Archive of Our Own

Day 1

Outside, the nights get colder, but inside, the kitchen is still as warm as ever, and Sam lets himself enjoy the hot food filling his belly, the cold beer sweating in his hand, his brother’s grin illuminating the room.

“First winter as free people, huh?” Dean says, reaching out with his bottle toward Sam.

Sam clinks his against Dean’s and takes a satisfied gulp.

It feels good, being free. Better than anything. Makes Sam want to do crazy things.

He looks into his brother’s eyes, the out-of-this-world green of them, so dear in the bright kitchen light, and he doesn’t know how to look at anything else.

“Sure been celebrating lots of firsts, man,” Dean continues, leaning on the table, his expression going dreamy.

He’s been letting himself go soft more and more often since they dealt with Chuck. It’s like a switch flipped inside his head, the past need to be tougher than God becoming irrelevant.

Sam likes this change. He likes a lot about Dean.

Maybe he’ll tell him one day.

He sips his beer, watches his brother’s face, and wonders if things can even get any better.

Dean’s eyes turn mischievous.

“You already celebrated your first free-will fuck, Sammy?”

Sam almost chokes on his beer.

Never mind better, right now he just needs things to not get worse.

Dean grins, apparently considering Sam’s undignified spluttering answer enough. He’s not wrong.

“What, and you did?” Sam says, adding a little challenge into his voice.

Dean takes a swig of his beer and smacks his lips as he puts the bottle down. He looks straight at Sam, and there’s something about him that makes Sam weirdly uneasy, like his brother’s sticking his fingers inside his soul in search of things Sam doesn’t know himself.

“How come you never claimed anyone, alpha boy?” Dean asks, overly casual, which means he’s invested in this question, and Sam desperately needs to know why.

He starts with a half-answer, testing the water before he goes and drowns himself.

“Jess was an alpha.” It should still hurt, that loss, but the pain is dull and almost imperceptible. Too much time has passed; too much’s happened since.

Dean’s eyes are too green right there in front of him.

“Amelia?” Dean asks, and he did say he forgave Sam for her, for that treasonous part of Sam’s life, but Sam can hear the slight drop in Dean’s voice.

“She’s an omega,” he admits, and stops himself from saying more.

Dean doesn’t let him get away with it.

“So, why?”

He’s serious, sober-serious, make-or-break-serious, and Sam wants to do the crazy thing so much, he can’t think about anything else.

“Because—” he starts, and this is where he makes an executive decision to destroy their lives as they know them, “I was waiting for you.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to process before his eyes widen, the skin on his cheekbones tightening with shock.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It isn’t angry, but it is suspicious, and Sam’s done enough crazy for the night.

He drains his beer and stands up.

“Good night, Dean.”

He walks out of the kitchen, and Dean doesn’t call after him, which could be a good sign just as well as a bad one.

Whatever it is, Sam’s on a path now, and wherever it will lead, he’s not stepping back.

Day 2

Sam’s dreams got much better post-Chuck; at the very least, no more glimpses into his and Dean’s fratricidal counterparts from other, even less fair worlds. His nightmares have subsided, too, as if it was Chuck who was planting them into Sam’s mind to keep him on edge.

Nowadays, Sam mostly dreams about Dean. Just small things—chatting about nothing, playing pool, choosing new sheets. It’s cozy, and a little childish, but Sam doesn’t mind. He likes doing cozy things with Dean, or at least imagining them.

He wakes up from doing dishes with Dean to Dean standing in his doorway, watching him.

Maybe it should be disturbing, but it’s not. Sam lifts himself on his elbows and looks at Dean.

“Morning,” he says easily, yawning and combing his fingers through his hair.

Dean doesn’t say it back, and Sam notices a certain heaviness around his eyes.

“Something wrong?” he asks, sitting up, muscles tensing in preparation for bad news.

Dean keeps looking at him, arms folded on his chest, lips pressed together.

This is getting worrisome.

“Dean? What is it?”

It must be something truly dire if Dean can’t just say it, has to gather courage or strength or whatever he’s gathering before he tells Sam what’s bothering him.

Thankfully, he talks before Sam can think himself into a rabbit hole of possible disasters that can still wreck their lives.

“What did you mean?” Dean’s voice is a bit rough, and Sam blinks at him, trying to understand. “Yesterday,” Dean clarifies.

Oh.

Well.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Sam says, a little revenge for the stress first thing in the morning.

Dean narrows his eyes, while Sam stands up and saunters toward the sink. He washes his face and starts brushing his teeth, as Dean keeps staring, the muscle in his jaw working.

Sam drags the toothbrush over his molars studiously, full two minutes, before rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink. Dean keeps his eyes on him throughout.

“Omelets for breakfast?” Sam suggests brightly when he’s done.

Dean doesn’t make a sound.

Sam pats his face with his towel and moves to walk out of the room. As he passes Dean, he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, feeling it stiffen under his touch.

“‘s okay,” he tells Dean with a cheerful smile, “I like watching you sleep, too.”

Dean does make a sound at that, a few spluttery noises that sound delightful to Sam’s ears.

He walks briskly away, leaving Dean to his little meltdown.

When Dean joins him in the kitchen, eyes wary, Sam’s got the breakfast ready. The omelets turned out a little burned, but Dean, for once, doesn’t comment on Sam’s cooking skills.

Sam, in turn, doesn’t comment when Dean grabs a beer to go with his breakfast.

Who knew that one little bit of disturbing honesty would have such a positive effect on their relationship.

Sam digs into his slightly charred omelet and hides a grin.

Day 3

Dean doesn’t come to watch Sam sleep again, and Sam is a tiny bit disappointed.

He’s not in the kitchen either, so Sam eats his toast alone, gets his hit of caffeine, and goes to the library without any real purpose.

Dean’s sitting at one of the tables, scrolling through something on his laptop, his brows bunched up in the middle, but not in a way that would make Sam worry. It’s not a we-are-fucked frown, one that Dean hasn’t worn since Chuck and one that Sam doesn’t miss at all.

No, it’s a what-should-I-do-with-myself frown, and Sam kinda gets it. He’s been a little adrift, too, even with how much he enjoys this new life.

He walks through the room, and when he passes Dean, he brushes his fingers along Dean’s shoulders, tap-tap-tap, like Dean’s a piano and Sam knows how to play it. Dean’s head swivels toward him, while Sam plops into a chair at the top of the table across from him.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, nodding at the laptop.

Dean just stares at him. It’s a little hilarious.

“Hey.” Sam waves his hand in front of Dean’s face. “You okay?”

Miraculously, Dean unfreezes and turns back to his laptop. Sam’s eyes catch on his profile, so pretty, Sam doesn’t understand how everyone isn’t falling in love with Dean at the very first sight.

“Been looking for a hunt,” Dean says, tapping the trackpad absently. “‘s been over a month since the last weird death, and that turned out to be a sex thing gone wrong.”

Sam remembers that. Unfortunately.

“Maybe with Jack calling the shots the monsters have gone, dunno, tamer or something.”

Dean looks at him, eyes hard and kinda wistful.

“You really believe the world could be like that?”

Sam has an answer to that.

“The world can be whatever we want it to be,” he says, with a confidence that makes Dean’s face go fuzzy.

They look at each other for a long moment, Sam sure, Dean wobbly, until Dean nods and lets his mouth melt into a grin.

“All right,” he says with an annoying glee that always makes Sam want to shake his head and love his brother a little more. “Time to watch some art.”

Sam rolls his eyes, aiming to look sufficiently exasperated, even if he mostly just feels fond.

“Keep it to your room,” he admonishes, knowing full well that Dean won’t listen.

Quite expectedly, Dean’s laptop is already blasting high voices babbling in Japanese.

Sam heaves an exaggerated sigh.

“At least clean up after yourself,” he says, admitting defeat, and Dean waves him off.

Some things never change, and it’s okay.

Sam stands up to leave Dean to his fun, and when he passes behind Dean, he lets his fingers tap-tap-tap at his shoulders again.

When he glances back from the archway, Dean’s looking at him instead of the screen.

Dean turns away lightning-fast, but Sam saw him, and his fingertips tingle brightly.

Day 4

The smell of meat and spices floats through the bunker, making Sam look up from where he’s lounging in the library with a copy of Susanna Clarke’s Piranesi.

It’s pretty late, and Sam’s stomach is growing uncomfortably empty, and everything Dean cooks is a work of art. Sam puts the book away and follows the smell into the kitchen, stopping for a second in the doorway to watch Dean do his thing by the stove.

Dean’s pretty on a bad day, but when he’s doing what he loves, he’s simply magnificent. He’s only wearing a t-shirt with sweatpants, and Sam watches the flex of muscle in his arms, and he doesn’t want to watch anything else. Dean’s phone is playing Good Times Bad Times at top volume, and Dean’s humming along, his hips mirroring the rhythm.

Good times, bad times
You know I've had my share

Ain’t that the truth.

Sam doesn’t try to be quiet as he walks up to Dean, but the music effectively drowns out his footsteps, so when he puts his chin on Dean’s shoulder, Dean almost jumps.

“Jesus fuck, Sam!” he yelps, swatting at him with the wooden spoon.

He’s making chili, and Sam is now splattered with the sauce.

Worth it, though.

In retaliation, Sam bites Dean’s shoulder through his t-shirt.

“Fuck off,” Dean says, trying to shrug Sam off, but it’s weak, and Sam holds on tight with his teeth.

Dean doesn’t try to turn around, just stirs the pot mechanically.

When Sam finally releases Dean, there’s a wet spot on his t-shirt from Sam’s spit, which looks sufficiently like a mark, leaving Sam satisfied. He shifts to nuzzle at it before settling his chin on Dean’s shoulder again.

“Smells good,” he says, breezy, like he doesn’t have drips of hot sauce in his eyebrows.

“Get lost.” Dean’s voice trembles, not an ounce of strength behind it, and Sam quietly likes it.

The song moves on to the last verse, and though it’s not Sam’s music, he knows the lyrics anyway.

I don't care what the neighbors say
I'm gonna love you each and every day

Ain’t that the truth, too.

“Call me when it’s ready,” Sam says, dragging himself away from Dean.

“I’ll think about it,” Dean grumbles, but of course he will.

Sam leaves to take a shower, so he can wash the sauce out of his hair. As the hot water drips over his body, he finds his half-hard dick and gives himself a lazy little stroke to the memory of Dean’s struggling voice.

The dinner goes great, even if Dean takes a little long between sentences, rubbing at his shoulder like he can still feel Sam’s teeth.

Day 5

“Let’s go out,” Sam suggests as they both stand in the kitchen, staring at the mostly empty fridge.

“Hm?” Dean looks at him suspiciously, like he's often been doing in the last few days.

“I wanna take you out,” Sam clarifies. “To dinner.”

Dean’s eyes narrow further.

“Why?” He sounds ready to bolt, and Sam turns to give him his most placating look.

“You cooked last night,” he points out. “So it’s my turn.” Dean still isn’t convinced. “C’mon, my treat.”

“We got unlimited free money. Both of us.” Dean’s not wrong, but Sam knows he’s missing the point on purpose.

Time for the puppy dog eyes.

“Jesus,” Dean grouses, looking away from Sam. “All right, fine. But I drive.”

“‘Course,” Sam agrees, a little giddy.

It’s not a long drive, and Dean clears his throat just a couple of minutes in.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at Sam, and Sam gets a feeling Dean’s gearing up for A Conversation.

Interesting.

“Yeah, sure. Why?” he asks back, careful not to spook Dean.

Dean clears his throat again and looks away from Sam.

“‘s just—” It sounds like he’s trying to talk while drowning, which might be the case. “I know it’s been weird after Chuck. All the free will stuff, and the monsters going into hiding or whatever, and—” He stops for a long breath. “We’ve been pretty much cooped-up in the bunker, just the two of us, so, y’know, if you maybe need a break from me, you can just say the word and we’ll work something out, and—”

Sam reaches out and drags his hand through Dean’s hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. He lingers a little at the back of Dean’s neck, rubs his thumb over the curve of Dean’s skull.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m good.”

Dean keeps his eyes glued to the road.

“Okay,” he says, a little hoarse. “Okay, good.”

Sam pats Dean’s neck and takes his hand away, pretending he didn’t hear Dean’s little whimper that almost triggered his alpha protective instincts.

They arrive at Dean’s favorite diner in the area and climb out of the car, the traces of their conversation still visible in the hard line of Dean’s back.

At least, Dean’s not running away, so Sam isn’t worried.

When they get their food, Dean attacks his burger like he’s never eaten before in his life, chewing loud and messy, and Sam chuckles quietly into his beer.

He knows what Dean’s like when he’s embarrassed, and this is it.

Satisfied, Sam catches a cherry tomato with his fork and digs his teeth in it. It bursts on his tongue, sharp and a little sweet. He wonders if that’s what Dean would taste like, but he pushes the thought away.

All in good time.

Day 6

Dean, much to Sam’s surprise, throws paper, and Sam’s left taking care of the takeout for lunch. They still haven’t restocked the fridge, except for the two six-packs Dean grabbed on their way back from the diner last night.

Sam’s, however, adamant that a liquid lunch isn’t the way, so fine, takeout it is.

Dean doesn’t demand anything specific, other than no rabbit food, but Sam already knows what to get him, just like he knows how many clean shirts Dean has left or how long it’s been since he changed his sheets.

Not many and way too long.

He doesn’t linger on the drive and is back to the bunker in about an hour, dropping the bag with the food in the kitchen.

The library is empty, so Sam strides straight to Dean’s room, finding the door open.

“Dean?” He peeks into the room but doesn’t see Dean.

“Here,” Dean says, and Sam rounds the door to find him seating in the corner with Sam’s Susanna Clarke book and a glass of whiskey.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him.

“Seriously?”

“What?” Dean dog-ears the page he’s on and Sam barely refrains from fighting him. “I read.”

“I meant that.” Sam points at the whiskey. “Bit too early, no?”

Dean twirls the glass in his hand and downs it in one swig.

“‘s a free world.” He grins at Sam, and Sam can’t really say anything to that.

His brother may be an amalgam of bad habits and poor decisions, but there’s no one in the world Sam loves more than him.

“Got you the Elvis,” he says, relishing the way Dean immediately lights up.

Sam still thinks the double-donut burger is a culinary monstrosity and a sure way to a heart attack, but sometimes he can’t resist making Dean happy, especially when it’s that easy.

“Bless you, Sammy,” Dean says and stands up. He immediately groans, rolling his shoulders and wincing. “Fuck, I’m getting old.”

Without a word, Sam comes up to Dean, spins him around, and puts his hands at the sides of Dean’s neck. Before Dean can react in any way, Sam starts kneading his shoulders, fingers merciless over the hard muscle.

“Relax,” he tells Dean, who goes rigid under Sam’s touch.

It takes a few minutes of Sam working out the knots in Dean’s back, but Dean exhales and goes melty in Sam’s hands.

“That’s a good boy,” Sam croons, digging his thumbs below the scent glands in Dean’s neck.

Dean tries to kick him, but it’s half-hearted, and Sam easily dodges Dean’s foot.

Sam massages Dean’s shoulders for another few minutes until he’s reasonably satisfied with the state of Dean’s muscles and slides his hands off. He doesn’t miss it when Dean leans backward, almost falling into Sam.

“C’mon,” Sam tells Dean, who rights himself immediately and turns around, his eyes a little wider than normal. “Food’s getting cold.”

Dean looks a little hazy, but he nods and follows Sam out of the room.

Like a puppy, Sam thinks to himself and hides a smile.

Day 7

Sam hasn’t seen Dean all day, and he’s getting lonely. The book is good, but Sam can only last so long without his brother.

He wanders around the bunker until he finds Dean at the gun range, putting bullets into the targets with the focus and precision that have been leaving Sam breathless since he was four.

Dean reloads, pulls up a new target, and fires. He must be missing the hunts, and Sam understands it a little, though he can’t say he shares the sentiment.

Watching Dean is one of Sam’s favorite pastimes, no matter what Dean’s doing. He’s just always beautiful, and Sam can never get enough.

A few minutes pass before Sam decides he wants some attention, too. He walks up to Dean, trying to telegraph his movements, so Dean doesn’t accidentally shoot him. Dean glances at him and nods, turning back to the target, a silent ‘I’m busy’ that Sam fully intends to ignore.

He comes up behind Dean and slides his right hand over Dean’s arm to cover Dean’s grip on the gun.

“Sam?” Dean’s trigger finger stills, and he turns his head to the side, trying to see Sam’s face. “What are you—”

He doesn’t finish the question, probably because Sam pushes at his fingers and slots his between them. Slowly, Dean takes his headphones off with his left hand and drops his chin, looking down, breathing a little harshly.

“Hey,” Sam says, pulling Dean’s hand with the gun down. Dean lets him, his fingers slack between Sam’s. “Come talk with me.”

“About what?” Dean croaks, voice clearly going out of his control.

“About everything,” Sam says, and he means it.

He wraps his left arm around Dean to tug the gun gently out of his hand. Their fingers are still intertwined, and Sam feels Dean’s skin grow warmer.

“Okay,” Dean says at last, like he’s surrendering his life to Sam.

Maybe he is. Maybe this is what Sam intended from the start.

They go upstairs, where Sam pours whiskey for both of them and they settle at the side table in the library, opposite each other.

“I ever tell you about the mermaid I hunted while you were nerding it up?” Dean starts, still a little rough, but growing mellower with every next sip. Sam shakes his head. “God, the jugs on that thing.” He gives a dreamy chuckle, and Sam settles in his chair, preparing for a long tale with mandatory salacious bits because it’s Dean.

It doesn’t really matter what Dean’s talking about. Sam would listen to him recite the Catalogue of Ships in Ancient Greek and be happy.

Dean gestures and laughs and does the voices, and Sam just basks in his brother’s voice and loves him so, so much.

Day 8

When things reach the point where they have to share the last bottle of beer in the fridge, Dean caves and goes on a supply run without even arguing whose turn it is.

Sam suspects it will be a supply of mostly beef patties and bacon without any fresh produce, despite the list Sam makes for Dean.

Without Dean, the bunker is quiet, an anticipatory stillness whose only wish is to get punctured by Dean’s voice, his music, his incessant aliveness that makes this place a real home for Sam.

He glances at his watch. It’s been ten minutes since Dean left, and Sam’s already antsy, which should be embarrassing, but Sam’s made peace with his Dean-related neediness back when he was around five.

As soon as Dean’s out of Sam’s sight, the world dims, and Sam can’t do anything about that, nor does he really want to.

He grabs China Miéville’s The City & The City from one of the bookshelves and settles on the steps in the war room, leafing absently through the book. It’s a good one; he read it a few years ago and has been meaning to re-read it for some time.

The central premise of two overlapping cities, living vastly different lives that must not, under any circumstances, intersect, pulls on something in Sam, makes him grow philosophical. He thinks about living on the edge between two different worlds and wonders if that’s still who they are.

They’ve been straddling the line between the mundane and the supernatural for as long as they’ve been self-aware, and it has cost them, cost them so much, Sam isn’t sure he wants to count their losses.

Now, with this new world open for them, maybe they can stop being torn between the luxury of normal and the poverty of chosen, and just—be? Whatever that means.

As Sam glances over the final pages of the book, its ambivalent ending, the door to the bunker opens and Dean enters with bursting plastic bags of supplies.

“Hey,” he says, and the silence retreats.

“Hey,” Sam says, closing the book and putting it down.

He stands up to meet Dean at the bottom of the stairs, blocking his path.

“What?” Dean asks, a little wary. “Don’t tell me you forgot to add something to the list.”

Sam steps closer and pulls Dean into a tight hug, filling his arms with Dean’s wonderful, lively warmth.

“Dude?” With his hands busy, Dean doesn’t return the hug, but he doesn’t try to pull away, letting Sam take what he needs.

“Missed you,” Sam says, one-hundred-percent truth.

“I was gone, like, a couple of hours.” Dean sounds gently surprised, not annoyed or accusatory.

Sam pulls him in tighter.

“I know.”

Dean stays still, only his chest moving as he breathes, and Sam feels it move, and it’s the best thing he’s felt today.

“We don’t have to live on the edge anymore, do we?” he asks, confident that Dean will know what he means.

Dean does.

He fits his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, real and close.

“No,” he says, “I don’t think so.”

That’s all Sam needed to hear.

He releases Dean, grabs one of the bags, and they relocate to the kitchen. Just as Sam expected, there’s a glaring lack of greens among the purchases.

“Did you even read the list?” he asks, not even bothering to sound exasperated.

“I did,” Dean says, which is a surprise, “and it was a girl list,” he continues, which is not a surprise, “so I ignored it.”

Sam doesn’t feel the tiniest bit angry.

They move around the kitchen, putting the groceries away, and Sam thinks that this is their world, this is the space they inhabit, this is where they’ve ended up.

For better or worse, he likes it.

Day 9

It takes some cajoling, not to mention the deployment of puppy dog eyes, but Dean agrees to watch Sam’s thing for once. Sam even lets him make popcorn, while he transports two six-packs into his room.

Dean promptly calls dibs on the bed, sprawling in the middle, but Sam just flops down right beside him, his thigh landing on top of Dean’s hand.

In the next second, Dean’s stretched along the side of the bed, as far from Sam as he can go without actually falling off. It’s fine, Sam thinks, handing Dean a beer and dipping his hand into Dean’s popcorn.

The day is long, and who knows what might happen still.

Sam navigates to the Netflix catalog of TV shows and chooses the one he’s been meaning to watch for some time, even though it’s ironic to the point of ridiculous.

“The Witcher?” Dean reads from the screen. “Ain’t that the one about a dude hunting monsters?”

“Yep.” Sam starts the first episode.

“You don’t think it’s a little—” Dean waves a hand in the air, “I dunno, too meta?”

“Shh,” Sam hushes him. “Just watch.”

Dean grumbles something unflattering about Sam’s sense of humor but turns his attention to the screen.

The monsters don’t look anything like the real ones, but that’s a good thing. Sam doesn’t think he’d enjoy a second of the show if it was actually close to home. This, however, is more funny than realistic, just someone’s fantasy, benign and unscary.

“Wait,” Dean says at some point, visibly outraged, “he gets paid for hunting?!”

“That’s the point,” Sam confirms, doing his best not to laugh.

“Lucky son of a bitch,” Dean grouses and gestures for Sam to give him another beer.

With every next bottle—and Dean’s consuming them at an almost alarming rate—he scoots closer, sometimes stretching to hide the movement, sometimes wriggling and making comments about Sam’s lumpy mattress.

By episode four, there are about three inches of space left between them, and Sam makes another executive decision.

He doesn’t offend Dean’s intelligence by going for the yawn-and-reach move. Instead, he simply hands Dean another bottle and slings his arm around his shoulders, casual and with zero rationalization behind it.

Dean makes no noise, moves no muscle, as if Sam’s a dinosaur from Jurassic Park.

On the screen, the ever-present Bard dumps a bucket of water onto the bathing Witcher, who looks disgruntled, but doesn’t do anything to get rid of his exuberant companion.

“...you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” the Bard asks the surly Witcher, and damn, someone actually approved that line.

“Don’t they make a cute couple?” Sam says, honestly endeared.

“A couple.” Dean’s voice catches on the word, as if the whole concept physically hurts him.

He twists open his beer and moves to drink it, when Sam tugs him closer, fingers rubbing circles into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean coughs violently and drops the bottle, spilling beer all over them and the bed.

“Fuck!” he yelps, springing away from Sam.

Well, it was good while it lasted.

“You’re doing the laundry,” Sam says, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of Dean’s indignant face.

“Like fuck.” Dean glares at him. “‘s your fault.”

Sam bats his eyelashes at him, a trick he learned so long ago, he doesn’t even remember how old he was.

“How so?” he asks innocently, and Dean’s face goes red.

Sam leans over the wet spot to pat Dean’s shoulder.

Dean does the laundry.

Day 10

The dream is just about to get good—Dean’s face is so close to Sam’s as they lounge on a picnic blanket—when loud rapping jolts Sam out of it.

He opens his eyes to Dean filling the doorway, his grin bordering on sadistic.

“Up and at’em, Sammy,” he says, a bit too loud for ass o’clock in the morning.

“Wha—fuck, Dean?” It’s not that Sam isn’t happy to see Dean, he always is, but he really wanted to watch that dream.

“C’mon, buddy.” Dean’s still too loud, but he’s also excited, which is just adorable. “We did your fun thing yesterday, we’re doing my fun thing today.”

Judging by the fishing rods he’s brandishing at Sam, he’s already decided what kind of fun it’s gonna be. Protesting will be futile, not that Sam really wants to.

“Fine,” he says, and it is. “Just lemme—” He makes a vague circle with his hand, indicating his still sleep-rumpled state.

“Sure, man.” Dean turns to leave, but stops to look at Sam over his shoulder. “We leave in twenty. And don’t forget a sweater.”

Sam waves him off, and Dean walks away, a veritable spring in his step.

Twenty minutes is more than enough for Sam to wash up, find a blue sweater with dancing reindeer that Mrs. Butters gave him, and daydream about his brother, like he tends to do when he’s not in mortal danger.

He hasn’t been in mortal danger for months now.

The sun is just rising when Dean gets the car out of the garage, and Sam watches the threads of light illuminate the landscape around them, paint it soft and tender. It’s a good morning, the sky clear and glowing, Dean bouncy and cheerful, the world spinning on.

Dean parks at the side of a largish lake and gets out of the car, setting everything up. The air is crispy fresh, biting at Sam’s cheeks, but it’s not yet cold enough to freeze the water. There’s a thin crust of ice at the very edge of the lake, quickly melting as the sun warms it up.

“Here,” Dean says, handing Sam a thermos.

Sam’s a little surprised Dean isn’t insisting on beer at eight in the morning.

The thermos is full of hot, blissful coffee, and Sam thanks Dean as they settle on the rocks, a few feet from each other.

Dean’s wearing his red sweater with snowmen, also a gift from Mrs. Butters. It suits him, in a ridiculous, so-bad-it’s-good way. Sam suspects the same is true for him.

They cast their lines and wait. The silence between them is easy and smooth, and the tranquility of it reassures Sam that this is, indeed, their world, one where they choose to be.

He’s not counting hours, letting time do its thing as they do theirs. The sun rolls over their heads, and Sam catches a couple of crappies, while Dean has no luck at all, though he doesn’t look too disappointed by that.

It’s about noon when they’re finally cold and hungry enough to call it quits for the day.

Dean grumbles something mandatory about cheating little brothers as he throws Sam’s catch into the cooler and packs up their stuff. Sam walks up to him, waits for him to close the trunk, and puts his hand on the side of his face.

Slowly, so very slowly, he runs his fingers along Dean’s jaw, closing them around Dean’s chin. Dean’s freckles stand out against his rapidly flushing skin.

“I just learned from the best,” Sam says, pushing his finger into the dip between Dean’s chin and his bottom lip.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, strangled.

Sam smiles at him, brushes a fingertip along the outer edge of Dean’s bottom lip, and lets him go.

He walks toward the passenger’s side, when Dean clears his throat.

“Why, uh.” He stares at the trunk. “Why don’t you drive? I could use a nap.”

Sam doesn’t argue.

As he turns the car toward the bunker, he pretends he doesn’t notice the way Dean’s hands are shaking in his lap.

They bake the fish, and it tastes great, seasoned with the way Dean can barely look Sam in the eye without going scarlet.

Day 11

“Come on, Dean,” Sam says. “Pull it out.”

“Bet you say that to all the boys,” Dean mutters as he considers the Jenga tower between them.

Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify that with a comment.

They both have four successfully removed blocks, but the tower is already shaky, threatening to collapse every time either of them so much as breathes.

Times were, Sam’d say it was representative of their entire relationship, but now? He’s not so sure.

Dean finally makes his move and claps his hands gleefully, when the tower survives.

“Your turn, loser,” he says, and Sam doesn’t even mind, just enjoys the look of pure mirth on his brother’s face.

Five blocks later, Dean drops the tower, looking sincerely surprised that he lost.

“Rematch,” he says immediately.

Sam obliges.

They play for another hour, and Dean loses every single time, growing more and more despondent with each crash.

“You’re cheating,” he accuses Sam at some point, though it’s not exactly clear how one can cheat at Jenga.

“Not my fault you have sausage fingers,” Sam rebukes, fighting off a smirk.

“My fingers are fine,” Dean mutters, pulling out a block and groaning when the tower collapses again.

Sam doesn’t laugh. It’s a struggle, but he doesn’t.

“Again?” he asks, trying not to sound too smug.

“Fuck this game.” Dean looks at the wooden blocks on the table like they’re his arch enemies.

Sam half-expects Dean to swipe them to the floor in a fit of his trademark destructive frustration, but Dean just grabs the box and starts shoving the pieces into it.

This new life has been changing them both, and Sam thinks it’s a good thing.

He stands up and rounds the table to Dean’s side.

“Hey,” he says, tapping Dean on the shoulder.

When Dean turns to him, a disgruntled frown on his face, Sam bends down and pecks him on the cheek.

Dean’s frown disappears instantly, replaced by complete and utter shock.

“Thanks for letting me win,” Sam says, giving Dean’s cheek another peck before pulling away.

“Uh.” Dean raises his hand toward his face, but freezes halfway. “Yeah, that—that’s exactly—that’s right.”

He doesn’t sound overly convincing.

Sam smiles at him and leaves him to clean up. As he passes through the library’s archway, he taps his lips, which are still buzzing with the feel of his brother’s skin under them.

Day 12

It’s not that Dean didn’t bring any vegetables in his last supply run.

He did get an entire bag of tomatoes and a bundle of lettuce, which Sam divided between them and stuffed into signed containers.

So, when he looks into the fridge in the morning and finds his containers empty, he’s understandably annoyed.

“Dean!” he yells, loud enough to be heard in half the bunker.

In less than a minute, Dean’s rushing into the kitchen with a gun in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. His eyes scan the room, looking for threats, and some of Sam’s annoyance melts away.

Dean might be a jerk, but if he even thinks Sam’s in danger, he’ll drop everything and fight anything for his little brother.

“You all right?” Dean asks, tense, gun still up.

Sam gestures at the fridge.

“My tomatoes are missing.”

Dean stares at him for a few moments before tucking his gun into his jeans and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Jesus, Sam.” He drops his hand, and now it’s his turn to look annoyed. “You give me a heart attack over fucking tomatoes?”

“And lettuce,” Sam adds, crossing his arms over his chest sternly. He squints at the sandwich Dean’s holding. “Is that a BLT?”

“With double B,” Dean says, taking a large bite that puffs up his cheeks as he chews.

Sam doesn’t need to ask where Dean got the L and the T.

“We’re going to the farmer’s market,” he announces, striding across the kitchen toward Dean.

“We?” Dean asks, mouth still full.

“Yes,” Sam says grimly as he comes close enough to loom over Dean. “You owe me.”

Dean swallows and raises a hand to make some kind of counterpoint, but Sam presses his forefinger against Dean’s lips, shushing him.

“We leave in ten,” he tells Dean, plucks his sandwich out of his hand and bites into it as he walks away.

Dean doesn’t talk to him the entire drive, short as it is, and Sam lets him fume. He himself feels great: he’s getting fresh produce and Dean’s getting punished for his transgressions, so two birds, one stone.

At the market, Sam flits from stall to stall, while the number of the bags he makes Dean carry grows.

“Why’s there so many kinds of everything?” Dean complains as Sam hovers over the stall with squashes.

Sam tamps down a snicker, gets the spaghetti squash, and steps back, looking around for the fruit stalls.

“There,” he says, while Dean just stares into the distance as if this is the worst moment of his entire life.

Sam puts a hand on the small of Dean’s back and prompts him carefully to the left. The torment reflected on Dean’s face intensifies as he makes a few mechanical steps in the direction Sam’s pointing him to.

He’s still staring into the distance when they reach the fruit stalls.

“Look.” Sam gestures at the crates in front of them. He keeps his hand on the small of Dean’s back. “What do you say we make a pie quattro mele?”

As Dean doesn’t respond, Sam presses his hand into his back, nudging him a little toward the wide selection of apples.

“What,” Dean says, somewhat squeaky.

“Apples, Dean,” Sam says, rubbing his hand in a circle over Dean’s jacket. “Pie. Focus.”

Dean makes another squeaky noise, leans back into Sam for a split second, and takes a long step forward, turning his full attention to the fruit in front of him.

They make the pie, and it’s delicious: sweet and tart and so full of love.

Day 13

Sam’s on his way to the library for a post-lunch reading session, when he hears the door to the bunker slam open and shut.

It’s immediately followed by Dean’s grunts and some other sounds Sam can’t quite place. He hurries to the war room, trying to remember where they have the guns taped under the map table.

“Sammy!” Dean yells, excited in a good way, and Sam exhales in relief.

He finds Dean dragging a Christmas tree down the catwalk, beaming so hard, he looks about ten years younger.

“Gimme a hand?” he asks, when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

Together, they set up the tree in the library. It’s not as big as the one Mrs. Butters got for them, but it’s not like they need a colossus to set the mood.

Most importantly, Dean chose it for them, and that alone makes this tree better than any other in the world, at least to Sam.

He’s already been in a pretty good mood in the past few days, and now he feels downright festive.

They get the boxes with the ornaments from one of the storage rooms and set about decorating the tree.

Painted baubles, glittery snowflakes, cheery snowmen, the cheesier the better. They wrap a string of Christmas lights around the tree, turn it on, and step back to survey the result.

Dean elbows Sam in the ribs, in his giddy five-year-old mode. Sam loves it.

“Awesome, right?” Dean asks, eyes shining, reflecting the Christmas lights.

He looks at Sam, and Sam reads the words on his face clearer than if Dean said them aloud.

We’re like a proper family now.

Sam steps toward Dean and pulls gently on his shoulders until Dean faces him. He’s still grinning, though it falters slightly when he meets Sam’s eyes.

Not waiting for Dean to start worrying himself into a spiral, Sam leans in to brush his nose against Dean’s.

“Thank you,” he whispers, keeping their faces close.

Dean stops breathing.

Sam swears he can hear Dean’s heart beat rabbit-fast.

“I love it,” he says, tapping Dean’s nose with his again.

“Yeah,” Dean says, somewhat wheezy as he tries to breathe again. “Okay, good.”

Sam releases him and pushes him toward the tree. Dean almost falls into it, but Sam steadies him and steps back, pointing his phone camera at Dean, who’s staring back at him, flushed and disoriented.

“Smile,” Sam says, and even though Dean doesn’t, not really, the picture is beautiful.

Sam makes it his lockscreen.

Day 14

Sam’s walking down the hall toward the shower room, shaking the rainwater out of his hair, when he hears music blasting out of Dean’s room.

It’s not an unusual occasion per se, except that Dean would rather go to Hell than let Sam hear he’s listening to this particular artist, not again.

Sam, of course, cannot pass up the opportunity to tease his brother into complete and total loss of dignity.

He nudges the door to Dean’s room open, and it’s even better than Sam could hope.

Dean’s dancing, like actually shaking his head and flapping his arms and twisting his hips—to Taylor Swift.

“Nice moves,” Sam says, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Dean goes full deer-in-the-headlights, frozen mid-move, eyes so wide, Sam’s worried he’ll pull something.

The song ends, and Sam recognizes the opening of Lover, which is just perfect.

Another second, and Dean will lunge for his phone on the desk and smash it to destroy all evidence of his downfall, so Sam acts quickly.

He closes the distance between them and pulls Dean into his arms. Dean doesn’t even try to fight him.

“Knew you were a Swiftie,” Sam says as he takes Dean’s wrists and puts his hands onto his shoulders.

Dean gulps audibly and shuffles in place, stepping on Sam’s foot. Sam isn’t sure if it was intentional or not.

“You—uh—jogging?” Dean manages, blinking hard at Sam.

“Weather’s shit.” Sam places his hands on Dean’s hips and starts swaying them to the song.

Dean’s stunned enough to go with it, though he does step on Sam’s foot again.

Sam doesn’t mind.

He hums along with the song, watching Dean go from stupor to vindication.

“You like her, too,” Dean accuses, quickly regaining his big-brother superiority.

“Never said I didn’t,” Sam says easily, and Dean blinks at him again, taken aback by Sam’s lack of shame.

The second chorus comes and Sam leans down to press their foreheads together, enjoying the way Dean’s breath hitches in response.

“Can we always be this close?” Sam whispers along with the lyrics. “Forever and ever.”

Dean trembles in his arms, fingers bunching up Sam’s shirt, like he wants to pull Sam closer but doesn’t dare.

Sam doesn’t let him go till the end of the song, and when he does, he has to pry Dean’s hands gently away from himself.

“We ain’t Chuck’s show anymore,” he tells Dean, patting Dean’s shoulder. “You can like what you like and not worry about characterization consistency.”

“I could always do that,” Dean says with his trademark bluster.

“Sure, Dean.” Sam slides his hand up to tap at the back of Dean’s neck. “Whatever you say.”

Dean tries to glare at him, but he’s still too shaken to pull it off.

Sam takes his hand away from Dean’s neck and leaves him to his absolutely non-embarrassing music tastes, his arms still warm with the heat of Dean’s body wrapped in them.

Day 15

The lack of hunts gets to Sam, too, though not as much as it gets to Dean. His body, conditioned to fight, demands action, and sometimes jogging isn’t enough to scratch the itch.

He goes to the gym, only to find Dean there, engaged in a vicious fight with a punching bag.

“Whoa,” Sam says, stopping at a respectful distance from Dean, not keen on getting in the way. “Got some steam to blow off?”

Dean doesn’t turn to him, and Sam can’t say if his face is flushed from the exertion or from Sam’s words.

“Mind your own business,” Dean says, though without much heat behind it.

Sam inches closer.

“You sure seem testy.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that, pummeling the punching bag even harder.

His t-shirt is soaked with sweat, clinging to his body, and Sam watches the play of his biceps, and it’s all too much.

He steps forward until he’s just about a foot away.

“Dean.” He makes it careful but insistent, the tone he’s perfected over the years of getting Dean to do what he wants.

It works now, too.

Dean stops, his hands still in the air, and looks at Sam, somewhere between cautious and frustrated.

“What?”

Sam catches Dean’s wrists and pulls him into himself, dropping his head into the crook of Dean’s neck. He nuzzles Dean’s scent gland, inhaling the musky, masculine smell of his brother.

His head goes a little dizzy with it, and he grazes his teeth over the bump in Dean’s neck. Dean flinches, notes of fear adding to his scent.

“‘s okay,” Sam says, squeezing Dean’s wrists soothingly. “‘m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to.”

Dean remains rigid, though he doesn’t try to escape Sam’s grasp.

“What about the last two weeks?” he asks, tense but not hostile.

“What about them?” Sam asks back, nose pressed into Dean’s neck.

He doesn’t smell any anger. Mostly, he just smells Dean.

“Get off me,” Dean mumbles, and Sam knows this tone—it’s Dean saying the opposite of what he wants because he just can’t let himself have nice things.

Sam doesn’t argue.

He flicks his tongue over Dean’s neck and pulls away, releasing Dean’s wrists. Dean’s looking at him with pleading eyes, like it’s Sam’s turn to fix Dean’s world now.

“Wanna spar?” Sam asks, offering Dean a socially approved form of close contact.

Dean launches himself at him without any deliberation.

Sam’s got him pinned to the floor in ten seconds flat.

Someone’s distracted, he thinks to himself, but he’s wise enough not to say that out loud.

Day 16

Their schedules aren’t exactly in sync, but they’re aware of each other in the bunker, traces of their scents lingering in the doorways, little sounds traveling even through thick walls.

This is how Sam knows that Dean slept in today, dragging himself out of his room two hours later than usual, after Sam’s already jogged, showered, and had his breakfast.

It’s one of Dean’s lazy days, a post-Chuck novelty, when he takes his time with life, letting himself—Sam hopes—enjoy the mundane.

Sam can map out Dean’s plans by the second, so he slinks into the shower room right when Dean turns on the water. He closes the door behind him without a sound, moving as stealthily as he’s been trained to, dropping his clothes into a pile and tiptoeing toward Dean.

“Hey,” he says and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist.

Dean jolts, almost slipping on the tiles, but Sam steadies him.

“Sam?” He sounds like he’s too startled to get angry. “What the—?”

He doesn’t get to finish the question because Sam reaches for the soap, lathers up his hands, and drags them over Dean’s back, all in the span of a few seconds.

Dean’s muscles are hard under Sam’s fingers, tense with confusion. Sam rubs his hands in soothing circles, leaning down to murmur in Dean’s ear.

“Just lemme take care of you.” He intends it to calm Dean down, but he bristles instead.

“Keep your alpha bullshit to yourself,” he warns, and Sam can hear the feral snarl Dean wears every time someone so much as implies he’s a faint-hearted omega who needs to be coddled.

Not that many people dare, but there have been encounters. Some resulted in broken limbs, some got away with bruised egos. No one left unpunished.

“It’s not about that,” Sam promises, nuzzling the outline of Dean’s ear.

Dean turns around, the spikes of his hair weighed down with water. He looks more lost than furious, and Sam’s heart breaks a little. If only he could take Dean’s hand and lead him to himself, to the place where Dean can be happy, the way he deserves to be.

“What’s it about?” Dean asks, and it’s a heavy question, laced with so many others, Sam doesn’t know where to start answering.

He puts his slippery hands on Dean’s hips and leans in, bringing their faces close together.

“You know what it’s about.” He can see it in Dean’s eyes, under the clumped eyelashes, stirring in the flickering green.

Dean doesn’t move a muscle.

Sam glides his hands up and down Dean’s front, keeping their mouths so close, he could stick his tongue out and taste Dean.

He doesn’t.

They’re both aware of the possibility.

Sam lets his hands wander over Dean’s body for a bit more before stepping back. He gloats internally when Dean stumbles forward, chasing him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Sam says, which, okay, maybe a bit more cruel than necessary, but the betrayed look on Dean’s face is totally worth it.

Sam rinses his hands under the water spray, gives Dean’s chest a parting pat, and goes to towel off. Wordless, he puts his clothes back on and doesn’t look back as he leaves.

He doesn’t need to—Dean’s eyes are burning his back like red-hot coals.

Day 17

Dean avoids Sam the entire day, making sure that Sam knows it.

He stands up and leaves the library as soon as Sam steps into it. His cup, left on the table, is half-full of coffee when Sam walks into the kitchen. In the gym, the punching bag is still swinging, even as Dean’s nowhere to be seen.

It’s a feat of impressive stubbornness and agility that Sam can’t help but respect.

The bunker is, of course, large and convoluted enough that Dean can play this game probably forever, but Sam’s sure Dean won’t last that long.

It’s about ten in the evening when he gets a text.

Meet me in the war room.

This is unusual—if not wrong—on a number of levels. First, they don’t text much, preferring calls and voicemails. Second, Dean could have just hollered for Sam instead of going through the formality of texting. Third, it’s clinically concise, like they’re on a case, whereas Dean’s casual messages usually show a bit of emotion, whatever it might be at any given moment.

Sam could go on, but the point is, Dean’s overthinking and Sam needs to pull him out of it.

Which is more or less how they always work, so Sam doesn’t worry too much.

He goes to the war room, finding Dean planted at the far end of the map table. Sam takes his place opposite him, letting Dean have the expanse of the table between them like a buffer, if that makes him feel safer.

“Hey,” he says, but Dean doesn’t return it, his face set.

He regards Sam with hard eyes, obviously not wanting to have this conversation and needing to have it more than he can bear.

“What’s your deal?” he asks, rough and blunt.

Sam spreads his arms, a not-guilty plea.

“There’s no deal.” It’s true, in a way—he doesn’t have any sinister hidden agenda; he’s just giving space to something that has always been there between them.

Dean braces his hands on the table, like he needs the support in order not to collapse.

“Something’s going on,” he states flatly, though it’s unclear if he considers it a good thing or a bad thing. Quite likely, he doesn’t know himself.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Sam says with a shrug and starts walking around the table toward Dean, slow step after slow step.

Dean watches him with a mix of longing and trepidation.

“Stay away,” he says, but there’s no weight to it.

“Or what?” Sam takes care to sound curious instead of challenging.

Dean lifts his chin because, of course, everything’s a challenge to him.

“Or I’ll leave.”

It’s the emptiest threat of all the empty threats Dean’s ever issued Sam’s way.

Sam reaches his side, stopping half a step away from Dean.

“Will you?” he asks, and now he’s taunting, dragging Dean toward the truth.

Dean straightens up and turns to face Sam, arms folded over his chest.

“Try me.”

He wants a fight, Sam’ll give him a fight.

It’s not that different from what Sam wants anyway.

He raises his hand to cup Dean’s face, fingers firm over Dean’s cheek.

“Stop me,” he says, and now it’s a clear-cut challenge.

“Fuck you,” Dean says, which isn’t exactly a no.

Good.

Sam leans down and presses his lips to Dean’s, sweet and gentle.

Dean stays motionless, neither shoving Sam away nor reeling him in.

When Sam pulls back, Dean’s face is blank, but he doesn’t look shocked.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Sam says and walks away before Dean can respond.

This is going to be quite an interesting morning.

Day 18

Sam wakes up, half-expecting Dean to be lurking in the room, annoyed at himself and waiting for Sam to absolve him.

Dean, however, isn’t there, but it’s okay. Sam can wait; he’s already waited for so many years, what’s another hour or a couple.

He slides off the bed, washes up, and steps out of the room, going through the possible breakfast options he can make while he waits for Dean to show himself.

Before he can move on to option number two, he’s grabbed by his t-shirt and slammed into a wall.

Well, that didn’t take long.

“Good morning to you, too,” he tells Dean cheerfully, like this is a totally normal situation for them.

Frankly, with the things that have passed as normal for them over the years, this is basically business as usual.

Dean’s nostrils flare, and his eyes have a murderous glint to them, but it’s hard to say if he intends to murder himself, Sam, or both.

“Stop playing games with me,” he grits out, his voice delightfully shaky.

It’s as simple as it is heartbreaking: Dean wants this so much, needs it so badly, has needed it for probably as long as Sam has, and he can’t believe he can have it, even now.

“I’m dead serious, Dean,” Sam tells him, as convincing as he can.

Dean glares at him, his fingers gripping Sam’s shirt tighter.

“You’re just bored,” he accuses, and Sam almost laughs at the sheer ludicrousness of it.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, placing a hand on the back of Dean’s head and dragging him into a kiss.

He intends it to be as sweet and gentle as yesterday, and for a few seconds, it is.

Then Dean kisses back.

It’s an act of aggression, tongue and teeth and fury, and Sam just opens his mouth for Dean, accepts the violence, lets it happen on Dean’s terms.

Dean devours him, and it’s so worth the wait.

He tastes like a knife dipped in honey, dangerous but sweet, if you’re careful, and Sam tries to be, even as most of his control slips from him, swept away by the power of Dean’s assault.

It lasts for about a minute or two, definitely not long enough, and it ends abruptly, with Dean staggering back, eyes wide, hands dropping away from Sam’s shirt.

Now comes the moment when Dean runs, though Sam kinda hoped to skip this part.

He tries to catch Dean’s hand, but Dean yanks it away.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, rubs at his mouth, and bolts down the corridor.

Sam doesn’t follow. The bunker door slams shut, leaving Sam to sigh and resume his trek to the kitchen.

He pours himself a bowl of cereal and thinks that Dean’s going to come back, and when he does, oh, things will only get better.

Day 19

Dean’s not back by morning. He isn’t back by lunch. He isn’t even back by dinner.

This is taking a bit longer than Sam predicted.

He’s already in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin and wondering if he miscalculated, when he registers movement in the bunker.

Dean’s trying to be quiet, but Sam’s too attuned to him, and he finds him quickly in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, staring at their old photos. It’s like he’s trying to figure out when things went wrong, which means Sam needs to tell him they never did.

He kneels on the floor in front of Dean, slightly surprised when Dean doesn’t react, just keeps shuffling the photos over and over.

Dean smells of cheap whiskey and something faintly sweet, familiar but not in a way Sam can place.

He clears his throat, and Dean’s hands still, but he doesn’t look up.

“Dean.” Sam folds his hands in his lap, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. “Listen to me.”

“Sam,” Dean says quietly, somewhere between warning and pleading. He keeps his eyes on the photos.

Whatever Sam says now will determine them for the rest of their lives.

“You’re all I have,” he starts. “You’re all I want to have, all I ever wanted to have.” He takes a deep breath, steels himself. It’s scarier than he thought it’d be. “In all ways. In every way. You’re everything, Dean, you’re it, you’re the north star.”

Dean’s fingers tighten, almost crumpling the photo he’s holding.

“What are you saying,” he whispers, and Sam wants to say so much more, except there aren’t words.

He tries nevertheless.

“All my life, I have needed you,” he says, keeps his voice strong. “You’re the start and the end. You’re all I know, and I don’t want to know anything else.”

“Sammy.” It’s barely a sound, but it reaches Sam, and Sam knows he’s getting close.

Here goes nothing.

“I love you, Dean.” He doesn’t stammer, and he’s proud of himself for it. “Always did, always will. Only ever you.”

Dean says nothing to that, but he lifts his head, looking at Sam with damp, broken eyes.

Sam wants to hug him, kiss him, scent him, but he holds himself back. This is too fragile, bound to break if he pushes too hard.

All he allows himself is reach out and put his hand on Dean’s knee, relieved when Dean doesn’t flinch.

They look at each other for a long moment, waiting for something that’s already happened.

Dean’s chin moves, almost imperceptibly, in a small nod, and Sam gives his knee a little pat before standing up.

“Good night, Dean,” he says, as he walks away, even though he knows Dean’s not getting any sleep tonight.

Neither is Sam.

Day 20

Coffee is a universal sign of care, especially at half past seven in the morning, when even the air feels bleary and cantankerous.

Sam pours two cups and carries them to the library, not in the least surprised to find Dean there, sitting at the table with their initials and staring into the distance. He’s got an empty whiskey glass next to him, but Sam doesn’t smell alcohol on him, so Dean must’ve already sobered up.

What Sam does smell, however, is the sweetness from yesterday blossoming into a rich toffee fragrance, which Sam recognizes now.

It can’t be.

He puts a cup in front of Dean, who startles, casting a quick look at Sam before focusing on the coffee.

Sam leans against the table next to him, watches him raise the cup to his lips and gulp down half of it, like he’s been dying of thirst all this time.

The sweet smell hangs between them, and Dean keeps his eyes rigidly on his cup, his knuckles white around the porcelain.

Sam doesn’t offend Dean by tiptoeing around him.

“When did you go off your suppressants?” he asks, blunt but careful.

Dean nods, like this is exactly what he expected from Sam.

“The day before yesterday.”

Sam nods, too. It makes sense—they both knew Dean was running away only to run back even faster.

“They’re wearing off quickly,” Sam notes, sipping his coffee, making it casual.

“Yes, they are,” Dean says, a little stilted.

Sam doesn’t even remember when Dean last had a proper heat—their lives didn’t really accommodate week-long vacations like that. His body must be all too eager to release all those pent-up hormones as soon as possible.

It thrills Sam, on more levels than simple alpha lust. This is Dean at his peak vulnerability, flayed open and defenseless, throwing himself into this thing between them and leaving it up to Sam to catch him.

Sam will never let Dean fall.

They finish their coffees, and Sam waits for Dean to put his cup down before taking hold of his shoulders and pulling him up until he’s wedged between Sam’s legs.

“Morning,” Sam says.

“Morning,” Dean says.

Sam kisses him.

He tries to take it slow, but Dean’s teeth are all over his lips, and his tongue is urging Sam’s to dance with it, and Sam doesn’t even notice when he starts rubbing against Dean, hard in his jeans.

It’d be embarrassing, but Dean’s also hard, their bodies mirroring each other in their impatience.

Sam drops his hands to Dean’s hips and pushes up, moaning when Dean presses into him, urgent and careless.

It’s like they’ve been holding their breath for years, only now letting themselves breathe, dizzy with all the air rushing into their lungs.

Dean’s mouth is all over the place, but his hips work with a singular focus, thrusting against Sam, getting friction through layers of denim.

There they are, out in the open, on the same page, at long, long last.

Sam comes with Dean’s tongue deep in his mouth, and Dean shudders in his arms, both of them a little bewildered, like they can’t understand why they haven’t been doing this all their lives.

“I, uh—” Dean talks first, though he doesn’t get very far.

“Yeah,” Sam says, patting Dean’s hip. “We’re a mess.”

Dean snorts and steps back, adjusting his ruined jeans.

“What else is new,” he says, which, well, true.

Sam reaches out to take Dean’s hand, and Dean lets him. They stay like this for a moment before Dean pulls gently away and rubs the back of his neck.

“Gotta change,” he says, looking away, and Sam prays that he doesn’t spiral again.

“Dean.” He tilts his head, trying to catch Dean’s eyes. “Are you—”

“‘m fine,” Dean hurries to assure Sam. “Just—yeah. Y’know.”

Sam hopes he does.

He watches Dean walk out of the library and retreats to his own room, where he falls into deep, much-needed sleep.

In his dreams, Dean kisses him senseless, and it doesn’t feel fantastical anymore.

Day 21

Patience may be a virtue, but Sam’s not exactly a virtuous guy.

He wakes up early, thoroughly missing his brother, like he often does, except now he doesn’t need to hold back.

They’ve crossed a lot of bridges in the last few days, pushing past points of no return, one after another. Sam knows now what Dean’s tongue tastes like, how sharp his teeth are, how low his voice drops when he comes.

It’s all delightful knowledge, and Sam’s beyond grateful for it, but there are still so many more things to learn.

He goes through his morning routine quickly and sneaks out straight to Dean’s room, finding his brother curled on his side under the blanket, one arm thrown around a pillow he’s hugging to his chest.

Sam didn’t lie—he likes watching Dean sleep.

This morning, though, isn’t just for watching.

He tiptoes around Dean’s bed and slips quietly under the blanket, careful to avoid startling Dean. Last thing Sam wants is a bullet in his shoulder.

Waking Dean up without triggering his defensive mechanisms is a tricky task, but Sam knows how to deal with his brother. He leans over Dean, not touching him, and brings his wrist to his face, letting his scent waft toward Dean’s nose.

With Dean’s pheromones growing stronger as he nears his heat, Sam’s hormone levels rise as well, making his smell stronger and, hopefully, hotter for Dean.

“Mmhmm,” Dean mumbles, sniffing curiously at Sam’s wrist.

“Hey,” Sam says, lips close to Dean’s ear.

Dean squirms a little, bumping his nose right into Sam’s scent gland.

“Sammy,” he murmurs, and he sounds so deeply pleased, Sam dies a little, in a good way.

He bites at the curve of Dean’s ear shell, shifting to press his chest against Dean’s back. The sweetness rising from Dean’s body goes to Sam’s head, and it’s not even at its full bloom.

Sam has no idea how he’s going to survive Dean’s heat, but he’s determined to find out.

Dean catches his wrist and guides it down, past the waistband of his boxers, until Sam’s hand is brushing his morning wood.

If it’s an invitation, Sam’s more than eager to take it.

He swipes the tip of his index finger over the head, learning the feel of Dean’s tender skin there, the scorching silkiness of it. Dean’s slit is already wet, and Sam collects the precome with his thumb, spreads it down Dean’s length.

Everything about this is new, and everything about this is inevitable.

Sam wraps his fingers around Dean, working him slow and tentative. Dean lets out long, close-mouthed moans when Sam hits the right spots, and Sam memorizes them, burns them into his fingertips, so he can always find them again.

Soon enough, Dean’s throbbing in Sam’s fist, pushing the back of his head into Sam’s face, and Sam kisses his hair, squeezes him tighter, loves him immeasurably.

“Sammy,” Dean says again, in the same pleased voice, and he comes over Sam’s fingers, with the same full-body shudder as yesterday.

His back goes lax against Sam’s chest, and Sam strokes him a few more times before taking his hand away.

“Is this okay?” he asks, somewhat belatedly.

“You tell me,” Dean says, a low, sated murmur.

Sam presses a kiss to the side of his neck and slides out of the bed, mindful of his come-stained hand.

He goes to the sink to wash it, and when he turns back, Dean’s asleep again, his mouth curved in a lazy smile.

They don’t talk for the rest of the day, but it’s not a bad silence. It’s pensive instead of wounded, giving them both space to figure out what they’re doing.

Sam goes to sleep thinking that whatever it is, it’s the right thing, and no one will ever convince him otherwise.

Day 22

Most of the time, Sam’s inclination to neatness balances out Dean’s impressive accomplishments in slobbery, but sometimes, they let dishes pile up in the sink a bit beyond acceptable.

Sam’s working on remedying this situation, hands frothy with dish soap, when he hears Dean stride into the kitchen.

“Wanna help out?” Sam asks without turning as he puts a plate on the drying rack.

He doesn’t exactly expect a positive answer, but neither does he expect Dean hooking his fingers into Sam’s belt loops and yanking him around.

His eyes blaze with determination.

Sam doesn’t get to say anything, just makes an embarrassingly high sound of surprise when Dean undoes Sam’s jeans in a few swift movements and drops to his knees in front of him.

Now that’s an interesting turn of events, not that Sam has anything against it.

Dean tugs Sam’s soft dick out of his boxers and gives its tip a quick, tentative lick.

“Mmm,” he says with an approving nod, as if this was a test and Sam passed it.

Sam never feared getting a failing mark like now.

Dean leans forward and sucks Sam in fully, enveloping the slowly growing hardness in the wet heat of his mouth. His tongue moves over Sam in little swirls, pressing here and there, gliding around the head.

As Sam’s dick swells, Dean lets more of it out of his mouth, picking up the slack with his fingers. He slides his other hand further between Sam’s legs, cupping his balls and playing with them.

It’s not where Sam thought this evening was going to go, but he’s positively delighted with this progression of their relationship.

He drops one of his hands on the top of Dean’s head, getting foam into his hair. Dean moans something affirmative around Sam’s dick, and Sam pulls on the short spikes, tugging Dean a little further, testing his limits.

Dean, of course, is never one to back down from a challenge.

He slides forward, taking Sam deeper, right to the back of his throat, and Sam knows Dean doesn’t have a lot of experience with this, if any, but he’s learning so fast, Sam’s left dizzy.

Dean’s almost-heat scent grows stronger and stronger, oil to the already roaring fire in Sam’s belly. It almost drains Sam of all self-control, his hips bucking forward into Dean’s mouth, his grip on Dean’s hair tightening.

“Fuck,” he groans as the fire spreads from his belly up to his throat. “Dean, Dean, this—you’re—”

Dean drags his tongue around Sam, sucking hard, and there, that’s it, that’s all Sam needs.

His legs are still shaking when Dean pulls back, sitting on his heels and looking up.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says cheekily, but his grin dips at the corners, a little unsure.

Sam cradles his face and rubs his wet fingers over Dean’s cheek.

“Dean, that—” He fumbles because he needs this to get through to Dean, squash any and all insecurities Dean might think himself into. “You’re awesome.”

That fixes Dean’s grin right away.

“I got dish soap in my hair, don’t I?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound particularly annoyed.

“Yeah.” Sam ducks his head. “Sorry.”

“Nah.”

Dean stands up, presses a quick kiss to Sam’s lips, and strides out of the kitchen without another word, leaving Sam to his chores.

Sam tucks himself back into his jeans and turns back to the dishes, humming lightly as a jolly smile plays on his lips.

Day 23

There’s a precise moment when the air changes in the entire bunker, Dean’s full-on heat scent filling every nook and cranny.

Sam’s in the middle of loading the washing machine when it happens. His body responds immediately, throwing him into a rut fever that demands to be addressed right here and now.

Laundry can wait. Hell, everything can wait.

Through sheer, monumental feat of will, Sam detours to his room to grab a pack of rut condoms, his hands shaking as he rifles through his drawers.

Thus equipped, he speed-walks toward Dean’s room. His rut-addled brain yells at him to just barge in and take what’s his, but Sam has enough sense left to start with knocking.

“‘s open,” Dean’s voice comes readily from the other side of the door.

Sam walks in and finds Dean sitting cross-legged on his bed in his black t-shirt and boxers, fingers twining and untwining nervously in his lap.

He’s beautiful.

“How—” Sam lingers by the door, careful not to let his crazed alpha brain take over the situation. It’s been a long time for both of them. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I need a dick up my ass,” Dean says evenly, and Sam knows he’s terrified.

They both knew this moment was coming, but knowing and being ready are vastly different things.

“Can I—?” Sam asks, taking a half-step forward to telegraph his intention.

Dean pats the sheets in front of him.

Sam walks up, takes his boots off, and lowers himself onto the bed, mirroring Dean’s pose as he settles in front of him.

They look at each other, breathing in their ripe scents, and Sam thinks he could spend an eternity in this moment and be content.

Silently, Dean tugs off his t-shirt, moving like he’s afraid to spook Sam—or himself—with a too sharp jerk of his hands. Sam follows his example, leaving them both bare-chested opposite each other.

He can see every breath Dean takes, and he wants to drink them in, climb into Dean’s lungs to witness them contract and expand, proving indisputably that Dean’s, for once, alive, whole, uninjured.

Dean drops his eyes to Sam’s waist, and Sam gets the hint. He undoes his jeans and wriggles on the bed to tug them off, together with his socks. His bare legs brush Dean’s, and he swears he can hear electricity crackle between them.

He’s hard already, his dick tenting his boxers. Dean reaches out and puts his hand on it, as if in greeting. Sam bites his lip, trying to keep himself from bucking into the touch.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, quiet, a man on the verge of breaking.

“Yes,” Sam says, clear, definitive. “Are you?”

Dean takes his hand away and looks into Sam’s eyes.

“Yeah.”

Sam dives in to kiss him, and Dean’s hands fly up to Sam’s shoulders, and he drops on his back, tugging Sam with him, and they’re nipping and licking and biting, and it’s all a long, happy blur.

Somewhere between kisses, they get rid of their boxers, hard against each other, bare and trusting. Sam slides his hand between Dean’s legs to find him wet with slick, his walls opening eagerly around Sam’s fingers.

“Sammy,” Dean whimpers, chasing Sam’s hand, his sweet scent mind-bending. “More.”

Dean wants him. It’ll never cease to fill Sam with wonder.

He withdraws and bends off the bed to get the condoms from his jeans pocket and drop them onto the bed. Dean glances at them blearily, like he’s having trouble identifying what they are.

“No,” he says, a little petulant, and swipes the pack off the bed.

“Dean,” Sam says with as gentle a reproach as he can muster. “I don’t think we’re ready for—”

“Implant,” Dean interrupts him, pointing at his right upper arm.

Now that’s new.

“When did you get a birth control implant?”

“When I went off my suppressants.” Dean’s cheeks are burning, and Sam leans down to kiss him.

“Okay,” he says, and it is.

He pushes Dean’s legs up, fingers light over his thighs, and slides inside him, skin to skin, tight and hot and wonderful.

“Oh God,” Dean moans, hands grabbing for Sam. “Move.”

Normally, Sam bristles against taking orders from Dean, but this is different.

This is fucking insanely hot.

He moves, pressing in and dragging out, slow, intent on feeling every inch as their bodies get to know each other.

Dean’s flushed down to his chest, his freckles stark and gorgeous. Sam plants soft, pecking kisses on his cheeks as he speeds up his thrusts, watching closely for Dean’s response.

“Fuck, Sam,” is Dean’s response, and it sounds marvelous. “Don’t stop.”

Sam doesn’t.

He closes his fist around Dean’s dick, stroking him in the same rhythm, and Dean comes with a long, blissful moan. Sam follows quickly, unable to hold back, not with Dean clenching around him just right. His knot inflates, tying them together, not that either of them wants to be anywhere else.

“Jesus,” Dean mutters as Sam lies down and pulls Dean onto his side, so they’re facing each other, Dean’s legs wrapped around Sam. “I’m so fucking full.”

Sam chuckles and kisses Dean lightly on the lips.

“Good full?” he asks, smiling into Dean’s mouth.

“The best.” Dean smiles back.

“Hm.” Sam pretends to think. “I’m sure I can do better.”

Dean leans back to meet Sam’s eyes, the green alight with sparkles.

“Got the entire day to find out,” he says.

And find out they do.

Day 24

Sam has seen his brother in almost all imaginable states, but he’s never seen him so totally fucked-out while knowing he’s the one responsible for that deeply sated look on Dean’s face.

It’s a magnificent feeling.

He watches, propped on his elbow behind Dean, as Dean shifts in his sleep, hands grabbing for the pillow, cuddling it to his chest. His legs tangle in the blanket, and he makes a soft, whiny sound, squirming like he’s trying to get more comfortable but can’t.

Sam waits for his knot to deflate and slips out of Dean, which prompts another whiny sound from him, but he doesn’t wake up, only hugs the pillow tighter.

“Be right back,” Sam whispers into Dean’s neck, placing a kiss next to his scent gland, and slides quietly out of the bed.

He puts his boxers on and wraps Dean’s robe around himself. It’s a damn comfortable robe, even if Sam won’t ever stop teasing Dean about it.

Also, it smells like Dean, which makes it one of the best things in the world.

Sam goes to the laundry room, where he finishes his yesterday’s task of loading the sheets into the washing machine and starts the cycle. His hormones are swimming slowly through his system, no more a pressing need to burst out of him, not after a whole day of fantastic sex with his brother, and he can think a bit clearer.

All he can think about is Dean, of course, but that’s just how he operates, in or out of a rut.

He leaves the washing machine to do its thing and goes around the bunker’s spare rooms, collecting all the blankets he can find.

That results in a big heap of blankets, which Sam carries to Dean’s room, dropping them at the foot of the bed. Dean doesn’t seem to notice, still totally out of it.

Sam goes back to the laundry room and relocates the washed sheets to the dryer. As they tumble, he sits down on the floor, watching them, his mind wandering.

This life with Dean, it’s the answer he’s been looking for, the solution of all the thorny feelings he’s ever felt—and not just about his brother; about everything. Who he is, what he’s doing, why he’s here. What is the upside of him being alive.

Now, with everything, after everything, he can admit it—he’s glad. He’s glad Dean dragged him back, glad Dean never stopped fighting for him, glad Dean made those choices for him, no matter how pissed he was at the time.

It’s Dean who made this possible, Dean and his relentless caring, his bull-headed love.

True, Sam didn’t always like it. But it’s also the only thing that matters, all that ever mattered.

He gets the warm sheets out of the dryer and rubs their corners against the scent glands in his wrists before returning to Dean’s room with them.

Taking care not to jostle Dean too much, he twists the sheets around him in a tight circle, just large enough for the two of them to fit inside. He adds the blankets on the outside, scents one of them thoroughly and drapes it over Dean.

Unable to bear another second without his skin touching Dean’s, he hangs the robe back where it belongs and shucks off his boxers. As he settles between the sheets, Dean starts sniffing loudly, tugging the top blanket closer, and blinks awake. He lifts himself on his elbows, glancing around with sleep-soft eyes.

“You built me a nest,” he says, blinking again.

“Yep,” Sam says, hoping he didn’t mess it up too awfully.

Dean’s face splits in a radiant grin.

“Awesome.” He dives in to kiss Sam thoroughly, fingers rubbing over Sam’s stubble. “Now fuck me in it.”

Sam does, and he’s so, so, so impossibly glad.

Day 25

“That Piranesi guy,” Dean says, rolling onto his back and stretching in their nest with his arms thrown high over his head. “You think he got out?”

Sam drags his fingers over Dean’s ribs, then bends over and traces the same path with his lips. Dean’s sweet, happy smell is intoxicating, and Sam has to make an effort to focus on his question.

“Finish the book and find out,” he says mildly, his hand drifting down Dean’s stomach.

“I have,” Dean says.

That, of course, makes it a completely different question.

Sam stretches on his side along Dean, propping himself on one elbow to watch his brother’s eyes glimmer under the overhead light.

“I think he did.” At least, that’s the straightforward interpretation. “But he’s gonna carry the labyrinth within him,” he continues, because this is what Dean’s really asking about. “It’s a part of him, y’know? It shaped him, even if it was thrust upon him against his will.”

“Hm.” Dean reaches out to catch Sam’s hand and put it over his heart. “Does this mean it’s a happy end?”

Sam feels Dean’s life beat under his palm. It’s miraculous.

“It’s a real end,” he says. “Whether it’s sad or happy depends on him.”

Dean plays with Sam’s fingers, pensive but not brooding.

The room is quiet, save for the calm rhythm of their breathing. It’s still incredible to Sam, that they can stop like this and just breathe together, not hurrying anywhere, not facing this or that disaster.

They got lives now. Real, solid, giddy lives.

Dean tugs Sam’s hand up to rub Sam’s wrist over the scent gland in his neck. He cranes his head to the side, inhaling their mingling scents.

Sam’s dick stirs lazily, a little overwhelmed after two and a half days of non-stop action, not that Sam has anything against carrying on like this.

It feels a little weird, to be this happy, have this completely unfamiliar ball of bright yellow warmth pulsing in his chest. Freedom mingling with love mingling with pleasure, something Sam didn’t even know could exist.

But it does, and it’s theirs, and he’s holding on tight.

Dean moves Sam’s hand to his mouth, licking absently at Sam’s fingertips before letting him go. He doesn’t look at Sam when he speaks.

“Claim me.”

It’s heavy with intent, clear and determined and mind-blowing.

Sam’s skin breaks into goosebumps, his heart fluttering with shock and excitement.

He doesn’t insult Dean by asking if he’d thought this through.

“Is this my Christmas present?” he asks instead, brushing his fingers over the tendon in Dean’s neck.

“Maybe it’s mine,” Dean says and sits up, his back to Sam. “‘m not gonna ask twice.”

He tilts his head, baring his neck for Sam, and Sam can’t wait another moment.

His head spins a little as he lunges up, plastering his chest to Dean’s back. He runs his hand over Dean’s scent gland, feeling like he’s on the precipice of something cosmically important, something that has the power to create universes.

They’re the guys who save the world. It’s not that far-out that they might bring a new one into existence.

Sam leans down and bites into Dean’s neck, shivering as Dean’s scent shifts, merging with Sam’s, toffee and black tea and paper, like a cozy evening at a library.

Something changes in Sam, too, this bone-deep security settling in him.

He licks over the bite, tracing a line up to Dean’s ear.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, hands wrapping around Dean’s chest to pull him close.

“Yeah,” Dean says, turning to kiss Sam, light and love and happiness. “Merry Christmas, little brother.”

It is.

It really, truly is.