SPN fic: A Little Less Conversation (Dean/Sam)
Title: A Little Less Conversation
Author: chash
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Incestuous sex.
Word Count: 1260 words.
Summary: Sequel to Alternate Versions; After 406, Sam wants to talk about various important things. Shockingly, Dean doesn't.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.


"You didn't use a condom, man," says Dean.

Sam glances over. It's a non-sequitur and weird and the first time either of them has even mentioned that they had sex, like, at all, and Dean sounds really worried. It's kind of hilarious but also kind of sad.

"I know," says Sam.

"What if you had an STD?" asks Dean.

Sam blinks.

"I could die, Sammy! From your, I don't know, herpes? Can you die from herpes? I bet I could."

"Dean," says Sam, as patiently as he can manage. "I don't have herpes."

"Maybe you don't know."

"I'd know."

Dean pouts.

Sam rubs his forehead.

He hates ghost sickness.

*

"We should talk about this," says Sam after Bobby leaves.

Dean looks at him. Sam assumes Dean's rifling through the literally thousands of things they should talk about; there are a lot of options. Sam should have clarified.

"No," Dean finally says, "we shouldn't."

"You don't even know what it is!" says Sam.

"Yeah, but I know we shouldn't talk about it."

"Well, I'm talking," says Sam. "And you're stuck in a car with me, so you're going to listen."

Dean cranks up Metallica until Sam can feel it vibrating in his brain. Then Dean grins widely and floors it.

Sam hates his life.

*

Sam doesn't hate his life, really. And he needs to tell Dean that. There wasn't much point in saying it while Dean had the ghost sickness, but now, it seems important. It is important.

Sam had a long time to think about what Dean means to him. Four months of Dean dead and it was about all he could think of. Even with his powers waking up and Ruby and all of that, the forefront of Sam's mind was a constant loop of deandeandeandeandeandeandean and that was pretty much always true, he realized. At least, it has been for a while. And weirder was realizing that the death of his brother had pretty much the same effect on him that their mother's death had on their dad. And that--Sam mostly kind of repressed that, grouped it all under the big umbrella of "family" even though he knows his father's revenge was never about family. It was about love.

And the repression, the repression had been awesome; once Dean got back, there was way more important shit to do than worry about little things like just how fucked up he and Dean were about each other. Like fighting and god hating him and the apocalypse. That shit, that's a big deal.

But then, well. Then he and Dean had sex, which is the sort of thing he shouldn't be able to ignore, but they've been doing a great job at it. Except that Sam can't stop thinking about it. Because Sam doesn't have a lot of sex these days; honestly, he's never had a lot of sex, not like Dean. Sam likes his sex to come with a side of emotional attachment, and he's never been and never will be attached to anyone like he is to Dean. And he knows Dean feels the same.

And they really should talk about it.

*

Instead, they get drunk.

"You're not sick anymore," Sam points out. "Can't you stop drinking?"

"Why would I stop drinking?" Dean asks. "Drinking is awesome. Have a shot."

Dean's making eyes at a waitress while he talks to Sam, and Sam briefly sees red.

He has a shot.

*

Sam's not 100% clear on how they get from there to the men's bathroom, Sam shoved up against the wall, Dean's hand down his pants, Dean's mouth on his neck--pretty much every part of Dean on every part of Sam, all friction and heat and amazingness.

"Dean," Sam pants.

"We're not talking about this," Dean huffs.

"I'm moaning in ecstasy, jerk."

"Well, you suck at it."

"Maybe you suck at it," Sam retorts.

Sam can feel Dean's teeth on his neck when Dean grins. "Pretty sure I don't."

Sam's going to retort, but Dean gives another good tug and instead Sam's coming and falling forward to rest his head against Dean's shoulder.

"I'm the fucking master," Dean says.

Sam bites his neck, just because he can.

*

Sam has five hickeys the next day, most of which he can cover with his clothes, but there are two on his neck that are high enough to be a lost cause. He kind of wishes he had a scarf.

Dean isn't looking at him when he comes out of the bathroom. He's determinedly stuffing clothes into a duffel bag that Sam is pretty sure was already packed when he woke up.

"If anyone assumes we're gay today, don't tell them I'm your brother," says Sam.

"No one's going to assume we're gay today," says Dean, still not looking at him.

"Yeah, I'm sure the matching hickeys look like a coincidence," says Sam. "Dean--"

"We're not talking about this."

"Yeah, because having sex with yo--"

"That wasn't sex," Dean points out. "That was handjobs."

Sam boggles. "Are you seriously debating the level of incest? Because we had sex a few weeks ago. And then you thought I gave you herpes."

"I was sick! It doesn't count!"

"Dean," says Sam, serious.

"Sammy," says Dean. "I mean it. No talking."

"I mean it too," says Sam. "But not the no talking."

"Huh?" asks Dean.

Sam kisses him. It's not a good kiss; Sam's never actually been the best kisser. He hasn't got great aim and he feels overlarge and awkward, like there's too much of him. Dean doesn't seem to mind, though--he's rigid for all of three seconds (Sam counts one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi in his head, like Dean taught him when he was three, and man, that's the wrong thing to be remembering when they're making out) before he comes back into it, clacking their teeth together until they're at a better angle, and Sam suddenly feels like the best kisser in the world.

He hadn't actually been planning to have sex with Dean, but it just kind of happens--they keep losing clothes and touching each other until finally Dean fumbles for a condom and lube and spreads Sam open under him, and it never at any point occurs to Sam to object.

Sam rolls over to fall asleep on Dean after, resting his head on Dean's chest.

"Man, it's nine-thirty in the morning," Dean points out. "You just woke up. How are you tired again?"

"Mmm," says Sam, nuzzling Dean's neck. "Shut up."

"Thought you liked talking," mutters Dean, but he doesn't say anything else, and Sam falls asleep happily.

*

"So we're having sex now," says Dean in the car.

"Huh?" asks Sam.

"We're having sex now. Like, regularly. That's it. Good talk."

"That wasn't a talk!"

"Yes it was."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You said huh."

Sam glowers. Dean grins.

"I like you, you know," Sam says.

Dean looks at him briefly, flashing a lot of emotions before he turns back to the road. "I know."

"And I like our life. And I don't really mind being in the car with you all the time or your music or anything. There's," he scratches the back of his neck. "There's pretty much nothing else I ever want to do. Like, ever."

"Yeah," says Dean. "Me too."

"And, uh," Sam clears his throat. "I like the sex, too."

Dean smirks. "I'm awesome."

"No more waitresses," Sam adds.

"You gonna make it worth my while?"

Sam grins. "Yeah. I am."