Chapter Text
Two weeks later, Sam wondered why he'd ever thought being nice to Dean was a good idea. He'd tried going for coffee and doughnuts, hustled pool along with Dean whenever he felt like going out, and pretty much did his best to be reasonable and agreeable. Sam let his brother have the first shower; he volunteered to dig graves and do research when he knew Dr Sexy was coming on; he didn't argue about stopping at greasy spoons or bars for bacon cheeseburgers instead of salads or sandwiches; he didn't say anything when Dean put Zeppelin IV on and cranked the volume for three straight hours while they barreled across Nebraska. He did all these things and more, but it wasn't helping.
Or maybe he should say, it wasn't helping him. Dean seemed to be doing just fine, even if he did still sometimes order extra food and leave the container outside overnight. The food was always gone in the morning, and while Sam knew Dean was aware that there was no way 'his' cat was eating it, he figured that whatever comfort Dean might get from feeding a few extra strays was well-deserved. And okay, so sometimes Sam made sure to get a hamburger or two when they were flush and leave it out as well. He'd been hungry and cold, and he knew how badly life could suck for an ownerless pet.
But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Sam couldn't seem to get his brother's voice out of his head, couldn't stop replaying his words: Righteous men don't want to fuck their brothers. And they sure as hell don't fall in love with them. Every so often they'd hit him right out of the blue - he'd be sitting in a diner listening to Dean bitch about his overcooked bacon, and then the next second, he'd be back in that motel room, hearing Dean talk about wanting to fuck him and falling in love with him, and then he'd snap back to reality to find Dean staring at him while Sam wondered if he still thought about fucking him, if he was still in love with him or if Sam had destroyed that when he'd walked out the door and gone to let Lucifer out.
As the weeks slid by, it grew into a strange kind of obsession, slowly taking over his life until it seemed like Sam was constantly watching Dean and cataloging his actions, examining them over and over again to see if Dean still wanted him, if he still loved him. If Dean was still in love with him, if he could even think about being in love with him after all that, then Sam would know that he wasn't beyond redemption, after all. Without really being aware of it, Sam started watching Dean for little clues, keeping track of how long he lingered when he knocked his shoulder against Sam's or how many times their fingers brushed when they were handing each other various things.
And somehow, it moved from observation to action, and Sam found himself making a sort of game of it, seeing how many times during the day he could get Dean to touch him - he started walking across the room to get things or hand them over instead of just throwing them, fumbled keys and room cards and pool cues so he'd drop them and have to bend over to pick them up. It was fucked up, but once he'd started, he couldn't stop, too addicted to the occasional flashes of heat he managed to catch in Dean's eyes to stop.
Like last week: Sam had dropped the car keys twice in one morning, used the excuse of a small booth and his long legs to explain why his ankles were pressed up against Dean's, and played restlessly with his silverware until Dean put a hand over his and barked at him to sit still. There had been something in his eyes, something that Sam might've called smoldering if calling that wouldn't have made him feel like some stupid simpering romance heroine. But whatever it was, Sam wanted to see more of it.
A lot more.
Unfortunately, Dean seemed determined to keep it hidden. Except for the faintest flashes of something more, brief enough that Sam wondered sometimes if he wasn't just seeing what he wanted to see, Dean could've been any ordinary guy wandering around the country with his brother. He'd gotten too good at hiding, and there was no way to strip his defenses away - at least not while he was sober.
Sam knew a lot of people might call it cheating, but he knew how chatty his brother could get when he was drunk, and one of his first lessons as a hunter had been that monsters didn't play fair, so neither did they. Okay, so Dean wasn't a monster, but Sam figured that he still needed every little advantage he could get when he was trying to get to the bottom of this whole thing. He ignored the faint whisper of his conscience that said that he should just ask Dean if he wanted him and dragged his brother out to the nearest bar instead.
There was a two-for-one special on shots, so Sam ordered them both a Cocksucking Cowboy and a Screaming Orgasm, with a beer chaser, then told the waitress to bring another round when they were done. Dean gave him a hard time over the drinks, but shut up soon enough when he found out how good they were. One thing Stanford had done was expand Sam's alcoholic horizons, and while he'd never really gotten all that comfortable with the drink names, he had to admit that anything that tasted like butterscotch, cinnamon or rich cream was just too good to ignore. So he sucked it up and dealt with the way his ears burned when he told the waitress to add a Hot Jizz to their next round, then dared Dean to drink them both.
He'd planned to give most of the shots to Dean, but somehow he ended up matching him almost drink for drink, so things turned out a little differently than he'd planned. Instead of Dean blabbing his innermost feelings, Sam ended up hanging on Dean as his brother steered him back to the room. He thought he remembered telling Dean that he liked it that Dean was strong enough to hold him up, had a fuzzy recollection of hugging him several times while he talked about how awesome thumbs were, and really, really hoped that he'd just dreamt the part where he asked to lick Dean's freckles to see if they tasted like chocolate.
In any instance, Sam was pretty sure that getting drunk had failed miserably as a plan.
He tried a few more things, everything from flirting with other girls (and two guys) right in front of Dean to tearing his clothes in strategic places and even 'accidentally' forgot his towel a few times when he came out of the shower, but nothing seemed to provoke more than a raised eyebrow. Sam was starting to think he'd missed the window for seduction, and how insane was it that he had to even think about that when it came to Dean? But it seemed like Dean took everything he did in stride. When he didn't say anything after Sam jerked off, loudly and obviously, in the bathroom with the door half-open, Sam decided to give up.
There was still one thing he needed to do, though. He waited until Dean was out in the parking lot changing the Impala's oil before he slipped out, claiming he was going to get coffee and check newspapers for a case. As always, Dean under the car meant Dean in his own world, so he answered with a grunt that Sam interpreted as agreement. With a good hour and a half to himself, Sam set out on his errand.
He had to go to two different shelters before he found what he was looking for. She was perfect: tiny, soft, and sweet, with rich butterscotch-colored fur and golden eyes. Best of all, she walked right up to him and wound around his legs instead of skittering away from him. The adoption fee was more than he'd expected, but $125 later, Sam walked out of the shelter with a cat, a certificate for shots and spaying, a travel carrier, food and water dishes, and a thin red leather collar with a shiny golden tag on it. He'd left the name blank, but put both his and Dean's cell numbers on it, along with Bobby's address.
Dean wasn't under the car anymore when Sam got back to the motel. "Looks like he's already inside," he told the kitten, pausing to scoop her out of the carrier before he pushed the door open and called out, "Dean!"
"Yeah, what?" came the answer from over by the window, where Dean had his gun broken down for cleaning.
Instead of answering, Sam put the cat down on the table in front of him. Dean stared at it for a long time before he reached out to stroke one finger over the small downy head. "I know she can't take your cat's place, but I thought we could give her a good home," Sam told him. "The people at the shelter said she's about six months old, and already litter box trained."
"Yeah?" Dean looked up at him. "So what's her name?"
"I figured you could name her."
He studied her for a second, chuckling as she curled up and started washing her face, completely unconcerned about the gun pieces all around her. "Dudette," he finally said, and when Sam gave him a surprised look, he shrugged. "She kinda looks like him."
Sam blinked at him, then looked at the cat, wondering if she really did look like him as a cat. He was about to ask when Dean pushed his chair back and stood up. "Thanks, Sammy," he said softly, reaching out to wrap a hand around his neck. The careful squeeze was completely expected, but the tug forward that brought his mouth crashing down onto Dean's wasn't.
For a long, long time, Sam was too stunned to do more than stand there while Dean kissed him, but when Dean started to back off, some tiny part of his brain sparked to life and he wrapped his arms around his brother, pulling him close while he opened his mouth for him. Dean groaned and deepened the kiss, hands dipping down to cup Sam's ass and steer him back towards the bed.
From there, things dissolved into a warm haze of skin and mouths and hands as clothes vanished and the world narrowed to the two of them. Sam hadn't necessarily given it a lot of thought, but somewhere deep inside he'd been expecting sex with Dean to be all about the need, hot and heavy and sweaty, powered by a driving need for more, but this was... different. This was slow, soft kisses and careful caresses, the long press of his brother's body only faintly registering beyond the mumbled litany of "SammySammyGodsofuckinggorgeousSammy" in Dean's rough voice. Time had slowed down to a syrupy crawl and Sam lost himself in the slow build to climax right up until the sharp sting of claws sinking into his ass yanked him out of it.
"Fuck!"
"Yeah, you like that, huh?" Dean said with a grin.
"No - I mean, yeah, but - Jesus, Dean!" Sam moaned, caught between the need to beg his brother not to stop and the desire to send the small furry monster that was trying to climb his back flying across the room. "The cat," he managed to get out, right before Dean let out a yelp that told him he'd probably realized they weren't alone in the bed.
Immediately, Dean scooted out from under him and grabbed the cat off his back; unfortunately, a claw snagged on skin and Sam groaned again while Dean cuddled the kitten against his chest. "Sorry, Sammy. I'll just - I'm gonna put her in the bathroom, okay?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to put her outside and hope a Doberman made a snack of her, but Sam managed to nod and grunt, "Yeah." He rolled onto his back, hissing when scratches made contact with the sheet, but he wasn't about to miss watching a naked Dean walk across the room. "New rule," he told him as he crawled back onto the bed. "The cat gets put away before we do anything from now on."
"Aw, did the big bad kitty cat hurt you?" Dean teased, reaching out to stroke him with a grin. "Whaddaya say I kiss it and make it all better, Sammy?"
The cat hadn't scratched him there, but Sam was smart enough not to say so. Instead, he leaned his head back and moaned, "Sounds like a good idea," and let Dean work on making it up to him.
His brother had always been good at making him forget minor injuries, and this was no exception. As he surrendered to Dean's not all that surprisingly talented tongue, Sam decided that it was well worth the scratches to get this kind of attention. Especially since Dean didn't seem to want to stop. Like, ever.
Some time later - a long, long time later, to be exact, Sam collapsed down onto his brother, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. It took a while for him to put himself back together - understandable, he thought, since he had to do it pretty much from the atoms up. Two orgasms in under an hour tended to do that to a guy. "Wow," he finally managed to say.
"That's it? Just wow?" Dean teased.
Sam shook his head, then nodded. "I think you broke me."
Dean laughed and shook his head, then pulled Sam down for a kiss. "Dork," he murmured against his lips, but Sam didn't care. If this was what dorkitude got him, then he'd gladly embrace it and go the whole nine yards. Eventually Dean broke the kiss off. "Gotta move, Sammy. Need to check on Dudette."
He grumbled, but rolled over onto his side and pulled the sheet up over him. Propping his head on one hand, he watched Dean slide out of bed and walk over to the bathroom. As soon as the door was open, Dudette sauntered out, giving Dean a disgruntled look as she walked past him to hop up onto the bed.
Sam reached out to run one finger just under her chin, smiling when she leaned into it and purred. He remembered just how good that felt. "You really think she looks like me? I mean, I was a lot bigger and -"
He realized too late just what he'd said when a hand clamped down hard on his shoulder and Sam looked up to see green eyes glittering down at him. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" his brother growled in a low voice, and it didn't take a genius to realize that he was so very screwed.
Swallowing hard, Sam licked his lips and started with, "Well, it's like this: after we split up, I got in that guy's truck..."