Archive of Our Own

Sam wore his regular clothes for this one. Dean sat on a bench outside and watched him try to tell the girl at the front desk that he'd just lost his student ID, honest, and all he needed to do in the library was make copies out of this one book, because if he didn't have the text he needed by noon he'd fail his term paper, man, like totally.

Sam had tried to tell him it wouldn't work, that he couldn't really pass for a student these days, but Dean had rolled his eyes and hurried Sam along anyway. They didn't have time to make a good fake ID for this school, and if Sam said he worked there, he'd probably have to go through some official channel to get a replacement. So eventually, he'd pulled on one of his sweatshirts, one of the ones with the hoods, and found some books to carry around, and even made Dean stop to get him an iced, overpriced coffee, and he'd done it. Dean smiled when the girl finally cracked, letting him in.

Dean looked around at the real students, after Sam went upstairs, and didn't know what he was talking about. These kids didn't look like Dean, sure, but the stupid hair, the ugly shirts, the attitude? That was Sam. This was where Sam fit, on a campus, toting books instead of a gun, and Dean thought maybe Sam needed a reminder of that. Dean was going to bust his ass to make sure Sam came through this thing in one piece, and Sam could use the reminder, is all, in case he was still around for something afterward.

When he came out of the library thirty minutes later, though, wearing a name tag and carrying a new book in the middle of his stack, he stood out of the crowd. Sam carried himself differently than any of these kids did, somehow both more confident and more alert than any of them, except for a few that Dean had already pinned as ex-military. He didn't really relax until he was within arm's reach of Dean, next to him on the bench.

"Here," he said, and showed Dean the spell book he'd gone in after. It wasn't anything fancy, just a self-published collection of short stories Sam had said would be in the local writer's display, and it had a picture of the moon on the cover. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"This is it?" he asked.

"I know," Sam said. "Most of the stuff in it's pretty useless, but the section on Death isn't. Well, no, it's all useless for an individual person, but for capital letter D I think it'll work."

"You think?" Dean repeated. "You sounded a hell of a lot more confident when you were selling me on this the other day."

Sam rolled his eyes and stood. "You got a better plan?"

Dean huffed, joined him. "What else do you need to do before we go?"

Sam frowned and waved the book at him. "Uh, nothing? Let's get out of here."

Dean frowned, too, but he came to walk beside Sam, shoulder to shoulder, anyway.

Sam cracked into the book the next day, first making copies of the pages with the spell and then scanning the entire thing, page by page. They had to go to four different copy shops to do it, working around the restrictions on copyrighted materials, and Dean decided they were buying their own fucking scanner, next time they had some cash. He could see the value in having copies of rare texts, but that didn't mean he wanted to spend half a day driving around to do it.

Sam got on the phone after he sent the images to Bobby and they spent a while talking about it. Sam got louder and faster as the call went on, and by the time they hung up, he was scowling a little. He stared down at the book for a moment before sighing and getting up from the table.

"And?" Dean asked, although he thought he already knew.

"Bobby thinks it's a waste of time."

Dean shrugged. "Well, it's not like we need his permission. You wanna do it anyway?"

Sam shrugged as well. "It really is a long shot," he said. "And it doesn't have the best chance at working, and it'll take a while to perform, so if it doesn't do anything, then we've just wasted a bunch of time..." He trailed off.

Dean opened the book and looked through the spell again. "Okay, but it's not so hard that it'd take all our time. We could multitask."

Sam looked over, eyebrows raised. "You want to?"

"If it does what it says it does, it'll be worth it," Dean said. "I say go."

Sam smiled, bigger than Dean had seen him do in — in a long time.

(Gary walked back into his house, in his own body, and Dean turned to look at Sam. Sam, again. He held himself the right way, he said the right things, and Dean didn't know how he'd thought someone else could ever pass for his brother.

"That was a nice thing to say," he said.

Sam snorted. "I totally lied. That kid's life sucked ass."

Dean raised his eyebrows as they both got into the car.

"All that apple-pie, family crap?" Sam went on. "It's stressful. Trust me, we didn't miss a damn thing."

Dean watched him for a moment longer, uncertain, then shook his head and turned on the car, the music.)

Sam matched him shot for shot that night, after they set up for the ritual the next day, so while Dean was fine, just ready for bed, Sam was trashed. Dean lay down, boots still on, and listened to Sam rummage around the bathroom, bumping into things and dropping shit. He didn't turn out the bathroom light before he opened the door and Dean shut his eyes before Sam got a clue and flipped the switch.

He sank down on the foot of Dean's bed to take off his shoes, and Dean nudged him in the back with his own foot.

"Dude," he said.

"Sorry," Sam said, sounding much more cheerful now than he had been at the bar. "Man, good night though, wasn't it."

Dean shook his head. Nothing had been trying to kill them — or at least, nothing with a chance of succeeding that night — but he wouldn't have called it good, either. Mediocre at best. "C'mon, lightweight, go sleep it off already."

Sam hummed and finally kicked off his second shoe. He got up and walked unsteadily between the beds, but instead of getting into his own, he climbed back onto Dean's.

"Dude," Dean said again, and elbowed him when Sam only got more comfortable instead of getting up. "What the hell, Sam, really."

"Mmm," Sam said. "Sorry." He stayed put. If anything, he turned to face Dean. Dean shook his head.

"Fine. I'll take the other bed," he said, getting up.

Sam flailed around and fisted a hand in his shirt. "Just, the room's sorta wobbly, but, you can stay. M'not gonna hurl or anything."

Dean looked at the other bed for a moment longer, but then lay back down. He'd already gotten this pillow smushed into the shape he wanted, and this side of the bed was warm. "You'd damn well better not," he said, and rolled onto his side, putting his back to Sam and his face to the door.

"Good night, Dean," Sam said, and he said it slowly and distinctly enough that Dean thought he was repeating himself, not just falling asleep.

"Yeah, Sammy," he said, and shut his eyes.

("He doesn't need any of that," said Nick, and even though it was Nick that Dean couldn't take his eyes off of, it was Sam strong and solid in his arms, all wrapped up in Dean like he hadn't been since they were kids. It was Nick he wanted to drive around with, to drink with on a cheap motel patio until the sun rose, to teach how to hunt, but it was Sam's hair in his nose, Sam's breath moving Dean's arms gently up and down as he panted.

"He just needs you to be his brother," Nick said, and Sam was hot and starting to struggle in Dean's arms, and yeah, brother, that sounded awesome. Dean wanted a brother for the rest of his life, for ever.)

They sat, side by side, and watched the last candle of the ritual flutter and gutter and then burn out entirely.

"You said it was a long shot," Dean said.

Sam sighed and flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I also said it was pretty much our only shot."

Dean shrugged and stood up, going to collect the bundle of grass, the roots still attached, that should have started flowering again if the ritual worked. They had definitely not flowered again. He tossed them into the trash can, made sure all the candles had gone out, and then came back to the bed, to sit next to Sam. He fished his flask out of his pocket and took a drink, then another, and then a third, so he felt it, and then offered it to Sam. Sam sighed and waited a moment to take it, but take it he did, swallowing down one big mouthful before offering it back.

"It was worth trying," Dean said.

Sam kicked him in the hip. "This isn't actually making me feel any better."

"Well, I'm fresh outta anything else, man."

"There more in there?" Sam asked, after a while.

Dean jostled the flask and then leaned back. Sam took it and drank another sip, smaller this time, and screwed the lid back on and laid it on his chest instead of offering it back. Dean lay back on his elbows to grab it, and then lay all the way back down next to Sam after he drank again. He closed his eyes for a moment, pleased with the liquor simultaneously warming and numbing him.

When he opened his eyes again, Sam had rolled onto his side and propped himself onto one elbow, staring down at Dean. Before Dean had time to tell him to quit it, to ask what the hell he was doing, Sam leaned in and kissed him. On the mouth.

It was short, and brief, almost over before Dean could parse it, and Sam lay back down afterward, lacing his hands over his breastbone, just where he'd put Dean's flask. Dean turned to face him, eyebrows high, and Sam shrugged without glancing over.

"Just, I've meant to do that for a while," he said, and shrugged again. His hands shifted with the movement. "Sorry."

Dean frowned at him. Sam wasn't blushing, didn't even seem very surprised by himself, and maybe it was the alcohol, but Sam hadn't had that much, even for him, and anyway, Dean didn't think that was it. He turned onto his back again, joining Sam in looking up, at the ceiling. Only at the ceiling.

"What do you mean, you'd meant to do that for a while?" he asked eventually. He'd wanted to let it go, but apparently not. He hadn't even gotten off of the bed.

"Just what I said," Sam said, and then snorted. "You've never just wanted to kiss someone, man? Not the easiest thing in the world to explain."

"You don't want to kiss me," Dean protested. "That's not what you want to do." Sam liked women, Dean knew — tiny brunettes, or blondes almost as tall as he was, but women. Women. Certainly not Dean. He knew this so deeply that it was what he couldn't explain. The kissing thing was only part of it.

"It's exactly what I want to do," Sam said. He licked his lips, which was a tiny noise that Dean heard anyway because he was listening so hard, and then sighed. "I'm sorry, man, I know I'm fucked up —"

Dean cut him off, raising up on his elbow to lean over Sam, put one hand over both of his, and kiss him. Sam gasped and Dean felt his chest move with it, his mouth open, the slight, cool suction of the air entering Sam's body. He kissed him, slipping his tongue through Sam's parted lips, and it was terrifying, so good it could only mean things were worse than he'd realized. Sam would only be doing this if they were up against the wall, without any place to go from here. The last act of a dying man, but Dean was grasping at straws, too. Even if this was all Sam would give him, he'd take it.

He swung his leg over Sam and sat up, straddling his waist and pulling away from Sam's mouth as he opened up his pants. Sam unfolded his hands and slid them up Dean's thighs, towards his belt, but Dean bit his lip, shook his head distractedly. Sam's cock was flushed and filling once he got to it — neither of them were really hard yet, they'd gone too quickly for that — and Dean cupped it in his hand, just closing his fingers lightly around it. Sam moaned at him and tucked his fingers beneath Dean's waistband, touching his skin, as he tugged, not pulling Dean's pants off so much as yanking him down again.

"Will you — Dean, c'mere man, please," he said, and as soon as he got into Dean's pants, he grabbed the back of his neck with one hand, before he even stuck his hand inside, and guided their mouths back together. His cock jerked in Dean's grasp just as their lips touched again, and Dean frowned at him for a moment, cross-eyed and unfocused, before closing his eyes and kissing him back.

After, after he'd wrung an orgasm out of Sam, and Sam had teased and teased before returning the favor, they'd laid on the bed in the same position as before, shoulder to shoulder and staring up at the ceiling. Dean listened to their breathing, more or less in time, for a while before Sam knocked their ankles together.

"I know it's weird to thank someone right now, but seriously, thank you." He sighed, although it sounded happier. "I didn't think that was ever going to actually happen."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, well, no one ever expects to actually be doing their bucket list. I get it."

"What?" Sam turned to face him.

"I've had like seven dying wishes, man." Dean shrugged. "It's cool. Whatever."

"Dean," he said, and put his hand on Dean's chest, over his heart. "This wasn't some, some last wish, man. This is — I've wanted this for a while."

"No, you haven't," Dean said. He hadn't. Not this, not Sam. He hadn't.

"No offense, but you almost never know what I want." Sam grasped Dean's chin and turned him into a kiss. "This isn't cuz I think we're dying or something, man. This is because I want us to live."

Dean stared at him, blinked a few times. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and kissed him again. Dean kept his eyes open this time. "Yes."