rivers_bend

Title: Who am I to Disagree?
Genre: Sam/Dean
Words: 1200
Rating: R (mostly for language)
Spoilers: very minor for Scarecrow and The Benders.
A/N: So. dreamlittleyo was kind enough to prompt me with Sam/Dean, naked cuddling, "paranoia", set in Season 2. But I knew she seekritly meant Sam/Dean, semi-naked cuddling, "nightmares", set in Season 1. Because I am just that good.



It's been years since Dean remembered his dreams, and he would be just fine if the images would fuck off back to wherever they came from. Flashes like photographs, jarring, stuttering, broken things. Sam's back in the distance, his shoulders retreating. Always leaving. Dean can see the closed-up frown on his brother's face, even though in every frame the view is the back of Sam's head.

In the beginning—the weeks after Dean dragged Sam away from Stanford—the dreams surfaced only as a sense of déjà vu when Sam walked towards the toilet in the rear of a diner, or stepped away from the car to stock up on Cheetos and Coke. But since Sam took his duffel and stalked off up the road in Indiana, Dean has remembered the dreams when he woke up. And lately, the dreams have been jerking him from sleep in the middle of the night, his knuckles aching where he's gripping tight to the covers or the bed's extra pillow.

Tonight they're in a town that is no more than a burp in the road between somewhere and somewhere else, Sam snoring against the passenger window, and Dean in danger of doing the same on the steering wheel. The motel is a single strip of eight rooms with an office and a sign illuminated by a single bare bulb set off to one side. Rhonda Motel, the sign says, Vacancies. The "No" is mostly covered with a square of painted wood dangling from a hook. There isn't a single car in the lot until Dean bumps the Impala over the broken driveway, just a pair of dusty Honda touring bikes sharing a space in front of the end unit.

Without waking Sam, Dean parks in front of the office and goes in to rouse the night clerk and get a room.

Sam barely opens his eyes as Dean steers him through the door to room two, and just falls face-first onto the bed Dean points him towards, not even protesting as Dean pulls off his shoes.

Despite being exhausted himself, Dean carefully brushes his teeth and changes into a t-shirt that hasn't spent the last eighteen hours marinating in sweat against the Impala's vinyl upholstery, as though by pushing himself he can somehow make up for Sam's complete lack of bed-time routine. Knife under his pillow, phone on the bedside table, door locked; finally Dean falls into bed. Falls asleep.

The dream comes on slowly: Sam and Dean are young, then younger, driving through the night although Dean is hardly tall enough to see over the wheel. Sam is there next to him, then up ahead—the thing Dean's driving towards—then asleep in the back seat, depending on Dean to keep him safe. When Dean pulls over, Sam's in high school, nose in a book, complaining that Dean wants to go swimming, but coming anyway, taking Dean's hand like one of them is scared, or like this is a date.

It's Sam's senior year, and they're tangled together, kissing, rocking, friction, heat, Dad just outside the door, around the corner, about to catch them, take Dean out back and use him for target practice for touching Sam like that, but Dean can't stop, doesn't want to, needs to feel Sam, hold on to him, because he's about to disappear; Dean can feel him pulling away.

And then Dean's behind the wheel again, watching Sam through the windshield, tall and broad, but a boy, still a boy, walking towards a tree with a split in the trunk big enough to drive Dad's truck through, and on the other side is a road Dean knows leads somewhere he can never follow. He tries shouting, but has no voice, and the horn isn't where it should be. No amount of banging on the wheel or the dashboard makes a noise loud enough for Sam to hear.

But, "Dean. Dean!" someone's calling for him. He can see his brother getting smaller in the distance, but maybe he's trying to come back?

"Dean," again, and someone's shaking him. The bright sunlight of his dream fades to near blackness as he opens his eyes and registers bed-night-Sam.

"Sam?" Dean croaks.

Sam isn't just bending over him, or sitting on the edge of the bed, he's full-length next to Dean, propped on one elbow, other arm resting on Dean's chest, smoothing fingers light across Dean's forehead and down his cheek.

"Sam?" Dean asks again, because this isn't how they are anymore. Isn't what they do. Sam went to school, found Jess, moved on with his life.

"Dean," Sam breathes, and lowers his head so it rests in the curve between Dean's neck and shoulder. His hair is damp at the tips like he just splashed water on his face, and as they lie there Dean becomes aware that he's kicked his covers off and that Sam has undressed down to his boxers.

The air in the room is close and still—Midwest summer without aircon—making it hard for Dean to breathe. Though it could also be the weight of half of Sam's torso resting on his chest.

"No more shouting in your sleep," Sam says, lips moving against Dean's pulse. "You found me; I'm still here."

Suddenly Dean's grateful he got dream visions of giant sequoias, and not Sam-in-a-cage-to-amuse-backwoods-freaks flashbacks. Before Dean can make a decision about whether or not it's a good idea, his arms and free leg are wrapping Sam up and settling him closer. Sam makes it easy, slotting his leg between Dean's thighs, tucking his shoulder into Dean's armpit, and nudging his nose up under Dean's jaw.

Dean wants to ask what they're doing, but he won't; wouldn't even if Sam hadn't started mouthing kisses against Dean's neck. "Just a bad dream," Dean says instead. "I'm fine. You don't have to—"

"Really seem like I think I have to?" Sam interrupts, and slides his fingers up under Dean's tee, rubs his half-hard cock against Dean's hip.

"But you—" Dean's trying not to protest, but can't seem to stop talking.

"Shut up." Sam kisses him on the lips, more quelling conversation than passionate. "Just stop. Go back to sleep. If you really want to talk we can do it in the morning." He kisses Dean again, softer this time, but still no get-this-party-started. "Or there're some other its I have in mind to do if you prefer." He brushes his nose against Dean's and then settles back with his head on Dean's chest. "But it's three in the morning, and we both need some sleep."

The weight of Sam blanketing him seems to pull Dean's eyelids shut, and he drifts back under, tangled up in his brother, breathing slow and steady. Gives up, lets go, succumbs to sleep where no dreams disturb him.