[FIC] The Summer We Spoke of Love - Part Two

[alexisjane]

The Summer We Spoke of Love - Part Two

Masterpost

Being back on the road didn't entirely suck. Sam had grown up driving around, spending long hours staring out the window, watching fields and towns and mountains pass him by, so there was a comfort, a familiarity to it. It was one of the great blessings in his life that he didn't suffer with carsickness so he could settle down with a book if he wanted to, or listen to Dean and John discussing music or cars or baseball or killing things. There was something about driving that took John out of himself. As soon as the wheels stopped turning, he would be focused, all his attention on the hunt or whatever they had rolled into that particular town to do. He would drink, almost as if he needed it to block out everything superfluous around him so he could get the job done. But when there was nothing to do but drive, he seemed to be able to let go for a little while. Sometimes they would end up singing at the top of their voices, trying to out do each other with volume more than talent. Unsurprisingly, John usually won that one on the rare occasions his competitive streak kicked in.

Sam's favorite pastime was when John would tell them stories. Most of the time, he'd tell hunting stories, his own or tales that he had heard from other hunters, but occasionally, he'd talk about his life before hunting, about his childhood or his time in the army. Sam knew Dean's favorites were the ones about their mom. He would go misty-eyed and keep asking questions, trying to string out the story as far as John could bear it to go, grasping at every last detail, even if he'd heard it a thousand times before.

Those stories meant less to Sam though. He'd seen pictures, and Dean talked about Mary, hell, his earliest memory was of Dean talking endlessly about how beautiful their mother had been and trying to sing the songs she had sung to him but not quite being able to remember the words. But despite Dean's best efforts to keep her a presence in their lives, Sam was never going to have that connection.

Sam's favorite stories were the ones that started with, "Sam, did I tell you about the time that Dean...?" They were usually hilarious. John would tell them with such gusto and Dean would blush and protest and earnestly correct him. There was one occasion when Sam was five or six, that he had peed his pants. He’d forgotten he needed the bathroom and had been laughing so hard at the story John was telling, it had just come out. He had been terrified for a split second when Dean and John had noticed but they’d waved it off like it was nothing, that the story was so funny, it was bound to happen to one of them. When Sam had said something about being glad it wasn't a scary story 'cause then he might have pooped himself, all three of them had started laughing so hard John’d had to pull the car over because he couldn't drive straight. But it had been a long time since their dad had felt like telling a story that good.


It was a strain for Sam and Dean to revert back to secrecy after the relative freedom of being at Bobby's. Most of the time the motel rooms had enough beds that they had to sleep separately and when they did have to share, Dean was too careful to let anything happen that might alert John's suspicions. So they were back to sneaking kisses when no one was looking, quick gropes against a tree on the early morning runs and holding hands under the covers.

One night Dean came back from the bar where he'd been hustling pool, a little more drunk than usual. John wasn't back and for some stupid reason Sam let Dean take him outside I've got an idea, Sam, come on! Don't be such a chicken.

Sam was on the brink of coming, his orgasm was right on the edge. Dean crowded over him, Sam's body completely covered. They were both still fully clothed except for where Dean's naked crotch was slapping against Sam's bare ass. Dean's sweaty hand was covering Sam's mouth. Sam didn't mind. Fucking his brother on the back seat of the Impala in the front of the motel was all kinds of crazy but it was also such a turn on, he was grateful for the help to keep quiet. He wasn't doing a great job of it when they heard their father unlock the door of the motel. Dean stopped moving as Sam went rigid in terror but then Dean's hips decided that was a bad idea and suddenly sped up, pounding Sam's prostate until he came, clenching hard around Dean's cock. Dean shot inside him just as John stuck his head back out of the door and called their names. They lay stock still, praying that it was dark enough that he wouldn't spot them or hear them breathing until they heard the door snick shut. Sam dragged Dean's hand off his mouth, where it was still clamped. "Jesus Fucking Christ, Dean," he hissed as Dean pulled out of him.

"Just...don't say anything, Sam!" Dean hissed back. "I'm gonna run get some sodas from the machine. You clean up. Meet you back here in five."

When they walked back into the room, sipping at their cans, smiling and joking, John barely even acknowledged them. Didn't notice their flushed faces or how their tee-shirts were soaked with sweat, just started reeling off a news report about disappearances in Wyoming. After that, Dean's new mantra became Careful's not enough. We have to be too careful, Sam.


About two weeks after leaving Bobby's, they hit a small town in Pennsylvania for what should have been an easy salt and burn. John and Dean went off to visit the family home, and dropped Sam at the town library to check out the local records. He was a little disappointed when John told him they'd pick him up in a couple of hours, he was hoping for some computer time that didn't involve dead people. After three hours, with no sign of them, he shuffled back to the motel in the blazing heat on foot. After ninety minutes of pacing and feeling like he was suffocating in the stifling room, the door burst open and John stumbled over the threshold, half-carrying, half-dragging a bloody and battered Dean.

For a second Sam was immobilized, his insides bottoming out as the fear flushed through him, until John said his name. Nothing else. No instruction or request. Just, "Sam." He didn't even raise his voice. Just that word snapped Sam into action. He'd patched both his father and brother up often enough to know the drill by muscle memory alone.

He rushed to the door and closed it as John set Dean carefully on the bed. As John started to gently remove Dean's clothes, cataloguing the injuries as he went, Sam set a bowl in the sink to fill with warm water, while he dug out the medkit from John's duffel. He grabbed towels from the bathroom, his chest tightening as he heard Dean cry out and then sob underneath John's muttered apologies.

By the time he got back to them, Dean was shirtless, bruises covering his body like a Rorschach print, left arm hanging limp from his distorted shoulder, blood smeared over him, crusty and so thick in places, Sam could practically taste it. John carefully pulled off Dean's jeans, checking his legs as he went, gingerly avoiding the horribly swollen left ankle. Sam watched his father in awe, like always, and only then noticed the huge ragged cut in the back of his neck.

"Dad, you're bleeding."

John didn't waver from his task. "I know Sam. It's not too bad. Let's deal with Dean first, okay."

Sam wanted to protest at the amount of blood soaked into his shirt and way the wound was still oozing but John's focus was on Dean's shins, feeling down his legs to his ankles, making Dean whimper when his fingers brushed the left one.

John stood, fingers gingerly touching the gash on his neck and wincing, as he said, "Dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle, bruised ribs not broken, I don’t think, and that slice your arm is going to leave a scar..."

"’S okay, Dad." Dean's voice was gravelled with pain. "’S not your fault."

But Sam could tell by the looks on both their faces that it was. "What happened?"

John turned away and walked to the kitchenette. Sam watched him go until Dean's knuckles brushed against the back of his hand. "Turns out...not a ghost." Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean tried to smile as Sam ran his fingers down the side of Dean's hand. "Poltergeist."

John stomped back over to them, cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey as he walked. "And not your biggest fan, judging by the mess you're in."

Dean took the bottle in his good hand, half-raised it but stalled, the full bottle too heavy. "Nah, I think she liked me plenty." He smirked at Sam, but Sam couldn't return it. Instead he put one hand on the base of the bottle and covered Dean's hand with his own, hoping their father wouldn't think anything of it and brought the bottle to Deans lips. Dean drank, keeping his eyes on Sam as he father fed him pills. He finished half the bottle while John sewed up the cut on his forearm, not letting his gaze leave Sam for longer than it took to wince or cuss.

By the time his father was bracing his knees against the side of the bed, cradling Dean's loose hanging arm, Dean could hardly sit upright. He had one arm slung around Sam's waist, his head resting on Sam's chest. John positioned himself. "You ready?" The question was more for Sam than Dean. Sam nodded, brought the scrunched up towel to Dean's mouth. Dean's lips parted half-heartedly, and Sam shoved it in. Then he took hold of the back of Dean's neck and braced him tight against his chest. John pushed hard, up and back, and the resulting pop was shockingly loud. Even with the towel in his mouth, Dean's screams were too. But they didn't last long. Sam felt himself panic when Dean went limp in his arms but John caught him and they gently laid him back on the bed. John checked his breathing and then they both got to work, wiping the blood and muck from his body, before John strapped Dean's arm against his chest and pulled the blankets up over him like he was a sleeping child and not a grown man unconscious from booze and pain.

Sam didn't want to see it, his father's tender care. He knew it wasn't a lie but it felt like a guilty conscience. Instead, he laid out scissors and the suture kit on the table, poured four fingers of Jack into a glass and waited. John flopped down, bone heavy into the chair in front of him, downed the whiskey, stripped off his shirt and bared his neck to his son without a word. Sam picked up the bottle and doused the wound, a sliver of guilt pricking him at the satisfaction he felt on hearing his fathers hissing in-breath. He refilled John's glass and then got to work, sewing his father back together the way that Dean had taught him, Keep the stitches close Sammy but don't pull too tight or the skin will push them right out. You're doing good. Just like that.

When he was done, John got up from the chair and grabbed a glass from the sink. He placed it next to his own and poured whiskey into both of them. He pushed one towards Sam with his fingertips. Sam reluctantly took it, swirling the liquid before asking, "Did you get it?"

John downed the shot and poured himself another. "Yeah. Yeah we got it."

Sam nodded. "Good." The whiskey burnt his throat but he didn't stop his father when he refilled the glass. Instead, he sat and kept vigil with him over Dean's sleeping, broken body. He was virtually unconscious when his father lifted him, cursing his adult frame, and laid him on the bed next to Dean. So he never felt his father kiss his temple or heard the breathy apology. Never knew that John sat back at the table to watch his sons sleeping with tears in his eyes until the sun came up.

What he did know was waking the next morning with Dean's breath on his face, then his soft, quiet lips on his, having that instant reassurance that Dean was okay, hurt but okay...he'd never been more grateful, even if it felt like the jackhammer in his head might actually kill him.

John left around lunchtime to pay up the motel room for a week. Sam was shocked when he came back and started throwing his things in his duffel. "You’re not staying? Did you get a call about a hunt?"

John looked at him, confused, like it was a completely unnatural question but then smiled, "No. I booked the single next door. Dean needs to rest, stay off his feet and I'll be damned if I'm gonna sleep on the couch for a week. The manager said there might be some casual work at the garage down the street..." He stopped packing and seemed to pause for a second before looking pointedly at Sam. "Do you mind sharing with your brother?"

Sam shook his head. "No. Although he's totally going to be a bitch about this invalid thing." He smiled.

John didn't. "I mean it, Sam. If you want to come stay in my room..."

Sam frowned, unsure as to what his father was fussing about, and snapped, "What? You think I can't take care of him?"

"Don't use that tone with me, Sam."

"Jesus, Dad..." Sam ran his hand through his hair and stiffened, feeling defensive and ready to respond in kind to the way John was bristling, but the sound of the toilet flushing made them both pause, their attention drawn to the bathroom door. After a moment it opened slowly. Sam rushed to Dean's side and helped him hobble back to the bed. "You should have called me."

Dean scoffed. "I can wipe my own ass, Sam. Stop fussing." He grimaced as Sam helped him lay back on the bed. It wasn't until he was fully settled that he noticed John's duffle at his feet. "You got a hunt already?"

John shook his head. "No, I figured if we're going to be here for a few, I should get my own room." He didn't wait for a reaction. "I'm gonna stow my gear and then go get some food. I won't be long." He strode across the room but paused with his hand on the door handle. "And Sam? You think about what I said, okay?"

There was a sincerity in his voice that made Sam feel profoundly uncomfortable but all Sam could manage was a scowl.

They heard the adjacent door open and slam. "What was that about?"

Sam shook his head and leant down to the fridge. "I dunno. Dad being a weirdo." He cracked the seal on a bottle of water and took a swig as he walked back to Dean's bedside. He handed the bottle to Dean as he flopped down next to him, frowning. "He doesn't think I can take care of you or something."

"Well, if you keep hogging the remote, I might have to agree with him." Dean was smirking but there were dark circles under his eyes and a sallowness to his skin, evidence of the combination of pain and pain meds taking its toll on his body. But still, he was smiling and it made Sam's heart hurt. He went to shove Dean affectionately but thought better of it. Forty minutes later, John returned bearing pizza, soda and beer, and the three of them ate and watched TV until Dean fell asleep. When John left, taking the remaining beers with him, he paused, as if he was going to say something important but all that came out was, "'Night, Sam."

Sam fell asleep with Dean's breath tickling his neck, wondering what John hadn't said.

The next morning, Dean's cock woke him. Blue light had just begun to filter through the curtains, overtaking the tungsten glow from the street. Dean's morning wood was pressing insistently into the crease where Sam's ass met his thigh. Sam grumbled at the rude awakening and then groaned. The thought of starting the day right, pulling down his pajamas spreading his cheeks, sliding down onto Dean's cock and riding Dean awake, took him from semi to fully hard in a heartbeat. There was no way Dean could cope with that. So instead he turned sleepily, snuggled into his big brother as best as he could without hurting him and fumbled his hand through the gap in the front of Dean's boxers. Dean didn't wake but his breath shuddered as Sam's hand started to move. He went slow and gentle, letting his thumb smooth over Dean's head, coaxing precome and shallow thrusts from Dean's hips. Sam squeezed himself through his pajamas and then brought his hand forward to cup Dean's balls through the thin material, rolling and gently squeezing as his other hand kept up the slow back and forth. Dean gasped awake. "Jesus, Sammy."

"'Morning, to you too." Sam tilted his head and kissed Dean, morning breath and all. Dean started to move his hips, fucking into Sam's hand but he immediately grimaced. Sam shushed him and whispered, "Don't Dean. You'll hurt yourself."

"But, Sam..."

"No, Dean. You move, I'll stop. Just let me do this."

Dean kissed him and awkwardly snaked his good hand up to cup Sam's face. As Sam kept stroking and caressing, dipping his thumb into the slit of Dean's head, rubbing the sensitive spot underneath, Dean's hand left Sam's cheek and bunched in the front of Sam's tee-shirt instead. He was hanging on for dear life, pressing his forehead hard to Sam's, his shallow breaths becoming harsh and ragged. Sam could tell he was close but didn't quicken the pace, just kept on with the slow, steady movement. Sam was so hard, it was killing him not to be able to touch himself or rub up against his brother. Dean's face was contorted, his mouth open, lips moist and pink, brow furrowed in concentration, breathing quicker and quicker.

Sam whispered, "Jesus Christ, Dean, you're so fucking beautiful..."

And that was all it took. For both of them. Dean's whole body spasmed, rocked by the intensity of his orgasm. He wrenched at Sam's tee-shirt as he double up and cried out. Sam heard the stitching rip at his shoulder and then he was coming, almost before he could get his hand off Dean's balls and down his own pajama pants. He stroked himself through the last pulses, while Dean kissed his face and neck. And then they lay there, breathing into each other's mouths, exchanging sleepy, fuck-drunk kisses, Sam's hands moving idly over their come-covered, oversensitive cocks until he heard a noise from the adjacent room. Suddenly he was wide-awake.

Dean looked at him, wide eyed. "Go!" Dean hissed but Sam was already moving. He bounded out of bed with sloppy hands, and just managed to make it to the bathroom door and close it as the motel door open and John walked casually in.

Sam quickly washed his hands and stomach, dumping the wet pajamas in favor of the previous day's boxers that he'd left on the bathroom floor. He could hear John and Dean talking and figured he shouldn't take too long. He flushed the toilet, waited a couple of beats and then wandered back in, trying to conceal his terror with his best I'm so sleepy, I couldn't possibly have just jerked off my brother look.

John was checking the bruising on Dean's ribs, and barely acknowledged Sam, much to his relief. Sam smirked when he saw how tightly Dean had wrapped the sheets around his waist. Dean smiled over John's shoulder, the corners of his mouth turning up just a little before sucking in a breath, hard and sharp.

"That sore?"

"Bruised ribs, Dad. What do you think?"

John smiled sadly at Dean and put his hand on his good shoulder. "Sorry, Son." He sat back and watched Sam walk into the kitchenette. "I'm gonna head and get some breakfast. Care to place an order?" Sam and Dean raised their eyebrows at each other. Sam wanted to ask if it was his birthday or something but instead popped out three ibruprofen into his hand from the blister packs on the counter and brought them over to Dean, who was waxing lyrical about pancakes and bacon and oceans of coffee. As he dropped the pills into Dean's outstretched palm, Sam felt John's hand pluck at the collar of his tee-shirt. "What happened here?"

Sam wasn't sure what he was talking about until he craned his neck around and saw that the fabric along the seam that ran from the collar to his sleeve had almost completely ripped away. Sam swallowed hard but shrugged and managed to sound casual. "Don't know. S'old. Maybe the washer tried to eat it or something."

John toyed with the fraying fibres for a moment then let his hand run up Sam's neck. He gripped him tight for a second and then said, "Change of plan. I'm gonna take Sam for breakfast so you can get some rest. And we'll bring you back all the pancakes we can manage."

Sam looked at Dean and saw the same question in his face that was running through his mind, but there was an edge to John's voice that they knew meant this wasn't a request.

Sam dressed quickly and followed his father out the door, looking back to give Dean a reassuring smile. It didn't seem like it did much good. Dean was paler than the night John had brought him home after ten rounds with the poltergeist.

Part Three  >>>>>>