A writing prompt written for hesychasm, who was very straightforward in her desire for Sam, Dean, and sex *g*. This turned out a little more involved than I expected, more post-AHBL Sam angst than straight-up porny goodness, but I hope it will suffice :).
Spoilers for All Hell Breaks Loose; takes place soon after. 1900 words.
Let me be a free man
The first time they got paid for a job was for two vengeful spirits setting up camp in a swank little lake house in Wisconsin. The owner said he'd figured it was the old water heater causing all the destruction and what happened to poor Millie, never would have thought ghosts except that Jerry said to give them a call.
Four days later they bagged up the remains of half the kitchen and what used to be a dining room, called Rezner to tell him the house was cleared and that he might want to get a contractor up there. He offered money, which Dean would have taken but Sam said no, so Rezner told them just to stay at the house the rest of the month. His wife was in Switzerland and they wouldn't be using it for a while.
"I could get used to this," Dean said, propping his feet against the porch railing, beer from the bar fridge in hand.
"Yeah, well, don't," said Sam. Dean handed him a beer but he just held it. It was slippery from condensation. He leaned up against the rail. Two sailboats spotted the water, sun glinting off white sails, and he could hear the faint rip of a power boat out of sight behind a bend.
"Come on, Sam, we earned it." Dean drank from his bottle and nudged Sam a little with his foot, wet beer on parted lips and his face relaxed with a job well done, minus a little wreckage.
"Dean," Sam said.
"Quit worrying," Dean said. "We got plenty of time. How often do we get to bunk in a place like this?"
Sam remembered the beer in his hand and drank from it, the cold of it burning his throat. "Couple of days," he relented.
"Yeah, sure," Dean said, and Sam knew it would be more than a couple of days, but they were on Dean's time now. He let it go.
They compromised, Sam taking the car down to Green Bay and the university library while Dean raided the shed by the dock for a fishing rod and green tackle box.
"You're not going fishing," Sam said, staring.
"Sure I am."
"You don't know shit about fishing."
"Come on," Dean scoffed, "how hard can it be? Better get moving, Sammy, or I'll make you wear the hat."
In Green Bay Sam posed as a student for a prof of Early Christianity and didn't learn anything he didn't already know, then spent three hours in the rare books section, turning pages and taking notes, asking for copies up at the front desk even though it was all stuff he'd read and pored over for what felt like years now.
He called Bobby on the drive back up.
"Not much new to pass on, Sam," Bobby said. "I've got a guy who's worked demon pacts before checking into a couple of things. I'll call you when I hear from him, but you might want to dig in. Likely take a while."
It was dark when he got back to the house, all the lights out except for one lamp in the living room and the flickering of the TV. Dean sprawled the length of the couch in his grey t-shirt and jeans.
Sam put the bag of chinese he'd stopped off for on the coffee table. "I figured you'd be eating fish for dinner."
Dean had already claimed the kung pao shrimp. "Yeah, well, fishing's overrated," he said, chopsticks diving into the carton as he barely took his eyes from the TV. "Check out the green they just used for the rec room. Do they think they're going to get thanked for that? I'd fucking take a shotgun to my neighbor if he put that color up on my wall."
"You're deranged, you know that?" Sam picked at his cashew chicken, mixing it around with some rice but not really eating either. He watched the TV. Dean was right, that green was fucking hideous.
Sam spread out the photocopies he'd made and Bobby's copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon he'd given them when they passed through last month. They took up nearly all the space on the bed, Sam in the middle trying to find threads of truth amid legend and apocrypha and smudged-dark demon seals.
Music drifted down the hall from the front room, a systematic play-through of Rezner's record collection: Zeppelin and Cream, and something Sam thought might be opera which only lasted a few bars before being replaced by Days of Future Passed and a little while later by Abraxas. After a while Sam padded down the hall and stood in the doorway. Dean was lying on his stomach on the floor sifting through a stack in front of him.
"Don't get too comfortable," Sam said.
"You're the one who turned down the cash," Dean said, unruffled.
They went out for pizza that night, the small town that served as tourist draw offering up any number of pizza choices. They settled on a small place squashed up against the sidewalk with enormous pies that made Dean's eyes light up as they brought theirs out, loaded with pretty much everything Sam hated, but it was easier to pick it off than argue.
"I told you this was the life," Dean said around a mouthful of pizza.
Sam ate his slice, picked down to just cheese and a little pepperoni, and watched the people walking by -- families, mostly, in shorts and vacation shirts, draped in kids and baseball hats and flipflops.
They bought a case on the way home to replenish the bar fridge and settled on the couch with beer and some academy award winning movie on Showtime that Dean admitted might be a little cool.
Sam was on his fifth beer when Dean fell asleep. He finished off the beer and felt a little drunk, thought about getting another but his leg was held fast by the cushion Dean was snoring lightly into. Sam smoothed Dean's hair back and kissed the top of his head.
"What the fuck, man," Dean muttered, still half asleep.
"Shut up," Sam said. He scrunched a little further down on the couch, sliding easily on the leather, and worked his arm under Dean's. He propped his feet up on the coffee table and snagged one of the other cushions for his head, his hand resting lightly on Dean's stomach.
"Oh baby," Dean said, and wriggled a little on the couch.
"Moron," Sam said, but Dean just smiled into the cushion and after a few minutes was snoring again.
Sam flipped to another movie, watched it and then another one until the sun came up.
Sam would catch Dean looking at him, smile in his eyes and a smug-satisfied set to his lips, parental pride and I made this like somehow it had been worth it, that Sam had been worth it, like life wasn't anything more than Sam and beer and a lake house with a dock neither of them used.
Sam drove down to the university again, poring over books until his eyes ached. Sitting in the Impala before the drive back up, he felt the first flush of panic. It closed over his chest like a spirit's grip. He had to roll down all the windows to even breathe.
"We should take off soon," he told Dean when he got back. "Bobby's got a guy helping with the pact angle that we can check in with," he said, even though Bobby hadn't called.
Dean didn't say anything at first. "Yeah, sure," he said, and stepped over the remains of the kitchen half-wall to head out to the porch.
Sam stayed inside on the couch, flipped through channels and watched the shadow of Dean's outline leaning back in one of the porch chairs, until the orange sky turned midnight blue and everything beyond the window was a blur.
Dean was slathering peanut butter on bread in the intact part of the kitchen when Sam pushed him back against the cabinet and kissed him. It was awkward, sloppy, Dean's lips bruising his then licking the bruise away, Dean's hair rough under his fingers until Dean put a hand on his chest and pushed him back.
"You don't owe me, Sam," Dean said.
Sam tried to think of an answer that wasn't yes I do or that's not what this is, or any of a dozen lines that weren't lies but didn't make up even a quarter of the truth.
He jerked Dean off against the cabinet, his hand down the front of Dean's jeans and Dean's fist closing in his shirt like he wanted to pull Sam into him or hold him back, Sam wasn't sure which.
Dean gave a little yelp when he came. Sam made a note to rag on him about it later.
Staring at the TV, Sam said, "You're a shitty brother."
Dean stretched out his legs, kicking Sam's legs out of the way for more room on the coffee table. "Saved your ass, didn't I?"
"That's what I meant."
"Mmm. Seemed like a good trade at the time."
"It's not funny."
"I sold my soul to the devil, Sam. What's not funny about that?"
Sam glared at him. "Will you quit being so blasť about this?"
"Dude," Dean said, taking his eyes from the screen. "Blasť about what?"
Sam pinned Dean's hips down to the couch with his legs. "This, me, your fucking life."
"Sam. Sammy." Dean tried to push Sam off of him, but Sam wasn't letting up. Dean sighed. "Sam, get off."
"Tell me what we're doing here, fucking fishing, on this stupid lake in this stupid town watching asinine TV, and quit laughing you fuck."
"Sam." Dean wasn't laughing anymore. "I'm fucking terrified."
Sam couldn't look at him. He felt like a coward.
"So do I get the next one as a freebie?"
"You don't get shit," Sam said, but he pulled Dean back against his chest and wrapped his arms and legs around him, not letting go even when Dean elbowed him in the rib.
They fucked on the floor in front of the TV, some infomercial blaring out about a new ab machine. Sam licked down Dean's stomach and up the length of his cock. He spread Dean's legs and worked lube into him, didn't bother with a condom, each thrust like a punch, held together with sweat and lube instead of blood, while Dean just wrapped his legs around Sam and pulled him in deeper.
Bobby called the next day. "Got a message from my buddy, said he's got a few things that might help you boys. Mac'd rather sell his own mother than get on a phone, so best if you head down there."
Sam went out to the porch. Dean was leafing through a stack of muscle-car porn, pages of glossy hoods and hubcaps that cost more than the Impala.
"Bobby called," Sam said. "The guy in Mississippi has some leads. Bobby thinks we should meet up with him."
"Guess it's time to head out of here, anyway."
"The Impala's engine was a little off on the ride up yesterday," Sam said. The Impala had sounded fine.
"She'll make it through."
"Dean," Sam said.
Dean squinted up at him and smiled a little. "We're good, Sam."