know crazy when he sees it. The only problem is that beneath the terror, there's a dangerous, lunatical part of him that desperately wants to laugh. Trust Cas to turn himself into the world's creepiest nuclear bomb and then act like a cross between a supervillain and a kid throwing a tantrum.

"You refuse me." Cas takes a step towards Dean, his eyes narrowing as he lifts his hand. Dean forcibly stays in place, meets Cas's bottomless, unstrung gaze and holds it. Keeping Cas's attention on him is good; it's the only place Dean wants it.

But Sam's a fucking moron, pathologically incapable of following a gameplan like a normal person. "We love you," he says, and, man, does he suck at humble. Cas swivels to stare at him, and he adds, "Uh. Very much."

It takes more effort for Dean not to clench his fists now than it did to stand his ground before. Sam might not sound humble, but he sounds like he's fraying around the edges, and it hurts Dean's heart to look at him and know that it's not Cas he's scared of. That wipes Dean's own fear and amusement clean away. He's not ruling out professing his love if it'll save his ass; he'll go on and on doing it right until the moment he puts this new monster down. He wonders what would happen if he unloaded a clip into the back of Cas's head. Nothing, probably, but the idea makes him feel better, anyway.

"You're lying, of course," Cas says, glancing back at Dean. He smiles at them, then, and reinvents psychotic in the process. "But I can be a merciful God. You will have time to repent." He isn't smiling when he points at the floor feet away from Sam and turns a chunk of it to dust. The bitch of it is, he makes it happen without a sound. "I can also be vengeful," he says, like that might be news. "You don't want to be numbered among my enemies."

Dean wants to be top of that list, actually, but Cas is already snapping his fingers. Before Dean can even start to be worried, he's back in the Impala--wheels-up again and engine running. In the distance, Crowley's building is being unmade: a demolition of smashing glass and tumbling brick that's obviously all for show. Dean doesn't give a shit. Sam's beside him in the passenger seat, slumped and shaky, maybe, but beside him. Dean's not even over the relief of that when Bobby calls; honestly, he's not sure he's going to be over that any time soon.

"I'm in my kitchen," Bobby says, for all the world like he might've just come home from a grocery run. "Apparently, our new god is merciful enough to deliver me from you ejits for the night."

This time, Dean laughs a little, and it's all right. Miles away, he can hear Bobby scraping his chair back. He doesn't need to ask to know that Bobby's heading for the library, and it dispels the guilt gathering in his chest. Bobby's got this, at least for tonight.

"We're gonna find a motel," he says, glancing over at Sam. He's sitting up now, but his gaze has a fixed, unseeing quality to it that freaks Dean right the fuck out, and there are lines of pain around his eyes. Dean recognises that look--a thing from back when visions were all they had to worry about. He didn't like it then, and he likes it less now. "We'll catch up with you tomorrow."

His voice sounds pretty good to his own ears, but Bobby's is gruff, like it always is when he's aiming for comfort. "Sam's gonna be fine," he says. "Didn't even need Cas's supercharged powers to wake him up, did he?"

"Like he would," Dean says.

That part still feels like a miracle, the kind of good Dean's life isn't supposed to have. Even after he's said goodbye, he doesn't start driving. He just lets himself look at Sam. If someone had taken a wrecking ball to his face, he couldn't look like he'd suffered much more of a beating; the fact that he doesn't have a mark on him just makes it worse. Even so, when Dean curls a hand around his shoulder, Sam's attention snaps to him. Better still, it stays on him.

"You okay?" Dean says. It's a stupid question, but Sam tries out a smile for him, and Dean's breath catches.

"Neither of us is dead," Sam says. "And the world hasn't ended. I've had worse days."

"Yeah," Dean says, but that's about the limit of his conversational ability right now--anything else would just be horribly embarrassing for them both. For the same reason, he puts his foot down, makes himself very busy getting the car out onto the road. He can't risk Sam really seeing his face right now; there's no chance all the ways Dean can't get over him aren't scrawled across it in fifty foot letters. He doesn't take his hand away from Sam's shoulder, though, and Sam keeps his gaze trained on him as they drive to the nearest motel.

Dean would settle for anything resembling four walls and a roof right now. God-free is his only requirement, but he's not sorry to be turning into something that looks a couple notches above their usual. The paint looks reasonably new, and the light behind the big front windows looks warm and bright. Sam throws a questioning glance at him, and Dean shrugs.

"We deserve the good shit now that we're God's chosen people," Dean says. It beats saying Dean's trying to make up for whatever Sam went through with a room that's maybe gonna add a couple more twenties to someone else's credit card. He tightens his hand around the door handle, makes his voice light. "You good here while I get us checked in?"

Sam nods, though Dean isn't sure he's really listening. Dean wants to take Sam with him; he wants to carry Sam to the room, like he could've when Sam was a kid, when there was nothing in the world Dean couldn't make better just by saying he would. That's a hundred years and a million fuckups behind them, though: Dean's big brother magic now like a trickle of tap water against a demon. He gets out of the car in a hurry before he can think about that, all but runs to reception. When he makes it back, what feels like an eternity later, Sam's by the trunk. He's got their bags in his hands, that zoned out look in his eyes again, and he's practically swaying on his feet he's so tired.

"Hey," Dean says, reaching for him. "I got that." Sam flinches, and then, typically, starts to protest. That's pretty fucking awesome, far as Dean's concerned, and still nothing he's going to pay any attention to. He swings the bags over his shoulder, stretches out to put his other hand on Sam's back.

"My hero," Sam says, with that tired smile again, but he doesn't shake Dean off, and when he stumbles on the way to the room, Dean's right there to catch him, tugging him in while he fumbles with the keycard.

Inside, he barely notices that the room doesn't smell of damp or smoke or anything at all, really. It looks pretty clean, and the air conditioning works, and he spares a second to be grateful for that. But once he's marked the escape routes and claimed the bed nearest the door, he doesn't give the place another thought. Sam's laying salt lines, somehow as neat and straight as ever, and if he keeps shifting so that Dean's always in his sight, Dean's not doing much different. Looking doesn't even feel like enough to Dean; his fingers nearly ache with the urge to just hold onto him.

"You should eat," he says, which is true, and not at all what he needs to say. He nearly adds that Sam should sleep, too, but he doesn't know if Sam wants to. God knows, Dean didn't for a long time after hell.

"Pizza and a shower sound good right about now," Sam says. He puts the salt down by the TV, roots through his duffle. He's trying so fucking hard for normal, and the hell of it is, he's nearly succeeding. Dean knows him, is all, knows what it costs him to do it. He's gonna make Cas pay double, but that's a distant thought, a promise for later. Now there's just Sam--his stupid, amazing idiot little brother who's never met the thing that could beat him. Everything else can wait.

Dean shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and says, "You sure? You're pretty wiped."

Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not faking that, at least. "You're not coming in with me," he says. He pulls a menu from the leaflets piled on the table beside him, and his mouth quirks up a little as he holds it out to Dean, like the anomaly of room service really is something to be pleased about. "No olives," he says, before closing the bathroom door behind him. Dean listens to make sure he doesn't lock it, and only starts picking their food once he's satisfied Sam hasn't immediately fallen over.

He grabs the laptop while he waits for dinner and for Sam, and does nothing more than boot it up. In his defence, he's not sure what he'd do--he's reasonably certain Google doesn't have a lot of reliable information on killing self-appointed gods--but he knows that's not the reason. He's listening to the shower, then to Sam moving around; he's looking at the evidence of Sam in the room. He's trying not to feel too glad. Doesn't seem right, when the world's maybe gone to shit again and he's got no clue how to fix it, but there it is, all the same. Dean's priorities have always been a little fucked; he's never been under any illusions about that.

He's still trying to work up suitable concern for the world when Sam comes back out. He looks wrecked, shadows running trenches under his eyes, but maybe he's a little steadier. He smiles when he sees the pizza, as much green shit on it as there is meat, just how he likes. Not that he eats much of it, but then, it's not like Dean does, either. Dean sits close by him on the bed, quiet because there's nothing to say that doesn't feel too big, and he's not going to discuss hell with Sam over dinner. He's pretty sure that's a rule.

It's Sam who starts talking, which probably shouldn't be surprising. "I'm sorry," he says, completely inexplicably. His hand rubs, once, across his face, stubble rasping in the silence, and he seems more sad than anything else when he looks at Dean. "That you couldn't stop him, I mean. I know it's--you've had some practice at that, I guess, but I'm sorry."

Dean sets the slice of pizza down, disbelieving. He doesn't care that he's put it on the clean, blue bedspread; he doesn't take the time to wipe his hands before grabbing Sam's wrist. "The hell are you--you think I'm--what?" He's moving in before Sam's even had a chance to reply, getting as close to him as he can. His free hand slides up around the curve of Sam's neck, shakes him, as much as it's possible to shake a mountain. "I know you've had a rough time," he says, "but no one of my bloodline should be this fucking stupid."

Sam huffs out an annoyed breath, twitches half-heartedly under Dean's hands. "I'll try not to show concern for you ever again," he says. "I forgot we pretend you don't have feelings."

And that is pretty much all Dean can take. As if Sam should be the one concerned right now. "I swear to--whatever. I swear to whatever--there is something seriously wrong with you."

Then he leans in and kisses Sam, hell trauma and incest and everything else be damned. It's not gentle and it's not slow; it's not even particularly good, all helpless need and no technique. It's still the best fucking thing Dean's done in years, every part of it: Sam's pulse thrumming against Dean's fingers; Sam's hands drawing him in; Sam's mouth an insistent, demanding pressure against his. Even so, Dean pulls back. It kills him to do it, but they've got to be in this together, got to both know what it means; Dean's done with having it be any other way between them. Sam makes a disapproving noise, glaring at him as he yanks him back in. "I know," he says, a little ragged, and a little pissy. "For fucks' sake."

"I thought I lost you," Dean says, while Sam's hands fumble at his face. "Again." He doesn't know how to say the rest of it, how nothing else matters as much as that one thing. So he opens up and lets Sam in, tangles his fingers in Sam's stupid hair and hopes Sam gets it.

Sam certainly kisses him like he does, somehow like he's taking everything and giving everything all at once. He doesn't need Dean's pulling to bring him down on top of him; he's a gigantic, unstoppable force pushing Dean right where he wants him. They land in a messy tangle, and they're too desperate to take the time to do anything but thrust against each other, touching every way they can. It's an old thing, being able to have Sam like this; something that had started to seem like even less than a memory. Dean wants all of Sam again, wants to relearn his whole body the way he used to know it, and even while he's falling apart under Sam's big, talented hands, he's blown away by the knowledge that maybe he can, now, that maybe Sam wants that, too. It's easy to believe that when Sam's frantic and fierce against him, saying Dean's name like a plea and a promise both.

"I got you," Dean says, because maybe this time he does. And when Sam comes, head buried against Dean's shoulder and shaking, Dean keeps holding him. It's a long time before they move again, and Dean's okay with that.

Eventually, though, he nudges Sam. "We're gonna have to talk about it, you know." It's what Sam did for him, even when Dean was sure just saying the words would break him beyond any power to fix.

Sam's whole body stiffens, but he doesn't move away. It's not like Dean would let him. "Hell wasn't as much fun as you'd expect," he says, after a little while. There's a tiny catch in his voice, but that's all. "I think--I'm pretty fucked up."

Dean digs an elbow into his ribs. "So what else is new?" He settles a hand on Sam's hair, feels the curls damp beneath is palm, the warmth of Sam beneath that. "We made it out before," he says. "Gotta be easier second time around."

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