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"This is bullshit, Sammy," Dean says. "You should know better than to argue this with me."
Sam slouches back further into the worn chair, tilts the bottle to his lips, toes off his boots and kicks them across the threadbare carpeting. Another 'sit tight, wait and see' night in a cheap motel room. This one's so seedy there's no television, not even an old black-and-white. This means Dean wants to talk, and lately that's not something Sam's real inclined to be happy about. One way or another, no matter what subject they start out with the discussion always seems to turn to...that. That...thing.
Dean finds it amusing that Sam's able to do it just fine, but when it comes down to talking about it? Not so much.
Sam takes another swig of the bottled rotgut before he comments, "It just sounds like noise to me. Always has."
"That’s on account of you have no taste," says Dean. "None whatsoever. Probably tone deaf to boot. That'd explain a lot."
"You're an ass, Dean," Sam says, and as soon as the word leaves his lips Sam knows this is where the topic will change. To that. Sam makes a mental note that the next time he slings a derogatory at his brother he needs to use words like dork, or dweeb, something that can't be used to swing the discussion in that direction.
Dean grins, that 'fuck yeah' grin of his, says, "There you go, talking about my ass again."
"Seems unavoidable." Sam sighs, resigned, takes another long pull of the bottom-shelf bourbon and offers the bottle to Dean. Alcohol, somehow, always makes it easier. The talking and the doing. The thinking about it afterward, well...Sam's still working on that one. He's not sure why it doesn't bother Dean. Maybe knowing you've only got a year to live and that you're going to Hell anyway makes a difference.
Dean takes the bottle, downs a few gulps to catch up with Sam before he hands it back. "What's eatin' you, Sammy? Nothing's gonna happen tonight, and Bobby'll call if it does. Relax. You look more tense than a prom night wallflower."
Sam shrugs. He doesn't want to talk about this, but it's preferable to discussing Dean's ass, he supposes. Well, except for the fact that the half bottle of bourbon he's consumed in less than an hour is beginning to land. Hard. This is the part where it gets easier. "Not much in the mood for talking, Dean." Sam swills down more liquor and hands the bottle over.
"Then what're you in the mood for? It's early, no TV, no radio, don't even have a fuckin' deck of cards," Dean says, irritated. "I need something to take my mind off shit." He throws back another long swallow. The bottle goes on a rickety nightstand, not back to Sam's hand.
"Go take a walk or something, Dean," Sam says, just as irritated as his brother. Maybe more so, and certainly a few notches drunker. "Getting on my damn nerves."
Dean rises from his perch on the edge of the sagging mattress. He crosses the musty old rug, comes to halt a half step from Sam, wedges his knee between Sam's and gives them a knock. "This guilt crap's gettin' old, Sammy. Why you keep hangin' onto it?"
Sam smirks. "You got your one-way ticket already," he says. "I don't. Unless you see this as a way to guarantee I'll be there to keep you company someday." Sam looks over at the security blanket posing as a liquor bottle, then slides his gaze back to Dean. "That your plan, Dean? Keep knocking boots with your little brother, get him dirty enough to buy passage on the express elevator going down?"
Dean backs off, goes and gets the bottle and finishes half of what's left. He holds it out for Sam, knows Sam wants it, needs it, craves it. Just like something else. Dean holds the bottle by the neck and swings it slowly back and forth, taunting. "Come and get it, Sammy."
"The booze, or you?"
"Two for the price of one," Dean grins, and pours the remains of the bourbon down the front of his t-shirt.
"You son of a bitch," Sam growls, lunges at his brother, and Dean swears that for a split second he sees a glint of amber flash behind Sam's blue-green eyes.
Dean's heart skips several beats, blood rushes to his head, and all he can hear is his own pulse pounding and the faint echo of how certain are you that what you brought back is one-hundred percent pure Sam?
Dean's on his back on the lumpy mattress, his shirt pulled up and off, Sam's mouth nursing stale, cheap bourbon off one of his nipples. "I'll piss you off more often if this is the result I can expect," Dean says, words ending with a sharp hiss when Sam bites down. Sam's fingers tug at the waist of Dean's pants, blue jeans and plaid boxers hauled down below Dean's hips before he knows what's hit him.
This is the part where Sam abandons his guilt and all rational thought, doesn't give a good shit about his soul or where it'll end up, because all he cares about now is the fact that Dean's under him, hot, willing, and wanting him.
It's over quick this time, fast and rough, louder than usual. Messier.
When he can breathe again Dean slings his legs over the edge of the bed, slaps Sam on the ass before he heads off to take his customary après-fuck piss. "So, what kind of music do you like to listen to? You made it abundantly clear you think my musical taste is for shit."
Sam scoots back and sits up, rests his back against the drab, creaky headboard. "I don't know anymore. It doesn't really matter."
Dean shrugs and nods, can't come up with a good enough argument to bother so he heads for the can. It takes some effort in a room he can barely turn around in, but somehow Dean manages to avoid the mirror. He does his business quick, flushes, even manages to be civil and wash his hands.
The room stinks of spunk and sweat and substandard whiskey. Right now Sam likes it that way, if the strangely vacant smile on his face is any indication. Dean's now the one with issues. At the moment, Dean's not real certain it was his brother who'd just fucked him, and he's not real sure if he wants to know.
Dean figures he'll find out one way or the other in a little less than a year.