Work Text:
September 2008
Sam hasn’t seen much of his brother this week. Dean’s been working late nights at the pie shop to get ready for a big meeting with his accountant—he and his general manager, Sarah, have been putting together a proposal for opening a second Winchester Pie Company location, and the accountant is the first one they have to convince.
Sam’s been busy, too, working full time at the paper. He still does research from time to time for other writers, but once he finished the huge project of digitizing and indexing the paper’s entire archives, he started doing some reporting of his own. He writes a column that highlights local issues, spotlighting people who make a difference in the community. He’s also been putting in a lot of hours volunteering at the local level, organizing folks for the Anti Prop 8 campaign. The election is less than two months away and Sam’s been putting his heart and soul into stopping the ballot measure, which would take away the recently hard-won civil right of California residents to marry whomever they choose, regardless of gender.
Dean texted him an hour ago not to wait on him for dinner, so Sam eats some leftovers standing up in their gleaming kitchen, feeds and walks Angel, their collie mix rescue and makes sure she’s settled in her crate. He makes a quick pit stop before firing up the Mustang and pointing it towards town.
He parks in the alley behind the pie shop and lets himself in the back door with his key, locking up behind him. The shop’s kitchen is dark and still, spic and span waiting for the pre-dawn arrival of the bakers. He walks on silent feet to the front of the house where Dean’s working on his laptop, crunching numbers.
Sam takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Dean at one of the wooden tables in the corner of the little shop. His brother’s face is illuminated by the blue light of the laptop. Dean’s going to be thirty and it looks good on him, just the beginning of crows feet adding character to his face, his close cropped hair not showing any gray. Sam’s more than four years younger, but he’s started to notice a few strands of gray in his own hair already. The light’s harsh, but Dean’s profile is still picture-perfect, his warrior’s nose straight and strong, his lips a soft invitation in contrast. Dean’s busted his ass to make Winchester Pie Company profitable, but Sam knows part of the early success came from the model-good looks of the young, single, male owner of Petaluma’s only pie-centric bakery, splashed on the front page of the very paper Sam works for on opening day. Half the women and a quarter of the men in town had to come see for themselves if Dean Winchester’s pies tasted as good as the owner looked.
He had been in Italy when Dean opened the shop, and it had taken every ounce of his considerable self control not to get on a plane to be there for the opening. He’d wanted to celebrate Dean’s success right there beside him, but he held back. Dean had only told him he’d been working on a business plan for a shop of his own after the ink was dry on the lease, barely more than a month before they opened. Dean had been thinking about it for nearly a year, and Sam had no idea. At first, he’d been hurt that Dean hadn’t confided something so important in him. But after thinking it over, he realized Dean probably had his reasons for keeping it to himself. He wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint Sam if nothing came of his idea.
But something had come of it. Winchester Pie Company was a success right out of the gate and Dean had been so busy at the start that he hadn’t had time for his and Sam’s weekly phone call, the few minutes of Sam’s week when he could take a full breath of air and feel at home. That’s when Sam had gotten on a plane. He had to see for himself that Dean was doing okay, not running himself into the ground getting this business going. The fact that he arrived on Valentine’s Day, well, that was a coincidence. It had nothing to do with the fact that every year since Sam can remember he’s only wanted one person to be his Valentine.
“Hey,” Sam says softly.
Dean jerks his head up, makes eye contact and smiles.
“Heya, Sammy.” Dean rubs his eyes. When was the last time he got his vision checked? Maybe Sam should make them both appointments with the eye doctor; that way he can be sure Dean will go. “Whatcha doing here?”
“Almost done?” Sam asks.
“Yeah. I guess. I’ve been over these numbers four times, and Sarah’s got the rest of the plan all worked out. Just making sure I’m not missing anything.”
“You’ve done the math on this and you’re ready,” Sam says, walking into the space. In the low light he can still make out his wavy reflection in the big plate glass windows and glass door that make up most of the front wall of the shop.
“It’s just a big step, you know?”
“I know.” Sam walks behind Dean’s chair, puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders and starts rubbing the firm, tense muscles underneath.
Dean sighs and leans back into Sam’s touch. “Sorry I been working so late.”
Sam hums. He sweeps his hands over Dean’s shoulders, down his arms, feeling the soft cotton of his t-shirt give way to the even softer skin. Dean’s strong, Sam knows first hand how strong he is, but Sam marvels even more when Dean feels safe enough to let himself not be strong for a minute. Dean’s taken care of Sam his entire life; Sam likes having the opportunity to take care of Dean. The longer Sam touches him, the looser Dean gets, his muscles relaxing and his breathing getting deeper. He might even fall asleep at this rate, and that would ruin Sam’s carefully laid plans.
“Hey, remember the day I showed up here to surprise you? When I flew from Rome?”
“Valentine’s Day 2005,” Dean answers, as if it was yesterday.
“That’s right. I had to see this place for myself. I was so proud of you, Dean. You did it all, and all by yourself.”
“Well, Dr. F—“
“No, you did this, Dean. All on your own. You took this empty space and you brought this business to life. I was blown away from the second I walked in here. The air smelled like chocolate and vanilla and you looked—God, I hadn’t seen you in six months and you looked so good I thought I was still in my room in Rome, dreaming. I dreamed about you every night.”
Dean’s voice is a little rough, but he doesn’t sound like he’s in danger of falling asleep anytime soon. “What did you dream about?”
“Different things. Sometimes you were driving me around in the Mustang, up through wine country, or down the 1. Sometimes I’d even dream we were riding in the Impala. I wonder what happened to it?”
“John probably lost it in a pool game,” Dean says sourly.
“Probably. You miss that car?”
“Nah. It was sweet, but I have better memories in my baby.”
“I’d dream that you were driving me someplace private, someplace secret where we’d be the only two people on earth, and we could do whatever we wanted.”
“Whatever we wanted? Like what?”
“You’d park, and I’d climb into your lap. And you’d be surprised at first, but then you’d smile at me and say, ‘Hey Sam, you been good?’ And I’d tell you that I always am. And then you’d kiss me, like a reward.”
Sam hands move up to Dean’s neck, kneading the tight tendons, rubbing the base of his skull, feeling the soft, short hairs there. “Remember you used to always tell me to be good when you were trying to get off the phone with me? I used to think sometimes you meant—“ He stops. This is all ancient history.
“I meant what, Sammy?”
“You’d say ‘Be good, Sam.’ And I thought you were saying, ‘I love you.’”
Those three words didn’t come out of Dean much at all before the Thanksgiving that all the carefully constructed walls between them had crashed down.
Dean twists in his chair, out of Sam’s grasp and looks up at him. His eyes are wide, his mouth serious. “I was. I didn’t know how—I figured you knew. You knew how much I—Jesus, Sam, please tell me you knew that I loved you.”
“I knew. I did. You showed it in everything you did for me.” Sam smiles, going back to his memory. “When I came here that day—Valentine’s Day—and you sat me down and you gave me a cup of espresso and a piece of Sam’s Cereal Pie, that was you telling me you loved me. You knew I’d been getting addicted to Italian espresso, so you bought an espresso machine for this place. You named a pie flavor after me, one you invented because I used to be obsessed with Lucky Charms, of all things.”
“Used to be?” Dean teases. Then he sobers. “I didn’t know it, maybe, but yeah. The stupid expensive espresso machine and the pie and hell, Sam, I don’t know how to do anything if it’s not loving you.”
“Come here,” Sam says, pulling Dean out of his chair. They leave the laptop, long since gone to sleep, on the table, and Sam coaxes Dean around to the back of the counter. They’re still in view if anyone should happen to look into the darkened shop from the street at ten o’clock at night, so Sam pulls Dean down to the floor behind the cases. Now they’re invisible, two boys playing hide and seek in the dark.
Dean’s sitting on his knees, so Sam pushes him back and climbs right onto his lap, little brother clambering onto his big brother. Dean wraps his arms around him tight, and they sigh in unison, the contact soothing something that’s been singing for relief since the last time.
Sam stares into his brother’s eyes and whispers, “Ask me. Like in my dream.”
“Hey Sam,” Dean says, his voice a rasp. “Have you been good, baby brother?”
Sam shudders, shivers all over, presses himself closer. There’s denim and cotton, shoes and socks in the way. The air smells of sugar and spice, or maybe that’s just Dean, filling up Sam’s entire universe as per usual.
“Yeah, I’ve been good. I’m always good for you,” Sam says, his voice unintentionally breathy, but it works. Dean moans and squeezes Sam’s ass, holding him as close as he can.
“You gonna keep being good for me?” Dean growls.
Every cell in Sam’s body is tuned to Dean, ready to lay down and die if that’s what he wants. “So good, Dean, I’ll be so good for you.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” And then Dean kisses him, soft and sweet. The softness nearly does Sam in. He’s had his brother a thousand different ways in the nearly two years they’ve been together like this, hard and rough, kinky and dirty, but it’s the times when Dean’s soft with him, that he touches him with feather soft hands, brushes kisses like butterfly wings on his mouth, over his jaw, against his eyelids…Sam melts like a Popsicle in the Petaluma summer sun. His bones go liquid, his blood catches fire. He burns, slow and blue-hot from the inside out. His desire for Dean immolates him. And the only thing that can stop him from turning into a pile of ash is Dean himself, there to sate him, not to extinguish the blaze, impossible task that would be, but to neutralize it, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, soul to soul.
They kiss and Sam loses his shoes and socks, his shirt, and then Dean’s unbuttoning his jeans. The floor’s cold, but Dean’s hot as Sam helps him lift off his pie shop shirt. He wriggles out of his own jeans, boxers too, and climbs back into Dean’s lap, naked and panting. “I’ve been good for you,” he says, throatily, guiding Dean’s fingers back so he can feel for himself how Sam’s already prepped, slick with lube, open enough from doing this regularly, even if it’s been a few days. Sam doesn’t mind the stretch, the sting. Not when it’s Dean and every sensation is magnified by the layers of their love for each other.
“Damn, Sam. This is you being good?” Dean grunts, pressing two fingers inside to feel Sam already slippery and wet. “‘Cause this is pretty naughty. Ready and waiting to be fucked.”
“Always ready for you,” Sam says, relishing the fingers, but needing to be filled all the way up only as Dean can fill him. He wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, reaches between them to get Dean’s cock out, hard and hot. He knows exactly how it feels to be filled with this cock, exactly how to slide down until he’s impaled on it, so he does it now, without waiting for Dean to remove his fingers. Instead he pushes, and the head pops inside of him, rubbing up against Sam’s stretched-taut skin and the pads of Dean’s own fingers. Sam gasps and Dean moans. For an awful half-second Sam thinks Dean’s going to try to pull out, fingers or cock or both, but he doesn’t. Sam holds himself still, adjusting, and then continues the slide down.
“Fuck, you want that, Sam? You want my dick and my fingers at the same time?”
“Yes.” Sam’s breathless, but it feels so good. He’s so full, fully seated now, Dean’s cock all the way inside him, his two fingers inside him to the second knuckle. Deans twists them, and Sam feels every millimeter of them pushing and stroking. He presses his mouth into Dean’s shoulder, willing himself not to come already just from the sensation of so much Dean, inside him, around him.
“I know, I know,” Dean whispers a bit brokenly into his ear. Sam always has the uncanny feeling that Dean does know everything that’s running through his mind, especially when they’re like this, connected body and soul. “I’ve got you. You just wrap those long legs around me and hold on, okay, baby brother?”
Sam nods into Dean’s shoulder. He crosses his legs behind Dean’s back, one arm anchoring him to the floor, the other locked around Dean, so their chests graze each other, Sam’s hard cock jutting up between, trapped in their combined heat. Dean’s still in his jeans, and Sam can feel the denim and open fly rubbing against his ass. Dean’s using the the hand that’s not busy inside Sam for leverage, bouncing them together, working up to a rhythm that has Sam seeing stars inside a minute.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. You’re taking me and my fingers so good,” Dean says, lifting Sam a little higher, slamming him back down a little harder, twisting his fingers, screwing them up inside of Sam as far as they’ll reach, slipping and sliding against his own cock.
“Yeah, fill me up. Please. Dean.” Sam kind of wants to sob, but instead he kisses Dean, open mouthed and sloppy, thrusting his tongue inside Dean’s mouth, tasting his big brother. He’s sweet as honey, and Sam knows if he were to leave Dean’s mouth to lick a long stripe up his neck, he’d taste salt over sweet, like salted caramel. Sam’s the luckiest bastard in the world because he’s the only one who gets to taste Dean like this, the only one who knows that Dean’s flavor is better than any pie the Winchester Pie Company sells.
If Sam could only taste one flavor for the rest of his life it would be this: Dean, made to order for Sam and Sam alone.
He wrenches his mouth from his brother’s to stutter out the words that have been on the tip of his tongue since he walked into the shop tonight. Since forever, actually. “I love you.”
Dean moans again, and thrusts harder.
“I love you. Fuck. Dean. Love you so much.”
He can’t stop saying it and every time he does, Dean slams into him harder, until Sam’s cock is aching, filled to burst, and it’s only when Dean starts coming, eyes screwed shut, shouting, “Sam,” that Sam lets himself go, too.
Sam’s a little out of it. When he opens his eyes next, Dean’s looking at him, soft and fond. It’s an expression that makes Sam feel cherished. It’s a word that Dean would probably never use, but Sam likes it, for its meaning beyond holding something dear. It means to protect and care for something with love. Dean’s cared and protected Sam his entire life, out of love above all things.
Sam knows Dean cherishes him. And he’d like to think he cherishes Dean in equal measure. So he kisses him, right on his softly smiling mouth. “Love you,” he says again, because he can.
“Love you, too,” Dean whispers.
Then Sam shifts and winces and Dean smirks a little. “My fingers are still in your ass.”
“I noticed.”
“Hang on.” Dean reaches up to the countertop above his head blindly, but his hand returns triumphant with a fistful of paper napkins. They clean up a little. Sam feels wet and open as Dean’s come slides out of his hole, giving him ideas of round two once they get home.
“Seriously?” Dean says, doing that mind-reading thing again, as they straggle into their clothes.
“Like you wouldn’t be up for it?” Sam says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You might be too tired, old man.”
“Watch it,” Dean says, getting to his feet and wincing when his knee pops audibly. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Sam gets to his feet, too. The pie shop still smells like sugar and spice, but also like sex and sweat. The best Winchester combination, in Sam’s humble opinion. But, he knows what’s coming next and he’s ready for it.
“I’m going to wash my hands and wipe down the counters. You mop the floor,” Dean instructs.
Sam knows better than to argue. Dean allows him the privilege of pie shop sex on occasion, but only if they meticulously disinfect afterward.
It’s worth it.