Work Text:
Four hands and then away.
SPN. Sam/Dean, PG-13. 750 words. The first winter after the Pilot. ♥ to Kate, because she found this when I thought it was lost. Title from the Knife (covered by Jose González here).
Paved road, but the tires are frozen and they creak like gravel, like nowhere. Cold rattles his bones in his chest and the heat's dying, been failing since Nebraska. Dean only grunted when Sam pointed it out, and he slammed his foot harder on the gas like it'd make a difference.
In North Dakota, Dean's pockets jingle loose change like little bells when he goes to the bar. Sam sits on the bed turning a gun over and over in his hands, like it's got the answers he wants, to Dad and Jess and Mom and Dean.
Four AM, the door squeaks like the wheels and Sam closes his eyes, facing the wall. Dean presses behind him, his hands whiskey-hot on the skin of Sam's back, and he mumbles drunken nonsense into Sam's nape, awake and sammy and something about icicles, something about snow.
In morning, Sam stirs first and there's new powder dusting the car like a country Christmas card. He breathes in and winter-metal in the air tastes like blood—like work, like normal.
He goes back inside.
::
In Colorado, there's a haunted ski lodge and a failing family business. The fight off the ghost and the owners offer them a room, whenever they need it. Whenever they drive on through.
At ten thirty-three, spread naked across the creaking sofa bed with his fingers linked behind his head, Dean judges the décor and shakes his head. Yeah, he mutters, Like we're gonna come back.
He presses an experimental palm into the mattress and the springs hiss. He looks at his brother, studying the journal with their father's hard focus. Dean reaches out and touches his fingertips to the base of Sam's spine. Hey, he says, and gestures to the bed. You wanna—
Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head. I'm tired. I just—
Okay.
Dean's hand falls away, and for the first time, that feels significant. Sam exhales slowly, absently smoothing the crumpled page under his hand and watching the sleet outside the window.
::
His head is full, fire and California and patterns that don't make sense. He dreams in his father's words, memorizing the first time John Winchester ever set the word Demon to page—the O a half-formed loop, the M and N practically the same.
Dean looks at the page and he thinks, I remember when he wrote this. Sam reads it again and tells himself, I remember how this feels.
::
In Minnesota, there's tracks and blood in the snow, but there's no missing persons. There's no story.
Maybe it's nothing, Dean says. He grinds his teeth together to keep them from chattering, fists his hands in his pockets. Admit it, he challenges: This could be nothing at all.
Sam kneels by the spill. Cold and wet sink through the fabric of his jeans, and he touches his fingers to the ice. His hands are red, his skin dry and cracked at the knuckles.
No, he says, shaking his head. It's something. I can tell.
::
Please. Sam's eyes are closed, his hand at Dean's throat, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He says, Please, I want it—I want you, and Dean turns his head and looks the other way.
Sammy, he mumbles, unsure of how to say the right thing, because that's no, and he missed out on that way too long ago.
Sam tugs him a little closer, incessant, and he opens his mouth to Dean's, his tongue thick and slow at his brother's lower lip. He tastes too much like drink and a little like blood, nothing like before, not like when he was whole and his brother's alone.
I want, he breathes, and his forehead touches Dean's.
It's been almost three months, but nothing's really different. Four weeks ago, Sam shot a werewolf full of silver, and he ended up locked in the bathroom with the shower running to muffle the noise, but Dean grew up knowing whenever his baby brother cried. It's not over—Sam doesn't really want this back.
He turns his head and Sam's lips slip wet over his cheek. Sam leans in to bite at the shell of Dean's ear.
Please, he says again, but Dean just spreads his hand flat across his brother's heart and pushes.
::
In morning, Dean brings Sam coffee and the papers. His brother takes them without thanks, but he tries to smile, and he lifts his head to look Dean in the eyes.
It's enough.