#i’m so fucking tired of the hairline comments by people who think they’re funny

[creampuffqueen]

all of you people who think avatar yangchen is unattractive simply because of her shaved hairline are weak and will not survive the winter

[bat-losers-inc]

Kintsugi: Chapter 12

Summary: Final Crisis/Red Robin AU. Dick admits Tim to a psychiatric facility after Bruce is lost in time. Jason finds him suffering at the hands of a Scarecrow-copycat and breaks him out. While safe in Jason’s apartment, Tim still struggles with panic attacks and drug withdrawal. At a loss for what to do, Jason calls Roy Harper.

Pairings: Jason Todd & Tim Drake, Jason Todd & Dick Grayson, Roy Harper & Jason Todd.

Warning: minor mention of self-harm in this chapter.

                                                            - - -

“Okay. House rules.” Roy turned to the whiteboard and started writing with big slanting letters, “Rule number one; no drugs or alcohol inside the safehouse.”

“Now,” Roy pivoted back to Tim, who sat curled up on one end of the couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “I know this is an obvious one for the both of us, but it’s worth mentioning that Jason has also agreed to follow it as a show of solidarity. Right, Jason?”

Jason offered a thumbs up from his spot at the kitchen counter, his attention still absorbed by the computer screen before him, open to Tim’s research into Bruce’s disappearance. The lengthy document was full to the brim with images and news articles pulled from the web, scientific papers on optics, quantum mechanics and archeological sites — not to mention all of Batman’s previous research on Darkseid and his powers. It was going to take him days to read through all of it.

“Rule number two; keep it clean.”

“Yeah, we’re not trying to live a life of grime.” Tim smiled, clearly proud of himself.

Yikes, that peak dad joke knocked Jason right out of the physics of time travel and square into second-hand embarrassment. We’re really going to need to unteach him Dick’s puns.

Roy sighed, “Hang on. I just have to make an amendment.”

The expo marker squeaked loudly and Jason glanced up under his eyelashes to see him crossing out the first line. “Rule number one. No puns!”

Jason choked down a laugh and returned his gaze to his screen.

“Seriously, Roy?” said Tim, “You know, it’s going to take us all day to get through these rules if you keep—”

More marker squeaking. “Rule number three!”

“I’m still talking!”

“And now I’m talking.” Roy grinned. “Isn’t it funny how that works?”

“Jason!”

“I’m not here,” he called into the other room as he scrolled to the next page. Ooh, pictures… picture he could do. “Also, respect your elders.”

“Unbelievable,” Tim grumbled, just loud enough for Jason to hear.

“We’ll have weekly meetings every Sunday afternoon. We can use this time to talk about what’s been going well, what we’re struggling with that week, any routine changes that need to be made. Etcetera.”

Silence from Tim. That was good. At least there was the hope that he wasn’t going to fight them on every point. Reassured by that, Jason glanced back at a picture of Batman’s symbol painted on a cave wall and... let’s just say it wasn’t a case of everyday graffiti. Unless Batman had a lineage all the way back to early human civilization that Jason didn’t know about.

Jason tilted his head, squinting. “Hey, Tim? Got a question about that picture of the cave drawing in your research. C’mere.”

“Jason!” snapped Roy. “We’re clearly in the middle of something.”

“I’ll only be a sec!” He turned the laptop around as Tim slid off the couch and walked over.

“What about it?”

Jason tapped the screen with his fingernail. “There’s an annotation in this section with a number listed. What’s that for?”

Tim stared at it for a long moment.

“Oh, that?” He picked at a patch of dry skin on his elbow. “Nothing, just a contact for a consultant.”

“A consultant? Were you working on this case with someone before you got locked up?”

“No, not really. It was more of a one-off situation. He was the one who brought the cave painting to my attention in the first place and sent me the picture.”

“A one-off.. But you kept the number?” Jason eyed him.

Tim smiled tightly. “You know me. I keep a record of everything.”

“Except the name of your consultant.” Jason spun the laptop back around to face him. “Spell it for me, I’ll put it in.”

“What?” asked Tim.

“What’s the name of your consultant?”

“It doesn’t matter. Really.”

Jason’s eyebrows hiked their way into his hairline. “Your reaction is telling me otherwise.”

Anger flashed across Tim’s features. “Just leave it alone, Jason.”

Seriously? Tim couldn’t really have expected him to just ignore the glaringly obvious tension in the room. Honestly, it was like the kid didn’t know him at all.

He turned to head back into the living room but Jason caught his arm. It was slick to the touch under his fingertips. The sweating had started two days after they’d done the first taper— the first, and most mild, of his body’s reaction to doing without his usual dosage. “The fact that you don’t want to tell me means whoever it is, they’re probably bad news —”

“Hey, look at me. ” He gave Tim’s arm a shake until Tim’s gaze finally wandered the expanse of the kitchen and locked back on his own. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know who I should be protecting you from.”

Tim’s eyebrows and the hair at his temples were dark with perspiration. It added an extra intensity to the glare he leveled him with.

“You really think I would work with someone who was out to get me? I might be going crazy looking for answers, but I’m not totally stupid.”

“Of course not, but you’re not the same person you were a week ago either. You’re weaker, more distracted, more—”

Tim yanked his arm free of his fingers, his forearm streaked with bands of red where Jason had been unwilling to let go even when he felt Tim starting to pull away. “No, what ‘I am’  is late for my first NA meeting.”

Jason clamped his teeth together and tried not to grind them. Well, you sure fucked that up.

Roy stepped in before he could make a bigger ass of himself. “Tim, get changed. We’ve gotta hustle if we want to make it there by one.”

“And throw on some extra deodorant.” He added. “All the sweating’s making you smell ripe.”

As Tim took to the stairs, Roy flashed Jason a look. “How's that helicopter parenting serving you long term?”

“Oh, please, I’m the furthest thing from a helicopter parent!”

“Prove it.”

Jason shut the laptop and rubbed at his forehead. “Admit it. This mystery consultant has you concerned too.”

Roy rolled his eyes.“Yeah, a little. But, maybe it was just a one-time thing. People make choices that they’re ashamed of later. This could be Tim’s, but he’s not going to tell you until he trusts you to treat him right.”

Jason swept his arm out wide so Roy had a chance to glance around the apartment at all the little spots where Tim had already made himself at home — the rumpled blanket in the corner of the living room couch, the post-it note with Jason’s wifi password taped above his workspace, and the plate with leftover toast crumbs sitting on the counter — just to name a few. “Uh, I am. He can trust me.”

I made a fucking home for him when he felt like he couldn’t go back to his real one. What more do I have to do to prove it to him? What the hell happened to the old saying ‘actions speak louder than words?’ Apparently, Tim was the greedy sort that wanted actions and words.

Roy cut him a look like he could read Jason’s mind. “Trust goes both ways, Jason. And You’re treating him like a child.”

“He is a child!”

“I’ve only known him for a few days, but I can already see that Tim’s got more intelligence and perseverance than I ever did at his age.”

“Which is why I was being honest with him,” Jason countered. “Just like I would have with you if you were back in his position and doing something stupid.”

“There’s a difference between doing something stupid and doing something you don’t agree with.”

God, was this the kind of mental minefield that Dick had to navigate when dealing with Damian? It was tiring as fuck and endlessly confusing. He was honestly never sure if he was making the right decision. Roy wasn’t one to be tired out easily however.

“Right now that contact is just some numbers on a piece of paper. If they’re bad news Tim’s doing the hard thing and steering clear of them, even if it means forgoing easy answers about Bruce. You want to be honest about something? Be honest with yourself about that.”

Jason was still trying to think of a reply to that by the time Roy herded Tim out of the apartment. When he heard Roy’s car pulling away, he went back to cleaning the bike parts in the garage. He always did his best thinking when his hands were busy with some repetitive task. Hopefully, he could miraculously sort out his shit before Roy and Tim came back.

                                                                 - - -

Tim hadn’t realized that when Roy said they’d have to hurry, it had more to do with the fact that they were driving all the way into Old Gotham than it had to do with mid-morning traffic. When he’d made a comment about it on the way over, Roy had simply said, “I think you’ll like the group at this place. They’re good guys who aren’t afraid to call you on your bullshit.”

“Oh, is that a valued quality in NA group members?” He’d ask, mostly sarcastically.

“At times, it can be.”

Tim didn’t know what to say to that, so they drove the rest of the way in silence. By the time Roy pulled up to the curb outside the Church of St. Jude and cut the engine, Tim’s nerves were even more on edge. It could’ve had something to do with the name of the church — St. Jude was the patron saint of lost causes — it struck Tim as an odd and ominous choice that Roy would favor this place.

“Ready to go in?” Roy asked as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

Lacking an answer to such a simple question, Tim stared out the window at the church. He took in its brick facade, the small courtyard hidden behind metal fencing, and the long-limbed trees that were just starting to bud. On a warm spring day like today it had the look of a small haven amidst the terrible giant that was Gotham City.  

So, why was he so scared to leave Roy’s car?

“If you’re wondering when you’ll feel ready, the answer is probably never.”

“No… it’s not that. I know that.” Tim stared down at his lap. “It’s just…”

He struggled to find the right words, aware all the while that this was the first heart-to-heart that he and Roy were having that wasn’t within Jason’s earshot. They were venturing into uncharted territory.

Just breathe, you can talk to him.

This morning, he’d lingered quietly at the top of the stairs, like a child listening in on a conversation that they were too young for, and heard the way Roy had stood up for him. As long as it wasn’t endangering anyone, it seemed Roy was going to let him have his privacy, whether Jason liked it or not. So he knew that this conversation would be something that stayed just between them.

“What do I say to them?” he asked finally.

Roy hitched a thumb toward the church. “What, in group?”

“Yeah, I mean…” He shrugged. “Don’t you have to go around in a circle telling everyone how you started using and how long it’s been since you’ve last used?”

“It’s not mandatory, but yeah, that’s usually the way these things go.”

“Well, how am I supposed to tell them that I started using because some wanna-be villain experimented on me with fear toxin and tranquilizers?”

He threw out his hands like his frustration was something he could physically beat into submission. Instead, all he managed to do was accidentally punch the glove compartment and scrape his knuckles.

Ow. Universe 46, Tim still 0. Or at least that’s the way it felt.

Once he let one of his worries slip, it seemed he could stop it turning into a flood, his words spilling out like a tidal wave into the quiet space of Roy’s car. “ Hell, how do I tell them it’s been zero days since I last used? That I’m in fact still using. I can’t go in there and stare at a bunch of people who are actually clean and pretend to know what they’re going through, I mean—”

“Hey— hey, Tim,” Roy waved his hands. “Fuck that shit. All of it.”

“But—”

“No, I mean it. Fuck it, it means nothing to anyone in that room. Those details— the fear toxin, the mental hospital, your tapering regimen— they’re irrelevant. You think I had to dive into my shitty backstory with Green Arrow and vigilantism when recovering from heroin? Hell, no, I just told the parts of my story that mattered. You can do the same.”

Tim pressed his fingers harshly against his eyelids. “But I’m still using benzos!”

Roy laughed and tucked his long hair behind his ears, “Who told you being completely clean is a requirement for going to an NA meeting? If that was the case we wouldn’t have nearly so many attendees.”

Tim stared at him. That couldn't be right.

“I’m serious,” said Roy. “Most of us have been on and off the wagon more times than we can count. We come to the meetings anyway because it’s supposed to be the one constant lifeline that we don’t abandon. The only thing that matters to the people in there is that you’re trying to get clean.”

He leaned over the center console to look him in the eye. “Okay?”

Tim nodded, “Alright.”

Roy led the way down into the basement level of the church which served as the meeting room. It was much like Tim had pictured it. Fluorescent lighting; a scattering of folding chairs; coffee, water, and boxes of donuts laid out on the tables along one wall. A small group mingled around one of the tables, pouring steaming coffee into styrofoam cups before the meeting started. Tim instinctively tried to skirt around the group, eying a pair of metal chairs on the other side of the room. He was about to slink away when someone recognized Roy and gestured them over.

Roy glanced at Tim and jerked his head. “Let me introduce you to a few people.”

He had no choice but to follow, trailing a few paces behind Roy and hoping to hide behind his tall frame. Now he really was acting like a child. It was no wonder Jason was having mixed feelings. Get it together Drake! You’ve taken down super villains but you can handle some small talk?

“Roy!” A woman pulled Roy in for a hug, her dark curls spilling loosely over his shoulders. “How’ve you been?”

“Yeah,” The man at her shoulder smiled. “It’s been a while.”

Roy shrugged and offered a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I don’t get to Gotham nearly as much as I used to.” Tim took the last couple of steps forward, drawing the eyes of the group on him. “This is my friend, Tim. I’m gonna be sponsoring him for a bit. Tim, I’d like you to meet Rene and Dominic.”

“Nice to meet you.” He offered them a small wave, but nothing more. The last thing he wanted to do was draw more attention to himself during this meeting. It would be enough to just hang around in the background and go unnoticed while he got his footing.

It was a relief when the start of the meeting was called and everyone picked up one last donut and cup coffee before sliding into their seats. Roy pulled Tim over to sit next to his friends as a man stood up and addressed the group.

“Hi, everyone. Most of you regulars know me already, but for those of you new here my name’s Antonne Mays. I’m the group leader.”

He pulled a folded piece of notebook paper out of his back pocket and cleared his throat. “I’d like to start off with some general announcements. For those of you here by court mandate, come see me at the end of today’s meeting and I’ll validate your attendance cards. Also, Jessica can you stand up, please? Today is Jessica’s birthday so let’s raise a cup in her honor for staying strong and sticking around with us for another year!”

The people around him raised their styrofoam cups of coffee and tapped on them enthusiastically with their plastic stirrers. For a moment the room was filled with whistles and cheers before subsiding back into order. Tim shifted restlessly in his seat as the meeting went on, his attention going in and out of focus as the announcements transitioned into a round-robin discussion.

Roy bumped his foot with his own. “Pay attention.”

Tim nodded. He was trying to pay attention to the accounts from the other members but recently he’d been having trouble focusing on much of anything.

Focus, Tim. He rubbed at his thighs and rolled his shoulders. Just relax and breathe.

He closed his eyes and let his hands rest loosely against his legs, focusing his attention on drawing a deep breath in and then out. In and out.

“Will you relax and stop fidgeting? You're gonna drive me insane with that.” Roy hissed in his ear.

Tim opened his eyes, ready to shoot Roy a glare. “I’m not—”

His fingers were trembling, creating a spasmodic tattoo against the fabric of his jeans. He clenched his hand tight into a fist hard enough to feel his fingernails in the soft skin of his palms and sucked in a breath. It was just another symptom of the tapering.

It’s fine. You’ll be fine.

A hand covered his clenched fist from wrist to knuckles and applied gentle pressure. Tim looked up at Roy and read the unsaid apology that was written all over his freckled face.

He pulled his hand free and crossed his arms, stuffing his treacherous fingers in the crook of his elbow where no one could see them tremble. The minutes ticked on and Tim was only half listening now, the current speaker’s voice a dull white noise compared to his own thoughts. The trembling came and went in waves but Tim’s fingers lingered near his arms, circling the rough pattern along the skin of his inner arms. The bruising had faded but the raised skin from the needle marks still remained. Roy and Jason had told him he should be prepared for that and it really shouldn’t have mattered so much. It’s just a few more scars. Still, he couldn’t pull his eyes away this morning when he caught sight of himself in the mirror — the pearlescent marks peaking out right under the hem of his t-shirt sleeves.

They know. They all know just from looking at you. Sometimes that feeling was so strong it made him just want to pick up a hot poker and press it to his skin… to burn a brand big enough for those little scars to disappear into.

“I hope you’re not thinking those track marks are an excuse for you to slack off while you’re here. Because I’ll let you in on a little secret, kid; those are nothing special around here.”

Tim jerked his head up to find Antonne and half of the circle staring him in the face. “No- I wasn’t—”

“Mmhmm,” Antonne nodded, his fingers working diligently to roll up his shirt sleeves. When he’d cuffed them above his elbows, he held out his bare arms under the fluorescents. He traced one finger along his inner elbow, where tiny scars stood out in a dark mauve against the darker brown of his skin. “Look, I got them too. As does Antonio, Katey, and even your sponsor, Roy.”

“I’m just not used to them,” Tim said in his own defense. “They’re just so… public.”

Roy leaned forward in his seat, his hair spilling over in a red tangle that hid his expression from Tim’s view. “Sorry, Antonne. He’s new, this is his first meeting.”

Antonne waved away Roy’s explanation. “Ah, I see. So you’re still at the stage where you think those scars will define what others think of you.”

Tim shrugged. “Well, yeah… I mean, scars are permanent.”

That got a full-body laugh out of Antonne.

Tim stared at him confused. “Is something funny?”

“If you don’t like them so much, wear long sleeves, cover them up with concealer, hell you can even turn them into some hipster geometrical nonsense tattoo like Antonio did for all I care.”

“People are always going to stare, it’s in their nature,” Roy said before extending his left arm across Tim’s leg.

On the outside of his bicep was his Wyvern tattoo, a large winged beast with a reptilian tail that zig-zagged all the way down his bicep before ending at his elbow in an arrow-shaped point. But as he rotated his arm, Tim saw that the inside of his elbow was marked not with ink but with old track marks. He’s never even noticed them, his eyes always drawn to the colorful black and green ink, forever trying to figure out it’s meaning. “But, you can choose what they see when they look at you. Got it?

Tim’s hands dropped back into his lap. He felt a strange mixture of relief and humiliation all at once. “Yeah.”  

“And here’s another pro-tip, on the house.” Antonne leaned forward in his chair. “The best way to change what people think of you… is to participate in group discussion.”

 His face heated up as laughter erupted around the circle. Thankfully, it all seemed good-natured based on the smiles that some of the other members directed at him and the way Roy gave his hair a quick ruffle.

“What’s your name, kid?” Antonne asked.

Tim sat up straighter in his chair. “Tim.”

“Alright, Tim. Next meeting, you’re speaking first.”

[doctor--idiot]

Intertextuality

Written for @spnkinkbingo. Square filled: Finger Sucking. [AO3]

(Just once I would like to be able to write porn without so many feelings. Just once. Please?)

It starts out as a joke. Sam has no other excuse than boredom. And maybe a little pettiness.

His brother has been flirting with the waitress for the past twenty minutes and Sam grew sick of it exactly nineteen minutes ago. They just quickly went to grab a bite before leaving town and there’s no new case yet so Sam doesn’t have anything to busy himself with.

He catches pieces of Dean’s conversation with the young waitress here and there but mostly he’s staring out the window, twiddling his thumbs. Apparently, his brother’s gone on the offensive because he’s making lewd suggestions and Sam has to fight the urge to roll his eyes every time the girl giggles.

“I don’t mind it a little rougher,” Dean says now and Sam missed the context but he’s bored out of his mind and it just sort of slips out when he pipes in, “That's not what you said last night.”

He’s annoyed and feeling snarky and it’s quiet anyway but not quiet enough. Both the young women and Dean fall silent and turn to stare at him, the waitress with a rather confused wrinkle on her forehead and Dean with an expression that looks sort of like he wants to burst out laughing but his eyebrows are too close to his hairline, clearly stating, ‘What the hell?’

Sam waves it away, unable to come up with a reply, and gulps down the rest of his coffee. He stands up a little too fast. “You ready to go?”

Any amusement that might have been there vanishes from Dean’s face. His eyes flick to the young woman – Sam hasn’t even bothered to look at her name tag – and back to Sam. “What?”

Sam ignores him and decides to make a detour to the bathroom, leaving Dean to chat up the waitress some more. When he returns, he plops back down onto the cushy corner seat.

He knocks his fingers against the table to get Dean’s attention. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, “You’ve still got to deliver on that blowjob you promised me this morning.”

He shifts out of the booth, enjoying it entirely too much how Dean’s eyes widen ridiculously and his mouth falls open. The vaguely confused expression of the waitress gives way to something indescribable and Sam is shaking with the effort not to explode with laughter.

Leaving the explaining to his brother, he stands up and heads for the door, brushing his fingers against Dean’s shoulder on the way out for good measure. He catches a hiss-whisper of “I thought you said he was your brother” from the girl’s mouth but doesn’t hear Dean’s reply.

It doesn’t take two minutes for Dean to slam out of the diner’s front door.

“What in the ever-loving fuck, Sam?”

He looks genuinely pissed and the time for humor has passed. Sam sighs. “Dean, I’m tired. I wanna leave. I have no desire to see you flirt with some floozy right in front of me and then have to stay another night because you can’t control your urges.”

“So you had to–“ Dean pinches his nose. There’s a moment of silence before – to Sam’s utter astonishment – he actually huffs a laugh. “God,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching, “You’re a whiny bitch sometimes, you know that?”

Sam shrugs.

Dean waves a hand at him. “Get in the damn car.”

~+~

It develops into a bit of a prank war between the two of them. Sam has to admit that this one is on him since he’s the one who started it.

Since it has the positive side effect of making it impossible for Dean to pick up women if Sam’s around, making suggestive comments and scaring them off, Sam continues to do precisely that. He is truly surprised when, instead of blowing up in his face at some point, Dean starts to go along with it after a while, after he realized that Sam isn’t going to stop any time soon.

He has started grabbing Sam’s ass in public – at the most inopportune of times – to make him jump with surprise, drop his coffee, or bang his knee against the underside of the table. He’s always straight-faced while doing it, too.

It was sort of funny the first couple of times but it escalated when it made them look unprofessional during cases. Presenting a cool and collected image, or projecting imposing authority of the FBI becomes considerably more difficult when Sam’s supposed “partner” is practically feeling him up during witness statements.

Sam might be the one who started it but Dean’s the one having endless fun with it. Sooner of later, this was bound to come back to bite Sam in the ass.

“Hey, look at this,” Dean says while they’re at the police department, reaching out and twirling a piece of Sam’s hair around his finger to get his attention.

Sam slaps his hand away. “Alright, stop, I get it.”

Dean looks up from the box of files he’s looking through, eyes wide and inquiring, appearing honestly innocent, and he holds up his palms in defense. “Okay,” he says as if he isn’t quite sure what he did wrong and Sam doesn’t know what to say. He’s fairly positive Dean is screwing with him again but it’s not a hundred percent.

He tucks his hair behind his ear, ignores it. “Sorry. Show me what you got.”

~+~

“Why am I always the one getting fucked?”

Sam sprays his coffee over the entire surface of the desk in front of him. He coughs, “What?”

Dean scrunches up his nose, wiping some stray coffee droplets off his forearm. “Nice, Sam, real classy.” He frowns. “I mean, why is it that people never bat an eye when you joke about me taking it up the ass?”

Sam pushes his coffee mug out of his reach before he spills any more of it. “I–What are you asking me here?”

“I don’t know. Never mind.”

Sam looks at him, takes in the crease between his eyebrows. “I told you before, maybe they think you’re overcompensating.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “What does that even mean?”

It’s beyond ridiculous that they’re having this conversation. “It’s just something you project. It’s pretty obvious, even to strangers, that most of your tough-guy image is an act. They think you need to feel … more manly in a way.”

Dean’s mouth curls. “And that automatically means that I’m the–the bottom in our fictitious relationship?”

“‘Course not.”

“You just said–Sam, please try to make sense.”

Sam laughs, can’t help himself. “It’s just something people tend to assume if you’re … the way you are, I guess. Is it important?”

Dean makes a sound of disgusted negation but Sam doesn’t think that’s the end of it. True to form, Dean processes in silence, then, after about five minutes, unfolds his legs from underneath him and gets up from where he’s been perched on the bed.

“But I mean–“

Sam interrupts him with a sigh. “Do you really wanna know why someone would think that?”

Dean blinks. “Of course I fucking wanna know. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“You’re a control freak,” Sam says slowly, “but you can’t admit it. You act like you’re larger than life, always the protector, the guy who knows everything, but you’re secretly looking for someone who takes care of you. You don’t like to open up to people and make yourself vulnerable so you’d only trust someone that much if you were in a long-standing relationship with them.”

He smirks, adds. “Besides, you’re smaller and prettier than me.”

Dean inhales sharply, his mouth falling open. He looks like he’s two seconds from chewing Sam out but then he snaps his mouth shut with a click, staring at Sam.

“You know it doesn’t matter, right?” Sam presses, “Even if you do like it, it’s not shameful and it certainly doesn’t make you any less … manly or whatever. It’s all just preference.”

Several expressions cross Dean’s face, too quick to grasp, and he silently chews his bottom lip. Then he scoffs, “You know I never actually had sex with a guy, right?”

It’s only when he says it that Sam notices he’s been wondering about that. The answer makes him feel strangely relieved. Then he realizes that throughout their entire exchange Dean never once denied anything.

~+~

Dean touches him more in general. It wouldn’t really be noticeable if Sam wasn’t keeping an eye out for it. He is almost certain that Dean isn’t even aware of it for the most part. He still makes the occasional lewd comment on purpose but the difference is striking.

So maybe it’s simply another positive side effect.

It’s just … Sam is confused by it. He doesn’t know what to do with it. Because he’s not so sure that what they’re doing is healthy. It’s harmless enough but sometimes Dean looks at him. And he catches himself looking at Dean and wondering … Wondering.

The whole thing is messing with his head, that’s probably all there is to it. But that doesn’t stop him from thinking, his brain circling over the possibilities. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve pretended to be a couple for a case or been mistaken for one by a stranger.

Not denying it is easier, even useful sometimes.

But now it’s almost like a compulsion. Whenever Sam catches his brother setting his eyes on a pretty woman, he immediately wants to spoil it. Has to spoil it. And interestingly enough, Dean never seems angry about it, is barely even irritated anymore.

Sometimes Sam even wonders if Dean does it on purpose, checking out girls when Sam is right next to him. But it’s a ridiculous thought. It’s just the way Dean is wired and he probably doesn’t even think about it.

Sam isn’t stupid. He might be a little reluctant when it comes to admitting things to himself but he can’t ignore it completely.

He is jealous. Blood-boiling, rage-inducing hideous jealousy – and it’s not Dean he’s jealous of.

“So,” he asks when Dean joins him at the bar, twirling his empty whiskey tumbler between his fingers, “Find anyone nice?”

Dean signals the bartender for a beer. “Nah,” he says, spinning on the bar stool to face Sam, “Besides you’d just ruin it for me anyway. Tell ‘em about how I like to be tied to the headboard or somethin’.”

“Do you?”

Dean blinks. “Do I what?”

“Like to be tied to the headboard.” Sam’s not sober enough to have this conversation with his brother. Or not drunk enough.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dean doesn’t say anything else and Sam doesn’t hold out hope for a reply. He gets the bartender to pour him a refill. Next to him, Dean sips his beer in silence.

Then Dean quietly says, “I don’t know. Never tried it.”

Sam doesn’t want to ask but he can’t stop himself and there’s an element of the ridiculous to it. “You want to?’

Dean snorts. “What is this? The kinky version of Twenty Questions?”

Sam shakes his head. “Never mind.” He throws back his whiskey, the liquid burning its way down to his stomach.

Dean rolls his beer bottle between his palms. He’s looking absently around the room but it’s obvious that he isn’t seeing anything, just thinking. “I don’t know,” he says finally, “I suppose.”

He focuses back on Sam, a grin around the corner of his mouth that’s typical and just this side of fake. “I’ll try anything once.”

Sam makes himself smile in return but the only thing he can think about is how if Dean ever was to try anything, it wouldn’t be with him, and that thought in itself is so disgustingly wrong that he can barely finish it. He curls his hand into a fist against the coarse fabric of his jeans as something ugly and possessive stirs inside of him.

Dean is still looking at him and it’s unnerving. Sam closes his trembling fingers around his empty glass. The bartender spots him, lifts an eyebrow in question, and Sam nods. Definitely not drunk enough.

Dean regards Sam’s third whiskey a little suspiciously. “Something up with you?”

Sam just shakes his head and empties the glass in one gulp.

~+~

Dean is in the middle of hustling pool with a couple from New Orleans, who keep snatching stolen glances at him, when Sam joins them.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean grins, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, a pink flush to his cheek after too many liquor shots, “This’s Jim an’ Maggie. Guys, this is my–“

“Boyfriend,” Sam cuts in automatically and Dean doesn’t even react to the word. Just smoothes out his shoulders and lines up the next shot, leaving Sam stuck with making conversation.

There’s a moment his jealousy spikes again, worsened by too much alcohol and the late hour, when Dean bends over the pool table and Maggie’s eyes visibly wander, but Jim is staring intently at Sam and Sam slowly catches on to what this is about.

As if on cue, Dean straightens up again, leaning backwards against the edge of the table, chalking his cue stick. “They’re lookin’ for another couple,” he says almost casually, looking up at Sam from underneath his lashes and Sam can’t tell if it’s intentional.

Before he can say anything Dean continues, “But I already told ‘em you don’t share.” He turns to the couple, shrugs his shoulders. “He can get possessive.”

Sam struggles to control his facial features while he’s trying not to stare at his brother in shock. Then Maggie comes up next to him and nudges her hip into his.

“I totally understand,” she says with a lilt, looking at Dean, then up at Sam, lashes fluttering, much like Dean did a moment ago. “Would’a been too good to be true.”

“Come on, honey,” Jim says, kissing her cheek, “It’s getting late, let’s head back.” He brushes Sam’s shoulder with his fingertips, not an unwelcome touch. “If you guys change your mind, we’re here for two more nights. We’re staying at the Chestnut Inn.”

Sam gives a smile, doesn’t mention that he and Dean won’t stay in this town for much longer. Maybe for the night but he’s itching to leave.

They say their goodbyes and Dean puts away the pool cues. “Alright, I’m beat. Let’s go back to the motel and sleep. You can do your thing and find us a job in the morning.”

Sam shakes his head but not in negation, just to clear it. He feels like he’s getting whiplash from this.

Dean’s palm comes down on his biceps, strokes up to his shoulder. “Earth to Sam? You okay?”

Sam croaks, “Yeah,” can’t help the shiver at Dean’s touch.

Dean tilts his head. “Sorry ‘bout this,” he says, “I just figured–I didn’t know what to say to make ‘em let it go.”

Sam looks at him, doesn’t mention that he could have just said that they’re brothers, could have just told them the truth, because somehow he can’t make himself say it. Dean’s eyes are hazy from the alcohol, his face open and vulnerable, fingers playing with Sam’s collar, and he’s too beautiful for Sam to even try to find the words.

It would be so easy to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist, pull him in and closer, feel the heat from his body, but the moment is over too quickly and Dean walks away from him, out the door.

Sam unroots himself from the spot. “Wait!” he calls over the music, then pushes through the door into the night, “Dean!”

He catches up with him at the car in the parking lot and Dean turns, leaning against the driver side door. “Yeah?”

Sam stops right in front of him. If he meant to say anything, it’s gone now.

It may have started out as a joke but there’s nothing funny about the way Dean is looking at him, head tilted back against the roof of the car, and biting his lip. It’s nothing but serious when Sam puts his hands on his brother, a little hesitantly at first but he quickly loses the nervousness when Dean’s eyes slip shut.

Dean gives a small gasp as Sam’s arms go entirely around him, encircling his waist, pulling him in, and it’s a beautiful little sound. Sam dips his head, about to lick it right out of Dean’s mouth, but Dean halts him with a gentle hand to his sternum.

“Sam?”

Sam hums in acknowledgement. He’s looking down at his brother and somehow he’s transported back to when he was twenty-two and noticeably taller than Dean for the very first time. He remembers it feeling so wrong and beyond strange. It still doesn’t seem quite right sometimes.

Right now it’s the perfect position to tilt his head a little and nuzzle his brother’s temple, into his hairline and feel the short strands tickle his skin. Dean smells like he always does, motel soap and lingering gun powder, and it’s home and perfect and Sam wants.

“What–“ Dean starts, licks his lips, “I mean why–I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. I think you do.”

“But I don’t want–“ he breaks off again, pain visible in the way he’s scrunching up his face and setting his jaw.

Sam backs off a little, leaving his palms a body heat pressure against Dean’s flanks. “Don’t want what? To feel like this?”

Dean nods, then shakes his head. Blows out a frustrated a breath. “It wasn’t–I had no idea this would end like this.” He gives a laugh but there’s no humor in it.

“What do you want me to do?” Sam asks and when there’s no reply, he steps back farther, removing his hands from Dean’s body and it might just be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

But then Dean reaches for him, for his hands, clasps them hard and says, “No.”

Sam keeps himself still, flattens his breathing. He’s trying to give Dean the space he needs without putting too much actual distance between them. He knows what he wants, he’s sure. Hell, maybe he’s been sure all along, maybe this is what subconsciously started the whole thing. But he can’t decide for his brother. Dean needs to arrive at the same place Sam’s at on his own.

Dean tugs him closer again and Sam goes willingly, folding himself back around Dean’s torso as Dean guides his hands to come to a rest on the small of his back. Dean exhales noisily and puts his own hands on Sam’s biceps.

Just that small touch – through clothing nonetheless – makes Sam briefly close his eyes.

“I can’t–“ Dean shakes his head again, then tilts his chin up, demands, “Kiss me.”

It’s quite the change in demeanor but this is Dean and Sam isn’t surprised by anything anymore. His brother is an ‘all or nothing’ kind of guy and Sam goes with it, doesn’t have to be told twice. He cups one hand behind the back of Dean’s neck and leans down, catches Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and sucks on it before he cocks his head and full-on kisses his brother.

Dean makes a little noise as if he didn’t suspect Sam to actually follow his request but he doesn’t pull away. He sinks against Sam, into him, and something blooms in Sam’s chest, knots his stomach with desire. He fingers are digging into bone behind Dean’s ear and he kisses harder, opens his mouth at the same time as Dean does.

The sky is pitch-black and there’s no one around but Sam is still floored that Dean is allowing this here and at all but Dean doesn’t seem preoccupied with their surroundings in any way. He’s brushing his hands up to Sam’s shoulders, thumb resting on his collarbone, and there’s no hesitation in his movements whatsoever now.

Another thing that surprises Sam is that Dean doesn’t make any attempts to try to gain the upper hand, doesn’t strive for control over the kiss and he seems perfectly comfortable, caged between the car and Sam’s body without any leverage.

He always – after his initial shocked annoyance –  went with Sam’s jokes about dick-sucking and being on he receiving end of things and maybe, maybe Sam wants to push this a little bit.

He gets his thumb under Dean’s jaw, tilts it up a little further, and shoves his knees in between Dean’s legs against the car door so Dean has to rise up on his toes a little bit. His fingers dig into Sam’s skin as he’s struggling to maintain his balance.

But he doesn’t say anything. Just makes another one of those breathy sounds that comes out muffled around Sam’s tongue. His mouth is pliant against Sam’s, following every one of Sam’s movements and it’s so different to everyone he’s kissed in his life because even here they’re totally in sync and it’s almost too familiar for his own comfort.

For a moment there it weirdly reminds him of Jessica. Or – and the thought almost makes him laugh – it’s always been the other way around.

It doesn’t matter now, not now when Dean’s so soft and entirely pliable, Sam’s to form and mold. It makes warmth pool in his stomach that’s not just emotion. He shifts against Dean, hikes his knee a little higher between his brother’s legs, and makes sure that Dean can feel the line of Sam’s cock against his own hip, half-hard and growing, filling more with every lick of their tongues, and Sam’s far past being ashamed.

Dean’s gasp is louder this time, his hips twitch, and he brings some space between their mouths. HIs lips are dark pink, looking thoroughly kissed and bitten, spit-slick, and it’s all Sam can do not to dive back in and rid Dean of all his clothes right here in the parking lot.

Dean’s eyes are wide, awake despite the blown pupils, irises dark green in the low light, a flush in his cheeks that somehow makes him look adorable and utterly fuckable at the same time. His taste lingers in Sam’s mouth, liquor and spice, and Sam’s so screwed. Irreversibly and unapologetically screwed.

He is waiting for the it to be too much, for Dean to bolt, the inevitable shove backwards and the ‘I can’t’. But impossibly, Dean stays put. Just stares at him for a few crucial seconds, his mouth half-open, and Sam can’t help himself. He strokes his thumb from Dean’s neck to his bottom lip, pressing against it gently, feeling it give. He crooks his finger then, clicking the nail against the line of Dean’s teeth and Dean’s eyes shudder closed.

It’s encouragement, an invitation if Sam’s ever seen one, and he doesn’t waste any time sliding the digit into Dean’s mouth, letting him close his lips around it. Sam feels the ridges of Dean’s tongue against the calloused pad of his thumb and it sparks right down to his groin. He bends forward, attaches his own mouth to the corner of Dean’s, then down his jaw and the line of his neck, all the while pressing his thumb against Dean’s clever tongue.

He withdraws then, replacing his thumb with his index and middle finger, and gives a quiet groan against the hollow of Dean’s throat when Dean sucks them into his mouth right away, his hand even coming up to wrap strong fingers against Sam’s wrist and holding him in place.

Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen or felt anything as erotic as his brother suckling and licking at his fingers as if they’re the best thing he’s ever tasted, and he’s aching to get out of his jeans and stroke himself. He nicks Dean’s skin with his teeth before pulling back

He hesitates a moment before he asks, “Backseat?” not entirely sure where they stand, but Dean only nods, nothing left of his uncertainty from earlier.

The car is roomy but containing two fully grown men struggling to get out of their clothes is a challenge whichever way you look at it and Sam bumps his elbow on the car door two times. He just so manages not to hit his head against the roof through sheer luck. Dean fares a little better, shuffling along the bench seat on his back, kicking out of his jeans. He only narrowly misses Sam’s head with his foot and judging by the way he muffles his laughter it was entirely premeditated.

Sam snorts a laugh of his own and grabs Dean’s gloriously naked thighs with both hands, spreading them around his shoulders as he sinks down to the leather, bending over his brother so he can lick across the head of his dick, and Dean’s amusement turns to low moans real damn fast. If Sam had any room in his mouth for grinning he would, but as it is he just takes Dean’s cock deeper into his mouth, careful to keep his teeth away, and feels it harden further against his tongue.

Dean’s fingers tangle in his hair and Sam isn’t sure but he thinks he can feel them tremble slightly.

“Sam, fuck,” Dean blurts and Sam hums around him, making him buck his hips up. He pulls back a little to avoid gagging, then spreads his forearm across Dean’s abdomen to hold him down.

He slides his mouth farther down, takes as much as he confidently can, and swallows. Dean near-shouts, jerking against Sam’s hold.

Sam is peripherally worried about the possibility of arrest for public indecency so he reaches up, hooks two of his fingers into Dean’s mouth again, his palm cupped around Dean’s chin, thumb pressing right over his pulse point. He can feel the quick thump thump thump of Dean’s heart.

Dean makes a choked noise, halfway between affront and amusement, but takes the hint and begins sucking at Sam’s fingers.

Sam can feel the vibrations of Dean’s moans. He’s trying to gain any kind of friction against his cock but the leather seat isn’t exactly the most comfortable place, so he takes his arm off Dean’s stomach and reaches down between his own legs.

Dean starts to shift his hips again and Sam pulls his mouth away, ignoring Dean’s whine of protest.

He growls, “Stay down,” and Dean gives a hiccup-y moan but obeys, only little twitches of his hips and his quivering abs giving away how much he’s struggling to stay still. He bites Sam’s fingers to tell him what he thinks of it, slight sting of pain, and Sam shoves his fingers farther into Dean’s mouth in retaliation until he almost-gags.

It’s not really violent but Sam wouldn’t be surprised if the fingers that aren’t in Dean’s mouth, the ones pressed against his jaw, biting nails and solid grip, will have left bruises by morning. He feels the pin-sting of Dean’s fingers pulling at his hair but he doesn’t have a hand to dislodge them, and anyway, he doesn’t much care to.

He works his own cock in the same rhythm as he sucks Dean’s and he’s enveloped in Dean’s smell, sweat and musk, and maybe it makes him a little crazy because he pulls his fingers out of Dean’s mouth then and presses them between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, leaving a wet trail down his perineum before pushing gently against the tight muscle below.

Dean’s other hand comes down on his shoulder, his heels digging into Sam’s back. “Sam, I’m–“

He breaks off, shudders when Sam increases the pressure and breaches him with just the tip of his index finger, taking him deep into his mouth at the same time, and the muscle around his finger clamps tight as Dean comes with a muffled groan.

Sam cleans Dean’s cock with his tongue while Dean shakes through his orgasm and speeds up the hand he’s got on his own dick. He twists his thumb over the tip, smearing precum, and he briefly, ridiculously, thinks about how Dean is going to kill him if he gets semen on the upholstery.

Dean’s hand is slack in Sam’s hair, weakly cupping his head where Sam’s got it rested against the inside of Dean’s thigh.

He mutters, “Holy shit, Sammy,” and maybe it’s the exhausted awe in his voice or the nickname but in any way, that’s when Sam comes, too, into his own hand.

He turns on to his side to catch his breath, head lolling on Dean’s stomach and he’s almost tempted to clean his hand off on either the leather or on Dean’s clothes, just to piss his brother off, but then he has a better idea.

He lifts his hand, smearing his sticky fingers against Dean’s bottom lip in an act of bravery, looking up to gauge Dean’s reaction. Dean raises his eyebrows and for a moment Sam thinks he’s gone too far but then Dean’s tongue flicks out, little kitten-licks against the tips of Sam’s fingers until he opens his mouth wider and sucks them clean of Sam’s own release.

Sam groans weakly. If he hadn’t just come harder than he had in a while, he might be able to get hard again just from this.

Dean doesn’t stop until Sam’s fingers are glistening with saliva, then pulls off and grins down at Sam, entirely too smug, and it makes Sam laugh.

Tagged by request: @ghivasheluh @cupcaketimelord @runtosleepdreamer (Anyone else wanna be tagged for either the Kink Bingo or Wincest or all my fics, let me know!)