Title: Longer than the Road
Warnings: drinking, passing mention of hentai, very much unbeta'ed
Notes: For kalliel
, who wanted Winshesters and wind slice of lifeSummary
: It's been some time since Sam came drinking with Dean
Sam walks next to Dean, jacket and mouth and eyes tight in the wind, rigid and withheld, only his hair raging unleashed. It makes Dean's stomach drop - or it would be funny. Sam isn't angry anymore, hasn't been in ages.
It's one of the good nights . Sam comes with him to the bar. Drinks with Dean, more than a beer or three, and Dean is pretty sure it isn't even to push down something, not more than usual. Dean buys him hunter drinks - Silver Bullet, Rusty Nail, and doesn't tell Sam their names. Sam sticks to his tequila, but he drinks with Dean, and they talk. Sam 's forgetting about his research for longer and longer breaks, Dean's eye absentmindedly following the Windows logo across the screen, calculating pool angles. Dean is not sure what they talk about what anymore, probably some horrible mush he'd rather not remember, but Sam's eyes go softer and Dean's limbs go warm and happy with scotch and company. Sam's cheeks redden, like earlier in the wind, and his eyes go starry like a girl about to enjoy some artistic triple tentacle penetration.
Dean orders sandwiches for tomorrow morning, they'll be soggy but food. Jalepinio guacamole makes a good breakfast. The waitress hands Sam the bill and Dean grabs it, ruffled. He leaves her a good tip, though, it's a slow night.
They walk out again, Dean has to put some weight against the door to get it to open, to step out. "Com'on, Sammy" Dean challenges with a smirk. Smething soft that meant to be a smirk.
The street is black gray and Dean loses their napkins in a fluttery flurry. They crash land into a black puddle, and for a moment Sam looks like he'll try to get them out. He lets them go.
Breathing makes the back of Dean's throat itch with dry particles, like the time with Rhonda - sex on the beach should only ever be a drink, sand in bad places, Sammy. But this air is frozen, thunderstorm on the way. The sort of cold that comes with bat outta hell motorbikes an' electric guitar lightning .
Dean feels like he could be lifted by the wind, is tempted to jump, just a little bit, just to find out. his muscles and weapons and heavy jacket, floating, complete with beer and tacos warming his belly. His insides thrill to it, small pulsing excitement like magic, like he hasn't been picked up or tossed around by demons, angels, forces unknown
For a moment it's so cold Dean has trouble breathing, but that doesn't make sense. A torn windsock man vindictive, store signs bangoverhead, and Dean wants to pull Sam to him, under the wing of his jacket, suddenly wary of flapping electricity lines, windborne debris .
Sam's hair is in his eyes again, but they are still shining under there, as he hurries past Dean, wind catching in the open arms of his jacket. Sam's smiling silly and wide, old enough to be boyish like once. Smiling at Dean - shy, but not backing off. Sam doesn't back off from a challenge.
And in a moment Dean runs after him, half lifted by the wind, almost laughing. It's ok, they're just a little drunk. Sam was always faster than him, but they are banging together, Sam's hair lashing, how is Sam always so warm. Sam's belly is soft despite his training, under Dean's frozen hand, and Sam's yelp is almost as pleasant as the sensation of Sam.
Baby's solid and chilly even through Dean's jacket, through the gap under Dean's shirts. Sam's leaning against him long limbed, looking up at Dean - bending to open the door. Sam's eyes reflect the lines of light reflecting off her, even through the layer of dust, through everything . Sam's hair gets in Dean's mouth, and Sam straightens, warmth undulating, belt to collarbone, and Dean's thoughts scatter, flutter, why are they always the idiots with their overshirts open in the storm. Dean wants to close their shirts, close their shirts together, to share heat, buttons and holes and mouths -
They're finally inside, The windshield is covered with dust, leaves caught in the wipers and flapping around outside, looks as if it is so noisy outside. A few sharp raindrops, thin and brilliant across the filthy glass, a mistake to try and clean the windows now anyway, it'd just make a mess and clog his Baby's washer spray jet.
Street lights are hazy in the muddy air, traffic lights brilliant out of focus like fair candy, sweet and bright, strawberry, orange, lime. Sam's breath warms Dean's cheek, like blowing on Sam's fingers long ago, through gloves, without gloves.
He puts the guacamole in the back seat. Digs in the glove compartment for Metallica, something soft to put Sam to sleep. The rain waited for them to be in, bangs on the roof rhythmically, wave after wave with the wind, and Baby's almost shaking too, or maybe dancing .
Dean has the urge to stick his head out in the rain, his naked torso out, to run outside and yell, and maybe howl, like a werewolf or a frat boy douchebag, to crash into streetwater and have Sam collect him.
Doesn't know whether he's brave, scared, or just so tired.
And he's kissing Sam long and sweet, heart pounding up to his throat, as if they've never done it before, as if they've never stopped doing it.