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Dean’s face falls the second the last word leaves those purses lips he’s helplessly admiring. The gleam of shock glimmers in his eyes when he rolls through the subtext of the words just spoken by the man before him, someone he’s just met and just killed a freakin’ ghost alongside of.
“We’re supposed to be something else,” Sam just lets the words roll off his tongue, sticky sweet and full of meaning he can’t even decipher.
He’s still riding the high of the adrenaline in his blood and anger in his bones at this unhealthily gorgeous man’s ignorance. He can hardly give a fuck if he tried, which he refuses to do.
He shifts his weight onto his left leg and feels the weight of the world move with him, but it doesn’t feel...authentic. He’s too angry to put his finger on the feeling though. “You’re not just some corporate douchebag!”
Dean’s jaw falls slightly slack but he refuses to show emotion right now. He simply squints his eyes in annoyance and offence as he subconsciously challenges Sam to continue digging his own grave.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changes, and Sam can physically feel the air tightening around them—like the hand of god choking the destiny from their lungs. He blinks himself into reality, but it’s just the same: depressing and incomplete, but the feeling that the missing piece of the puzzle is just under his nose lingers still.
Hanging his head ever so slightly, he lifts his sunflower eyes to stare into the duplicate apple green abysses he feels like he’s known for an eternity. “This...this isn’t you. I know you.”
Like his whole world has been crushed, he’s pissed off and trying to disguise his agreement with Sam’s statement. ‘How did he know?’ turns into ‘how dare he?!,’and of course, in the classic Dean Winchester way, he lashes out.
“Know me?” He shakes his head and scoffs with all the derisive energy he can conjure. “You don’t know me, pal.”
Sam knew that was coming. He tries to break the spell this world seemingly binds him with, channelling any and every emotion he can conjure into those beautiful eyes. His attempts are futile...whatever past they had together is broken and lost, and he never got to see even a snippet of what it might have been.
Could they have been best friends, having met in kindergarten at the lunch table and grown up with one another into adulthood? Maybe they were brothers, fighting against the world together with all they had to give for one another. Or, perhaps they were lovers, unfortunate yet deliciously kismet, lost in time with every look into the other’s eyes. Any would’ve been okay; just not this. This is hell, and he doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before.
Dean’s glare softens for a split second like he’s reading these thoughts directed at him like an arrow at a target. But Sam knows that God’s a cynic—and he knows exactly how this’ll end: just like everything else, it’ll end with silence.
“You should go,” his voice is small, meek, and full of regret. He feels this opportunity for change slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, but he can’t seem to stop it. He can’t stand to see the dejected look in Sam’s eyes so he turns his own downward, tracing the pattern in the floor.
It takes a moment—and, hell, it’s a long ass moment—but soon enough, he hears heavy footsteps depart and the door closes softly, apprehensively. The final click of the doorknob sounds to Dean like the final toll of a clock on the last day on earth.
He wants to throw his fist through a wall, to make it as bloody as Sammy’s bright yellow and hideous polo that somehow makes him even more radiant. He just cannot will himself to move, speak, or even think about anything but that tall, lanky man who just might be the love of his life—his soulmate.
Before he can spray his heart with a spray bottle to get it to mind him, he’s stumbling to the door in a frenzy of good intentions and a selfish obsession. Throwing the heavy wooden slab open, he practically throws himself into the corridor and hits the wall on the opposite side, shoulder against drywall. Of course, he yells ‘son of a bitch’ in pain, which catches the attention of someone else at the end of the hall.
Sam’s eyes widen with realisation and utter confusion. He’s back—does he want him? Or does he want to finish what he started with his angry monologue? He doesn’t know why, but there’s this feeling of a hot iron branding into his heart, but he can’t quite tell what the marking is. Before he can dwell on it any longer, he finds himself running toward Dean Smith, handsome and quirky Dean Smith, to meet him in the middle of the corridor.
Dean wants to make their reunion as sappy as ‘The Notebook’ as they kiss in the hallway at three in the morning, but when they’re just a foot apart, silence ensues. Both of them are heaving from darting toward one another and their eyes are wandering from each other’s eyes, to their lips, and down to...other regions.
Okay, so one of them has to make the leap of faith—but who? A silent and telepathic game of rock, paper, scissors ends with Dean being the loser, so he steps closer to Sam and looks up with caution and eagerness.
“Can I—“ He starts in a small voice, yet stops to build up more courage. Where the hell is the wonderful Wizard of Oz right now so he can get some balls? “Can I kiss you?”
Sam’s throat is dry and feels like it’s caving in, but he nods like a bobble head and before he knows it, the distance between them is gone.
Dean is revelling in this new universe he’s discovered: how Sam’s lips taste like watermelon chapstick, how his hair product makes his hair supernaturally smooth, and just how big he is. It’s like seeing a moose in pictures and suddenly being stood next to a real one. The kiss is soft and sweet yet oh so meaningful. It feels like...like home.
When their lips disconnect, they’re both left craving more—like a drug. Dean runs his shaky hand along Sam’s stubble-coated cheek with a smile gracing his plump, just-kissed lips.
“I know you too, Sammy,” he murmurs into their newfound passionate world, population: them two. Instead of grimacing, Sam feels his lips twitch into a small grin at the nickname. “I know you and I never wanna not know you.”
Laughing in agreement, Sam reconnects their lips with a zeal that makes Dean’s heart melt. He feels like they’ve danced this dance a thousand times before, despite this being only their second kiss. He feels like he knows every inch of this man’s body: which places that elicit beautiful moans when touched, where he should place his hands when he’s hugging him, and where he should tuck his head when they cuddle together. It feels so peculiarly familiar...and he fucking loves it.
To Sam, this feels entirely natural. Like they should’ve done this ages ago. Though he feels uneasy and vulnerable thinking it, this whole thing with Dean, despite literally lasting, what, two minutes now, resembles love a bit too closely than anything else in the world. Everything he ever thought he knew about affection, adoration, and even fear was tossed out the window in room 1444 the minute he met his new pseudo-boss. He just didn’t want to accept it until right now.
Like his eyes were opened, he can finally read the word etched into the muscle of his beating heart. With the frayed edges of fire-scorched wood, the word ‘Winchester’ is there, clear as day, burned into his soul with the burning passion of a thousand suns.
He’s confused, yeah, but ignores it in lieu of capturing ever second of having Dean’s lips on his.
Besides, everything that’s happened in the last forty eight hours has been a little...not natural.