Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Title: (Wise Men Say) Only Fools Rush In
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word count: 10, 575
Spoilers: none, save for subtext between brothers.
Warnings: graphic m/m sex, incest, top!Sam, mild D/s overtones…crack?
Prompt: Written for undermistletoe's Cliches and Crack Days; They can't be more than ten feet away from one another or ___ happens.
Notes: I cannot even begin to imagine what this fic would’ve turned out like had it not been for my lovely beta technosage reining me in and forcing me to be “good” and not “crappy/mediocre” like I wanted to be. Kisses, baby! ♥




 

Later, Dean would remember that Certain Doom smells a lot like fried chicken.

He lowers his GLOCK 45 in the alley, squinting to find the shadowy creature grinning back at him through slitted, yellow eyes and teeth that would’ve sent a dentist screaming into the night. The fact that the damn thing’s still breathing, much less mocking him with bad dental hygiene, is a bit of an insult given the row of silver bullets still smoking holes in its chest.

“You’re gonna regret that,” it sings, voice a shrill promise that has Dean’s jaw working in tandem with his shoulder as he readies the pistol again. But the creature’s already shifting form, melting away with a high-pitched cackling that makes Dean’s skin crawl. He mutters a curse and starts forward.

The sound of skidding feet on pavement halts his pursuit of the unknown threat and he barely has time to lower his weapon before Sam’s ripping it out of his hand, expression furious and more than a little concerned.

“Damn it, Dean, I told you to wait for me,” his brother snits, eyes doing an automatic search over Dean’s body for any possible injury. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Dean shrugs, flashes a weak smile. “See bad guy, shoot gun?”

But Sam’s hardly amused. Horrified would be a more apt description for the way his brother’s eyes round, lips pressing into a hard, flat line. “Tell me you didn’t,” he hisses, an impressive feat through tightly clenched molars.

Dean can feel a surge of annoyance building as he shakes off Sam’s hold and stumbles away to the sound of a scuffle breaking out between two alley cats somewhere nearby. “Pull your panties outta your crack, man, I had it under control.” Sam’s staring at him, breathing hard, and a flush begins to work its way up Dean’s neck. He reaches back to scratch at an unknown itch. “Okay, maybe I shoulda waited for you. But I had the chance, so I took it.”

Sam’s been silent way longer than usual considering the mad-on written across his features. But at that he explodes into motion, crowding Dean up against a cold brick building, hands knotted in the flannel stretching across Dean’s chest. “It was an imp, Dean.”

Dean’s brows cock. “A what?” Sam narrows his eyes, and it hits him. “Oh. Oh. Damn, I didn’t know those were real.”

“Everything fucked up and ridiculous is real,” Sam grits out, and Dean has to smirk at the frustration coloring his little brother’s voice.

“Not gonna get any argument from me, Sammy. I watch the presidential elections.”

Not even a twitch of lips. Dean sighs; Sam glares. “Just tell me you didn’t piss it off,” Sam says in a slightly pleading tone. When Dean doesn’t answer, his pained expression grows even more foreboding and his fingers grip Dean’s shirt tighter. “What did you do?”

“Hey. Dude, you’re starting to piss me off,” Dean growls, smacking Sam’s hands away and shoving his brother back. They’re both huffing and puffing now, and Dean doesn’t even know what they’re arguing about. Not that they ever really need a reason. “What’d you expect, Sam? The damn thing was terrorizing the locals…should I have bought it a steak dinner and discussed its feelings before wasting it?”

“This is so not even funny, Dean—”

“Yeah, no kidding.” He props a heel up against the wall, eyeing Sam with cool consideration. “You ready to tell me what the hell’s got you acting like the sky’s fallin’, Chicken Little?” He pauses, snickers a little. “Okay, that was funny.”

Sam glares down at him from a good three inches, and Dean’s chuckles just grow louder. “Hilarious,” Sam deadpans. “I hope you keep your sense of humor when that thing gives us a pair of donkey ears and a tail.”

The laughter chokes in his throat. “What?”

There’s a glitter of something distinctly mercenary in Sam’s gaze. “Then again, it’ll probably just be you. I wonder if there’s a zoo around here…you’ll have to fit in somewhere until I can find a counter-spell.”

“I will kill you dead and burn the bones.” There’s a beat of silence, and then Dean adds hesitantly, “So, what’re we dealing with here?”

Thankfully Sam doesn’t point out that it probably would’ve been a good idea if they’d figured that out first, but Dean’s already kicking himself for ditching Sam at the library for the Fresh Doughnuts! sign across the street. If not for his damn sweet tooth, he never would’ve been in the alley when that damn thing had shown up.

“They’re imps, Dean,” Sam explains in a longsuffering tone that makes Dean long to shove a fist in Sam’s mouth. Knock a few of those pretty white teeth crooked and loose. “Pranksters, more mischievous than malevolent.”

“Semantics,” Dean grouses, already starting to remember certain details about the spirits in question. His eyes close briefly. “These things…they usually serve witches, right? Evil henchmen.”

Sam’s sigh is deep and beleaguered. “All witches aren’t evil, Dean.”

Dean waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, and wendigos are just emotionally misunderstood. Spare me the politically correct crap, Sam. The point is, these guys serve the bad ones. Right?”

Sam’s features are twisted like he just found a half a dead cockroach in his macaroni casserole. “And you went and shot one. Jesus Christ.” He rubs a hand down his face while Dean’s stomach takes a roiling turn for the worse.

“Fucking wonderful,” he mumbles, recalling the creature’s parting words. “Man, a tail so does not go with these jeans.”

Sam ignores the lame attempt at a joke in favor of studying the area where the imp had been before it vanished. When he turns to look at Dean again, there’s a pensive look on his face. “When you shot it, it disappeared, right? There are texts that say these things are sometimes contained in an artifact…a gemstone or an amulet. They’re summoned.”

“Just keeps getting better and better.” Dean grimaces. “And we have no idea what this artifact is or where it’d be.”

Sam’s features are anxious and more than a little sympathetic. “Right now, I think that’s the least of our worries.”


 

Sam remembers waking up to Jessica’s voice, warm and husky-soft with sleep. He remembers slow, lazy kisses in bed and how incredible that was compared to the many mornings he’d awoken to the sound of his father’s gruff voice, declaring they had to be on the road before dawn. He’s clinging to a whisper-thin memory of those sweeter days when a loud thump jerks him awake, followed by a sleep-roughened growl of “Shower. Gonna.”

Sam considers pulling a pillow over his head as Dean stumbles by his bed, but settles for slinging an arm over his eyes and grunting out, “Don’t use all the damn towels” in as threatening a voice as he can manage due to the blinding pain in his forehead.

Okay, so that last round probably hadn’t been the best idea. But hell, they’d both been freaked out, and a freaked out Dean Winchester was scarier than coming across Marilyn Manson and Michael Moore in a dark alley. Together. Without a machete. But the bottom line was, the countless amount of tequila and gin and one extremely drunken cab ride back to the motel had been worth the look of relief on Dean’s face when they’d both realized his brother had gotten off scot-free for screwing around with the minor daemon.

A smile flirts at the corner of his lips and he rolls onto his back, arms behind his head. The room’s blessedly quiet; he can’t even hear the sound of Dean puttering around in the bathroom, which is…odd. His brother isn’t the most graceful person in the morning, but Sam supposes Dean’s being extra careful due to his own hangover.

“What the fuck, Sammy?”

Sam eyes fly open to find Dean standing over him, sheer panic sharpening his red-rimmed green gaze. “Dean?” Sam forces out, throat thick with surprise and concern as Dean slaps a hand out and nearly knocks over the cheap lamp covering a questionable scorch mark on the wooden nightstand. “What…?”

“Why didn’t you answer me?” Dean’s already talking over him, words fast and angry. “I almost broke my neck, jackass!”

Sam can only stare, mouth wide open. A beat passes, and then, “Dean. What are you talking about?”

Dean’s face turns so red that Sam’s momentarily fascinated. “I was…in the bathroom I…” He grits his teeth and blurts out, “I couldn’t see, Sam.”

The immediate knot of fear begins to unravel in his belly, and Sam presses the heel of his hand against his left eye before sinking back against the headboard. “Okay, that’s it. You gotta stop denying that you’re near-sighted, Dean. We’re getting your eyes checked if I have to drag you to Wal-Mart myself.”

“Wal-Mart…the fuck?” Dean’s on the bed in an instant, dragging Sam up and nearly shaking him silly. “I couldn’t see,” he repeats on a rough hiss of breath. “Like, at all! I went fucking blind in there, Sammy, and nearly brought down the shower rack on my head! And I called for help but you were too busy doing God knows what to bother answering me!”

Sam reaches up for his brother’s trembling hands, taking careful note of his pale, shell-shocked features. Dean’s freckles are standing out in stark relief and it’s a grim reminder of a tiny hospital room and a sickeningly hopeless feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Hey,” he begins, licking his lips and trying to keep calm until he can figure out whatever’s going on. “Relax, okay? Just…look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” Dean says through his teeth, but his fingers lose the death grip on Sam’s shoulders.

“Like you’re gonna stake me through the heart,” Sam cracks weakly. “Okay, you went…blind.” It’s a struggle not to cringe as the words come out of his mouth. “And you were crying out for me?”

Dean tries to hide his own wince, sitting back on the bed and running a hand down his face. “Christ, when you say it like that, it sounds so…”

“Unbelievable?”

“Pathetic,” Dean finishes, glaring. “And I was not crying out for you, dude. Get over yourself.”

Sam’s hands fly up in exasperation. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell…” He trails off, eyes widening. “Oh, crap.” He catches Dean’s stare, sees his brother reach the same conclusion, but he’s already jumping out of bed and fumbling with his shirt as the words trip over his tongue. “It must’ve gotten you after all, Dean.”

“No shit!” Dean’s on his feet, too, all ten fingers dragging through tufts of close-cropped hair. “Son of a bitch! So, what, the damn thing straight up Helen Keller’d me?”

“Maybe it was just a momentary glitch,” Sam offers. “Maybe it didn’t go through all the way.”

“Maybe it didn’t go through all the way?” Dean parrots, sounding more and more hysterical with every syllable. “Jesus Christ, why does that freak me out even more?”

Sam stares at him for a long moment, then reaches out and grabs Dean’s arm. “Go back in there.”

“No fucking way!”

“Fine, then I will,” Sam grits out, already turning and stomping toward the bathroom. He can hear Dean bitching, and slams the door with a satisfying crack of sound. Only…there’s no sound. Not even the loud buzzing of the crappy air conditioning unit that’d put up a hell of a fight to keep him awake last night. Just…nothing.

And that’s when Sam loses it.


 

Dean wishes he knew the exact moment his life went from manageably Fucked Up, to Complete Fucking Sideshow. He figures it was probably somewhere in the middle of the hour and a half he and Sam just spent testing out the limits and repercussions of the whammy put on them by some damned jokester spirit.

Sam’s pacing back and forth across the threadbare carpeting, talking nonstop and generally looking like his head might start spinning around in circles any moment. It’s a sight Dean might’ve found slightly amusing, if not exasperating, not even twelve hours ago. But right now? He’s trying to keep his own pea soup vomit down.

“I just don’t get it,” Sam finally comes to a close several long minutes later. “Why curse us both? And what the hell kind of curse makes it so you can’t be more than ten feet away from someone or else you lose a vital sense?”

“And why couldn’t it’ve been with Angelina Jolie?” Dean adds, frowning at the absolute unfairness of it all. “Like I’m not stuck with your ass enough as it is.” He flops back onto one of the beds, ignoring the heat from Sam’s Bitchy Glare of Doom. “Christ, why couldn’t I have been the one not to hear anything, you fucking griper?”

“Oh, this is so typical,” Sam snarls, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “I told you to wait for me! Why do you always have to play the goddamn hero, Dean?”

“We all gotta have a hobby,” Dean snaps, sitting up and barely resisting the urge to lob his pillow at his whiny younger brother. “Hey, here’s an idea, Sam. Instead of bitching, why don’t you fucking help me figure out how to fix this mess?”

Sam grinds his teeth, but he's visibly chilling out. “Okay. Okay, we just…” He drags in a deep breath, shoving hair off his forehead. “We just need a starting point.”

“Library?” Dean wonders, picking at a frayed thread along the seam of his shirt.

“Yeah, because that worked so well the last time.”

“You’re just pissed it hexed you, too,” Dean mumbles, glancing up to gift Sam with a thin smile. “So, if not the library, then what? I doubt we’re gonna find any fartsy little occult shops in the middle of Bumfuck, Missouri.”

At that, Sam gets a look on his face that Dean knows all too well. It usually precedes hours of long driving, or digging through piles of dusty, rotting textbooks, and Dean bites back a groan. “Can’t we just use the laptop?”

Sam’s expression melts into confusion, and then he rolls his eyes. “Look, I know this place that might help.” At Dean’s questioning glance, his brother shifts a bit uncomfortably. “I, uh, took a class on the occult my first year at Stanford, okay? Just as a precaution.”

Dean’s openly gaping at him now.

“Anyway,” Sam growls, flushing a little as he turns half-away. “I met this guy, all right? He specializes in this kinda stuff. Has a shop and everything, he might be able to tell us what the hell’s going on.”

Dean’s not quite ready to swallow the revelation that Sam apparently wasn’t as normal as he’d pretended during his years away, but lets it slide for now. “So where is this genius?”

“Las Vegas,” Sam admits, scratching the back of his neck. “He, uh, works part-time as a magician in one of the hotels.” His eyes dare Dean to say anything, but Dean’s too busy whistling his approval.

“Sweet.”

Sam huffs out a laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So. The sooner we leave…”

Dean nods, giving a little sigh at the thought of the thirty some-odd hour drive ahead. Then he brightens. “Tell ya what, Sammy. I’ll even let you take the first leg.” He grabs up his set of keys from the table, tosses them at Sam. His brother catches them to his chest, eyebrow disappearing beneath the fringe of his bangs.

“Let me?”

“Well, you know. In case anything happens, you just can’t hear. I’ll run us into a pole or somethin’.” Dean flashes a smug smile, turns away and starts rolling his clothes back up and into his duffel.

“We’re not gonna be more than ten feet away from each other in the Impala.”

“Can’t be too careful. And hey, Sam? Fuck with my music and your little magic friend’s gonna have more to fix than just your hearing.”


 

The motel they pull into hours later gives Sam the hives before they’re even out of the car. He catches Dean’s apologetic shrug and sighs, hitching the door open. The vacancy sign fizzes and crackles above their heads, several bulbs burned out and missing, and Sam looks away as they enter the makeshift lobby. Dean’s already working his mojo on the overweight, stoic-faced woman manning the desk, and Sam stays well within range leaning against the wall as he watches his brother try to talk the clerk into a cheaper rate. He overhears the infamous question: “King or two queens?” in a scratchy, feminine drawl, and refrains from rolling his eyes as Dean automatically starts to answer.

“Two—”

Sam cuts him off. “We’ll take a king.”

Dean turns around, staring at him like he’s lost his mind while the woman eyes them up and down and smirks. Sam can feel a flush creeping its way up his neck, but ignores both it and Dean as he steps forward. “And if you have anything on the end of the lot…maybe something without occupying guests next door?”

“Sam,” Dean starts between his teeth.

“Yeah. Sure,” the woman says knowingly, taking the wad of cash from between Dean’s outstretched fingers and showing her teeth. “Won’t have any interruptions, I can guarantee.”

Sam manages a smile, grabs Dean and the key the woman offers and bolts. They aren’t five feet outside before Dean whirls around and shoves him. “The fuck was that about, Sam?” he growls, sounding more irritated than Sam really feels the situation warrants. Hell, it’s not like it’s the first time people have intimated they were a couple or some such shit, and Dean’s usually a way better sport about it than Sam.

“What if the beds are too far away from each other?” he asks pointedly, seeing the understanding shift across his brother’s features. “We’re out of salt. You really wanna risk being vulnerable in the middle of the night?”

“We coulda just pushed them together,” Dean mutters, but he no longer looks ready to maim and destroy.

“What if they’re nailed to the floor?” Sam lifts a brow at Dean’s snort. “Look. It’s a big bed…I think we can handle it for a few nights. We’ve dealt with worse, right?”

Dean grudgingly makes a sound of agreement, and then adds: “You just better keep your monkey arms and beanpole legs on your side.”

“And you better keep your damn knife collection on yours,” Sam snaps.

Dean slowly breaks out into a smile. “Fair enough.”

They empty the Impala of necessities and head for the room all the way at the other end of the parking lot. Sam slides the key inside the lock, pushing the door open as Dean pushes past him and throws the light switch. “Um…wow.”

“Dealt with worse, right?” Dean mimics him, dropping his stuff on the floor and turning to glare at Sam. “Dude, you just booked us the fucking honeymoon suite.”

Sam swallows, taking in the gaudy furnishings with a bit of hysterical amusement. There’s no mistaking the theme of the room, and his eyes catch on the condom dispenser winking at him from the open bathroom. “Damn, I didn’t even know motels this small had honeymoon suites.”

“That’s because anyone who can afford a goddamn honeymoon wouldn’t stay in a shithole like this,” Dean snaps, and even though he’s half-ready to strangle his brother, Sam can’t help but be perversely grateful for Dean’s whining. At least he can still hear it. “This is just great, Sam.”

Of course, being grateful only goes so far. “Hey, I’m not the one who needed fried doughnuts and got us into this in the first place!”

“Oh, sure, keep throwing that in my face.” A beat of silence passes, and then Dean curses. “I gotta take a dump.”

Sam’s head snaps up in horrified surprise. “Then go! I don’t wanna know about it, Jesus!”

Dean props his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Don’t move. If I go blind in the middle of battle, I swear I’ll—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam grits out, disturbed and embarrassed beyond belief, although he can’t really figure out why. He and Dean pretty much passed the line of too much information back when they were still teenagers sharing a bedroom, so he can’t quite figure out why this particular situation is fucking him up so bad. “Jesus,” he mutters again, quieter, turning his back as Dean stomps into the bathroom.

Only a moment of silence goes by before his brother’s head pops back out. “And don’t listen.”

“Oh, my God!” Sam groans, falling onto the bed and pulling a pillow over his face. The sound of the door slamming after Dean has him sagging in relief.


 

After a fairly sleepless night of tug-of-war over sheets and blankets, they take turns showering while the other sits nearby and watches the news. It takes everything Dean has in him not to walk into the bathroom and flush the toilet while Sam’s inside, but since he’s yet to take his own shower, he doesn’t want to afford Sam with a means for retribution. So he just sits, listening to some expressionless blonde anchorwoman go over the day’s stock trades and reports while munching on a bag of chili cheese Fritos he’d scavenged from the vending machine while Sam got ice.

Ten minutes later, he’s lost all sense of compassion where Sam’s concerned and shoves the bathroom door open, coughing as a blast of steam hits him square in the face. “Sammy!” he yells over the rapidfire thrust of water hitting tile, “I know you’re a big boy, but does it really take this long…”

He trails off when Sam rips back the shower curtain, exposing golden-wet skin and muscle, slanted eyes wide with what Dean would label as panic, if not for the smile curving Sam’s lips. “Uh.” He turns, dragging his gaze away from the sight of Sam’s naked chest – and damn it, why did that always seem to throw him for a loop? – and stares at the floor with blinding intensity.

“I know this.” Sam’s deep voice thrums with excitement, and Dean glances back up to find his brother pointing at a raised patch of skin high on his hip. Dean stares, coming closer to study the strange marking as Sam continues. “I mean, I still want to check with Bryant to be sure, but I know what this is, Dean.”

“Mind clueing the rest of us in, Professor?” Dean asks, transfixed by the symbols seemingly branded into his brother’s skin. He’s seen Sam in various stages of undress throughout their lives, but everything seems so much sharper now, more vibrant…the earthy tones and hues almost glistening beneath the dim light in the bathroom. It’s not until he feels the slick heat of Sam that he even realizes he’s reached out to touch, and pulls his fingers away so quickly he nearly cramps.

Sam doesn’t appear to notice, still chattering away about something to do with charms and incantations and the occult. Dean just nods, even though he’s understood all of two words.

“Dean?”

Dean’s gaze snaps up and he blinks at Sam through heavy lashes, seeing his brother’s brow crease. There’s no use even pretending he was listening, so he shrugs his shoulders and grunts. “What?”

Sam rolls his eyes, reaching back to turn the shower knob so that the water (blessedly) stops cascading down his shoulders. When his arm shoots out past Dean’s nose, Dean flinches, then immediately wants to crawl into a hole and die when Sam sends him a weird look and comes back with a towel in hand. “What’s up with you?” Sam asks, wrapping the thin cotton around his hips as Dean glares.

“Nothing,” Dean mutters, raking a hand through his hair and wondering the same damn thing himself. He makes a gesture for Sam to go on. “You were geeking, Geekboy?”

Sam’s gaze clears, and the same excitement from before builds in his voice. “It’s a manifestation of the imp’s power. When it goes away, so does the curse.”

“What an interesting piece of logic,” Dean answers blandly. Then, “And how the hell do we get it to go away?”

Sam scowls. “I can’t decipher the language on my own, asshole. I just recognize the symbol. By the way, you should have one, too.”

That gives Dean pause. Without thinking, he reaches for the button to his jeans and shoves the denim down his hips, ignoring Sam’s muted protest. “I don’t see anything,” he says, eyeing familiar pale, freckled flesh. He turns toward the mirror and hears Sam let out another half-laugh, half-curse. “What? I don’t have one.”

“You, uh, you do.” Sam’s voice is wry and amused, and Dean looks back to see his brother rubbing his forehead and trying not to laugh.

“What? Where?” Dean twists comically, and then he sees it. “Oh, son of a bitch, that ain’t right. I thought I smelled something burning earlier…like freaking fried chicken!”

Sam bursts out laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, and Dean’s torn between throttling his younger brother and finding the thing that tattooed his ass with demonic symbols and shooting it in the face. Although that’s kind of what got him into this in the first place.

Sam sobers at Dean’s look, although there’s still a glimmer of glee in his dark eyes. “We’ll figure it out, Dean. Just let me get dressed and we can get going.”

“When I find that fucking thing again, I will destroy it with my bare hands.” Dean follows Sam back out into the room, tugging his pants up and glaring hard at every inanimate object unfortunate enough to capture his attention. “Dude, this sucks. We gotta end this now.”

“Of course we will,” Sam replies, soothing and calm. “Because man, I gotta tell you. If I have to spend another night in the same bed with you, I might put a hex on you myself. You’re a total blanket hog.”

“Fuck you.”

Sam just laughs again, and as fucking irritating as it is, if Sam’s laughing then things can’t be as bad as they seem. Dean can’t help but think of how much better that makes him feel.