rivers_bend

Title: 100 more miles
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Adult
Words: ~3100
A/N: part of the Stanford phonefics verse.
Summary: Dean's on his way south, and Palo Alto isn't much out of his way.


California had too damn much traffic, too damn many people and not enough open space. Sam could have gone to school in Oregon, Dean thought—though there wasn't really any school like Stanford up there—but no, he had to run off to this suburban-sprawl hell. It was ten months since they'd laid eyes on each other though, and fuck Dad's edict, fuck the fact that he and Sam couldn't even manage to have a conversation that wasn't pull it, touch it, come on, come for me, and even the phone sex was only one call in three, Dean needed to know Sam was okay. He could just stop and see him, didn't even have to let Sam know he was there. Unless maybe Sam was— Dean didn't even dare think about what it might be like to breathe the same air as Sam again. He needed bumping shoulders, needed eyes meeting in a joke only his brother would get, needed that comfort that only ever came from being with the one person who understood… Not that Dean was letting those thoughts anywhere near the surface; he mostly just figured that given he'd been up near Medford, and he was supposed to meet Dad in Arizona next week, Palo Alto wasn't really all that far out of his way. Not even a hundred miles.

Coming down through the central valley, it was so hot Dean thought his tires might melt onto the road, but at least he could see a ways. Once he'd crossed the bridge, there was nothing but buildings and the occasional dry brown hill. Dean drove south past billboards and box stores and then the biggest airplane hangars he'd ever seen, before he finally found his exit. The real estate got pricier-looking the closer he got to the campus, and Dean couldn't help but wonder what Sam thought of all this. Was it what he'd been dreaming of in every run-down rental and crummy motel room they'd ever stayed in? If it was, no way was he ever coming back. Dean might as well keep on driving. He was too close to turn away though, and he checked the printouts again, the ones that said where he could park and where Sam's summer classes were.

It was amazing what computers could tell you if you knew where to look. Not that Dean did, but he knew how to find a computer science major in a college bar and show her a good enough time that she was happy to find anything he wanted, and that's what counted. Sam's class schedule and the address of his summer housing were on a piece of paper with a scrawled pair of Xs, a phone number, and a request that Dean call. The campus map had a heart drawn in the corner. He hadn't given Heather any reason to expect she'd see him again, but apparently she thought it was worth try.

Dean looked at his watch. Almost four o'clock; Sam would be out of class soon. Dean hid his baby in the back of a lot Sam wasn't likely to pass on his way home, and went to find someplace he could see but not be seen.

Sam came out of the room deep in conversation with a short, nerdy-looking guy, and a girl with fire-engine red hair and three rings in her eyebrow, and never even glanced towards the pillar Dean was hiding behind. He looked exactly the same and totally different—taller, broader, longer hair—and on seeing him, Dean was hit with the hunting buzz. Adrenalin, every sense alert, ready to fight, run, or, yeah he'd admit it, fuck. The tightness in his chest that felt like fear was just hunter's instincts—keeping him aware of his surroundings. Nothing more.

Once he got his bearings, it was hard for Dean not to laugh at the three of them, so different from each other and so very serious looking. If this was all the talent Stanford had to offer, no wonder Sam always answered whenever Dean called. He'd thought he might be jealous, had prepared himself to see Sam holding hands with some girl, or laughing with some surfer dude, but these two were no threat. Except he wanted Sam to find someone. To have the life he was dreaming of. Maybe it was just this class—calculus, the list said—and the girl of his dreams was in his composition class, or waiting at home in his bed. Dean's chest tightened further and he pushed off the wall and started following.

It wasn't hard to trail the trio to a parking lot where the girl peeled off and got on a motorcycle. There was less cover from there so Dean hung back. Nerd boy turned off and headed towards another building, and Sam angled towards the street that would lead to his apartment, checking his watch and walking a little faster. Dean debated. Follow on foot, or go get the car? Sam pulled out his phone and Dean wanted to watch just a little longer, so he kept going. As they walked past a large shopping mall, Dean took advantage of the crowds and edged close enough to hear Sam's conversation.

"…didn't have any problem with that one," Sam said, and then there was a pause while he listened. "Have to work at 7:30, so come by before 6:45, and you can have both of them."

Seven thirty? Dean wondered if Sam worked in a coffee shop or something. One piece of information Heather hadn't been able to get was the location of Sam's place of employment. All she could find out was that his job was "other" and not on campus. Dean wasn't super excited about being up early enough to trail Sam to work at 6:45 in the morning, but at least he knew when he'd have to be there. Tonight he could go find something to eat and check into a motel. Heather had insisted on looking up local motels while she was getting Sam's schedule and had found a place about fifteen minutes north that wasn't going to max out his one good card.

When he located the place, it was smack in the middle of box-store hell and practically under a highway overpass, but he could park right in front of his room, and the sheets were clean. Dean dragged his bag inside, found some clothes that were free of blood or mud and went to take a shower in an effort to avoid the urge to call Sam. He knew if he heard Sam's voice he'd end up asking what the hell Sam thought he was doing with his hair, and that was no way to be subtle about the fact he was maybe checking up on him.

It turned out that his dick had other ideas about Sam's hair though, because Dean ended up furiously jerking off to the image of Sam on his knees, Dean's fists buried under all those floppy locks. He'd been wanking to nothing more than memories of Sam's voice for so long that the pleasure of a clear visual almost balanced out the feeling in his gut that coming here might have been a mistake.

Clean and dressed again, with some, if not all, of the tension worked out of his shoulders, Dean headed out. He had a few beers and something unpronounceable that consisted of sausage and brown stuff at the Hoffbrau up the road and then went trawling for some pool to hustle. As he drove past body shops and Mercados huddled cheek-by-jowl with bungalows on tiny lots, past a farmer's market which sent the stench of rotting vegetable scraps through his windows, Dean decided this was not the neighborhood he wanted. Even if he did find a pool game, from the looks of it whoever might be playing needed the cash as much as he did. He'd be better off heading back towards campus where the frat boys and trust-fund kids could spare the change. Not tonight though. He'd been on the road since just after five, and if he was getting up early to see where Sam worked, he wanted his bed. There was a Law and Order marathon on, and he lasted until 10:45 before sleep claimed him.


The knocking made its way into Dean's dream, something about a haunted house, and then turned into pounding that finally woke him up. He looked at his watch—quarter past one in the fucking morning. Who the HELL was at the door? Dean went and peered through the spy hole and saw… what the fuck? No. Sam Winchester was not standing in front of Dean's door wearing a fugly red shirt, looking pissed off and scared and Dean didn't even know what. Sam had to be at work in the morning. Sam had all of Palo Alto to play in, why the hell would he be up here in where was he? Redwood City. And there was no way Sam saw Dean following him. No way, because, sure Sam was good, but Dean was better. And not out of practice after a year of doing nothing but sitting on his ass reading text books. So, really, just What. The. Fuck.

Still not sure he wasn't hallucinating, Dean opened the door a crack and said, "Christo," eyes hard on Sam's face looking for a flinch, which made him totally miss Sam's arm, raised to hit the door with another volley, that just straight-arm shoved it, making Dean stumble back as the door opened wide.

"Dean," Sam choked out before he was on him, one huge hand cupped around Dean's head, lifting his face to Sam's mouth. Dean felt weightless, out of control, like he was hanging from Sam's grip, and then Sam shoved him away, back towards the bed. Said, "Bastard. You fucking bastard."

Before Dean could even finish falling, Sam had him by the arms, hauling him forward into another kiss that was almost a bite. "Sam," Dean tried to say, but the word turned into an oof as he hit the bed hard when Sam dropped him again and ripped that god-awful shirt off over his head, growling something Dean couldn't understand.

"Sam," Dean tried again. "What the hell are—"

"You, Dean. What the hell are you doing here." Sam sounded furious, but he was pawing at his fly, trying to get the buttons undone while he glared daggers at his brother. "You don't fucking answer your phone, you won't fucking talk to me, and then I get off work and your fucking car is just sitting there, casual as you please. Jesus, Dean. Just…"

Sam was completely naked by the time he trailed off, hard cock drawing Dean's eyes, making his mouth water, even through his lingering confusion. Then Sam's hands were on him again, yanking his boxers down, baring Dean's dick which was in the same state as Sam's own. The bed squealed in protest as Sam fell on him. Savage, frantic, he bit Dean's neck, his shoulder, shoved his hands up under Dean's shirt, pushing until it was half over his face, tangling his arms, leaving Dean's chest vulnerable to Sam's teeth.

"Sam. Sam… Sammy," Dean said, voice muffled in folds of cotton. He was trying to get his arms down, get his hands on his brother and soothe him, get through to him somehow. But Sam just rutted against Dean's thigh, slid Dean's shirt higher so his arms were completely pinned, and licked, sucked, bit, saying Dean's name over and over in a voice that sounded broken.

Dean didn't even know he was close to coming until Sam said, "Oh, fuck" and started shaking, shooting slick and hot between them, and Dean thrust hard into Sam's hip, slip-slide just right, and sank his teeth into the tender skin on the inside of Sam's arm, needing to taste him, mark him, hurt him the way he was hurting Dean.

They lay there in the aftermath, not moving, still not talking, breathing hard and fast and perfectly in sync. Sam was heavy as hell, the jizz cooling between them was getting gross, Dean's wrists hurt where his t-shirt was twisted around them, and the bites on his chest were stinging. Still, with all of that, he kind of wanted time to stop, for it to just be this for as long as possible. His shoulders had other plans though, and Dean wriggled in discomfort despite himself.

The movement seemed to snap Sam out of whatever had gotten into him, and he went from furiously panting dead weight to tender and solicitous before Dean could blink.

"Christ! Dean, I'm sorry. Are you ok?" Sam released him, rolling to his side so he could rub Dean's arms, gently chafe his wrists to get the blood circulating again.

Dean just nodded, thrown by the change, and starting to wonder again if maybe this was all just a bizarrely vivid dream brought on by too much German food. But Sam was kissing his chest, leaving wet marks that seemed to be from his cheeks rather than his tongue, and oh, god, was Sam crying? Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't dream that, so somehow this must be real.

Now that his wrists were free, Dean wrapped around his brother, pulling him up to tuck under Dean's arm and into the curve of Dean's neck. He shushed Sam, stroking over his head and down his back, until Sam stopped mumbling apologies and just rested there, head a heavy weight on Dean's shoulder. And really, Dean thought, this shouldn't feel that unexpected. He had come to see where Sam lived and went to school, and heading five miles up the road, for all it seemed farther, didn't make it beyond the realms of possibility that Sam would find him. Still, there were questions, and once Sam's breathing had returned to normal and he was idly tracing patterns on Dean's hip with one finger, Dean ventured to ask them.

"Why are you here at one in the morning?" Carefully curious without a hint of censure.

"Work across the street," Sam said.

Which would explain the red shirt. Dean wondered why it had never occurred to him that Sam might be starting work at 7:30 at night. Off the top of his head there were at least five jobs he could think of that would start then, all of them appropriate for a college student, though not all of them appropriate for one who was not yet 21. Whatever. Sam was here now, and no amount of time spent apart made him immune from teasing. "Dude," Dean said, perfect big-brother scorn, "you work at Target?"

"Don't be a jerk," Sam answered, but Dean could feel him smile against his chest.

"Loser." Dean turned to pull Sam closer and slide a leg between Sam's thighs. Even taller and broader, Sam still fit perfectly against the curl of Dean's chest. The smell of sex was strong, good. Dean considered for a moment getting something to clean up with—that had always been his job—but it was drying now, and Sam was almost asleep, and Dean couldn't think of anything short of a hunt bursting into the room that would make him want to move. Shifting slightly so his nose nudged Sam's cheek, Dean fell asleep.


The bed was empty when Dean woke. There was a second of not realizing that was wrong and then a second of panic before Dean heard water running in the bathroom. "Hey," Dean called, smile in his voice. "No fair sneaking out of bed to brush your teeth." His smile faded when Sam came out fully dressed.

"Sam?" Dean knew Sam's first class wasn't until two, and it couldn't be much past eight o'clock.

"I can't be here, Dean," Sam said. "You can't be here."

"Sam." Dean couldn't understand what had happened between last night and now.

Sam was facing him, but looking somewhere around Dean's neck instead of into his eyes. "I never asked you to choose between us, you know. Not once. But you chose anyway. You picked him. And it fucking—" Looking away completely, Sam jerked at his shirt, which was twisted a little under his arm. "Dean do you have any idea what it was like? Not knowing if you wouldn't answer your phone because you were pissed at me or if it was because you were dead?"

Dean sat up, swung his legs around to the floor. "I called you."

Finally Sam looked him in the face. "Thirty-nine days later! From a payphone. And you didn't say a word. Not one word. You could have been anyone."

"You knew it was me."

"I hoped it was you. There's a difference. I was alone! Completely alone, and the one person in the world I thought I could count on, wouldn't even say my name."

For a second Dean thought Sam was crying again, but when he looked closer, Sam's eyes were hot with fury. All the resentment Dean had been tamping down for a year boiled up. "You fucking left! After, what was it, a year of planning your escape and not saying anything about it to that person you were so sure you could count on?" Dean stood and stalked towards Sam, not caring that he was naked, not caring that Sam was several inches taller, so angry he was shaking.

"I—" Sam started.

"No." Dean said, and sent a right hook flying at Sam's jaw. When it connected, pain shocked through Dean's knuckles.

Sam didn't even try to duck. Making sure Dean saw him, he touched the spot once and then turned and walked towards the door.

"I don't have to leave for three days," Dean said to Sam's back, knowing he probably sounded desperate, but not really caring.

"Wouldn't want to make Dad wait." Sam didn't turn around. "Maybe you should get a head start."

Dean refused to believe the click of the door behind his brother was the final word. Sam knew where he was. He'd cool off, they could go for a drive, get some beers, spend all day in bed, hell, maybe they could even talk. He'd come back. Or call. Or something.

It would be okay. There were three days.


♥

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