Title: Remembering Everything (We Knew About Survival)
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: for 2x15 - Tall Tales.
Note: This was written as a gift for someone for SPN!Christmas in August. Post-Tall Tales.
Summary: They never say, 'I'm sorry.' But they know when they are. The boys make up after a fight.

***

That lopsided, infuriating smirk doesn't leave Dean's face the entire trip from the campus to Bobby's truck. It doesn't disappear when they offer their thanks, when Bobby climbs out of the Impala and they say their good-byes. Not even when Bobby cocks his head and looks at them so sideways Sam thinks it's going to make him slide right off the seat.

"You boys take care," Bobby says, adjusting his weathered hat and pulling the door to his old pickup open with a terrible creak.

Dean gives this obnoxious half-wave, half-salute and guns the engine. Sam expects that to cause some hint of annoyance to bubble up in his chest, but nothing comes. It's just Dean, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief, sinks deeper into the bench seat and braces a knee against the door.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Dean's glance. "Shame, dude. I kinda liked that son of a bitch." His brother chuckles, twisting his hands over the steering wheel before hiking the volume on the stereo. Dean lets his arm hang out the window, fingers tapping on the door in time to the thrum of the bass and guitars.

"Yeah, well." Sam isn't going to point out that people were being killed. He knows Dean knows, and he doesn't feel inclined to start something new after the past week. A shake of his head and Sam's looking out the window again. "Man, we really lost it, didn't we?"

He can almost feel Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "We?" his brother drawls, and Sam turns back to him slowly. Dean's still got that smirk on his face, and it's starting to make Sam squirm. He just echoes Sam and looks back at the road. "Yeah, well."

The road rumbles beneath the tires, and they hit a pothole that bounces the car as they pull into the motel parking lot. The sound of the Impala's doors closing in unison is sharp in the darkness. Sam is only half-surprised to see his laptop has reappeared, sitting tidily on the chest in the bedroom, plugged into the wall as if it had been there all along. He lets out a breath of relief, grabs it and flops stomach first on the bed to make sure nothing's gone, legs half dangling over the edge. After losing everything they'd collected outside of the journal last year, Sam had come up with a sickly organized backup process that put the Dewey Decimal System to shame. Something he hears no end of from Dean.

"Oh, will you two get a room?" Dean grouses, inclining his head and toeing off his boots.

"You could always sleep in the car," Sam suggests, snorting. "That way you two can be alone. Easy privacy when it's practically a portable room."

Dean yanks off Sam's boots next, a little harder than necessary.

"Dude, knock it off," Sam says, shooting Dean a dark look.

Dean throws up his arms. "Hey, jus' tryin' to help." When Sam huffs and turns back to the soft glow of the screen, he adds, "I bet you curl up with that thing at night. You know, after I'm asleep. Whisper softly to it and all that shit. All that limb draping I wake up to is just a clever guise. Freak."

"Bite me. At least I don't fondle it."

"Shut your mouth," Dean half growls, though the sound is light. He shoves his knee against Sam's calf and steps between Sam's legs.

"Make me, jerk."

"After this whole week you're freakin' nine, now?" Dean's stretched over him in a heartbeat, chest pressed against his shoulder blades, legs twining with his, hips against his ass. Sam looks at Dean over his shoulder, twisting just a little under Dean's weight. The smirk wavers, finally, and Sam grins when Dean grumbles, presses his mouth into Sam's shoulder and slides his hands down his sides. He tugs up Sam's shirt and palms his hips, curls his fingers warm into Sam's skin.

Sam sets his jaw and lifts an eyebrow. "Is this your idea of an apology?"

The look Dean gives him is almost pure bewilderment, even as his fingers slide insistently along the inside of the hem of Sam's jeans. "No dude, this is your idea of an apology. You know. Older. Always right."

Sam laughs and closes the laptop. "I think 'older' is the key word th--OW!" He can barely see Dean's eyes, looking up at him from under raised brows, because Dean's teeth were buried in his shoulder.

"Hmm, mmth--" Dean's head lifts just a little, the air cool on Sam's shoulder over the circle of spit. "Hey, you asked for it."

"Now who's the juvenile--Dean!" Sam's suddenly on his back with no idea how, Dean hovering above him, leaning on one arm, while his free hand undoes Sam's jeans.

"That whole talking thing? Already done," Dean says, jaw hardly moving as he speaks, staring down at Sam. The smirk is gone, clouded over by dark, impatient eyes, and Sam thinks that's a good thing. But then Dean's hand is in his boxers, snaking around his half-hard cock and anything he'd meant to say slithers somewhere deep into the back of his brain.

"Fuck," Sam mutters, arching up into Dean's touch.

The noise of agreement Dean makes is drowned between their mouths, his hum vibrating straight down to settle in Sam's abdomen, hot and flushed. Dean fists his dick slowly in the tight space between their hips, and Sam's eyes flutter back, hands coming up to slide fingers into Dean's close-cropped hair.

Dean pulls his hand away, grinds into Sam while he lifts Sam's shirt. It comes off in one smooth motion, goes flying somewhere out of eyeshot. Dean's got his own off a second later, and their mouths crash together again. Shifting, Dean lifts his leg and straddles Sam. Sam arches, drops his hands to Dean's hips and pulls, claws, tries to force him closer. Dean pulls away so fast he trails a glistening string of spit between them, and Sam makes a sound so pathetic he'll never forgive himself. He scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth and licks his lips.

Sam curls upward, forces Dean back a little farther and unfastens his belt, flips open the button of his jeans and yanks down the zipper. Dean's hands find his shoulders as he shoves his brother's pants down, just far enough, just under the curve of his ass. The tip of Dean's cock brushes Sam's cheek, leaving a slick of pre-come over his skin that cools too quickly. Long fingers are tight against Dean's skin, thumb nestling in the dip between hipbone and belly. Sam's other hand wraps around Dean's cock, thumb stroking the underside, grip tight as Dean growls low in his throat.

With Dean's hands bracing his shoulders, Sam pulls himself closer, runs his tongue around the head of Dean's dick. He moans at the taste, hums and sucks the head in and digs his fingers into Dean's side.

"Fuck, S--" His name is choked out as Sam takes Dean in, mouth sliding over his brother's cock until he feels it in the back of his throat. Dean pitches forward, almost overbalancing them both, but Sam's other hand grabs his side, steadying them. Cheeks hollow, Sam drags the tip of his tongue along Dean's dick as he pulls back, flicks it under the head and swipes over it. Dean can barely keep himself upright, his grip marking Sam's shoulders.

Sam moves his hands to Dean's ass, pulls him even closer as he sucks him in again. Hands fist in his hair so tight it almost hurts, but he's free to move, set up a rhythm with his lips, tongue, the faintest graze of teeth that makes Dean writhe. His mouth is coated with spit, sloppy, wet movements pushing Dean further and further until muscles tense under Sam's palms.

"Sammy, y--" The words melt away and Sam's eyes flutter open in time to see Dean's chin fall to his chest. It's all the warning he gets, mouth flooding hot and bitter, and he lets his brother ride out the waves with small jerks of his hips, swallows because he knows what that does to Dean. He slides his mouth off Dean's cock, looking up with a lopsided, lazy grin, lips glistening as he runs his tongue over them.

Dean just stares down at him slack jawed, eyes pinned on Sam's mouth.

"Jesus, Dean, I haven't seen you get off that fast since--"

The look Dean gives Sam doesn't shut him up, but the punch to his shoulder does. "Dude, it's been like, how long since we showed up here?"

The corner of Sam's mouth twitches upward. "Point taken." His hands find Dean's hips again, and he twists, takes advantage of his post-orgasm stupor and manages to roll them both over. Dean grunts when his back hits the mattress, and Sam moves back. He yanks Dean's jeans off the rest of the way, shucks his own and slides between Dean's legs. One knee hitches up, and he rolls his hips against Dean, who's hard again already.

"Dude, you really are fucking fourteen."

"It's not the fourteen I care about right now, Sam," he growls, grabbing Sam and pulling him in for a kiss, wet and messy and all tongue and teeth. A groan catches in Sam's throat. Dean tastes like sugar and caramel, goddamn candy Sam can never find.

"Point taken," Sam says again when they come up for air, reaching over the edge of the bed for his bag. The lube is cold, but he doesn't think Dean will care, so he slathers two fingers, shifts and teases Dean's hole until his brother is pushing against him.

His fingers slide in slow, up to the knuckles, and Dean arches when they hit his prostate, makes the dirtiest sound Sam thinks he's ever heard. Dean's collarbone is sweat-slick under Sam's tongue, and he drags his mouth over Dean's skin, breath heavy with the scent of his brother: earth and leather and the faintest lingering smell of that goddamn mint body wash Dean accidentally bought last week.

Sam's mouth finds one of Dean's nipples, and he rakes his teeth over it, swirls his tongue, and Dean's hands go flat against Sam's head before sliding down his neck, putting a death grip on his shoulders. He adds a third finger, crooks them, and Dean bucks up against him, hard into his jaw. Pulling back onto his knees, Sam fists his own cock, still fucking Dean with his fingers.

He spreads the pre-come slowly with his thumb, bites his lip and then grabs the lube, pops the top open. It oozes through his fingers as he slicks his cock, his brother watching with sharp, darkened eyes. Sweat plasters Sam's hair to his face, and his jaw sets as he leans forward, pushes the head of his dick past the ring of muscle.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean grinds out, and Sam puts his hands either side of his brother's shoulders. Dean pushes back into Sam, needing, and Sam gasps, slides balls deep and starts moving. He fucks into Dean, slow but hard, and with every thrust Dean's grip on him tightens.

Sam leans away, sets his knees, wraps large hands around the outsides of Dean's thighs. He pulls his brother up, back, grinds his hips upward each time, to hit just--

Dean's hands scrabble for the headboard without luck, fingers sinking into the pillows instead. Sam takes Dean's cock in his hand, tight grip jerking in short strokes a few times, and Dean's spilling, thick sticky ropes spreading over his stomach and chest. Dean bites his own forearm to muffle the moan, and Sam could almost laugh. But Dean's orgasm makes his muscles clench, so goddamn tight around Sam he's done, dick pulsing, coming inside Dean with a shudder.

Sam's shoulders slump, and he pushes at Dean's legs, pulls out and untangles himself to fall onto his side. He rolls onto his back, hands falling against his sweat-damp chest.

"Don't. Fucking. Say it." Dean's voice is gravelly, rough and lazy around the edges.

Sam grins wide, shoves a pillow under his head. "Don't have to, do I?"

Dean tries to reach for a t-shirt, but they've both been flung out of reach. "Son of a bitch." He rises from the bed, unsteady on his legs, trying to balance comfort and staying upright. "Yeah, well. Shower," he says, making some vague, leering gesture at the bathroom.

Sam pushes himself up on his elbows. "So, you gonna, uh--"

Dean barks a laugh that echoes off the bathroom tile. "You are such a freak."

Sam doesn't say anything to that, doesn't care if he is. He's half-hard again at the though of Dean covered in that fucking mint lather. He shoves off the bed and slides into the bathroom behind Dean, door wide open.

***