t h e . t r o u b l e . w i t h . y o u . i s . t h e . t r o u b l e . w i t h . m e

The Trouble with You Is the Trouble with Me
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: Maybe it's wrong, but as long as Sam's okay with it, Dean doesn't give a flying fuck.

Spoilers: Through AHBL2

Notes: Thanks to luzdeestrellas for handholding and betaing. Schmoop for esorlehcar on her birthday. Title from the Grateful Dead.

Word count: 2,495 words

Date: July 23, 2007

It catches up with them somewhere east of Omaha, after six weeks of hunting nearly non-stop, a rush from one place to another to exorcise the demons from other people's families, never discussing the ones still lingering between them, in the pink scar tissue on Sam's back and the shadows under his eyes.

They pull into the nearest no-tell motel and Dean doesn't bother correcting the clerk's assumptions about them; he doesn't like the hungry look in the guy's eyes when he sees Sam, so he hooks his fingers into Sam's waistband, biting back a laugh at the way Sam's belly jumps at the touch. Dean takes one king instead of two queens, stares the guy down until he looks away.

After they dump their duffels in the room and spend a few minutes washing off the dust and sweat from the road, Dean drags Sam out to the nearest bar that looks dark enough and empty enough to be safe. When the bartender pours out the two shots of tequila Dean ordered with their beers, Dean lays a fifty on the bar (he's feeling generous) and says, "Leave the bottle." Sam shoots him a concerned look, familiar crease between his brows, and Dean grins back. "We're taking tomorrow off," he says, raising his shot glass in a toast, "so drink up, sparky."

Sam frowns for a second before his mouth curves the other way, into laughter, and he knocks back the shot with a rueful smile, choking and sputtering before chasing it down with beer. Dean savors the acrid burn of his own shot, rolls the liquor around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing it down, licking his lips to catch the last stray drops, and letting the taste linger on his tongue, as real and sharp as anything he knows. He catches Sam staring at him--it makes his lips feel swollen and his skin prickly hot, like he's had too much sun or something--and he takes a long swallow of beer to break the tension.

That's just the first shot and first beer of many. By the end of the night, he's stumbling, and Sam is practically passed out, his whole body loose and boneless as Dean herds him back to the room, the deadweight of him nearly making Dean choke with fear, with memory, and only the harsh stutter of Sam's breath, hot and sour on Dean's cheek, keeps Dean from freaking the fuck out.

He gets them both into the room and dumps Sam on the bed, where he sprawls out like an invitation, and Dean is not having that thought, no, sir, not at all, as he pulls Sam's boots off and wrestles his belt out of its loops so Sam doesn't wake up in two hours moaning that his belt buckle is trying to gouge out his appendix.

Sam's always been a whiny, maudlin drunk.

Exhausted and dizzy, Dean strips down and gets ready for bed. He takes a handful of Advil and drinks two glasses of cloudy, metallic tap water before he brushes his teeth. He refills the glass a third time and sets it on the night table on Sam's side of the bed, along with the bottle of pills, and then climbs over him into the bed, the stiff denim of Sam's jeans rough and gritty against his bare legs.

Sam is warm and huge--too big to be cradled now the way Dean used to when they were kids, but when Dean turns onto his side, Sam curls into him, head beneath Dean's chin like he's still six, and Dean is still the only thing between him and the darkness. Dean falls into a deep and easy sleep, the beat of Sam's heart beneath the palm of his hand.

He wakes with a start at some point, blanketed by Sam, huge, warm body pressing him down into the mattress, huge soft hands cupping his face. He blinks up at Sam sleepily, and though he knows he should--he has time and he knows Sam well enough that he knows exactly what's coming--he doesn't move out of the way when Sam leans in and kisses him. Sam's mouth is hot and wet and it tastes of stale beer, tequila, and sleep. Dean breathes him in like oxygen, shivering when Sam's tongue slides over his, whimpering softly, the denim of his jeans rough against Dean's bare skin. He's vaguely glad he managed to get Sam's belt off, because the last thing either of them needs right now is sharp metal corners cutting into their bellies.

The feel of Sam's stubble is weird and good against his skin--he feels alert, alive, nerves jangling with the rush of adrenaline and desire. He's not used to being smaller than the person he's kissing, not used to being pressed down and covered so thoroughly in bed. It's a little claustrophobic, really, but it's okay because it's Sam, and he can feel the rapid rhythm of Sam's heart against his chest.

"Dean," Sam says, mouth open against his skin, teeth sharp against his jaw, and again, "Dean."

"Yeah," Dean answers, the way he always has. Always will.

Sam stares down at him again for a long moment, eyes bright in his shadowed face, and then he collapses on top of Dean with a soft groan, one hand groping for the glass of water. He spills some of it on Dean, on the bed, manages to elbow Dean in the chest while fumbling with the bottle of Advil, until Dean takes it from him and taps three pills out into his palm.

He drinks and swallows, and then he says, "Dean?"

"Go back to sleep, Sammy."

And Sam does.

In the morning, Dean has all his excuses ready--they were drunk; Sam was half-asleep; they're Winchesters, they don't talk about shit like this--but Sam doesn't say anything. He stumbles out of bed and spends some quality time worshipping at the porcelain altar.

"Gotta drink more water," Dean says when Sam stumbles back out. Sam's always had the worst hangovers Dean's ever seen, and they pass the Advil back and forth like candy all day long, while they lie shoulder to shoulder in the king-size bed and watch "I Love the 80s" on VH-1. Sam's fingers brush against Dean's more than once, and Dean's pulse leaps at the unexpected touch, but nothing else happens.

Not that he wanted it to.

Unfortunately, Dean's never been too good at lying to himself. Luckily, he's always been good at not wanting what he can't have, and this is just more of the same.

A month later, in the middle of an exorcism that's not going as well as planned, the possessed chick tosses Dean into a glass coffee table that shatters beneath him like, well, like a really shitty glass coffee table, and he's lying there with his back all cut to ribbons and the breath knocked out of him, wondering if somebody got the number of that truck. Sam goes medieval on this chick's ass, Latin rolling off his tongue like thunder, his voice rough and vibrant with fear that rings through Dean like an alarm, until the demon is gone in a cloud of inky black smoke. The chick collapses in a heap, and Sam steps right over her to get to Dean, mouth moving a mile a minute as he runs his hands over Dean's arms and legs, making sure nothing is broken.

Dean manages to say, "Dude, chill," with the small amount of oxygen he's able to force into his lungs before Sam shuts him up with another kiss, not soft and tentative like the one that time he was drunk, but hard enough that their teeth clack together and Dean can taste blood on his tongue.

"Almost fucking lost you," Sam mutters, still touching him, but this time it's not any kind of first aid. Sam's touch is fierce and possessive, and if there weren't shards of glass digging into Dean's skin, and a recently possessed girl lying on the floor five feet away, Dean thinks they might have gone for it right then and there.

But when Sam draws back, there's blood in his mouth and on his hands, and he pulls away like he's the one whose skin is full of glass slivers.

Dean tries to think of a joke to break the tension, but he's still kind of in shock, and now he can feel the hundreds of little cuts on his back, feel the blood oozing warm and wet as it sticks his t-shirt to his skin.

He takes the hand Sam offers, and lets himself be pulled up. "It's okay," he says, because it's all he can think to say, and because he knows Sam needs to hear it. "I'm okay."

"Liar," Sam answers, but he looks less like he's about to lose his shit than he did five seconds ago, so Dean just says it again.

"I'm okay. Let's get the hell out of here."

They call 911 from the car, and then spend the night at the Super 8 in Alhambra, Sam picking glass out of Dean's back with tweezers, and Dean clutching a bottle of Jack and swearing they're never working in California again.

When Sam's done bandaging him up, Dean curls up on his side to sleep, head humming with pain and alcohol, and Sam curls up behind him, not touching, because he knows how much that'd hurt, but close enough that Dean can feel the heat of his body, the beat of his heart, and the soft moist exhale of his breath on the back of his neck.

Dean falls asleep wondering what it'd be like to kiss him without the taste of alcohol or blood in their mouths. He wishes he weren't.

After that, they get a king more often than two queens or two doubles; it doesn't seem weird anymore to share a bed, and Sam, after all the time he spent trying to get away, trying to prove he was a grown up and his own man, seems like he's spending a lot of time now trying to burrow back into his childhood, the safe space they used to make for themselves under the covers when Dad was away.

Dean doesn't mind, though he thinks he probably should; he likes it best when Sam's right there and he can feel his heartbeat, taste the air he's breathing, and Sam can't seem to stop touching him, anyway, even when they're out in public, always has a hand on his shoulder or the back of his neck, fingers curled in the hem of Dean's t-shirt or sliding along the curve of his wrist. Like he needs to know Dean's right there as much as Dean needs to know it about him.

Dean wakes up one morning, raises himself up on one elbow to watch Sam sleep, the steady rhythm of his breathing still the best music Dean's ever heard. He can tell when Sam wakes, hear the change in his breathing, though he keeps his eyes closed for a few minutes. He must be peeking up from under his lashes the way he used to when he was a kid, better at it now than he was then, because Dean doesn't catch him until his hand is wrapped around the nape of Dean's neck, fingers stroking through the short hair there, making Dean shiver.

He doesn't have to yank or even pull hard, he's gravity and Dean's subject to his law, leans in like it's the most natural thing in the world--and maybe it is; what the fuck does Dean know from natural these days?--and kisses him, no blood, no alcohol, nothing but the sleep-stale heat of Sam's mouth opening soft and wet beneath his.

Dean slips a hand into Sam's hair, brushes his thumb across the wide arch of his cheekbone, knows his face by touch alone, and learns it again from this angle, heat and need spiraling tight and low in his belly. He thinks he could lie here and do this all day, really--do it for the rest of the time he's got left, and screw fighting evil--warm and easy, just him and Sam safe from the world outside. Maybe it's wrong, but right now, as long as Sam's okay with it, Dean doesn't give a flying fuck.

His arm is starting to fall asleep so he shifts, breaks the kiss, and Sam looks up at him with wide eyes and says, "I can't--I can't do this."

Cold fear clutches at Dean's belly and he rolls off the bed in one smooth movement, ready to put himself between Sam and whatever is making Sam look like that, but he can't because he's the thing doing it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He holds up his hands, tries to think of something to say, some way to apologize. He wonders if Hallmark makes a card for this occasion--hey, little brother, sorry I tried to molest you.

Sam is off the bed in a flash, and Dean braces for a punch that doesn't come. He can still hear the hitch in Sam's breath, see his mouth is slick with saliva, and Sam grabs him, hands tight around his biceps, a bruising grip that Dean knows he deserves.

"Sam--"

Sam yanks him close, a black hole this time, and Dean's just passed the Schwarzschild radius. "Shut up, Dean," he growls, and he kisses Dean this time, nothing soft or lazy in it, all teeth and tongue, and this time, Dean knows how to angle his head, avoid any awkwardness. He kisses back, hands fisting in Sam's thin, green t-shirt

"What--" he begins when Sam lets him up for air.

Sam shakes him like a dog with a chew toy. "I said, shut up."

Dean shakes his head and laughs, though it isn't really funny. "Sam--"

"You act like nothing's wrong, and we've already lost four months, and you won't help me find any answers. I can't fucking do this by myself, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean says gently, reaching up to cup Sam's face. "You can."

"Well, I don't want to, okay? I want--I want--" He lets go of Dean's arm long enough to wave a hand between them. "I want this, but not if you're not even gonna bother trying to stick around, if you're gonna run out on me in another six months--"

"Hey," Dean answers, stung, "I--"

"You did it for me. I know that, you stupid bastard. Do you think I don't know that? I can't even--Fuck."

Dean blinks, surprised, because he can probably count on one hand the times he's seen Sam speechless. He doesn't have time to think about that, though, because Sam leans in for another kiss, uses his tongue to say everything words can't. Dean thinks he understands, and answers back the same way.

end

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