Give me one more medicated peaceful moment
I don’t want to feel this overwhelming hostility

Sam stopped at a bar, on his way back to the motel, but he’s not drunk. He had two shots, one right after the other, paid his tab, and left. The bartender flirted with him, her blouse unbuttoned low enough he could see black lace balconette. He smiled back at her, to be polite, but—no. It’s more Dean’s thing than his, anyway, and tonight Sam doesn’t feel like sharing. Not tonight, of all nights.

He blows out his breath in a long white puff, hitches his heavy backpack higher on his shoulder. It’s slow, walking, and the night’s a little cold, but he didn’t want to risk taking the Impala—the engine’s so loud Dean would’ve woken up, for sure, and he didn’t want to go round and round on this. The crossroads was easy to find, once he dug out a map, and even if it was pointless, even if all he got was more questions and a lot more anger, even if the tequila’s sitting hot in his belly and he wants to just fucking gut something—

He swallows, hard, and walks faster. It’s fifteen minutes walking in the grass along the 430 with only a few cars passing by. But then, finally, the motel parking lot, easing open the Impala’s trunk and checking around to make sure no one sees exactly what’s hidden here—but there’s no one, of course. No one sane is up this time of night. He pulls the Colt out of his backpack and stores it back in the case, pushed back behind their shotguns and the flasks of holy water, so it looks like it never moved. Then down the cold sidewalk, slipping the key in and easing the door open as soft as he can, and then the quiet click of the latch behind him, sliding his now-empty backpack to the carpet beside the door, coming around the room divider and—there. Dean.

The curtains aren’t drawn and the full moon spreads waves of silver light over the bed. Dean’s still sound asleep, flat on his back, just as Sam left him two hours ago. Sam lets out a little sigh. He doesn’t relax—there’s no time for that, anymore—but something in his chest eases. It’s gotten so he’s relieved, when he turns a corner and Dean’s still there.

They get king rooms sometimes, now. Not all the time—sometimes they’re maintaining a cover, and sometimes Dean insists on two beds because he complains that Sam lets off too much heat, which is ridiculous since it’s Dean who’s always curling close when it’s cold, but Sam doesn’t put up much of a fuss. They always got two queens, before, no matter if they planned to sleep in the same bed or not, but then there was the night at that bar that Dean brought giggling identical twins over to their table, not long after his deal, gave Sam a shit-eating grin and then got them all a room with a king so they could fuck around half the night. It was good, after the girls left, getting to spread out in the sticky-warm sheets, Dean exhausted and happy at his shoulder. It was good earlier tonight, after they came back from the hospital, after they had a few beers and split a pizza—he spread Dean face down and sprawled on the big golden bedspread, licked him open and then fucked him slow, hard, as long as he could stand it until Dean couldn’t do anything but moan weakly into the pillow, hands lax where they’d been gripping the sheets, sweat-slick and shuddering and beautiful. The best thing Sam’s ever seen, or ever will.

Now, Sam kicks off his sneakers, strips down to his boxers and leaves his clothes in a pile on the thin carpet. He’s careful as he eases under the blanket, trying not to disturb Dean. The crappy mattress sags and the box-spring pops, but he rolls close anyway, right up to Dean’s side so their heads are on the same pillow, lays a hand on Dean’s chest and feels the steady slow thud of his heart, under the cool horns of his amulet. He’s still naked, and Sam didn’t bother with cleaning him up when he fell asleep after they finished earlier, so he still smells like sex, like sweat, familiar and good. He shifts his weight, turns his face into the pillow, but he’s still asleep. Or not—"Sammy?“ he mumbles, so sleep-slurred it’d be unintelligible if Sam hadn’t known the sound of it his entire life.

"Right here,” Sam says back, soft, and Dean rolls into him, the whole warm naked weight of him tilting into Sam’s side. His thigh slides over Sam’s, his head rolling in so he’s using Sam’s chest as a pillow, and Sam wraps his arm over Dean’s back, holds him close. Dean’s mouth is open, moist air puffing against Sam’s chest, and he shifts, stretches a little so all of him’s pressed up against Sam’s side, his chest and stomach and his dick where it’s soft and tucked between them. He makes a little mumbly noise, something Sam can’t interpret even with his lifetime’s practice, and then he drags a sleep-clumsy hand down Sam’s stomach, to cup him through his boxers where he didn’t even realize he was swelling up, just from having Dean so close. Sam sucks in a breath. Dean hums a little questioning noise into Sam’s chest, fumbles so he’s got Sam in a real grip, hand heavy and warm, and it’s tempting. He’s still frustrated, still angry down to this bones at that bitch of a crossroads demon. Killing her wasn’t enough—he still wants satisfaction, wants to bring her back just so he can throttle her, pour holy water and salt down her throat so he can watch her choke on it.

Dean shifts against him again, picks his head up and sets his lips against Sam’s throat, hums—and yeah, god. He’s still sleepy, heavy against Sam’s side, but Sam’s fucked him like this before—Dean lax, welcoming and soft and murmuring encouragement—and it’s good, Sam laying full length between Dean’s spread thighs, rocking into him like a wave so he doesn’t wake up too much and Sam can just watch his face, his mouth, can pour himself into his willing, beautiful, maddening, insane brother—

Sam catches Dean’s hand, shifts and pulls until his arm’s laying heavy over Sam’s chest, like a hug. Dean sighs, some soft syllable muffled against Sam’s throat, but he subsides easily enough. Curls a little closer, seeking Sam’s heat, and soon he’s dead asleep again, slow breath even over Sam’s skin. Sam tucks his hand under the back of his head, looks up at the moonlit ceiling.

He’s still got seven months. The crossroads bitch didn’t know what she was talking about. There’s no relief waiting, no way he’ll be able to bear the future that’s coming—and so he won’t. He’s going to stop it. He knows he will—because there’s no other choice. For now, though: this. He runs his fingers through the soft buzz of hair at the back of Dean’s head, trails down to the leather cord of the amulet and wraps his fingers into it. He doubts he’ll sleep, but it doesn’t matter. This is enough.

(read on AO3)