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“I’m a thief and I’m here to steal your heart.”
“No.”
“…That magic watch one, with the no-underwear?”
“Dean.”
“I guess I could try the ‘Did it hurt falling out of Heaven?’ line, but with my luck, I’d actually stumble across some bitchy angel. And probably hit a nerve too.”
“Please leave me alone,” Sam moans.
He does his best to bury his face in the oversized research book on demon hierarchy he’s got in front of him. Or, at least, the book he’s been attempting to research from—looking for some slight mention of Dagon in the Men of Letters’ library after their disaster of a last encounter. Mostly, he’s just trying to do everything in his power to ignore what’s been coming out of his brother’s mouth the last few minutes. (And going into his brother’s mouth too, if he’s being honest.)
It’s late enough in the day that it’s ostensibly lunchtime, but they’d had a rough go of it last night and this is technically Dean’s first meal. He’s compromising by taking alternating sips of both coffee and beer and supplementing his clashing beverages with a half-eaten carton of leftover Chinese. Sam makes a face at the odd combination, even as he’s grudgingly impressed by his brother’s cast-iron stomach. Why do they always seem to have leftover Chinese in their fridge? It’s not like they even order it that often.
“Here, I’ve got one,” Dean mumbles through a mouthful of Kung Pao chicken. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then washes it down with a swig of beer.
“Dean, please,” Sam begs again, trying to keep his focus on the pages in front of him.
“Shh, you’ll love this.” His brother waves him off dismissively, and then intentionally pitches his voice a little lower. “Hey, there,” he says with a cheesy grin and a waggle of his eyebrows, “I’m new in town. Could you give me directions to your place?”
Sam doesn’t react for a solid few seconds, his expression as stoic as he can set it. “Really?” he asks dryly.
Dean has the actual gall to look affronted. “C’mon, man, it’s a classic.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Sam points out. “You think this potential woman wouldn’t already have heard that line a million times? That night?”
By the lemon-pursed look on his face, Dean seems to take his point. “Alright, fine,” he says. “You want me to be more creative? I can be more creative.” He physically shakes his shoulders out, loosening up like a boxer, before lifting his head and clicking back into character. “Hey, baby,” he purrs, fixing Sam with a bedroom stare worthy of Casanova. “I might not be much of a mathematician, but if you give me your number I’ll see what I can do with it.”
Sam lets out an actual groan this time before he can reel it back. “That’s terrible.”
“Really?” Dean leans back in his seat and pins him with an insufferable look. “I thought you’d be into the math one. Don’t equations get you all hot and bothered?”
He doesn’t give his asshole brother the dignity of a response, simply raising one unimpressed eyebrow as he pointedly turns a page.
“I bet if Eileen told you that one you’d be interested,” Dean teases under his breath, just the slightest bit too acerbic to only be a joke.
Sam tightens his jaw to stop from grinding his teeth and tries to remind himself that the jealousy should probably be flattering. “Dude, I told you to let it go,” he says. “I am not sleeping with Eileen. I am not planning on sleeping with Eileen. We’re friends.” Plus, she hasn’t even so much as texted him since she ran back to Ireland. Understandable, really, given everything that happened with the Brits. But it still stings. Knowing she’s hurting.
Dean sniffs, overly casual, like he wasn’t worried in the first place. “Just remember to let her down easy, Sammy,” he says too breezily. “Think she’s got a bit of a puppy crush. It’s cute.”
It doesn’t sound like he really means that last part, but Sam’s willing to take his victories where he can get them. Not that that lets his brother off the hook for the rest of this. “Dean, if you don’t stop, I swear I’m gonna finish this up in one of the archive rooms,” he threatens, gesturing to the stack of hardcovers taking up most of the table space. “Probably get twice as much done without you roping me into your skeevy sex plans.”
Thankfully, Dean seems to get the message for once. “Wait, c’mon,” he presses, “just a couple more.” He keeps up with the pleading, How could you possibly stay mad at this? face until Sam caves with a grudging sigh and the I’m so innocent look quickly morphs into more of a shit-eating grin. “This one’s gonna be kinda appropriate, considering.” Dean actually stands up from his chair this time, vaguely waving his hands around to indicate the room. “Do you have a library card?” he asks, an obvious prompt.
Sam just waits patiently.
“Dude, c’mon, you have to respond.”
“Dean.”
“Do it.”
Sam sighs again. Dramatically. And he puts every bit of aggrieved reluctance into it that he can. “Yes,” he says dully. “Why?”
Dean spreads his hands with a smug look. “Because I want to check you out.” Ba-dum-tss.
He even pauses for effect.
“Ugh,” Sam mutters, letting his head fall into his free hand.
Although, miracle of all miracles, his brother actually does look somewhat disheartened at this latest failure. “Okay,” he says, stretching the word out a bit in mild frustration, “what about this one?” He picks up his coffee mug with an unnecessary flourish, then pantomimes burning himself a little bit on the ceramic. “Ooh,” he hisses playfully, tossing in a patented smolder for effect, “this coffee is hot. Kinda like…” Dean doesn’t even finish his sentence, just clicks his tongue with an over-the-top wink and points an obnoxious finger gun at him.
There’s a long, long moment of disbelieving silence in which Sam swears he can hear the bunker gathering dust. “…Oh, dear god,” is the only thing he can eventually think to say in response—so aghast that all the more eloquent words have dropped right out of his head.
“What? You don’t like that one either? Should I actually say ‘you’ at the end?”
It’s almost painfully comical that anyone could miss a point so entirely. “Dean, seriously,” Sam says flatly, “don’t ever use that on a woman. In fact, don’t ever use that on anyone. Ever.”
“You know what,” Dean cuts back, a little testily, “I’m starting to think that maybe you’re the problem here.”
“Really?” Sam asks—less deadpan than he was aiming for, but it still sticks the landing. “You think I’m the issue with all this? You can’t think of any other reason this might be a dumb idea?”
Dean sniffs and crosses his arms over his chest, the small cup still carefully cradled in his fingers. “Yeah, man. I don’t have any problem with the ladies. My techniques have worked fine for years. Hell, they work great.”
Sam barely bites back the retort that if Dean doesn’t need any help then there’s absolutely no reason to force him into participating in this obnoxious conversation.
“Don’t give me that long-suffering wife look,” his brother snipes. “They work on everyone. They work on you.”
“No, they absolutely do not,” Sam chokes back on an incredulous scoff. He shifts away from his brother to turn the next page, nearly earning himself a paper cut when he makes the flick of his wrist too sharp.
Dean pins him steady with a flat stare. “Uh, I’ve got about a decade’s worth of memories—and pulled muscles—that beg to differ.”
So much for him maintaining his façade of isolationism. It’s almost predictable, how easy he gets sucked back into these kinds of inane arguments when it comes to his brother. “I’m not saying we’ve never—” Sam waggles a hand between them to illustrate his point without actually saying the words. “I’m just saying that we wouldn’t have if you had insisted on using any of these embarrassingly stupid lines on me.”
And he instantly regrets everything that just came out of his mouth…because a dangerous sort of look starts dawning in Dean’s eyes. “You saying I couldn’t seduce you?” he asks slowly.
“Dean, c’mon,” Sam says, making a face. “Don’t say ‘seduce’. It’s creepy.”
But his brother is relentless now, goal in his sights and no intention of stopping. “You saying if we were strangers, I couldn’t get you from the bar into bed, in one night?”
Sam finally gives up on trying to protect his brother’s feelings, however half-heartedly. “Yes, Dean,” he sighs. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He turns back to his research and idly lets himself daydream about doodling little Sharpie mustaches on all the girls in Dean’s skin mags for a moment, a brief, petty way to get back at him for all this nonsense, but the prank war it would inevitably escalate wouldn’t be worth the fleeting satisfaction.
It’s not like the concept of his brother stepping out every so often even bothers him that much. Hell, Dean sometimes comes back to the bunker absolutely coated in glitter and reeking like candy-sweet body spray. Sam merely thinks it’s ridiculous that Dean actually makes the three-hour drive to Wichita just for a strip club. It doesn’t bother him.
Really.
It’s just…Dean maybe could be a little more considerate by not rubbing his intentions quite so obviously in Sam’s face. It’s one thing to know that his brother occasionally grabs some strange—they both do, technically, even if Sam’s excursions are exponentially more infrequent—but it’s another thing entirely to be made an accessory to the fact. Sam doesn’t need to—or particularly want to—be a part of his brother’s seduction process. Or, at least, not when said process doesn’t include him at the finish line.
“Y’know,” Sam adds, unable to stop himself now that he’s finally got the high ground, “you’re lucky I actually knew you before we started anything, because otherwise you would’ve been S.O.L..”
“Oh,” Dean breathes out darkly. “Challenge fucking accepted.”
“Wait, what?” He breaks his gaze away from a passage about something called a ‘shedim’ and then closes the cover to warily fix all of his attention on Dean, using his finger as an impromptu bookmark. “No, I was just saying—That wasn’t a challenge. There is no challenge.”
“Tonight,” his brother declares, tapping an adamant hand against the table. “Wait—no. Tomorrow. I have to prepare.”
“Prepare?” Sam asks, way too concerned. “Prepare for what?”
But Dean is already sweeping up the remnants of his brunch and heading back to the kitchen. Probably trying to skip out on any more research before Sam can notice. “Tomorrow night, Sammy,” he tosses over one shoulder. More ominous than he intends it to sound, he’s sure. “Tomorrow night.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Sam steps into the agreed-upon bar with no small amount of suspicion—or anxiety, if he’s being honest. The only thing he has to go on tonight is a vague idea of something about his brother attempting to seduce him like they don’t know each other, and the place’s decor is pinging all of his warning instincts. The bar is clean, relatively quiet despite the crowd, and the lighting is dark enough to lend customers an ambiance of privacy—with enough neon signs coloring the corners to still feel like Kansas. Hell, throw in almost any kind of music instead of Dean’s preferred ancient rock and this might be Sam’s ideal spot. He only makes it a few steps before almost tripping over a large, raised platform along one side of the room. There are a few amps and microphones tucked away against the far wall, for what must be live band nights, and Sam almost groans aloud at the irony. Or at his brother’s attention to detail.
He pulls in and releases a short breath, bricking up his determination as he heads for one of the few empty seats at the bar. It doesn’t matter. All he has to do is hold out for the night and he’ll have gloating rights for a month or so. Plus, it’ll probably stop Dean from testing out his terrible pick-up lines on him anymore. Maybe it’ll even stop him from using them altogether.
Sam lets an ambivalent smirk twitch over his lips as he settles onto one of the well-maintained leather stools at the counter. It might not be worth dealing with Dean’s bruised ego though, in the long run. Sometimes giving in is tantamount to winning if it means his brother will let the whole thing go, instead of stubbornly dragging it along the way he does whenever Sam pushes back a little. Sam glances around the carefully chosen setting one more time, the proof that his brother has the ability to cede to his preferences if he ever actually chose to, and nurses the small flicker of resentment in his gut at the thought. Sometimes winning is winning with Dean too—forcing his older brother to capitulate to Sam’s terms—and there’s no substitute for that kind of rare satisfaction.
The bartender finally moseys on over his way; an older woman, lines carved heavily into her face by life, and with an air about her that speaks of a strong disinterest in anyone else’s personal business. Sam can’t help but be pleased at that too. He orders a glass of the well whiskey and hunkers in for the wait. It’s almost nine now, and as long as Dean doesn’t leave him stranded here for too long, Sam’s willing to see where this night is headed.
He’d already followed Dean’s needlessly cryptic instructions, after all. Driving to this specific bar, far enough away from Lebanon that no one would be able to recognize them. It’s probably unnecessary, considering they aren’t the most sociable neighbors to begin with, but better safe than sorry, he supposes. Dean had also told him to look nice. Sam hadn’t been exactly sure what that meant so he’d chosen his standard button-up and jeans. The shirt’s a solid black at least, and the jeans are dark wash. Sam tugs at his collar a little self-consciously and wonders if he should lose the overshirt, or if maybe this isn’t that kind of place.
He’s firmly settled on not second-guessing himself on the outfit thing, and is almost down to the dregs of his first glass, when Dean finally makes his move.
“Buy you a drink?” comes the familiar, low tones of his brother’s voice from over his shoulder. Like he’d been camouflaged amongst the rest of the patrons all this time. Waiting. Watching him. Like a fucking creeper. Though Dean probably thinks it makes him seem sexy. Same as that stupid collection of old costume pieces he won’t throw away.
Sam makes Dean wait a stretch himself, using the limited leverage he’s got for a little just desserts, before eventually turning around.
He’d dressed up more than Sam had. Dean’s wearing his fed suit, dark blue, with a slightly unbuttoned collar and one of their sharper ties. Clean-cut and just a little undone. He looks good—but then again, Dean always looks good. If he were a stranger, Sam has to admit, he’d probably still be tempted.
“Um, yeah,” he says belatedly, still not totally sure what his brother has planned for tonight. “Okay.”
Dean doesn’t draw attention to his moment of hesitation. He simply steps around the group of giggling twenty-somethings on their right to lean in closer, rests a hip against the edge of the bar, and cocks his head at Sam. Flirtatious and self-assured. “Seems a shame for someone as handsome as you to be drinking alone,” he says quietly.
Sam stares, nearly agape. Tries to keep his eyes from boggling out of his head and does his best not to look like a deer about to be run down by a semi. This is…different. Dean doesn’t ever call him ‘handsome’. Dean calls him ‘pretty’. Dean calls him ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘princess’ just to be obnoxious.
“Um,” he says again, dumbly. “Thank you?”
His brother flicks out two fingers, gesturing between the bartender and the both of them. “Glenlivet. Neat.”
Sam refuses to be impressed. Even if it’s better than they usually go for. It’s leagues better than they usually go for. Maybe not top shelf, but he isn’t sure how much Abe Froman’s card can take before they have to toss it. They’ve been riding it pretty hard the past couple weeks. He schools his face, regardless, and tips his new glass appreciatively before bringing it up to his nose. He’s not exactly sure where he picked up the habit—Dean usually tosses his drinks back almost as fast as they’re poured, and so had their dad—but Sam likes the idea of savoring his. Even when it’s their usual rotgut.
Dean slides onto the seat next to him, casually graceful as always, and tilts his own glass to his lips immediately. Sam nurses a private little smile at the action. “I’m Dean,” he says after the necessary first few sips, then extends his right hand out, patiently waiting for Sam’s response.
Sam bats around the idea of coming up with some extravagantly ridiculous fake name just to see if his brother can keep a straight face, but throws out the notion almost instantly. Dean would probably play along, enthusiastically, just to be a dick, and Sam would be the one to regret it. “Sam,” he says, clasping Dean’s palm with his own.
“Sam,” Dean repeats with a warm glance, clinging to his fingers. Not ‘Sammy’. Sam.
It does something to him, and Sam internally curses how easy he’s making this for his brother. He slips his hand out of Dean’s and curls it up in his own lap, doubling down on his resolve.
“So,” Dean says, not discouraged in the least. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” It’s the oldest line in the fucking book and Sam doesn’t have any problem turning on the ice.
“Winning a bet,” he answers easily.
Dean huffs out a laugh through his nose, genuinely amused. “That so?”
“Mm-hmm,” Sam hums through another sip of whiskey.
His brother keeps his eyes on him for another few heartbeats. “Well, Sam,” Dean smiles, indulging him. “What is it you do for a living? When you’re not gambling, that is.”
Sam takes a moment to ponder how he would answer if this were real, creeping his hand back up to rest on the counter. It’s sticky, but not terribly so. Like someone wiped a quick rag over some spilled drink a hour ago, not like it’s been completely neglected for ten grimy years. Not like the kind of dives they use for hustling. “Well, I like to consider myself sort of a researcher,” he says, picking his answer carefully—and a little more honestly than he’d usually get with a stranger. Then he lets an actual smile slip free. “Although, I dunno, I guess ‘exterminator’ is probably more accurate.”
Dean doesn’t laugh at the anemic joke. “Well, I bet you’re damn good at it. Whatever it is you do.” There isn’t a hint of irony or sarcasm in his words, his voice as steady and sincere as the gaze that doesn’t seem to stray from Sam’s eyes.
And Sam gets caught in that same gaze for a moment. “I’m pretty good,” he says softly, thrown off-balance by Dean’s unexpected flattery. The honesty in it. “And, um, what about you?”
“I’m a doctor,” Dean says without a single shift in his expression.
Sam isn’t sure if the heated swell that sweeps through him is solely due to indignant disbelief, but his brother doesn’t notice. Or, at least, he doesn’t give any indication if he does.
“Mostly patch jobs,” he continues smoothly. “Broken bones, stitches, that kinda thing.”
Sam turns back to his glass, swallowing hard around a too-large sip of liquor and letting the slight burn in his throat curtail what must be color rising in his cheeks. Even though he’s positive it’s mostly irritation that Dean would use one of his…inclinations against him like this. Sam’s minor—and private—appreciation for figures in the medical field had been mentioned only once in the utmost confidence. Though he probably should have figured his brother would use it against him like this.
“Is that right?” he asks, whiskey-rough, but his voice sounds more affected than the ‘disinterestedly polite’ he’s going for.
Sam can feel Dean’s smile at the side of his head. “Yup,” he says. “Actually, it’s a bit of a family business.”
“Oh, yeah?” he prods. “Your brother a doctor too?”
“Don’t have a brother,” Dean answers too evenly.
Sam balks a little bit at the blunt response, but Dean’s expression doesn’t waver from calm amusement, and it soothes his initial worry. It’s okay. They’re just playing.
“Must get lonely then,” Sam says eventually, settling back into the game.
“It does get that.” Dean shifts closer, wraps his hand along the back of Sam’s stool.
He’s being subtle. It’s smarter to be, a red state like this. Just forward enough to make an impression, but no one around’s gonna notice how Dean’s shoulders are tilted just a little too close or the discreet way his fingers are brushing against Sam’s shirt.
He should probably shift away or shove him off, call Dean out for being too forward for someone he’s supposedly just met, but it feels good. It always does, his brother touching him like that, with warmth and intent. It happens less often than Sam would like—though he knows that’s just because he’s always been greedy for it. Dean’s attention. Dean’s time. Dean’s want.
It doesn’t matter anyway. He can still win their little wager while enjoying the benefits along the way. In fact, he probably deserves them, given all the ridiculousness he’d had to sit through yesterday. Dean foisting all the annoying wingman duties off on him now that Charlie isn’t around anymore—
Sam tightens his hand around his glass. Blinks the itching from his eyes. Swallows back some of his perpetual lingering guilt. That was a stupid, selfish thing to think. He shouldn’t have done that.
Dean’s fingers cease their slow exploration around the side of Sam’s waist, flirtation settling into a more familiar protectiveness. “You alright?” he asks warily. He looks himself for a moment, like he’s ready to call this whole thing off if Sam needs to. For whatever reason. Even though he’d lose the bet.
Sam twitches his lips in a response that isn’t quite a ‘yes’, but more of a ‘please continue anyway’. He’s being ridiculous. Wallowing in blame and self-indulgence. If either of them let remorse keep them from moving forward—no matter how deserved it is—they’d never get out of bed in the morning.
His brother grants him a shallow nod, but keeps his eyes on him for a moment longer. Just to make sure.
“Y’know, your lips look lonely too,” Dean tosses out. Intentionally casual. “Think they’d wanna meet mine?”
The terrible line catches Sam off-guard enough for an amused breath to escape. And that’s all Dean needs to slip back into their game, nudge in a little closer. The front of his left shoulder grazing the back of Sam’s right just enough to feel it. Brush of cheap wool against cheaper cotton. The heat of Dean’s breath on the skin of his neck.
Sam chases away a flicker of want with another sip of his drink and keeps his eyes facing forward. “You sure you aren’t a virgin?” he asks, tight, like he’d intended. It even sounds dismissive as long as he ignores the way his skin is prickling under the intensity of his brother’s attention. “With lines like that, I’m surprised you haven’t been laughed out of town yet.”
“Maybe my technique makes up for my game,” he tosses back effortlessly.
Sam’s grip tenses at the successful volley. Dean’s better at this than he anticipated. He’d underestimated him. Only fifteen minutes in and, somehow, they’re already talking about sex.
He expects Dean to latch onto the racy turn the conversation’s taken to push things along, try to speed things up and nudge Sam in the direction of a motel room—his bar-to-car world record is twelve minutes, something which his brother used to brag about incessantly in his twenties—but he doesn’t. He just leans back in his chair and smiles. Like he’s content to chat flirtatiously without going any further.
“So, Mr. Researcher-but-really-an-Exterminator,” Dean continues, easy as anything, “you seem like the reading type. What kind of books are you into?”
Sam pauses again, whiskey lifted halfway to his mouth, as he tries to figure out Dean’s angle here. It’s…polite, he guesses, for him to broach the topic of Sam’s hobbies. A surprisingly appropriate ‘first date’ line of questioning.
For his brother, books are mostly associated with work. Heavy reading is one of the necessary components of researching a hunt or preventing some biblical dick from bringing about the end of the world, and as such, Dean generally prefers to spend his leisure time on more passively entertaining pursuits. Old movies and older vinyls and Netflix binges, usually. Not that Sam hasn’t caught him thumbing through a crease-worn paperback once in a blue moon, but the rare sight’s become even rarer as the years go by.
It’s flattering, actually, he supposes. That might be the better word for it. It warms his heart a little that Dean is actively willing to talk about literature with him. Usually Sam’s on his own for something like that, unless he’s in the occasional mood to seek out the respective internet discussion.
But then his chest goes tight with the sudden worry that maybe Dean thinks he has to talk to him about literature. That that’s the way to seduce him. That he thinks Sam needs some intellectual, genius-type to be happy. It isn’t true though.
…Well—it isn’t not true.
Because Sam never forgets how intelligent his older brother is—despite the occasional teasing. Of course not. It’s just that Dean doesn’t let it rise to the surface too often. He simply knows what he knows, and doesn’t know what he doesn’t, and never lingers long on either. It’s appealing, really, that kind of casual self-assuredness, and it’s one of the many, many qualities that heats Sam’s blood when it comes to Dean, but he’s not sure if this is one of those things where he’s supposed to talk about what he’s read recently and Dean will just listen, or if his brother’s intending on playing along, and Sam’s tongue finds itself stuck behind his teeth while his brain works it out.
Dean seems to catch his hesitation though, and he doesn’t seem insulted by it. “Slaughterhouse Five?” he prompts harmlessly. “Breakfast of Champions?”
Oh. This—this he can do. Sam relaxes into the predictability of his brother’s choice with a restrained smile. It makes sense Dean would pick a topic he knows more about than Sam. Trying to impress him, maybe, or just show off, but Sam is happy to linger here with Dean. For as long as he’ll let him.
It’s the one author about whom Dean can run circles around Sam. Hell, he’s read almost every single book in the man’s oeuvre. Sam’s parsed through a couple too, even if he doesn’t usually go in for science fiction, and it’s for the same reason. Kurt Vonnegut had been a favorite writer of their mom’s. One of the few, precious tidbits about Mary their dad had been comfortable letting slip over the years. The ones that didn’t hurt too much. Like Judy Collins or the Beatles or her propensity for ceramic angel figurines. The story of how their parents had met was told freely whenever John had hit a certain BAC.
“I kinda liked Timequake,” Sam says honestly.
“Of course you did,” Dean chuckles to himself. Soft shake of his head. “That book’s a mess, man.”
Sam sidesteps the ensuing argument through sheer weight of experience. “You’ve read a lot of Vonnegut, huh?” he says instead. Diplomatic.
Dean lets out an amused breath through his nose. “My mom was a fan—is a fan,” he corrects himself quickly. Awkwardly.
And the mood drops suddenly.
The weighted moment hangs over them for a few seconds. Prickly and almost painful. Too-charged. How could it not be? But then Sam purposefully steers them toward safer waters. “Oh, yeah?” he asks simply, not a hint of judgment. He expects his brother to take the obvious non-question for what it is and change the subject, move onto something a little less personal, or a little less complicated. Dean’s been in a surprisingly good mood for the past couple of weeks, ever since they got the Colt back, and Sam can’t imagine he’d want to ruin the rare streak with something as unnecessary as a conversation about feelings. But Dean simply finishes off his last sip of whiskey and presses on.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “We actually got into a pretty bad fight recently.” Sam goes completely still at the honesty. At how he’d completely misread his brother. He doesn’t say a word, nervous about even breathing too loudly. He’s not sure where this is coming from, but more than anything, he doesn’t want to break the precious, crystalline moment of connection. “It’s tough, y’know?” Dean continues. “Having to deal with your mom as a…” He lets out a frustrated sigh when he can’t think of the right word.
“—person?” Sam tentatively finishes for him. Though he might have meant ‘reality’.
Dean smiles, a little rueful, at the simplicity of the statement. “Yeah,” he says, deep and quiet. “As a person.” His face twitches slightly and he rubs a hand over his jaw. “’Cause you remember things a certain way as a kid. And sometimes those memories aren’t actually…right. Y’know?”
Sam can’t relate. Not really. He doesn’t have any childhood memories of Mary at all. But he does know what it was like to have a thorny, complicated relationship with a close parent. “You can disagree with someone and still love them,” he says carefully, meeting Dean’s gaze as sincerely as he can. “You can spit fire and say things you regret, and say things you mean, and feel like you never want to see them again and still love them.” He drops his attention back to his own hands curled around his half-empty glass. “And vice-versa,” he says, muted, but sure.
Dean nods after a long moment, but then his expression goes tight and he clears his throat. They’ve reached his limit of vulnerability for the night—for the week, probably—and there won’t be any more of this discussion anytime soon. Sam is glad he even got what he did.
His brother silently signals the bartender for another round, then tilts his head back to favor Sam with a faintly grateful smile…and he’s beautiful. The whole left side of his face is lit up a dark blue under the beer lights, like some otherworldly temptation. He’s beautiful. And Sam gradually starts to wonder if this was part of it too. If the admission about Mom and the dip into Dean’s issues were by design, like the rest of this careful, cultivated seduction.
Surprisingly enough, Sam finds that he doesn’t care. Dean’s words were real. Whether or not he’d planned the moment of emotional honesty, it still happened. He’s been trying to get Dean to be more open for years. If the promise of sex and winning a bet is all it takes, then maybe Sam will just have to organize a few more of these ‘challenges’ in the near future.
“So,” Dean prompts, breaking through Sam’s inner monologue to rest an elbow on the bar and his temple on his fist, “Vonnegut.”
They talk about literature for almost an hour, switching from sci-fi to biographies after his brother’s worn out the list of titles he can contribute to, and Dean listens to Sam ramble on about the latest true crime novel he’d read without rolling his eyes once. The girls laughing too loudly on their right filter out eventually, replaced by a petite brunette and a tall man who has to nearly bend himself in half as he flirts, and even quicker replaced by two older gentlemen commiserating about their adult children once the couple relocates to one of the more private tables in the back.
Literature turns into theology. Theology into history factoids. And then Dean hijacks the conversation to rattle off a series of made-up stories about his doctor persona, and Sam lets out a laugh at the over-the-top claims of heroism that sounds lighter and freer than he can recall making in recent memory.
He’s losing. He knows he is. Sam is steadily and surely losing this bet, inch by inevitable inch, and only the merest rumble of petty determination is keeping him in the ring at all.
It’s strange, and a little discomfiting, really, to realize how much this charade is affecting him. It’s no surprise how well Dean knows him, and Sam’s sure he could pull off something similar if their situations were reversed, but this single-minded attention jars him in a way he isn’t used to. Or, perhaps in a way he’s too used to. But not from Dean. Not like this.
Sam rarely gets this kind of slow seduction from his brother. Almost never, actually. Even their first time had been drunk and desperate and just a little bit tragic. And once he became a sure thing, Dean started trying even less. It’s more charming than it sounds. Sam’s grown surprisingly fond of a silent eyebrow raise and a suggestive tilt of his brother’s head kicking off their raunchier evenings. There’s something easy about it. Funny, even. Casually intimate in a way that Sam treasures when it comes to Dean, the infrequency of that kind of expressed affection.
But this?
Sam almost forgot how much he likes this. A waitress lingering around his table a little too long until she can rope him into conversation. A witness for a case throwing some pointed innuendo his way until a genuine laugh breaks through his fed pretense. It’s distractingly attractive coming from any number of beautiful women. It’s a little annoying how much more attractive it is on his freaking brother.
“Anyway,” Dean continues, halfway through a story about saving Wheeling, West Virginia from a tornado that Sam had only been half-listening to. “That’s when the mayor gave me the key to the city.” He slips his hand over Sam’s knee, rubbing his thumb in maddening little circles as he gradually travels up the length of his thigh. The movements are hidden from the rest of the bar, courtesy of the high backs of their stools, but Dean had gotten inordinately bold somewhere around two and a half drinks ago. Sam should have pushed him off then. He hadn’t. Retroactively, he thinks he’s maybe gonna blame the whiskey too.
Sam knows the real reason, though. And maybe it is partially the liquor’s fault, but he’d be lying if he claimed that was the whole of it.
The thing is, Dean isn’t much for the touchy-feely stuff outside of life-or-death scenarios—and even then, it’s mostly a brief, fierce hug quickly hammered out before anyone else can grow suspicious. Typically with a scattering of allies they can barely trust watching from the sidelines or a figurative doomsday clock ticking ominously in the background. The only time Sam usually gets any sort of extended skin contact is after sex. If he were a more cynical man, he might think that his brother withholds that kind of affection on purpose, making sure he gets his fix before doling out Sam’s. A move like that certainly wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility, whether Dean will cop to his intentions or not.
He supposes it’s fair enough, in a fucked-up kind of way.
But Dean’s got his hands all over him now, and Sam can’t seem to pull himself away from his greatest weakness. Not with the way Dean’s leaning in close enough for Sam to make out every twitch of his eyelashes. Not with the way his skin is lighting up every place they’re barely touching, Dean’s gaze teasing and heated and full of sinful promise. And all he has to do to get everything he wants is just reach out and accept the tempting offer.
Sam’s finishing his third drink—fifth or sixth for Dean—when he realizes that, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s actually okay with losing this bet. Even planning on it, at this point. Yes, he’s definitely feeling buzzed by now, and maybe plying Sam with whiskey all evening wasn’t super fair on his brother’s part—not that he’d turned any of the offered drinks down—but that isn’t why he’s throwing in the towel.
It’s because he wants to.
Because he decidedly, desperately wants to. Because, as much as Sam hates to give in, Dean earned every iota of this particular victory. Not by using the fake, smarmy kind of charm he thinks he has in spades—but by being so thoroughly himself. Even while he was attempting to be a complete stranger.
It is intoxicating, Sam will admit, to have Dean Winchester’s full attention on you. When he turns it on and gives you one hundred percent and the rest of the world seems to fall away. Sam’s experienced it often enough, and as much as he privately rolls his eyes at the women Dean gets in his thrall, he knows exactly how they feel. He can admit that in his more humble moments.
But this isn’t just a typical pull. This isn’t Dean randomly plucking a fake career from his go-to list and hoping for a quick tussle in the sheets with someone he plans on never seeing again. He’s catered this entire evening specifically for Sam. Down to the smallest detail. And it isn’t surface stuff, either. It’s real. This is Dean carefully poring over every single thing he knows about him in order to give him exactly what he wants—even the things Sam wouldn’t be able to put a finger on himself.
This isn’t just Dean trying to manipulate Sam into losing a bet, either. Hell, this isn’t about their stupid bet at all, even if it started that way. Dean’s done this all for him. And there’s no obvious reason for it.
Except for maybe the most obvious reason of all.
“Hey,” Sam says, soft and warm, as he interrupts Dean’s shamelessly made-up story about how he once rescued an entire building full of orphans and puppies. “Do you have a Band-Aid?”
Dean’s brows draw down to a concerned point as his character falls away completely. “No. Why?” He skims his eyes over Sam’s body in sharp, clinical sweeps, clearly trying to parcel out when he could have possibly hurt himself. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—” Sam pauses a little for dramatic effect, unable to fight back a dopey grin under the sway of the alcohol. “I think I may have scraped my knee falling for you.”
It takes a second for his brother to catch on. But when he does, he catches on quick. The matching, delighted grin spreading over his face is worth every bit of the torture Sam had to endure earlier. Even if it means Dean is gonna be insufferable for a while.
“Y’know,” Dean says, low and sensual and inviting. “I think I may have some Band-Aids back in my car.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sam asks, drawing it out just as suggestive. He leans in a little further, nearly knocking his brother’s forehead with his own. “Well maybe I’d better go with you to get them. Just to be safe.”
Dean tips back the last of his drink, his smoldering-ember eyes never leaving Sam’s even as he clacks his empty glass onto the counter. “I think that’s a real smart idea,” he says.
They don’t touch as Dean settles the tab for the both of them, Sam’s eyes flicking teasingly over glimpses of skin peeking out beneath the triangle collar of his shirt and the tight slacks stretched over his brother’s ass when his jacket rides up. Both of their hands just close enough over the wood counter, their knuckles shadowed red and blue under the neon bar lights.
They don’t touch across the parking lot. The dusty smell of asphalt, pounded flat and worn by hundreds of heavy footfalls over the years, rises up to meet them and Sam barely pays attention past the muffled tread of their own boots. A cool breeze blows by, glancing off the tip of his nose and his cheeks and sweeping his hair into his face. Par for the course, April in Kansas like this. Dean glances at him like he wants to tuck it back behind his ears for him, his stare lingering a while. Sam does it himself and then takes the lead heading toward the car, his brother trailing at his seven.
They don’t touch until the doors of the Impala have slammed shut behind them. The familiar creaking and click-thud of the lock engaging sealing them into the streetlight-darkness of half-past one. They should drive home. They should head back to the bunker and out of this bar parking lot where anybody could happen across them. Except…they both got into the backseat.
Dean shifts a little, the tiny pinpoints of light in his pupils the only thing Sam can make out clearly with the way he’s backlit against the opposite road, and Sam’s across the leather seat and straddling his thighs before his brother can pull in his next breath. He fiercely latches onto Dean’s mouth, electric thrill running through him the same way it always does when they kiss, and shoves him back against the interior door before he even needs to. When Dean does eventually remember to breathe, he breathes in Sam.
His brother tastes like strong whiskey. Of course he does. Sam must too.
“I win,” Dean can’t help but gloat, trying to undo the snaps of Sam’s shirt and lick at his tonsils at the same time.
“Shut up,” Sam throws back, forcefully yanking down the zip of his brother’s fly, “or I’ll leave your ass here, alone, and I’ll win.”
Dean shuts his trap and nods obediently, so easily led when Sam’s got his dick in his hand, and helpfully strips out of the rest of his suit. Grunting and cursing at the cramped backseat as his skin is gradually revealed, piece by tantalizing piece. The wide spread of his shoulders. The comforting solidity of his chest. The glimpse of Dean’s treasure trail, darker than usual, almost bronze in the low light. The long, curving stretch of his paler thighs.
Screw the bunker. Sam doesn’t want to do this at home anyway, even if he did have the patience or sobriety to wait. He’s got kind of a thing about fucking in the car. Not that his brother doesn’t. But Sam’s got kind of a thing about them fucking in the car.
Sam crashes forward the second Dean’s done undressing, skin-to-whiskey-warmed-skin, and lets Dean yank at the remainder of Sam’s clothing around their heated making out until they’re both mostly naked. Until Sam manages to tear himself away from Dean’s plush, kiss-bruised mouth, leaving sloppy drags of his tongue and teeth down the line of his torso.
He should probably blow him for a bit, as a thank you for the ‘date’ or whatever this was, but instead, Sam finds himself nuzzling face-first into the crease between Dean’s hip and thigh. He inhales deeply before tilting his head so he can press his lips, dry, against the base of his erection. Then again, slower, and a little more to the left. Sam shifts against his brother’s body, keeping his head ducked low and kissing a slow line up the entire underside of his hard cock.
“Ah, Jesus,” Dean hisses, almost smacking his head against the window of the side door. And Sam gets it. It’s as chaste as it is dirty, and that’s exactly why he did it.
He fights back a self-satisfied smile as he teasingly flicks his tongue out over the very tip, savoring Dean’s hitched inhale, and then drifts back lower. Mouths at his brother’s heavy balls, more dry kisses where Dean clearly wants tongue, given the impatient writhing—and then freezes, concerned and confused, when he comes across an unexpected wetness.
Sam jerks back once his soused brain clicks online, half-expecting a dark smear of blood, until Dean props himself up on his elbows, breathing heavily, and looking more than a little pissed at the interruption.
“It’s part of it, Sam,” he says impatiently, flicking his eyes back down until he gets the point. “Got myself ready earlier.”
Holy shit. “Holy shit,” Sam lets out on a disbelieving breath, aloud this time. “Really?”
“What, you think I’m kidding?” Dean asks, yanking him back down into a messy kiss, and Sam groans directly into his mouth. His cock jerks impatiently against Dean’s belly, bolt of liquid arousal at the firm, pressing friction, and Sam shivers all the way down his spine.
“For me?” he can’t help asking.
“No,” his brother drawls out sarcastically, “for the other guy I’m fucking. You just happened to get here first.”
Sam laughs, bright and breathy, and then surges forward again to devour Dean’s mouth until he can’t talk anymore.
He’s been a little twitchy about being the one doing the fucking ever since Lady Toni; half-terrified that the instant he gives in and allows himself to take, the rug will get pulled out from underneath him again. Reveal this—all this, his brother’s last minute save, their mom’s very existence, the indescribable thing Dean’s currently doing with his tongue—to just be another dream. Sam still locked away in that basement, chained up and bleeding and alone. And it will be all his fault, for wanting too much.
It’s an irrational fear, Sam will admit, though not quite implausible, given the sheer amount of insanity they’ve lived through. One of those things he just needs to force himself past to get over. He’s been handling sex the other way round decent enough, he thinks, and Dean’s been surprisingly patient about the whole thing, but this is clearly his brother’s best attempt at moving things forward.
It’s goddamn sweet is what it is. Considerate. A little blunt, maybe, but that’s Dean in a nutshell.
Sam doesn’t want to make him wait any longer.
The Impala rocks with their combined weight as Sam shifts forward in the limited space. They’ve each got one leg in the footwell and the other clumsily bent up over the bench seat to try and fit together, and Sam accidentally knees the back of his brother’s thigh attempting to get into position, but Dean lets it go with just a slight grumble of annoyance.
The interior of the car is still slightly cool against Sam’s roaming hands, especially when contrasted against Dean’s more welcome body heat. Colder when he accidentally grazes against actual metal. They haven’t steamed up the windows yet—Sam can’t wait until they do—and it’s gotta be worse for Dean with him fully laid out like this.
So Sam yanks him closer in one strong move, gets Dean’s legs hiked up around Sam’s waist and his head resting flat against the seat instead of the hard surface of the side door.
Dean lets out a startled noise that quickly melts into one of pleasure. “Steady there, cowboy,” he purrs.
Sam grins back just as filthy and dives right in, dragging his hands down his brother’s sides, groping and squeezing at any bit of him he can reach. The taut heat of his skin. Thick, firm muscle down his flanks. Dean tosses his head back with a breathy grunt, hitches his hips up against him, and Sam takes advantage of the arch of his spine to slip his own hold around the small of his brother’s back. He stays longer than he’d planned on, not wanting to let go, locking his arms tight and jamming his forehead hard against his chest.
“Christ,” Dean lets out on a breath of laughter.
Sam presses a kiss to his sternum. Moves higher to tease at his tattoo with tongue and teeth.
Dean twines his own arms around Sam to pull him in even closer. One hand wrapped around the base of his neck, fingers threaded possessively through the hair at his nape. His other, hot and steady at the lowest point of Sam’s back, sandwiched between Dean’s own crossed ankles. “C’mon, baby,” he says, whisper-hot. Just on the edge of desperate. “I got myself ready for you. Been waiting all night.”
Sam angles his hips, blind, until he can feel the tip of his throbbing cock finally catch against his brother’s slicked-up hole, and Dean’s breath hitches as he makes a home for him between his thighs. This, right here, is truly where Sam lives. More so than the endless string of déjà vu motels, than the cool, drafty protection of the bunker, than even the Impala rumbling in time with his heartbeat like he was born to it. It’s this, right here. Always has been. Chest to chest and wrapped up tight in his brother’s arms. Safe and warm and wanted.
He pushes in without any further warning, fierce and unrelenting.
“Ah, fuck,” Dean hisses. But he seems to adjust to it pretty quick. “That’s right, baby, fuck me like you mean it.” He clenches tight around the base of his cock, dragging out an involuntary moan from his throat. “Hard and fast. Just the way you like it, huh?”
Sam lets out an amused, wavering breath that’s nearly a condemnation of his brother’s sleazy dialogue, but the intent drifts away before his tipsy brain can latch onto the thought and follow through.
“C’mon, Sam,” his brother pours into his ear, “gimme that big cock. Want it. Want it so bad, but I’m gonna make you feel so good.” Sam can’t help but moan again and Dean laughs at his reaction, warm and pleased. “Gonna give you what you need,” he whispers, egged on even more by Sam’s spreading flush. “Any way you want me.”
“Shut up,” he laughs in return, breathy and only mildly embarrassed, into Dean’s neck.
“Can’t,” Dean pants out, and Sam can practically hear the ridiculous grin stretched out across his face. “I can’t have you slipping away in the morning and telling anyone that Dean Winchester didn’t give you the night of your life.”
Oh god. He’s still roleplaying.
Sam chastens him with a harsh thrust of his hips. “You’re not going anywhere in the morning,” he growls. “You better be making me friggin’ breakfast.”
Dean tightens his fist in his hair, a sharp tug that sends needles of electricity prickling down all of Sam’s nerve endings. “For you, baby? Anything.”
“You don’t lie to your women like that, do you?”
“’Course not.”
Sam pulls back to gauge his brother’s honesty, and gets an eyeful of his favorite view in the whole damn world. The most attractive man he’s ever seen, bar none, at his mercy. Dean’s eyes shining bright and wicked in the dark. The glow from the streetlights striated over the breadth of his chest. All reddened lips and soot-black eyelashes and sharp, white teeth behind the invitation of his obscene mouth. His brother is beautiful—there’s no denying that—but it’s always been a deadly kind of beauty. Dean is beautiful like a tornado is. Destructive and powerful and wild. Or like a jungle cat. Something sleek and gorgeous, but it’s got fangs and claws and can rip you to ribbons just as easy as breathing.
And he’s all Sam’s.
“Now, tell me what you want, huh?” Dean urges, pulling him in even deeper by his ankles against his back.
Sam worries at his lower lip, and Dean reaches around to slip his fingers between his teeth so Sam can bite down on them instead. He playfully nips at the tips of them. Pulls them inside his mouth to gently suck off the lingering taste of alcohol. “Want you to shut up.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Want you to take it,” he says.
“Yeah?”
Sam finally gives up the charade, ducks down and gets the backs of his brother’s knees hooked over his shoulders. “Like this.”
“Fuck yeah.”
He slams into Dean’s body—doesn’t give him one second to get ready—just punches his hips forward until Dean lets out a whine and flings his left hand back to scrabble at the side window. His brother’s lips move helplessly, but nothing comes out, and Sam fucks him rough and wild. Until Dean digs his fingers into the base of his spine and just hangs on for the ride.
There’s just barely enough lube to ease the way, and the tight clutch of Dean’s ass around his aching dick is just enough to drive him crazy. The filthy-wet sound of them fucking fills up the entire car. Ramps up Sam’s own needy, racing arousal like some fucked-up feedback loop. Their well-worn soundtrack undercut only by Dean’s breathy grunts as Sam pounds him into the bench seat. And by Sam’s answering noises of pleasure. The intimate embrace of the Impala is as familiar as the lust rushing through his veins, as the way Dean makes him feel every minute of every hour.
Sam comes hard, spilling, pulsing into the tight warmth of his brother’s body, white noise roaring softly in his ears. He chokes off a strangled groan and curls into everywhere Dean’s holding him. Rides out the ecstasy for as long as it lasts, and then a little longer, chasing the physical high. Sam finally lets it go with a satisfied groan, but the only thing stopping him from succumbing to sated exhaustion is that he can feel how close Dean is behind him, his thick, swollen cock, blood-hot as it rubs up against his abs.
“C’mon,” Dean breathes, too far gone for dignity in the moment. “Sam, Sam, Sam, c’mon.”
Sam snaps his hips a few more times, reaches down to jack his brother in time with his thrusts, callous-rough hand rasping against velvet skin, and Dean lets out a ragged sound like he’s dying. He shoots off against Sam’s abdomen, head tilting back against the seat, his body curving like a bow. Warm, wet semen smearing between their bellies. Dean holds the pose for only a few seconds—the elegant, athletic stretch of an ignudo—then slumps back with one more punched-out breath, every muscle melting lax into the leather beneath his back.
“Damn, dude,” he pants out, more impressed than teasing, and Sam shrugs Dean’s legs off from around his shoulders so that he can collapse onto his brother properly. Dean lets out a little “oof” at his weight, but gives in without much of a fight.
He lets them lie there for a while, idly running his fingers through Sam’s hair, before grabbing a handful into a loose ponytail. Sam hums a little as the cool air hits the back of his neck. It’s nice. Relaxing. The backseat smells like sex and sweat. And leather. Sam breathes it in, soothing and familiar, and lets himself be lulled by the soft thudding of Dean’s heartbeat under his ear.
“I win,” Dean brings up again, just as infuriatingly smug as Sam knew he would be, so Sam digs his shoulder into his brother’s ribs until he lets out an affronted laugh and cries uncle.
“Just try one of those stupid lines on the next woman you hit on and see how fast you fail,” Sam grumbles. “Hope I’m there to see it,” he adds, petulant.
Dean lets out another chuckle, but doesn’t say a word. Maybe just to keep the peace. Sam can tell he’s smiling like a jackass though.
“How’d you get here, by the way?” he asks after a long moment.
Sam shifts his head against Dean’s chest, making himself a little more comfortable. “Took the Studebaker from the motor pool.”
“How’s it handling?”
“I don’t know. Fine, I guess.” He nuzzles in a little closer, weighs the pros and cons of getting into the honest minutiae with his brother. “The brakes squeak a little.”
Dean hums pensively. “I’ll check the line.”
Sam had quite enjoyed the ride over here initially, given how rarely he gets to be behind any wheel. He’s starting to regret it now though. They’ll have to drive back separately, and at the current moment, his body wants nothing more than to take a catnap against the passenger side window. Or maybe stretched out across the front seat, his head pillowed on Dean’s thigh. Soft rock, low and tinny, on the radio and Dean’s fingers in his hair.
The bar door slams open from across the parking lot, a few loud voices spilling into the night, but he and Dean are both slouched low enough and the windows are fogged up enough to hide them from any nosy drunkards. It’s unlikely anyone will venture close enough anyway, with the way they’re parked at the far end of the lot like this. Sam spares a thought to wonder if Dean planned that out too, then figures that, yeah, he probably did.
“Penny for your thoughts, Sammy?” Dean offers, clearly pleased with himself. “Though I gotta be honest, I’m only interested if they’re some combination of ‘Dean’, ‘most incredible sex I’ve ever had’, and ‘rocked my world’.”
Sam snorts out a laugh and chooses to let his brother’s ego be. As nice as this whole thing was, this right here, Dean calling him ‘Sammy’ as he tosses familiar barbs his way has gotta be his favorite part of the evening so far. Easy. Hell, if Sam’s being brutally honest with himself, Dean probably could have seduced him with two shots of Old Crow and a silent jerk of his head.
But he decides to let his own ego be, too.
It is flattering though, that Dean had gone through all the trouble when he probably could have succeeded without even trying. Their ‘date’—or whatever it was—had been pretty damn thoughtful. Almost perfect, actually…other than the one slight flaw in Dean’s master design. And Sam smiles a little at the thought that maybe there are still some things that Dean doesn’t know about him.
Because his brother definitely knows how he likes to be fucked, but, apparently, not how he likes to be flirted with. It was maybe the one misstep Dean had made back at the bar. The chink in his deliberately orchestrated seduction. He’d been too nice. All considerate attention and not enough bite. Sam’s always loved a little edge with his flattery, even as he tries not to dwell on how screwed-up that makes him.
It makes sense though. Other than one poorly thought-out night a few years ago, when they’d both slipped into a motel room with a hunter named Heather, way too much tequila in their systems, and a shared, silent promise to not give too much away, all the rest of their more romantic encounters with each other have just been the two of them. They have to be, given Dean’s tendency towards jealousy. He just doesn’t take well to anything stronger than the most meaningless of casual sex when it comes to Sam. Any time an interested woman so much as throws him a lingering glance, his brother alternates between pointed, passive-aggressive barbs and flat-out mockery. Sam really only gets to flirt when he’s alone, because if Dean’s within hearing distance, he immediately puts an end to it before anything can even begin.
“Y’know,” Sam says, tracing a finger around the outline of his brother’s collarbone, “we probably should have added stakes. Not much of a bet without them.”
Dean makes a vaguely sleepy noise in assent. “Whatever, man. I still get the satisfaction of proving you wrong.” Then he huffs out a self-satisfied breath through his nose. The exact kind of insufferable that always drives Sam up a wall. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says obnoxiously. “It’s not your fault. No one’s immune to my charm.”
“Oh, please,” Sam scoffs, lifting his head up to roll his eyes where his brother can see it. “If I’d been the one in your position, I could’ve got you back here in half the time.”
Dean just keeps lounging against the bench seat and scrubs a carefree hand over his sweaty hair, content to bask in his victory. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Sam bites at his tongue and tucks himself back in the crook of his brother’s shoulder, trying not to smile too obviously. Yes—he disagrees privately to himself, the beginnings of a plan already stringing together in his mind. We absolutely, definitely will.