Tied Me Over
Title taken from Rob Thomas's song, Ever The Same. “You may need me to carry all your weight, but you're no burden I assure. You tied me over, with a warmth I'll not forget, but I can only give you love...”.
In the Pilot episode, Dean says to Sam that he hasn't bothered him for 2 years, but Sam has been at college for 4 years. This is my take on what happened 2 years before the Pilot episode.
The noise and lights from the bar are warm and inviting, begging Dean to enter, to come into the clutches of alcohol and loose women. Dean slips out of the Impala and wanders towards the door, a loud blast of noise greets his ears as a man exits, a woman draped over his shoulders like a scarf and Dean smiles. He needs that. Needs the burning sensation of hard liquor as it slips down his throat, washing away the latest hunt that had bought him far too close to Sam for his own good.
It had been years, 2 to be exact. 2 years since Sam had walked out, leaving John furious and half drunk and Dean desperate and broken, needing his brother, needing his touch, his laugh, his smile that lit up his face. Dean shakes his head, clearing the image of the last time he saw Sam from his mind as he pushes the doors opens.
Large hands reach for him across the front seat. Dean pushes them away.
“No Sammy.” He goes to open the door, clutching at the door handle like a lifeline. Sam's face falls and even in the semi-darkness Dean can see the hurt in his brother's eyes.
"Dean...” He begins. Dean shakes his head, staring straight into the brown eyes that he knows are going to haunt his dreams.
“Sammy, please. Please just go. I can't...” Dean doesn't know how to tell him that he can't say goodbye, can't bare to hear the words coming from his lips. Just like he had no idea how to tell Sam no, he wasn't going to come to California with him. He wasn't going to play happy families when he knows that Dad needs him. Dean feels like he's spitting himself in two. Half going with Sam, half staying with Dad. Just like he has no idea how to tell Sam that he feels his heart breaking as Sam turns away from him.
“Fine.” Sam stiffens, everything about him hardening and he pushes the door open and slams it shut. Dean doesn't even have the energy to tell him not to. He watches Sam as he walks across the coach park, watches as his brother gets on the bus that is going to take him away. And its only when the tail lights of the bus fade into the distance does Dean lets the tear fall.
“What'll you have?” The bar girl leans provocatively over the bar, flashing ample cleavage and a mega watt smile at Dean.
“Jack...leave the bottle.” Dean's tone is standoffish. He knows, he can hear it. But he wants to get stinking drunk before he even thinks about picking up some random woman and losing himself in her.
The hunt had bought Dean within 5 miles of Palo Alto. Dad, strangely, letting him go off on his own without so much as a “look after yourself”. And Dean knows its because Dad is sick of Dean turning over in his sleep, waking and searching out Sam. His eyes unconsciously searching the other bed. He's felt Dad's eyes on him more than once and has shrugged off the unasked questions regarding his actions. Not wanting to explain that it feels like part of him is missing without Sam, without his brothers skin under his hands, under his lips. How do you tell your father that for the year before Sam left, you were sharing his bed? Doing things that no brothers should do? That you knew the noises that escaped your brother throat right before he came?
2 years, his mind goes back to the length of time, 2 years. And he has wanted to, so many times, wanted to pick up the phone, call Sam, tell Sam to come home, tell Sam that he can't live without him, that things don't mean as much when he can't share them with Sam. But his fingers have always falter halfway through dialling and he's more often than not got hammered afterwards, washing the taste of Sam from his mouth with whatever alcohol he could find.
Its half a bottle of Jack later, closer to two thirds actually, when Dean decides that enough is enough. No more brooding about Sam. He spins a little unsteadily on his stool and casts his hunter eye around the bar. Noting the exits, the entrances, the possible threats, before settling his gaze on a pretty little thing in the far corner, watching Dean back with come hither eyes and a body to match.
Dean slips off the stool, proud of himself when he doesn't fall, and saunters over, casting looks across the bar as he does, his instincts never really dampening, no matter how drunk he is. The girl slouches slightly, in a pose that Dean guesses is meant to be alluring, her hip sticking out, fingers resting on the waist band of her too short jean skirt. Dean flashes his patented Dean Winchester grin as he gets closer and notices the blush that blossoms across her cheeks and the hunger that seeps into her eyes.
She parts her lips when he stops in front of her, pink tongue darting out to moisten them, before pulling the bottom one between her teeth. Dean suppresses a laugh, the mating ritual of thousands of women, if only they knew how old it got, and how quickly.
“Hi.” She says coyly. But her eyes betray her, this one is so far from coy its not funny. Dean nods once, leans forward and places his glass on the table behind her.
“Hi.” He breathes into her ear, his hand placing a ghost of a touch against her hip.
“Missy.” She sticks her hand out, and Dean takes it. It's small and warm and soft, and he can't shake the feeling that it should be large and work rough like Sam's.
“Dean.” He announces, slipping into his native Kansas accent, knowing from past experience that it works most of the time. She smiles up at him and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers dragging down her throat and Dean makes a show of following the gesture. Its all to easy to fall into the pattern, spin a lie, light touches that leave them wanting more, but look like nothing to outsiders, cheeky grins and soft words that make her lean in to hear properly over the noise of the bar. Dean has done this a thousand time, and will do it a thousand more. Its his defence mechanism, his way of getting over the fact its brown expressive eyes, large hands and hard muscles he wants under his hands. Not her.
The lie he's spinning tonight is so inconsequential, a means to an end, that he has to think when she asks him a question. Each time she asks. He hasn't thought this one through properly, but she seems to be buying it. Dean is fingering the bottom of her tiny t-shirt when a large hand on his shoulder sends him practically sprawling into her. Its only his training that has him stopping short of spilling the girls drink down her front.
“The hell?” He spins, fists already clenched at his sides, and comes face to face with another fist. Knuckles connect with his jaw and Dean is on the ground, the shock of being caught unaware and un-ready making him double over.
“Get your hands off my girl.” The guy is big, bigger than Dean, and Missy is looking scared now. Dean groans as he pulls himself off the floor. He'd wanted a good, nameless, no strings attached fuck tonight, but a fight is the next best thing.
“Don't see your name on her man. And she's got enough skin showing that I should be able to.” Dean drawls. Missy huffs, and boyfriend has to hold her back. Great, he thinks, now everyone wants a piece. Its not until the guys eyes narrows in anger that Dean realises that the bar has gone quiet, people are staring and Dean hates that. Hates the focus on him unless he's asked for it.
The guy draws his fist back again and Dean braces himself for the punch, wanting to feel something other than dead inside. He shuts his eyes and when it doesn't come, and a howl of pain makes it's way to his ears, he opens his eyes back up again.
And the sight that greets him, makes him want to shut them again, because he's evidently drunk far too much and now he's hallucinating.
Sam, Sammy, has got his abnormally large hand wrapped around the guys fist and is squeezing, Dean can see the veins in his brother's arm sticking out and god he wants to run his fingers over them, to run his tongue over them like he used to.
Dean can't quite see straight, not when Sam elbows the guy in the face and brings him to his knees. Not when Sam turns to Dean with a look that he can't read. But its a mixture of disappointment, pleasure, lust and confusion. Dean grins, his shit eating grin that masks every emotion he's feeling and wobbles on his feet, alcohol running through his veins making his body sing with the need for Sam's hands on him. Sam automatically reaches out and steadies him. Dean shrugs him off.
“Get off me man.” He slurs. And he can't remember being this drunk, not before butch boyfriend slugged him. And he thinks maybe its the adrenaline. He shakes his head to clear it, bad idea, his mind taunts. Sam swims in front of him.
Sam sighs and takes Dean by the elbow, guiding him out of the bar, into the cool night. And Dean wants to drag him round the back of the bar, push him against the wall and make Sam beg for him.
Sam looks past Dean when Dean lifts his head. Dean turns in the direction that he's looking, and sees a group of people huddled together near a car, all looking out of place. Dean shrugs Sam off again.
“Sam?” A blond girl with soft wavy hair steps forward from the group, her voice gentle and worried. Sam smiles gently in return.
“S'ok Jess. Just rescuing a...friend. Gonna take him back to his motel. I'll...uh...see you guys later, ok?” There is a pause, the guys look at each other and Jess stares at Sam, trying to read his expression and Dean wants to run his hands up Sam's arms in a gesture of possessiveness. But the alcohol is rising in his throat and he turns away and throws up into the hedge, edging the car park. He hears Sam sigh and Jess take a step towards him.
“You gonna be ok?” She asks.
“Fine, Jess. Promise. I'll see you tomorrow ok?” Dean turns in time to see Sam's finger circle Jess's wrist and grace her with a Sammy Winchester smile. Not quite as good as a Dean Winchester smile, but it gets Sam what he wants. A nod, a hand on his face and the sound of gravel spinning as the car full of college students pulls out of the car park. Sam turns to Dean.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks. Dean wobbles again and Sam catches him. Again.
“Working.” Dean snaps. “Remember?” Sam flinches at the scorn in his voice. Dean doesn't know what he's asking Sam to remember but he wants to take it back. But when Sam looks back at him, face all hard and unfeeling, Dean takes a step back.
He's outrageously drunk, shouldn't be taking to his brother in this state, because he might just let things slip that he doesn't want to slip. Sam reaches for him again and for one insane moment Dean thinks he is going to kiss him. But Sam curls his fingers around his arms, spins him and pushes him towards the Impala. Dean resists, limbs heavy with alcohol and the feeling of Sam's hands on him again, and stumbles. Sam doesn't catch him this time. Just pushes him against the Impala, digging his hands into Dean's pocket. Dean can't help but arch into him.
“That desperate for me hey Sammy?” He drawls. Sam pulls the car keys out and waves them in front of Dean's face. He reaches behind Dean, pulls open the door and shoves Dean inside. His face is hard and impassive when he slips into the drivers seat next to Dean. His fingers curl around the steering wheel, clutching so hard his knuckles have gone white and even through the Jack haze Dean can tell his brother is pissed. More pissed than he's seen him in a long time. Probably because Dean hasn't seen Sam for a long time. Well, he's seen him. Not seen him to talk to, but spied him when hunts have taken him to California and Dean has driven without thinking, ending up in Palo Alto, watching his brother like some damned stalker.
And now Sam is here, back in the Impala, within touching distance and Dean is so content suddenly that his limbs don't work. He turns towards the window and shuffles down in the seat.
“Its good to see you Sammy.” Dean mumbles, resting his head against the glass of the window as Sam studiously ignores the drunken comment, slips the car into the gear and pulls out of the car park. There is no need to idle chatter, no need for where you staying, because Sam knows Dean like the back of his hand, better than he knows him self, and he knows that Dean will be staying in a motel as close to the bar as he can.
The thrum of the engine, even though the journey back to the motel is no more than 5 minutes, lulls Dean into a stupor and he's only aware that they have stopped when Sam's hands are snaking under his arms and hauling Dean out of the car. Dean mutters into Sam's neck, and he can't help himself from licking the skin.
“Dean.” Sam's voice is hard, no nonsense.
“Sammy please.” Dean mutters, not quite sure what he's asking, begging, for. Sam fumbles in Dean's jacket pocket, pulling the room keys out. He props Dean up against the wall as he undoes the lock. And Dean reaches forward, plasters himself against Sam's back, soaking up the warmth through his thin t-shirt, feeling the way his brother's heart thumps heavily in his chest. Sam sighs again and manages to get them both through the door without causing injury to either one of them. Unwrapping Dean from Sam's back proves harder because Dean doesn't want to let go. He buries his nose into Sam's neck again, inhaling the scent that he swears he can still smell on his clothes sometimes, if he breathes in deep enough. Sam takes his hands and there is a moment when they both teeter, both unsteady for entirely different reasons and then Dean is being shoved onto the bed by a large hand that leaves a warm mark on his chest, practically burning through the faded material of his t-shirt. Burning through it, through his skin, his flesh, searing on to his heart. He thinks he must be drunker than he realises if he's spouting chick flick nonsense.
Sam is looking down at him, world weary expression on his face. His hands are on his hips, outlining his body and Dean's breath catches in his throat.
“When did you get so manly, Sammy?” He mutters, pushing himself upright and wobbling yet again on his feet. Sam forgets himself, makes to steady him before pulling back without touching Dean. And there is careful consideration in Sam's movements, in his expression. Dean gets the feeling he's holding something back, not letting Dean see all of him.
Sam rubs a hand over his face and paces the room. He stops at one of the walls and leans back against it. His head makes a dull thud against the plaster.
“You pushed me away Dean. And now you show up. Wanting...Jesus, did it never occur to you that I might have a life now?” Sam demands, running a hand through his hair. Christ Dean has missed that. Missed the simple gestures that drive him crazy.
“Dean, you can't keep doing this. Can't keep showing up here.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean manages to make the journey from the edge of the bed to the wall, where Sam is leaning, without breaking anything or falling over. And he's ridiculously pleased with himself, until Sam tips his head forward and stares at Dean. There is anger swirling under the liquid brown of his eyes and Dean automatically takes a step back, because he's not steady enough on his feet to fight with Sam. And he knows he will probably lose if Sam throws a punch. He's been losing to Sam since Sam started this. Since Sam made the first move.
“Dean...I...I know you've been here before. I...feel you when you're here.” Dean honestly wasn't expecting that. Was expecting Sam to say that he had seen him, that he wasn't as sneaky as he thought. But Sam felt him. Sam knew he was there without actually knowing it. There is a flicker of something under the anger in Sam's eyes and Dean takes his chance. He's plastered in front of Sam again before Sam can argue. Sam's breath is hot against his cheek, and Dean has his hand resting on Sam's hips, finger digging in slightly. And the selfish part, the possessive part of Dean's mind want to mark him, send him back to Jess with Dean's finger prints on his hips, on his thighs.
“You feel me Sammy? You feel this?” Dean inches his fingers into the waist band of Sam's jeans. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, wraps a hand around Dean's wrist. And he's not telling Dean to stop, not pulling hand out or pushing it further in. So Dean takes that as a good sign and inches forward, crowding Sam with his presence and tugs gently with his hand. Sam's grip loosens and Dean grabs the opportunity. Wrapping his fingers around Sam's cock. Sam drags a deep breath in, its shaking and ragged and exactly what Dean feels right now.
“Dean...” Sam sounds desperate, broken, wanting more yet wanting to push Dean away and keep up the pretence that he doesn't want this. Dean knows that tone, used to far too many times to count of Sam, when 17 year old Sam, just about grown into long arms and legs, hair falling into his eyes, came to Dean, pressed kisses to the back of his neck and coaxed him into something he wasn't even sure he wanted until Sam was pressed behind him, his hands running down his chest, worming their way into his pants.
Sam is arching into him now. Hips moving of their own accord even though he lets out an almost silent no, the word quiet, barely heard over the sound of Dean's blood coursing through his veins. Dean knows this dance, knows the steps by rote. Knows that even though Sam is whispering no, he wants this with every fibre of his being. The way his body reacts to Dean's touch, and the way Sam looks at him, with fire in his eyes, and the way Sam isn't pushing him away tells him that.
And he knows his no's will turns into yes's soon enough.
“S'ok Sammy.” Dean murmurs on to Sam's collar bone. “Just...let me.” Dean moves his hand, slowly, agonisingly so, and Sam fists the material at the front of Dean's t-shirt and drags Dean towards him, teeth colliding as lips touch for the first time in 2 years.
“Why?” Sam asks, teeth nibbling at Dean's lower lip. Dean tightens his grip on Sam's cock, just slightly, enough to drag the keening sound that he loves so much from Sam's throat.
“What?” Sam's skin tastes the same. Salty, sweet, like home. And he smells the same, sounds the same and Dean can't get enough. He spares a thought for the fact that Sam is stiffening, and Dean recognises the symptoms, he's about to push Dean away. So Dean goes for the kill. Twists his hand, thumbs over the head of Sam's cock, pressing his teeth into the juncture behind his ear and Sam legs give way. Its only the arm that Dean wound around his back that keeps him on his feet.
“Why didn't you call? You...Jesus Dean.” Sam trails off when Dean twists his hand again. He could honestly stay here forever, keeping Sam on the edge, his breathing loud in his ear, alcohol still humming through his veins, not dulling anything, heightening every single sensation.
“Could ask you the same thing Sammy.”
“Thought you didn't want me.” Sam manages to get his hands between them and pushes Dean firmly. Dean stumbles backwards, his legs hit the end of the bed and he ends up on his back with Sam firmly on top of him.
Sam is warm, hard, soft, gentle and strong all at once and his lips on Dean's neck make Dean arch his hips upwards.
“You're gonna be the death of me.” Sam is looking down at him, face serious, eyes searching Dean's. Dean feel stripped apart, laid bare, wide open and Sam is looking right down into his twisted soul. “Gonna fucking kill me.” He continues to say, whilst running a hand down Dean's side, fingers playing over ribs and scars. “You can't just show up here. I can't...” Dean doesn't know how Sam can still be talking. The power of speech lost to Dean when Sam crawled his way up his body and lay heavily on top of him.
Dean hooks a leg over Sam's and arches again. They both moan at the sensation the friction causes and suddenly Dean needs more. Needs more of Sam's skin under his hands, needs to feel Sam inside.
“Sammy...” Dean moans and something clicks in Sam's mind. Dean can practically see it, practically feel the way his brother stiffens, muscles clenching and throwing walls around him. Anger seeps back into his eyes and he grips Dean's arms tightly. Dean knows there are going to be bruises on his arms come morning.
“Shut up. Just...” Sam shakes his head, and it looks like he's trying to clear the fog in his own mind. “Christ Dean...I shouldn't want this.” Sam lunges for Dean, covering Dean's lips with his, marking him with teeth and kisses. He bites on Dean's lower lip, hard enough to draw a moan from Dean.
Dean knows that they shouldn't want this, shouldn't want to make each other crazy, shouldn't want to make the other come undone with words and touches. But he does, and he knows Sam does, not matter what he's murmuring against the skin of Dean's throat, words filled with contradictions. Its the only time they are completely honest with each other, without needing to speak, when they are helpless, needy, bucking into each other. Sam lifts himself slightly off Dean, large, strong hunter hand push him further into the mattress and fumble with his belt buckle, roughly pull his jeans down his thighs. The drag of Sam's fingers against Dean's skin is almost too much and Dean nearly comes right then in his pants, but Sam's hand snakes forward, wraps around Dean's cock and squeezes the base, making Dean groan and fist the coverlet on the bed in his hands.
“Duffle.” Dean breathes and there is a moment when Sam eyes flicker with worry, with apprehension and a hint of confusion. Because its been so long and they aren't really a hundred percent back to knowing instinctively what the other is thinking.
“Jesus Sammy...lube, in the duffle.” Dean drags out of his throat as Sam twists his hand slightly. Understanding creeps into Sam's eyes and he lifts himself off Dean. Dean is left cold for a few seconds, heartbeat pounding in his chest, his throat and he can hear Sam scrabbling around in his duffle.
Sam's back a few seconds later, heat emanating off him like a radiator, cock hard against Dean's, and Sam is wearing too much clothing. He manages to drag those words out and fumbles with Sam's shirt and push it off his shoulders. Sam pushes his jeans down his thighs and Dean bite back a laugh at the thought that Sam is still wearing jeans that are too big for him, too loose although Dean never complained, made getting him naked easier if buttons and flies were out of the equation.
Sam's cool, slick hand on him makes him buck upwards into Sam's fist. And whatever he's doing with his hand is driving Dean crazy enough to not notice the way his free hand snakes underneath him and fingers his hole. Sam pushes a long finger inside Dean. The under used muscles protest but Dean drags in a lungful of air and pushes back on Sam's hand. The feel of Sam inside him is almost too much, almost floods Deans mind with too much, not enough, more. But its when Sam pushes another finger inside him, all the while never taking his hand off his cock that Dean nearly loses it again.
“Not yet Dean.” Sam whispers, low and husky and Dean can do nothing but obey the dark order in Sam's voice. Sam scissors his fingers, curling them deep inside Dean, easing him open until Dean knows he can't take much more.
“Jesus Sammy, just...fuck...” The chuckle that Sam makes is dark, dirty, and so ridiculously hot.
“Fuck you Dean?” Christ Dean has missed Sam talking dirty. Its almost obscene coming from Sam, the good boy, the scholar, but that very fact makes it ten times hotter.
“Fuck yes.” Dean writhes, shifts, trying to get closer to Sam. But Sam's hand pushes him back down, palm against the skin of Dean's belly as he slicks himself up. His eyes have gone back to being unreadable. Dark brown, pupils large and black against the ring of brown, every emotion other than lust driven away, hidden and Dean shivers.
The shiver turns into a shudder when Sam lines himself up and pushes deep inside Dean in one thrust. Not giving Dean time to catch his breath. Dean grabs, scrabbles at Sam, finger clutching at any patch of skin he can reach, breath driven from him. Sam groans once, low in the back of his throat and moves. Hips drawing out and slamming back into Dean relentlessly. Dean can't deny that he didn't want this, he wanted this, animalistic Sam, Sam at his most basic, when nothing but need drives him into Dean over and over again, hitting the spot that forces curses and keens from Dean.
Its over far too quickly, hit blood practically boiling in his veins, his head exploding when he comes over Sam's hand, over his own stomach, and he sees stars, real little pinpricks of light and he thinks he's going to pass out until Sam's fingers dig into his hips and he bought back to reality with Sam coming too, grunting with the effort of holding himself up, hips buried so far in Dean he can feel every inch of him. Dean can see the veins in Sam's arms standing out again and this time he doesn't stop himself from reaching up and running his fingers over them, trailing them down. Sam shivers and collapses, pushing himself to the side, half on top of Dean. Dean resists the urge to snuggled further under the comforting weight of his brother. Instead he just lies there, listening to Sam breathe, and he can practically hear the words Sam wants to say hanging in the air between them. They make the hairs of Dean's arm stand on end like static.
“I can't...” Sam says, voice muffled my Dean's arm and the quilt, sleepy and sated.
“Can't what Sammy?”
Sam doesn't answer, just shakes his head slightly and turns it towards Dean, burying it in Dean's shoulder. Dean automatically winds his arms around him, manoeuvring them both until they are vaguely comfortable. Sam stiffens slightly, until Dean runs a hand down his back and Sam relaxes.
Dean knows that when he wakes up Sam will be gone, running back to Jess, scrubbing himself clean before he touches her again. Or he will wake up and creep out like a thief in the night, leaving his baby brother asleep in the cheap motel bed. He knows that. He also knows that his life is not enough for Sam, he's not enough for Sam. He can only give Sam this, his distorted view of love. But right now its enough.
And Dean knows this, with Sam asleep in his arms, might be just enough to keep him warm at night, keep him company when the nights get too long. Just might tied him over.
Until next time.
Tied Me Over