Work Text:
Ghosts and Clouds and Nameless Things
Sam/Dean, 2,713 words
Notes: For my lovely 
itsthewa, who is having a year. Down to the End 'verse, companion piece to All This Present Tense. Once again copious amounts of self-indulgent schmoop, this time with bonus -- and equally self-indulgent -- angst. Thanks hugely to tvm and whereupon for the beta.
Dean hates the kids most of all. The naked little bones, terrified ghosts only more dangerous for their helpless confusion, so many ugly shades of grey.
The case is simple enough -- drownings, one every few years, always the same five-mile stretch of river in Tennessee, always the last week of April. It takes a day of research to discover the carnival that came through town in 1932, the animals so underfed you could see their ribs, the penniless owner finally calling it quits, sending brightly colored wagons rolling away in all directions. It takes another two to track down the owner's son, three hours to coax out the story of his father's deathbed confession: nine-year-old Siamese twins no one else would take, a burlap sack, a deserted stretch of river. "Like they were kittens," the old man says, and watching the sick horror grow on Sam's face, Dean thinks that sometimes people put demons to shame.
They search through the night for the grave, and the sun is well over the horizon by the time their shovels hit rotted cloth. The bones, fused at the hip, fragile and so pathetically small, burn like any other. Somehow that's the worst part.
It's not until they're back in the car, sweaty and filthy and reeking of smoke, that Dean remembers the day. He's known it was coming -- he's never forgotten one of Sam's birthdays -- but it's been a harsh, ugly hunt, and the date slipped forward unnoticed. He glances at Sam, slumped silent and worn-down in the passenger seat, and he knows Sam has no idea, that he won't remember until the next time he sees a calendar, if then.
He has a present, picked up months ago and carefully hidden in an inner pocket of his duffle. It's cheap and stupid, but it will make Sam laugh, and that's worth a lot right there. But he doesn't have a cake or the necessary bottle of Jack. A candle can transform anything, and he's repurposed a lot of things over the years -- twinkies and ice cream sandwiches, and once, in a fit of desperation when Dad was three days late, half a microwave burrito -- but thirty's big and Dean's determined to do this one right.
Once they've showered, he digs for a clean pair of jeans instead of following Sam to bed. He shrugs off Sam's grumbling with a bullshit story about Joshua and guns -- Sam's learned not to argue where weapons or the car are concerned. He's bone-tired, and he wants nothing more than to slide in beside his brother, feel Sam warm and alive against him, and stop thinking for awhile. Stop seeing two small shadows, hands clasped and bodies joined, watching silently as all that was left of them caught fire. Sam's what matters, though, even when he's bitching like a whiny little... bitch. Dean thinks vaguely that if that's the best he can do, maybe he needs sleep more than he realizes. He pushes the thought away, calls Sam "princess" and nearly manages to hide his smile at Sam's glare.
***
He asks the desk clerk where to buy a cake, and he's not really surprised to learn the nearest market with a bakery is two towns over, an hour's drive at least. He buys a cup of bitter, burnt coffee and finishes it in three gulps, blasts Zeppelin to keep himself awake, singing along with The Battle of Evermore as he concentrates on the empty road. He carefully does not think of the hill and the oak tree and the splintered, rotting cross, and if his mind drifts to his brother, sleep-warm and sprawled across worn motel sheets, it's only the exhaustion, the near seductive lure of unconsciousness.
Celine Dion is warbling from the loudspeaker when he walks into the store, and Dean thinks darkly that he's going to kick Sam's ass six ways to Sunday if he doesn't properly appreciate the amount of pain his birthday is causing. He tries to block out the sound, but it's a lost cause, and her shrill nasal voice scrapes through his head as he digs through identically ugly sheet cakes decorated with lurid frosting flowers and plastic cartoon characters he doesn't recognize. He's about to settle for a blessedly flower-free German chocolate round when he catches a flash of pink, and turns to find the most hideous cake he's ever laid eyes on in the back corner of the case. It's pink, and it's shaped like a Barbie, and it's pink, and Sam is going to be pissed when he sees it. Dean smiles all the way to the register.
He's nearly out of town when he realizes he forgot the Jack Daniels, and he has to double back to find Liquor Time Liquor on a corner of the closest thing the place has to a main drag. By the time he hits the road again he's so tired he could crawl into the back and sleep by the side of the highway, but Sam is waiting, so Dean cranks up the music and heads home.
***
Sam's sound asleep when he pushes the door open, curled neatly on the left side of the bed, one hand resting in the empty space beside him. His face is serious, brow furrowed into a tiny frown, and Dean is struck with a sudden desire to smooth it away. He suppresses the thought ruthlessly and arranges the cake on the table instead, artfully placing a candle in each of Barbie's tits, then digs through his bag for Sam's candy.
He's torn between crawling into bed for a few good hours of sleep and poking Sam awake to get this show on the road already -- a couple of shots, a lot of sugar (and if he's lucky, some outraged squawks from Sam before he's awake enough to realize he doesn't want to give Dean the satisfaction), then sleep. The thought of Sam's face when he sees the cake settles the matter, and he moves to the bed and pokes at his brother. "Rise and shine, Sammy," he says, and Sam groans.
"What time is it?" Sam asks. He's still half-asleep and blinking pathetically, and Dean thinks of baby Sammy curled against him on a succession of hard narrow beds, a gray plastic pony clutched in one chubby fist.
"About two," he says.
Sam groans louder. "Fuck that," he says. His eyes fall shut again and he burrows defiantly further into his pillow.
"But Sammy--"
"Just come to bed," Sam interrupts. "A few more hours, okay?"
Dean sighs, more for show than anything else -- he's as tired as Sam looks, and his brother's got nearly ten hours of birthday left. He peels off his jacket, kicks off his boots, and climbs in beside Sam, who rolls to fit himself companionably against Dean.
"Hi," Sam whispers as Dean wraps around him. Dean rolls his eyes, but he indulges Sam, pressing a kiss against the mole on the side of his neck, sliding a hand under the thin cotton of Sam's t-shirt to find bare skin. He thinks, suddenly, of small burning bones, pale misshapen boys who died -- and lived -- together and utterly alone, and he shivers, pulls Sam tighter against him, fingers searching until he finds the charm inked into his brother's hip. He strokes it carefully, savoring the quiet rush of pleasure that courses through him whenever it touches his skin. Sam sighs, soft and content, already falling back to sleep, and Dean presses his face into his brother's neck and lets the dark overtake him.
***
Sam's voice wakes him what feels like moments later, and he forces his eyes open, processing the blank expanse of bed beside him, the pale light of the setting sun bleeding through the curtains. Sam's only a few feet away, staring seriously at the table, and Dean wonders if he'll ever stop marveling that Sam is here, that Sam is his, that he can reach out and touch and his brother will welcome him, even push into his touch, wordlessly begging for more. They've had a raw deal for nearly as long as they've been alive, but this, him and Sam, the road and the hunt and his baby... this isn't such a bad life. The thought sparks a hollow little ache right in the center of his chest, and he swallows hard to keep from saying something he'll regret.
"They didn't have My Little Pony," he says finally. Sam starts, and Dean can't help smiling a little, though he's careful to keep it out of his voice. "I said it was your favorite, but they said little girls love Barbie just as much."
Sam turns, making the face he always does when he can't decide whether laugh or smack Dean upside the head. "I had one My Little Pony, Dean," he says. "One. Twenty-six years ago."
The petulance is too good to pass up, and Dean grins. "You carried it everywhere," he says brightly. "You cried for hours when you forgot it at Pastor Jim's."
"And you called him at that gas station and told him to send it to Dad's P.O. box, and it was there when we got to Iowa." Sam's voice is quiet and he smiles softly, and Dean's chest aches again.
He laughs to steady himself, says, "I am an awesome brother," and Sam just keeps smiling, looking at Dean like he used to when he was still young enough to believe his brother could do anything.
"When you're not a gigantic pain in my ass," Sam says finally, and Dean laughs again.
"Shut up and open your present."
***
Sam laughs out loud at the gummy rats, and he blows out his candles willingly enough when Dean lights them, though not before muttering, "You're all class, you know that?" under his breath. But he flatly refuses to do a shot before he's eaten, and he just rolls his eyes when Dean gestures helpfully at the cake. "Real food, Dean," he says.
They order pizza -- pineapple for Sam, and Dean generously doesn't remind him just what a pussy he is -- and then eat the cake while they wait for it to arrive. Dean forgot plates and forks, so they use paper towels and eat with their hands, big slices so thickly layered with sugary frosting he thinks he may have died and gone to heaven. Sam laughs as Dean inhales his piece, and the moment Sam finishes he moves forward and presses their lips together.
It's a long, deep kiss, sweet and slow, and Dean melts into his brother. He lets Sam guide them to the bed, pull them down to the rumpled sheets and tangle their legs together without ever breaking their mouths apart. He can feel Sam hard against his hip, feel his own cock swelling against Sam's thigh, and he rocks forward, laughing into Sam's mouth when Sam shudders and moans.
He's got Sam's shirt off and is working his jeans open when they hear the knock on the door, and Sam pulls back, breathing hard. "Shit, the pizza," he says, eyes huge, and Dean laughs before he can help himself -- Sam's half naked and flushed, lips red and swollen, and they're both rock hard -- whoever is waiting outside is going to get an eyeful. "You get to answer the door," Sam says firmly.
"Why do I--?"
"It's my birthday, dickhead, and I'm not going to deal with a stoned teenager while I'm hard enough to cut glass."
Dean sighs, or tries to, but Sam squirms against him, pressing hard against Dean's cock, and it turns into a moan instead.
Sam actually laughs, the bastard, then climbs off him and says, "Go get the food, man, I'm hungry."
Dean's t-shirt isn't anywhere near long enough to hide anything and he probably looks as debauched as Sam, but he thinks his jeans are loose enough to keep him from looking entirely obscene. He limps to the door, cursing his erection and his rotten little bitch of a brother under his breath, pays for the pizza and ignores the wide, shocked gaze the kid shoots him, eyes traveling from Dean to Sam and back again before settling firmly on his shoes. Dean tips an extra $5 for the trauma, shaking his head as he practically runs back to his car.
"You could have put your shirt on," he grumbles, tossing the box onto a chair.
"it could have been worse," Sam says. "I could have called you 'big brother.'"
"Yeah, and then he could have called the.. shit. Is sodomy legal in Tennessee?"
"You tipped him, he won't turn us in," Sam says. Then he grins. "Wanna possibly break the law?"
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Thought you wanted to eat."
"Want you to fuck me first," Sam says, and Dean swallows hard.
***
He takes his time, peeling Sam's clothes off slowly, spreading him out on the bed and relearning every inch of skin until Sam is almost crying with need. He sucks at Sam's neck, bites at his collarbones, licks a wet line down his belly, carefully avoiding his cock as Sam writhes beneath him. He scrapes his teeth lightly over the charm, and Sam cries out, tangles his fingers in Dean's hair and tries to push his head down.
"Settle down, sparky," Dean says, rather proud of how steady his voice sounds despite his own aching dick, and he licks at Sam's hipbone and then kisses his way back up his chest, draws a nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.
Sam whimpers. "Dean..."
"Hmmm?" Dean says. He kisses the swollen nub, teases it with the tip of his tongue.
"Just fuck me already, god..." Sam groans.
"Slut," Dean says mildly, moving to the other nipple. He bites down sharply, and Sam yelps and then moans again.
"Need you in me," Sam whispers. "Please, Dean..." and Dean decides he's tortured him enough, pulls away just long enough to grab the lube from the bedside table. Sam moans at the loss of body heat, and Dean dives back down, catching Sam's mouth again. "Please," Sam says against him. "God, hurry up," and Dean slicks his fingers quickly, slides two inside his brother and drinks in his soft cry. "Don't... don't need the prep," Sam groans, though his hips are already working, fucking himself on Dean's fingers. "Now, please..."
It's too much, Sam desperate and begging beneath him, and he groans in spite of himself, pulls his fingers out and positions himself between Sam's legs, slides in with one slick thrust.
"Hard," Sam demands. "Do it hard, I want to feel you tomorrow," and Dean gasps, pulls back and then slams back in as Sam keens and tightens around him. He thrusts with everything he has, hard and fast, and Sam rolls his hips up to meet him, moaning sweetly.
He knows he won't last long, not with Sam writhing beneath him, clutching Dean's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, but he'll be damned if he comes before Sam does. He grabs Sam's cock and jerks hard, thrusting with everything he has, and Sam shudders and arches his back and comes all over his hand. Dean thrusts again, once, twice more, and Sam chokes, "C'mon, Dean, come in me..." and he's lost, shooting so hard he can feel it through his whole body.
He sags against his brother, tired and spent, and for long moments they just breathe, Dean still buried deep inside. He finally brings his hand to his mouth, unable to keep from moaning softly as he licks at Sam's come. Sam laughs roughly, tangles one hand in Dean's hair and pulls him down for a kiss, tasting himself on Dean's lips. "Thank you," he says.
Dean shrugs as well as he can when he's so tangled with Sammy he's not sure where he ends and his brother begins, says, "Happy birthday." It comes out more roughly than he meant it to, but Sam just sighs and tightens his arms around Dean's back.
"Stay -- like this -- for a little while?" he says, and Dean nods silently. There's nowhere in the world he'd rather be.