Work Text:
~ooooOOOoooo~
May 2nd
It’s a day Sam can’t bring himself to celebrate. Not anymore.
Refusing to allow Sam’s birth to go uncelebrated, Gabriel simply rescheduled it: every May 1st, their home is lavishly decorated for the day with streamers, glittering foil banners, balloons of every shade. Everything they eat is organic: from Sam’s breakfast in bed to lunch cooked on the grill while they prepare the gardens for planting to an intimate dinner for just the four of them. And when the presents have been unwrapped and the cake has been eaten, Dean and Gabriel and Castiel take their beloved titan to bed and envelop him in all of the passion he inspires them to feel.
But when May 2nd dawns, Sam’s eyes always open to see only Dean lying beside him, gazing right back.
Gabriel knew what today was to Sam. Knew that Sam’s forgiveness of the events of Broward County, Florida would never erase the memory of them. The anniversary of Dean’s death at Lilith’s hands was not a day that Sam wanted to spend with someone that had given Sam a seven-hundredfold preview of the event. Sam loved the archangel, with no reservations; Gabriel knew that very well. But his presence would only aggravate what Sam felt on this day, and Gabriel refused to put Sam through that.
Clueing Castiel in on the idea of letting the brothers have this day to themselves hadn’t been easy. The younger seraph had argued strenuously against the notion, feeling that the balm of their love should ease the brothers through their grief: perhaps, one day, even assuage it so that Sam’s birthday would no longer leave them both in such pain. But Gabriel had prevailed: Castiel would not be the angel that had stood by them against the oncoming storm on this day. This day, he would be an unwelcome reminder that Dean’s horrific death had been part of the angels’ master plan to bring about Armageddon, and that instead of protecting him, the angels had merely watched until Dean’s suffering had fully served their agenda.
So when Sam woke, it was only Dean there with him. Only Dean’s face to reach out and touch. Those bright viridian eyes closed involuntarily as Sam’s huge, warm hand slid to cover his cheek, generous lips parting in a soft sigh. It drew Sam closer, and Dean rolled beneath him instinctively, bowed legs splaying to form a cradle for Sam’s hips against his own.
It was Sam’s turn to sigh, relief flooding through him as Dean’s body accepted his weight, Dean’s hands reaching up to thread into his hair. It was as natural as breathing to kiss Dean then: to brush his mouth across his brother’s soft lips once, twice, three times before Dean became impatient and pushed up towards Sam’s mouth.
Except Sam wouldn’t let Dean kiss him that way: couldn’t let Dean give him the same kind of kiss that had sealed that damned deal so very long ago. So Sam always backed off instead, a gentle laugh escaping when Dean’s mouth chased his in frustration. And then he reached up, wrapping his great hands around his brother’s slender wrists and drawing them down from his scalp.
It was easy to pinion both of Dean’s hands with one of his own. His grip was wide enough, and Dean never really fought him on it. Not when it left one hand free to trace the planes of Dean’s body, callused fingertips whispering along the edge of Dean’s arm. Dean’s breath shallowed, his eyes tracking Sam’s fingers as they skirted the crest of his elbow, drew down the natural curve of muscle on the underside of his upper arm. Sam avoided Castiel’s mark, brushing across the fine mat of hair in the hollow of Dean’s armpit instead. A smile, warm and genuine, curved across his face as Dean squirmed from the ticklish sensation, and Dean had to resist leaning up to kiss the dimples that popped as a result.
Not that Sam would let him. Sam wanted Dean where he was, wanted to have Dean’s entire body available for his lips and his tongue and fingertips to ghost where they wished. And Dean wanted to let him, because Dean knew why Sam wanted so badly.
When it came down to it, Dean had never really been able to deny Sam anything.
So he stayed in position even after Sam’s hand released his wrists, letting Sam arrange his limbs and the bed pillows to his satisfaction. He stayed supine and submissive, moaning encouragement as Sam draped his elder brother’s legs over his shoulders, nuzzling the musky hollow at the base of Dean’s erection. He shivered as Sam’s soft sigh of contentment ruffled through dark hair, and again when those huge hands braced his hips before Sam began flicking kitten licks along the length of his need.
It wasn’t unusual for Sam to spend what felt like hours on Dean’s body: his focus on Dean’s erection would suddenly taper off, and he would meander back up the treasure trail to worry at the tender pudge beneath Dean’s belly button, or slip lower and feather kisses up the soft skin of Dean’s inner thighs clear to the knees. And Dean would teeter on the edge for as long as Sam wanted to keep him there: not even with Gabriel could Dean stave off orgasm with the same stamina.
Sam took full advantage of that on this day: on this day alone, Dean didn’t protest when Sam drew away, leaving him aching, only to go fetch pie and coffee for their breakfast and feed Dean’s other appetites for a while.
On this day alone, Dean padded around the house in nothing but boxers, letting Sam have full view of his unscarred chest whenever he needed it. Letting Sam have complete access to his body whenever those great, talented hands decided to roam over it.
On this day alone, Dean kept himself slick and ready, because only on this day did Sam inevitably lose control over his own impulses and tumble Dean to the floor or push him up against whichever wall was handy. Everything in Dean rolled over to make room, and Sam’s fierce growl of possessiveness almost drowned out the “god, yes… Sammy,” that Dean moaned in response.
When Sam pounced, Dean opened for him: wrapped his legs around Sam’s waist and gave himself over to the way Sam gathered him close and pushed in, slow and inexorable and so full Dean could barely breathe. It was a relief, the way Sam felt inside him, but Dean knew that Sam needed more… at least, today he did.
And so he moaned Sam’s name, his Sammy, praise and encouragement and endearments dropping in whiskey-rough tones as Sam pulled him closer, drove in deeper. Dean’s hands smoothed over the flexing muscles of Sam’s broad back as Sam’s distress started to fray through, and he opened more, responded and relaxed and let Sam work through the worst of it, never letting Sam forget for a moment that Dean was still there and alive and whole. That it wasn’t an illusion beneath him, some chimera of Gabriel’s that he’d forgotten the reality of.
That Dean had come back to him, and was still his brother. That Dean still loved him, despite the fact that Sam had neither saved him nor given him the clean death he had deserved.
It always happened after the storm had passed, after Sam had broken through his own barrier of release and flooded into Dean like a overflow through a dam. Sam’s breath initially thundered like a racehorse after Belmont, then slowed and deepened as Sam came back to himself. He always looked down at Dean, tears unshed in his fox eyes, and the question was always there: was I good enough? Have I earned your forgiveness? Did I let you down?
And just like always, Dean drew Sam down for a soft kiss, his fingers gliding up into the soft waves of Sam’s chestnut hair. The kiss was open, and gentle, and the flex of their bodies against Dean’s erection was always the last he could take. Dean spilled between them with a soft gasp into Sam’s mouth, and when Sam pulled away from his mouth, his eyes on Dean’s face, Dean’s eyes fluttered open so that Sam could see what he needed to see: that Dean still loved him, no matter what.
It was easier after that: tender and quiet. Dean stayed within Sam’s reach, and Sam turned on one of Dean’s favorite movies. They ate gelato from Sam’s favorite place back in Palo Alto, and while they didn’t speak much, the weight of the day was no longer pressing down on them.
In the dark, as they settled back into the great bed, Dean let Sam nestle into his chest like when Sam had been very young and needed comfort after a nightmare. He sang “Hey, Jude”, just as their mother had, and kissed Sam on the top of his head when he felt Sam start to relax into sleep, lulled by the steady drum of his brother’s still-beating heart.
Dean didn’t say it until Sam was actually asleep. It was the one thing he knew Sam didn’t want to hear on this day anymore, but he could no more go without saying it today than he could stop the moon’s trek through the night sky. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”