#its really hard to make endverse justice because that whole concept is too good just shoot me now

[winpocalypse]

Wincest ft Endverse!Dean + 38 (…because they’re running out of time)

wincest ft endverse!dean + kissing because they’re running out of time

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean puts his gun in the holster, grabbing Sam's jacket and dragging him backwards. He goes with some effort, eyes never leaving the scene up front. “This is not the time to freeze, c’mon.”

“I’m not frozen, I—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean shoves him in the dirty ass rotten building. 

They barricade the door with the little shit they find, as it shakes and thuds and almost gives in with what comes from the other side, the poor piece of junk wood. 

“C’mon.” He urges Sam up the stairs, until they find some way to the roof. He can already hear the first zombie-demon-monster passing through the door downstairs. The noises these motherfuckers make has never been one he got accustomed with. 

The door at the roof is metal, lucky them, and Dean manages to lock and pass a pipe through it as Sam checks the perimeter. 

“Listen to me.” He turns to Sam, gun at hand once more, and hesitates. 

Sam doesn’t appear to be listening anyways. His gaze is fixed somewhere down, somewhere at the front of this old building they had no choice but to run to. Dean already knows.

He gets closer, but he doesn’t look where Sam’s looking. “I guess seeing yourself five years into the future can be a bit—”

“That’s not me.”

Dean stares at his brother’s side. His soft hair, that permanent frown, his mole. “That’s not you.”

Sam lets his head drop, his fingers curling against the roof’s wall. “You should’ve told me.”

The metal door comes alive, something banging at it on the other side. The noises Dean hates making him that more out of edge. He needs to get Sam out. 

“Dean, I’m sorr—”

“We don’t have time, listen to me.” He takes Sam’s arm, forcing his back on whatever he’s watching. “First things first.” He gets a finger to Sam’s nose. “You’re a piece a shit for following us.”

Sam huffs. “Was I supposed to be a good little prisoner while all of you got killed out here?”

“Yes.”

Sam opens an indignant smile looking sideways, that little thing he does when he’s so frustrated. Dean hasn’t seen that in a long time, and he smiles along, can’t help himself softening at the edges. “Five years difference and you’re still just the same.”

“Better hair, I think.”

“Didn’t occur to you I might be of help? I am an experienced hunter, Dean. And you left me locked up in some room, unarmed—”

“And now you’re out of said room, very much armed. I don’t even want to know who's the poor son of a bitch you traumatized back at camp.”

The banging is louder and louder. The metal’s already creasing.

Dean drags Sam by the jacket until they get to some rusty metal barricade at the side of the building that leads to an even rustier stair a couple feet down. “You got here, I’m guessing you know how to get back. But Cas will be waiting for you on the car three blocks down—”

Sam shoves him back. “I’m not going without you.”

“I am not arguing, Sam. You will get down. Now.” His words are punctuated with a metallic bang at the door.

“You want to get killed?”

Dean signs. “I have a chance to end this. The devil’s just waiting for me. I’m not wasting it, Sam.”

Sam opens his mouth, but he closes it fast, the words sinking in. He shakes his head, tightening his mouth, closing his eyes. He gets closer, hands grabbing at Dean’s jacket, pulling him, the same way he did when he begged Dean to put an end to it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I did this.”

With his head down in a way Dean can’t even see his face, this giant man is making himself small, with tears in his eyes and vulnerable whispers. There might be a time when this would piss Dean so much he would shove him, tell him to suck it up, even punch him. Guess a man can only lose his brother so much.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, soft, softer than he allowed himself in years. Probably since his Sam.

Sam looks up, his face contracted in worry, eyes shining bright. The door gives in a bit more and there’s an arm already going through the breach.  

Dean makes a fist of Sam’s hair with his free hand, bringing him right where he belongs, right where Dean should’ve initiated him on, years and years ago. He has no finesse whatsoever— it’s rough and wet and toothy. Sam’s lips are soft where Dean’s are chapped. And he doesn’t back down. He opens right up to Dean, willing and shaky, holding onto the jacket with as much strength as Dean’s holding to his hair and neck. If he’s doing it because he wants to or simply because he can't refuse him, Dean has no idea. But he ain’t passing this up.

Another loud bang and Dean has to back away with a swear. “Ok, you have to go.”

Sam’s almost out of it. He’s still clinging, looking at Dean with a mix of when he was nine years old, just an impressionable kid, and when Dean came back from hell, that first meeting when he hugged him so tight. 

Dean guessing it’s just hope.

Dean gives him another open mouthed kiss, quickly, just to feel once more the slide of Sam’s tongue, wet and desperate. “Now I have something to come back to,” he says with a smirk, licking his brother’s saliva out of the corner of his mouth. “I got this. You go find Cas.” He lets his fingers caress the side of Sam’s neck. “And you wait for me.”

AO3