Four Anniversariesby Nomelon Spoilers: very mild and speculatory for season 3
~~~ Exactly one year after Dean doesn't go to hell, they celebrate their first anniversary. This is the lube anniversary. Sam doesn't count it as an anniversary because he likes to argue over pedantic little details like dates, and what constitutes an anniversary anyway, and whether this means that Dean actually thinks they're dating? Dean tries to wipe the evil little grin off Sam's face with a kiss, makes it sloppy, plenty of tongue, so all the stupid things Sam is trying to say come out muffled until he gives up on talking entirely and kisses back. It's their anniversary, Dean states unequivocally when he finally pulls back and breathes, smiling at Sam's frustrated little scowl at the loss of contact. It's their anniversary because one year ago, one year to the day, that was the day Sam saved him. Sam, being Sam, tries to argue again. Force of habit. Not because he doesn't buy it, not because he doesn't agree wholeheartedly or know exactly what Dean's referring to -- it's not like the date hasn't been looming for weeks. And it's definitely not because the idea of it makes him drop his gaze and stammer and glance shyly up at Dean from under his ridiculously long eyelashes like he only really started doing after they started doing this... thing that they do. It's because that day isn't something they've ever really talked about. It happened in the Impala, which, when Sam thinks about it, seems incredibly right somehow. Dean's foot heavy on the accelerator, his knuckles white on the wheel, speeding away from the annihilated crossroads fading to nothing behind them in the rear-view. Neither of them talking, just breathing deep, watching the road ahead and knowing that life was suddenly wide open. That somehow they'd beaten the insurmountable odds stacked against them. They'd done it. They'd actually done it. It was really over. Finally, and maybe for the very first time, they were free. Sam kissed Dean first. Very little thought went into it. He just slid his hand up Dean's thigh, leaned in and kissed the corner of Dean's mouth. Dean nearly killed them both, fishtailing the car across both lanes of highway, narrowly avoiding ending up in a ditch. Heart hammering in his chest, Sam had shrunk back in the passenger seat, all his bravery used up already, absolutely certain that Dean was going to start swinging, maybe for the kissing thing or maybe for nearly making him wreck the Impala, Sam wasn't entirely sure. Either way, it was going to hurt like a bitch. Instead Dean climbed into his lap and slid his fingers into Sam's hair, breathing Sam's name against his lips like nothing else mattered in this life or the next. Sam had groaned -- couldn't believe it was happening, didn't ever want it to stop -- and closed the distance between them. Then it was just the two of them, tangled together in the front seat of the Impala, hurting and trembling and exhausted, high as hell on adrenaline and completely and utterly lost in each other. That was the very first time they fucked, sprawled over the seats, clothes pushed out of the way, sweat-slick skin catching on the leather upholstery. The first time neither one of them had been able say no, stop, I can't, we shouldn't. They were battered and bruised, covered in black smudges of soot and ash, spattered with demon blood, and neither of them cared. Sam was so relieved that neither of them had been lost to the darkness, that Dean was still breathing, whole and unharmed, that he laughed into Dean's mouth, full of joy, happy to be alive. He couldn't stop running his hands over every inch of his brother's skin. An affirmation, making sure Dean was warm and vibrant and still here, kept you here, told you, I told you I'd save you. He couldn't stop his tears of gratitude to a God he'd thought had forsaken him. Couldn't stop whispering all those damning little words of love and want against Dean's skin, and for once Dean didn't shut him down. Dean listened to everything Sam had to say, his face open and scared and amazed. Dean pulled him in close and kissed him and told him it was okay. Told Sam how incredibly proud he was, how grateful, and promised that he'd never leave again. Not ever. So yeah, the memory of it is enough that Sam makes his token protest, but he trails off, not able to sustain it. The look in his eyes says it all. He clenches his fists on the front of Dean's shirt, their foreheads touching. "Hey," Dean says, a deft little side-step. "Got you an anniversary present." "Yeah?" Sam asks, surprised. Dean grins and presses something small and cool and plastic into Sam's hand. Sam holds out his palm and looks at the little tube that's sitting there. "You got me... lube?" He frowns. "Dean, we already have lube. You buy it by the gallon." "Yeah, but look." Sam does, squinting at the writing on the label. "You got me... cappuccino flavoured lube?" "Best I could do. They didn't have Half-Caf Grande Caramel Vanilla Non-Fat Latte Wussy Little Girl flavour." Sam scratches at the back of his neck and gives a little chuckle. "You're an incredible dork, you know that, right?" Dean rolls his eyes and starts shouldering out of his jacket. "You love me." "Yeah," Sam says, suddenly serious. "I do." Dean stops moving, lets his jacket fall to the ground and looks at Sam for a long time. "Dean, I--" "S'okay, Sammy. I know. You don't have to say it." "But, Dean. There's so much that I--" Dean cuts him off with another kiss. It's soft. Almost chaste, and if Sam didn't know for a rock solid fact that Dean has no intention of doing anything for the rest of his whole life except spend it with Sam, it'd be enough to break his heart. "I love you," Sam says, because he can't help it; the words just fall out of him. "Do you know? There's so much it's like I can't even... It's like the words aren't even enough for us." Dean grins, and it's one of the rare ones. It's not a leer, not a challenge. It's gentle. Genuine. Happy. "So why don't you show me instead?" Sam's only too happy to comply. The sun's coming up and the tube of cappuccino lube is completely empty by the time they finally fall asleep, curled around one another on the rumpled motel sheets. Sam's last thought before sleep claims him is that it's been a good year. The best. For a long time afterwards he has trouble drinking any kind of coffee without getting hard. Dean doesn't seem to mind. It makes for some very interesting breakfast times. ~~~ Exactly five years after Dean doesn't go to hell, they celebrate their fifth anniversary. This is the pie anniversary. They've been working a case; an outbreak of pixies terrorising a new housing development built a little too close to the woods for comfort. The pixies' comfort, that is. Dean hates pixies, hates them, and always gets a little too gleeful when the whumping them with birchwood clubs part of the proceedings gets underway. (Whumping isn't the technical term for the lore behind why exactly pixies react so violently to being introduced to birchwood at high velocities, but Dean's used it often enough that it's become their own personal buzzword. Sam can deal. It definitely fits the bill.) This particular whumping session hadn't exactly gone according to plan, which had soured Dean's mood from bad to worse, because if there's one thing Dean hates -- and he's not opposed to telling Sam about a million times every time they have a run in with them -- it's pixies. So now Dean is laid up in bed with a sprained ankle from tripping over a tree root when they were chasing around in the woods in the dark. Sam's just happy Dean didn't shoot himself in the balls when he fell over with his pixie-whumping birch club in one hand and his favourite sawed-off shotgun in the other. He'd tried telling Dean that shooting pixies doesn't work, a fact Dean is all too aware of, but Dean couldn't help himself because Dean hates pixies and Dean loves guns. It's a bad combination at the best of times. Sam gets back to the motel room to find Dean sprawled on the bed, his ankle propped up on pillows, cartoons on the television. When Sam walks in, the only parts of Dean that move are his eyes, narrowed and curious. "What'd you bring me?" "Surprise." "Dude, I hate surprises. Tell me." Sam tosses the keys on the table and sets down his precious cargo long enough to pull his hoodie over his head and try and flatten his windswept hair into something approaching manageable. "What's in the bag?" Dean asks, pushing himself up like if he gets enough elevation, he'll somehow miraculously be able to see through the brown paper. "Is it booze? Jerky? Candy? Porn? Sam? Is it porn? What?" Sam passes the bag under Dean's nose, quick enough that Dean's grabby hands can't quite catch him. "Food?" Dean says, his eyes lighting up. "You brought me..." He inhales deeply, getting a dreamy look in his eyes. "Sammy. Pie. Is it pie? Did you bring me pie?" Sam pulls a plastic fork and a couple of napkins out of his back pocket, gets comfortable on the bed beside Dean, and slides the pie out of the bag with a flourish. "Cherry pie. Don't say I never bring you anything nice." Dean licks his lips. "You're the best brother I have." "I'm the only brother you have." "Nah, we just never told you about Chester. He's in a home." "A home?" "For wayward boys." "Wait... Chester Winchester?" Dean blinks a couple of times. "Yeah. Chester Winchester. Gimme that fork." Sam ignores him, and helps himself to a huge forkful of pie. Dean's eyes track the movement and he licks his lips as Sam chews happily. "Don't you think I've suffered enough today?" Sam grins and holds up another forkful in offering. Dean eyes him distastefully, torn between unfettered desire for pie and not wanting to give in to his little brother. "Dude, I sprained my ankle, not my wrist. Gimme." Sam just shakes his head. "I only got one fork. We'll have to share." "I'm not letting you feed me, you ginormous girl." "Then no pie for you." "Jesus. Fine." Dean slumps back against the pillows and folds his arms, shoulders hunched up around his ears. He scowls at Sam, a muscle jumping in his cheek, then opens his mouth, one eyebrow raised impatiently. Sam grins and shoves a forkful of pie in Dean's mouth. "Was that so hard?" It's obvious that Dean is fighting to keep the scowl on his face, but his expression melts into a dreamy smile as he chews with his mouth open, the pie making his cheek bulge out. "At's... at's eally oog ie, Ammy." Sam resists the urge to say, I told you so, because there's method to his madness. He feeds Dean little forkfuls, smiling at the happy little grunts and moans that Dean makes with every bite, watching with interest as Dean repeatedly licks his lips and smacks them together. "Don't be shy, Sammy. Load that baby up." This time Sam's a little careless with his aim. Crumbs spray over Dean's chest and he ends up with a large smear of cherry sauce all over his mouth and chin. "Damn it, Sam, you have the aim of a retarded--" But this would be the method part of the madness. Sam leans in and licks at the sauce covering Dean's chin. He pauses long enough to roll to the edge of the mattress, leave the pie on the table beside the television and he's back at Dean's side, trailing little licking kisses up Dean's throat, across his chin, teasing at the corner of Dean's mouth. Dean's breathing picks up, but he lies still and lets Sam clean him up in the nicest possible way. Dean licks his lips occasionally, seeking out traces of cherries, but his tongue brushes Sam's once too often until they're kissing, hot and open, until there's no more cherries, just Sam and Dean. Dean tucks his hands down the back of Sam's jeans, greedy for warm skin, and he pulls Sam in close until Sam's grinding slowly against Dean's thigh, feeling like a teenager, mindful of Dean's injured ankle. "Do you mind?" Dean says, not stopping kissing Sam for even a second. "I'm recuperating here." "You don't need your ankle for a blowjob, do you?" Dean thinks about this for all of three seconds, gives Sam's ass a final squeeze for good measure, then takes a good hold of the headboard and looks at Sam expectantly. "Should I take that as a no?" Sam asks, and Dean just grins. Between them, they make quick work of Dean's jeans, and Sam sucks him down, takes him as deep as he can, tasting cherries in the back of his throat; sex and Dean heavy on his tongue. He works Dean slow, doesn't respond to guttural threats or the impatient lift of Dean's hips. Just holds him in place and takes his time, enjoying this, enjoying the moans he wrings out of his brother, making it good for him, making it last. "Sammy," Dean groans when he comes, lifting his head to watch with dark eyes as Sam chokes a little and swallows as best he can, milking the last drops of Dean's orgasm out of him. Dean watches Sam lick his lips and he smiles, slow and dirty. "C'mere," Dean says, and tugs Sam up the bed with an eager little finger and thumb grip on his shirt. Sam lets Dean guide him where Dean wants, and ends up straddling him, resting his elbows on the wall above Dean's head and staying up high on his knees. Dean tugs open the fly of Sam's jeans and scootches down enough that he can get at Sam's cock without breaking his neck. Sam doesn't last long; he's been embarrassingly hard since Dean's first mouthful of pie. He watches himself slide into Dean's mouth, past wet, eager lips, and he moans, rolling his forehead on the wall, his chest heaving. Dean does that curly thing with his tongue around the head of Sam's cock that always makes his knees buckle and that's all it takes. Sam moans and slaps his hand off the crappy wallpaper, his forehead pressed tight against the wall, trying to keep it together enough so that he doesn't collapse right on top of Dean. Dean glances up at him and grins, his palms sliding slowly up and down Sam's thighs. Sam bends down to kiss him, tasting himself on Dean's tongue. "Happy anniversary, Sammy," Dean says when they're slumped side by side on the mattress, satisfied and indolent. "You remembered?" "Of course I remembered. But you win. Pie and sex. My two favourite things." "How could I forget?" Dean gives him a tight little smile and looks unaccountably bashful. "I, uh, didn't get you anything. I was planning to, but I've been laid up here all day." "That's okay. You can make it up to me later with awesome sexual favours." Dean grins. "You got yourself a deal." They lie there for a while, letting the sound of silence lull them, their fingers laced loosely together. "Is there any pie left?" Dean asks through a yawn. "No," Sam says, not bothering to open his eyes, already half asleep. "No more pie. It's too far away." "Sa-amm." "If you eat it now there won't be any left for breakfast." "Fine," Dean grumps, sounding like a twelve year old, and wriggles around a little on the bed until he gets comfortable. This seems to involve plastering as much of his body as possible up against Sam's. After several minutes wriggling, punctuated by oohs and aahs over his poor, sprained ankle, Dean is finally satisfied with his positioning and he yawns expansively, turning his face into Sam's neck, snuffling softly against Sam's skin. Sam's pretty sure Dean's asleep, but then he hears, "I love you more than pie anyway." Sam is hugely irritated at how touched he is by the sentiment. He falls asleep with a huge, sappy smile on his face and the soft rumble of Dean's breathing, warm and constant, beside him. ~~~ Exactly ten years after Dean doesn't go to hell, they celebrate their tenth anniversary. This is the vibrator anniversary. They need to get to California for a job. It's imperative they make it from New York to San Francisco in time for the build up to the vernal equinox, and there's no way in hell they're going to make it there in time to meet their contact unless they get their asses on the very next plane departing out of Newark International. Sam tries to be the grown-up about the whole flying thing and let Dean meet his fear head on, let him walk like a man, but Dean chooses to stomp around like a petulant child instead. So Sam tries cajoling, promising lots of filthy, unbrotherly things that Sam will let Dean do to him just as soon as they get Ostara out of the way first. This definitely piques Dean's interest, and it stalls his bitching just enough that he calms down a little and mutters something about going to buy a metric ton of candy to get them through the flight while Sam gets to stand in the long line for the check-in desks. It's apparently not enough to stop Dean from throwing a hissy fit as they make their way down the tunnel towards the boarding gates. They're getting closer to the line of people waiting to get through security, so Sam puts his foot down. He tells Dean that he's getting on the plane even if Sam has to carry him on. Dean's flown before, and there aren't even any demons on this flight as far as they know, so what he hell is his damn problem anyway? Dean scowls so deeply his eyes turn into vengeful little slits, and Sam has to tell himself very sternly not to stare at Dean's angrily pouted lips because this will only set Dean off again. Dean may still be furious, but to the casual observer he hides it well, walking through security without incident, even managing a flirtatious grin at one of the prettier female security officers standing nearby. He may be pushing forty, but Dean's still got the moves and he's not afraid to use them. Sam's too busy watching this little exchange with a frown on his face to notice when several of the other security officers huddle around the baggage machine to point and confer and glance up at him with knowing little smiles. It's over half an hour later and their flight is already being called for pre-boarding by the time Sam makes it through security, red-faced and angrier than he's been in a long, long time. He finds Dean propping up the tiny little bar near their gate, halfway down his second beer. Sam storms up to him, wishing like hell he'd held on to just the tiniest little bit of all that dark power that he'd once been able to access at the drop of a hat, before he'd burned it all up in that last big showdown to save Dean. He wouldn't need much. Just a smidge. Just enough to colour his eyes yellow, or to make electricity play around his fingers or the tips of his hair. Just a scary little visual to clue Dean in on how very pissed off Sam is right now. "What the fuck?" Sam says when he's still several feet away, drawing interested glances from a couple of other waiting passengers. "What?" Dean says, looking as innocent as a newborn lamb, and completely oblivious to his impending doom. "Check the date, dude. It's our anniversary. I got you a present." Sam gets right up in Dean's space and looms over him. "And you had to leave in my carry on bag before we went through security?" Dean just shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. "Where did you even find a--" Sam glances around, and leans in further to hiss, "a vibrator in an airport anyway?" "Sammy," Dean smiles, loose and easy, "they sell everything in airports these days." Dean gives him a loose, one-armed hug around his neck and takes the opportunity to whisper in close in Sam's ear, his breath warm and malty, "Play your cards right and we can give it a test drive later." Sam wonders if maybe Dean expects him to falter and blush and maybe to think this is actually a good thing. Instead he grabs fistfuls of Dean's shirt, drags him around the nearest corner away from prying eyes and pushes him up against the wall. "What the hell would we need a vibrator for, Dean? Hmm?" "I just thought--" "Don't think," Sam says, holding Dean in place, his hips pressing in close, using his whole body to crowd Dean up against the wall. It isn't often they do anything like this in public and Dean's caught completely off guard. "I have plans for your ass that don't involve silicon and batteries." Dean looks a little dazed. "Okay. That's doable too." "And so help me god, if you ever pull a stunt like this on me again, I will spank that ass of yours until you cry like a little girl. We clear?" "Come on, Sammy," Dean chuckles. "I know you don't--" "Dean," Sam says, hard and unyielding. "I'm not even close to kidding. Are we clear?" It takes Dean a second to get his mouth to work. "Clear, Sammy," he says, swallowing hard when he sees Sam staring at his mouth. "Crystal." "Good," Sam says, his voice whiskey rough, and he hesitates for a second, lets Dean feel the solid weight of him, then pushes off the wall and strides away, heading towards their gate. It takes Dean a little longer to get his shit together. They're making the final call for their flight before he manages to get his hard on to go down enough that walking isn't a problem. At least, he figures, once they're onboard and he's taking his seat by the window so Sam can sprawl his freakishly long legs into the aisle, at least it's taken his mind off flying. The next time they visit Bobby, Sam leaves the vibrator sitting in the top of Dean's open duffel in the kitchen where he knows Bobby can't possibly miss it. After Bobby's been suitably freaked out and Sam has choked on his laughter when Dean looks more horrified than Sam's ever seen him look in the history of ever, Dean chases him through the Bobby's yard, darting around the shells of old, dead cars with the vibrator in his hand, threatening to beat Sam to death with it. Sam has a hard time running while he's laughing so hard, but his legs are longer, so he gives Dean a pretty good run for his money. They never do get around to test-driving the vibrator for its intended purpose, but Sam never quite gets around to throwing it away, either. ~~~ Exactly thirty years after Dean doesn't go to hell, they celebrate their last anniversary. This is the pearl anniversary. It's Saturday afternoon and Dean has the day off from the garage he's owned for the past seven years. He's ensconced in the den, watching the game, a beer in one hand and his booted feet up on the coffee table. It's a recent thing, taking a two day weekend. Dean's finally trusting the new kid to run things without him. The kid's name is John Walker (and since when did a grown man in his twenties become a "kid" to them, Sam would very much like to know) and Sam's pretty sure that Dean likes to have him around because he reminds Dean a lot of himself. Dean likes to tell him stories about their glory days, changing names to protect the innocent and the not so innocent, smudging a more than a few of the details when it comes to the reason they did so much travelling all over the country, but John's usually suitably impressed. Dean even talks about their father sometimes, like he gets a kick out of the fact that John shares his name. Sam likes him. He likes how Dean's the only one who gets away with calling him Johnny. He likes how John makes sure Dean doesn't try and do everything himself anymore, that Dean actually gets home on time for dinner these days. So yeah, John's a good kid. Sam works at a small law practice downtown, so it works out because now they get to spend their weekends together. Between them, they've managed to deal pretty well with this settling down thing. After Bobby's funeral back in 2027, and then those couple of hunts that didn't go so well, they figured it was finally time to hang up their hunting gear and call it a day. So now they're homeowners. They work nine-to-fives. They're a two car family. They have a yard and a garage with an old basketball hoop above the door. They have bank accounts and they shop for groceries with actual honest-to-god nutritional content and Sam can't even remember the last time he slept in a motel. They live in suburbia, in Kansas of all places, and Sam doesn't know if he's ever been happier. So long as they were in it together, that was all either of them really cared about anyway. Of course, managing to clear their names as far as the cops, the FBI, bounty hunters scattered across several states, and miscellaneous law enforcement authorities stretched from one coast to the other were concerned turned out to be almost as difficult as breaking an ironclad deal with the devil. However, Winchesters are nothing if not resourceful, to say nothing of persistent, and now their lives are their own. It had taken a long time to get here, but Sam knows they're earned every bit of their happiness. Which has only made this last month that much harder. He stands in the doorway of the den, resting his shoulder against the wood, and watches his brother with a sad little smile on his face. He's pretty sure Dean knows he's there, but Dean doesn't look away from the game. Dean looks good for an old guy. That's what they call themselves now. Old guys. They bemoan their grey hair, their tired old bones, all those aching war wounds, their thickening middles -- Dean's days of breakfasting on cheeseburgers are long behind him, turns out cholesterol's a bitch, and Sam hasn't had six-pack for longer than he cares to remember -- but still, Dean looks good to him. Dean has always looked good to him. "I got you something." Dean keeps his eyes on the screen, just tilts his chin and grunts, enough to show that he's listening, but not enough that he might miss some important play. Sam slides a wooden box across the coffee table. Dean catches sight of it out of the corner of his eye and the game is instantly forgotten. "What is this?" he asks with a smile, running his fingertips over the polished wood. "You pushing the boat out on me?" Sam gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Go ahead. Open it." "Wait," Dean says, standing up and checking through his pockets. He keeps checking with one hand, using the remote to turn off the television with the other. "Here," he says finally. "This is for you." He's holding out a set of keys to Sam. "They're for an Impala," he says, answering Sam's silent question. "I've been doing her up for you. Johnny helped. She's down at the garage. We can go take her for a spin later if you like. She runs like a dream, just like..." Dean gives a little smile and glances away like he's embarrassed. "Just like dad's used to." "You..." Sam swallows heavily. "You got me an Impala?" Dean shrugs. "Saw her at an auction a while back. Just thought..." Sam rubs his thumb over the key fob. That explains a lot. All those hushed conversations Dean and John have been having recently, all the lame excuses about why Sam didn't need to come by the garage. Months and months now, come to think about it. If he was more of the jealous type, he might have thought Dean was cheating on him, but honestly, the thought never crossed his mind. "Thank you," he whispers, and cups Dean's face, running his thumb over Dean's cheekbone, thinking over-the-top romantic things that Dean would probably hate. Things like beloved, like always, like my whole life. Dean glances at the box on the coffee table, his little boy impatience getting the better of him as he tugs Sam down so they sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch. He's about to open the box when Sam slaps his hand down on top of Dean's, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. Dean looks at him strangely, but he waits it out while Sam shifts in his seat. "I..." There's nothing he can say. Sam hates himself, but he pulls his hand back and nods. "Go on." Dean opens the box. Inside is the Colt. Dean hasn't laid eyes on it in thirty years. Sam watches Dean's reaction closely. He's made some changes to the gun. Nothing that affects its usefulness against demons, but it had been burned up pretty badly in their battle for Dean's freedom, so he put new Mother-of-Pearl grips on it, worked over the metal, cleaning and polishing until it gleamed like burnished silver. "Jesus," Dean says, sounding a little awed. "Where did you... I didn't know you still..." He picks up the Colt and lays it in the palm of his hand. Neither of them have held a gun for a while, but some things are ingrained. It still looks natural to Sam, like a gun belongs there, a natural extension of Dean's hand. "That's beautiful, Sammy. You kept her all this time?" "Yeah, I thought we should... I couldn't let it go. Y'know?" Dean nods, and Sam knows that he gets it. There's little enough of their past to hold on to as it is, and this gun, this is the Winchester Holy Grail. Good and bad, it's part of their lives, part of their history. Plus, it's incredibly handy to have around in case you happen to have a demon you need shot dead. "Sam?" Dean says, and his voice sounds almost normal, but Sam knows what's coming. He knows exactly how this is going to play out. "You want to get it off your chest now?" Sam considers playing dumb, but really, there's no point. So he takes a deep breath. Holds it until his chest tingles then lets it all out in one go. "I heard about a hunt." "What'd you hear?" "There's a demon." "What kind of demon?" "Word is..." Sam rubs his thumb back and forth over his new key fob. Back and forth. Dean got him an Impala. An Impala. This is their normal life. This is their home. This is their life together, and they're happy here. Sam closes his eyes. "Word is he's got yellow eyes." Dean stands up and tucks the Colt in the back of his jeans. "Well?" he asks when Sam doesn't move, just sits there staring dumbly up at his big brother. "What are we waiting for?" "You sure about this, Dean?" Sam asks. He's known about this demon for over a month. Nothing explicit. Nothing detailed. But a definite sighting. A whole month of keeping his secret and hating himself for lying to Dean and acting his ass off so Dean wouldn't know anything was wrong. Dean had figured him out though; Dean always did, so Sam had lied. He'd said it was a particularly difficult case at work and Dean had let it go. "Yeah, 'course I'm sure. This is what we do." "We can let someone else take this one. That isn't our life anymore; hasn't been for a long time." Dean just looks at him because, really, Sam had known what the answer would be before they'd even talked about it. He'd known yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. He'd known the second he'd heard about this demon what the answer would be. And he'd known since the second he'd decided to tell Dean what his answer was too. Sam nods and he stands up beside his brother. "It's always gonna be our life," Dean says, and tugs Sam in by his collar for a kiss. He keeps him in close to ask softly, "How long you been sitting on this thing?" Sam smiles and glances down, staring at Dean's amulet because it's easier than looking him in the eye, and really, he should have known that Dean would have him figured. "A while now," he admits. "I'm not going anywhere, you know that, right? Never leaving you alone again." "I know," Sam says, and he does, because Dean never lies. He lays his palm over the amulet, over Dean's heart. "All right," Dean says. "All right." Sam pulls another box out of his pocket and hands it to Dean. "What's this?" "Extra bullets," Sam says. Dean grins, cocky as hell and ready to take on the world, and it's like stepping back in time. "What do you say, Sam? You ready to raise a little hell?" Sam smiles, no regrets, no hesitation, and he follows Dean's lead. The Yellow-Eyed Demon they meet isn't Azazel -- sometimes, thank God, what's dead really does stay dead -- but he may as well be. He feeds them a lot of lines about the irony of them being brothers, seeing as how demons have families too, did they know that? He tells them he's been waiting ever such a long time to meet them. He tells he appreciates them coming all this way to pay him a visit. He tells them he's never much cared for Boy Kings or epic wars between Good and Evil or planning for the future. He tells them how much he's going to enjoy sucking the marrow from their bones. Sam and Dean stand shoulder to shoulder, anything but impressed, and together they bide their time, looking for an opening. True to his word, Dean never leaves Sam's side. When they need it most, the Colt misfires. The end. Umm... Unintentionally unhappy ending? Sorry 'bout that. *sheepish grin* And, no, I don't really think they sell vibrators in airports. (Gap in the market?) Dean must have brought it with him, ha ha, slutty Dean. It was pink and sparkly, FYI. I also don't know a damn thing about pixies, I made it alllll up, though I'm pretty such a jolly good whump would take 'em out. Is "pushing the boat out" an expression used in America? I searched and I searched and I searched, but didn't find anything to tell me one way or another, only that it was a nautical term in the English language, which, yeah, I knew already. So I left it in. Maybe Dean heard Tamara use it. This fic... um, I dunno. It went where it wanted to. *jitters* Update: to "push the boat out" means you're doing more than usual, being a little extravagant, marking a special occasion: A boat-builder's term, originally (recorded from the 1930s) used to mean to pay for a round of drinks, but now extended to mean to be generous or extravagant in general. It would have originated in the custom of breaking a bottle over the bows of a ship being launched, and having a celebratory drink afterwards. Source. *jazzhands* Leave a comment in livejournal. Email the author | nevermelon AT yahoo.com |