rivers_bend

The Sam/Dean bunnies came back. Step right up for the Wincest. Thank you to merihn for answering my character question, to lima_sierra for answering my emergency late-night 'does this sentence make any sense whatsoever' quesiton (and for making it make sense) and to tigertrapped for her happy-making and brilliant beta which made this a better story. ♥♥♥

Adult rated for Dean's thoughts. ~2200 words. UST.


Shoot first, questions later

It’s August, the worst time of year to be driving from Louisiana to Arizona. Sam’s behind the wheel because some asshole shot you. Shot you in the shoulder, no hexes, no voodoo, just a shotgun loaded with buckshot, and fuck if that doesn’t hurt a hell of a lot more than rock salt. He wasn’t possessed or haunted or anything either. Drunk on ‘shine and didn’t like how you were talking to his daughter.

You never even saw the guy, hidden in the shadows on the porch, only had eyes for Sam. Sam, who right about then was wiping sweat off his face with the tail of his dirty shirt, abs for miles, tanned a little, but still whiter than his arms. You knew you shouldn’t be looking, could feel Leeann’s eyes on you, so you turned your smile on her. You leaned in close, asking if she was ok. The thing in the swamp nearly got her, after all. You were pretty sure she was over eighteen, and it wasn’t like you were actually interested, you just needed somewhere else to look while Sam peeled the dusty shirt over his head, scrubbed at the back of his neck, and bent christjesus into the back of the impala, back flexing, jeans so low on his hips you had to wonder what was holding them up.

You weren’t planning on taking her in the back seat, getting her pregnant and riding off into the sunset. But if Sam turned around and saw you with your hand on her ass and your eyes on her tits, he’d draw his own conclusions about the bulge behind your fly.

She smiled up at you, pressed against the pressure of your fingers, even put a hand on the back of your neck when she said, ‘Thank you,’ again. You thought for a minute she might kiss you, imagined how tiny her face would feel between your palms, nothing like the size of Sam’s, which you’d held when you cleaned that cut on his forehead – Leeann said something, you didn’t hear what, but you nodded hoping that was the right answer.

‘Goodnight, Sam,’ she said, turning to wave. You followed her gaze and saw Sam leaning against the front fender, clean shirt stark in the twilight. You couldn’t read the look on his face when he glanced at you but he gave Leeann a smile. Brains fried by the heat, you thought, just for a minute, that maybe Sam’s look was jealousy. Not jealous that Leeann was standing with her hip cocked in your direction ‘stead of his, jealous of your hand on her ass. But that was crazy, cos Sam’s your brother, and sure as Louisiana’s hotter’n hell in August, Sammy’s not wishing your hand was on his ass instead.

When the world exploded, you were thinking about your hands shoved down the back of your brother’s jeans and the buckshot felt like exactly what you deserved.

Leeann screamed, her daddy shouted, and Sam was just there. One minute against the car, the next with his hands under your head, thumbs brushing your temples, making you look at him. When you blinked, said, ‘Sam,’ he nodded. Keeping your head cradled in one of those big paws, he used the other to pull his clean white shirt off and press it to the fire that used to be your left shoulder.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been knocked bleeding on your ass, or the first time Sam had knelt in the dirt putting pressure on a wound, but it was the first time since Stanford. The first time since you’d given up trying to pretend the dreams didn’t mean anything. Since you’d admitted that the guy you saw every goddamn time you had your hands on yourself, the guy growling, you’re mine, bitch in your ear while he fucked into your ass - the guy who looked a little exactly like Sam – actually was Sam. It was the first time since then. So you were looking up into Sam’s eyes, feeling his hand hot on the back of your head, thumb stroking your neck, not worrying about the mess made of your shoulder, just the fact your brother might look down and see you still had wood. Or maybe that the blood loss would make you woozy enough to say, ‘Fuck, Sam, will you just kiss me already?’ The words were right there on the tip of your tongue.

It was actually a relief when Leeann started screaming that she was gonna phone the sheriff if her daddy didn’t put down the gun right now, because that got Sammy moving. ‘Time to go,’ he said, moving your right hand to the shirt on your shoulder. Once he was sure you had a grip on it, he picked you up and carried you.

‘What do I look like, your bride?’ You kicked your feet, trying to get down. ‘Dude, let go of me!’

Sam ignored you and shoved you in the back seat.

The daddy with the shotgun was either a piss-poor shot or he only wanted to scare you, but he hadn’t done as much damage as it felt like. When you got back to the motel, Sam dug five pellets out of your shoulder and stitched the gash where another pellet had ripped through your deltoid. He offered to sit with you while you had a shower, but there was no way that was a good idea, so you told him to get lost and held onto the wall while the lukewarm water washed dust and sweat and blood down the drain.

Sam packed while you were getting clean and ruffled your hair like he was the big brother all of a sudden when you looked longingly at the bed. ‘Sorry, but it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge. Or at least out of Acadia Parish.’ He didn’t even take the time to shower himself, just covered your wounds with gauze, handed you the Tylenol and humped the bags out to the car.

Sam’s not making concessions to the fact that you’ve been shot. He’s got some crappy-assed mixed tape in the deck and he’s singing along. Though he might be trying to jolly you out of the mood you’re in, because he keeps looking at you out of the corner of his eye and the edge of his mouth is twitching. You realize you’re not telling him to lay off the singing because you’re thinking about licking that twitch, so you poke at the bandage Sam taped over your stitches. The pain’s sharper than you expected, not only jolting you out of the filthy thoughts about your brother’s mouth, but pushing a hiss between your teeth before you can stop it. You’re sure Sam won’t hear over his singing, but he’s paying more attention than you thought because he stops and looks at you.

‘You sure you’re ok, Dean?’ Worry in his eyes and no hint of the smile on his lips.

‘Yeah, Sammy, I’m fine,’ you say. ‘Eyes on the road.’

‘Back seat driver.’

‘Bitch.’

Sam lifts his arm like he’s going to give you his elbow, then remembers you’ve been shot, and settles for prodding your thigh. The curve of a smile is back.

You give him one in return, ignoring the buzzing heat that’s spread to your gut, ok, and your cock, from the point where Sam’s fingers touched you. You’re thinking maybe Sam gave you the pills with the codeine in them, that maybe you shouldn’t have taken three, and that maybe you should’ve washed them down with water instead of the dregs of that bottle of tequila on the dresser.

Taking one last look at his profile, you give up. ‘Wake me when we hit Texas.’ You lean back and close your eyes.

‘Honey, we’re home,’ Sam sing-songs, and you realize you must’ve fallen asleep. You’re parked under a stuttering neon sign that says ‘Vacancies.’ Sam’s getting out and heading towards the office before you can do more than push yourself upright. There’s a sign across the highway that says, ‘Lone Star grill, all you can eat.’ It makes your stomach roil.

‘What time is it?’ you try to say, but it comes out more like ‘Ti’zit?’ Blood loss, tequila and codeine are a more potent combo than you expected.

Sam puts the back of his fingers against your forehead and gives you a smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring. ‘It’s nearly one. We’re in room thirteen. Only room left. It’s a single king, but I’ll sleep on the floor. Don’t want to hurt your arm worse’n it already is.’

You don’t say anything because sharing a bed with Sam sounds like the best kind of heaven, and you’d cut your arm off for the chance, but he’s right. Those long limbs of his could be a danger. Not just to your shoulder. You remember too clearly how it felt to have his arm thrown across you while he slept. Back in the days before he went away, before Dad went missing, when you still believed the morning stiffie was just a piss hard-on. You slept in the same bed so often in those days that you’d learned to shut the lid on all the dangerous thoughts. But when Sam went away, you missed him like you miss oxygen when you can’t get it.

Seeing him again was like the kick from Dad’s shotgun when you were twelve and didn’t know how to set your feet. You’d gotten out of the habit of keeping the wall up and he wiggled right through. It’s true what they say, a thing, once seen, cannot be unseen. At least not when that thing is Sam Winchester in nothing but a towel making your dick so hard you can’t seem to fill your lungs. You admitted that night, when you were tossing and turning and looking anywhere but Sam’s bed, that the trickle of something you’d felt when Jess died, the something that ran underneath the anger and sadness for Sammy, had been relief. He’s mine now.

‘Come on, Dean. Inside.’ The car’s in front of the room now, and you didn’t even notice Sam moving it. That’s what you get for going all girly and thinky.

Sam picks up both bags in one hand and uses the other to steady you getting out of the car. ‘I’m ok,’ you say and shove him away, but that overbalances you and he needs to grab your hip to keep you from falling against the Impala.

‘I got you. Just come on. I’ve got you.’ Sam’s not teasing or poking fun. He’s just looking out for you. Taking care. Doing your job.

‘This is fucked, Sammy.’ You know you sound grumpy but you never were very good at being the one who needed taking care of.

‘It sucks big donkey dick. But you really need to stop groping girls in front of their daddies. They get all mad, have to shoot you… It’s a bad scene, dude.’ Sam unlocks the door during this speech and pushes you into the room.

The bed is huge, and the carpet’s little more use than a layer of dust when it comes to padding the concrete floor. You know there’s no way you can make Sam sleep on that. ‘We can share the bed. You’re not sleeping on this floor.’

Sam toes the rug with disgust. ‘You sure?’

‘Sammy.’

‘Ok, yeah. Thanks. It’s pretty grim.’

Sam digs your toothbrush out of the bag and hands it to you. ‘You go first and get to bed. I’m gonna have a shower.’

You check the bandages in the bathroom mirror. Only a few dots of blood. Sam’s good with a needle. Brushing your teeth makes you feel better. Less drugged. A good breakfast in the morning, and everything will be ok.

You lie on your back on the left side of the bed, leaving plenty of room for Mr Long Limbs, listening to him shower. You don’t think of him naked, well, only a little. You think of him holding your head. Taking care of you. You want him, damn, do you want him, but you need him too. And that’s more important.

When Sam gets into bed, he tells you to move over towards him. He doesn’t want you falling out of bed in the night. You move a little, but you’re wary of getting too close. Don’t want to crowd him. He moves over to you, on his side, facing you. He lines his thigh up with yours, wraps his hand around your arm, rests his cheek against your good shoulder.

‘Travelling without Dad, like we are now…’ Half a thought, and you wait for him to finish. It takes him a long time. ‘I’ve missed this. Sharing a bed.’

There’s nothing you can say to that that won’t come out wrong, so you just tilt your cheek into the top of his head.

‘Night, Dean,’ he says.

‘Night, Sammy.’

Sam's POV