SPNovember Prompt Fest

The only things Sam likes about bars are the neon lights and Dean. Problem is, Dean’s dead. So why does Sam keep finding himself in shitty bars? It’s not the lights, no matter how much he might enjoy them on their own. It’s certainly not the alcohol or the company. Places like this don’t have the good stuff of either.

Country music plays low on the jukebox. Dean would complain about it. Sam can practically hear him. “Can’t they play real music?” even as he taps his boot to the beat under the table.

Dean.

Miracle is safe in the motel room down the street, the only part of Dean Sam has left besides an old amulet, the car, and memories. So many memories. The clink of beer bottles. The curl of Dean’s lip after he downs a shot of cheap whiskey. The smooth, appreciative slide of his gaze over a passing waitress.

“She’s cute, Sammy. Say hi.”

“I’m good, Dean.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sir?”

Sam blinks and the vision of his brother disappears. He tilts his head to meet the pretty brown eyes of the waitress. She smiles, cherry chapstick sweet and exactly Dean’s type.

“We’re closin’ up,” she says. So that’s why it’s so quiet. “Do you need me to call you a ride?”

Sam shakes his head. He taps one fingertip against the neck of his barely-touched beer bottle. “I’ll walk. The motel’s down the street.” He pulls a $20 from his wallet and hands it to her. “Keep the change.”

Outside the bar, the night air is cool and rain fresh. The neon lights of the sign reflect pretty colors off the still-damp asphalt of the parking lot. Streetlights brighten the path to the motel and Sam may be in Small Town, Nowhere, but the sky is still the flat grey of light pollution and clouds when he looks up. The sight makes him shiver. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and starts walking.

A few days will find him in another town, another hunt, another bar once the poltergeist has been handled. He keeps coming back to them, over and over and maybe he’s starting to see what Dean saw.

Bars, he thinks, were Dean’s churches. Barstool pews, bartender sermons. A congregation under neon in search of solace, forgiveness, forgetting. Healing, of a kind. Sam doesn’t believe in this religion, never has, but he’s starting to see the beauty in it. The community. The comfort Dean may have found in the same kinds of people over and over. Different names, different faces, different town. Same stories.

It took losing Dean for Sam to see it.

Blue neon cuts through the dimly lit room, fuzzy in the smoke hanging in the air. Sam sinks low in his lonely booth under the old sign and watches, picking idly at the label on his beer. The music here is louder, some upbeat dance song that’s grating on his nerves but has the waitress swaying as she weaves between tall tables. The other patrons chat loudly, a steady drone that’s pitched just wrong and has Sam gritting his teeth.

“Just go back to the motel, Sammy. I can hustle pool alone tonight.”

“I’m supposed to be your backup.”

“You’re shitty backup when you’re like this. I’ll be fine.”

Dean was always looking out for him. He knew Sam better than Sam knew himself sometimes. Knew all the signs that Sam was headed for overload long before Sam realized he’d pushed too far.

“Go lay down in the car, Sammy. I’ll be out once I’ve won breakfast money.”

Sam drags himself from the booth and throws down a couple of bills for the beer he didn’t drink. Outside the bar is blessedly quiet, the hum of the crowd shut behind dirty glass and a creaky front door. The buzz of the neon sign splits the air, though, and drills into Sam’s head. He hunches his shoulders against it and hurries to the car. Her solid black frame silences the sound as Sam crawls into the backseat on instinct.

“Cas.”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Please-”

He whines and arches into the hand Castiel runs up over his fluttering abs. Sam’s chest heaves with each breath, his muscles straining against the ropes keeping him bound spread-eagle on the bed. His cock bobs with every shift of his hips. His lower belly is slick and sticky with precum and sweat after what must feel like an eternity of teasing, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he is gorgeous. The most beautiful thing Castiel has ever laid eyes on in his many days on this planet. Nothing compares to Sam Winchester.

Castiel traces one fingertip around the circle of Sam’s tattoo, almost thoughtful. “Use your words, boy.”

Sam got himself into this situation, challenging Castiel the way he did. He can get himself out of it.

Castiel’s hand drifts along Sam’s collarbone and he smirks when he feels just as much as hears Sam’s breath catch as his fingers curl that long, beautiful neck. Not squeezing, not pressing. Just holding. It steadies Sam and Castiel feels him relax a little under the contact.

“Good boy,” Castiel murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his lover’s mouth. “Beautiful boy.”

Sam’s cheeks are already flushed with arousal but now it darkens high on his cheeks. If he was in any other position, he might duck his head to hide his face because he still gets a little shy when Castiel compliments him. He can’t do that now, though. He’s forced to keep his eyes on Castiel as he processes the praise.

Castiel gently grips Sam’s jaw, thumb sliding around those kiss-swollen lips. Remembers the way they look stretched around his cock. That’s for another time, though. This is about Sam. “I’m going to touch you again. You will not move. You will not cum. You know what to do to change that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam whispers, going absolutely still as he waits for whatever Castiel gives him.

Amazing.

Sam’s cock is hot to the touch, the tip purpling from denial. It throbs when Castiel trails one fingertip along the underside to where Sam’s balls are pulled up tight against his body. Sam bites back a groan and his arms flex as he fights the urge to move his hips. Castiel rolls his balls gently in his hand, listening to the choked off whimpers his lover makes, and then moves even further south to the silky-smooth patch of skin leading to the one part of Sam he hasn’t touched tonight. Not for lack of begging on Sam’s part, either, but that was part of the challenge for tonight. Castiel agreed to give Sam a fair chance by leaving his prostate alone. He will make his lover lose control on his cock another time. Maybe in front of a mirror, so Sam can see how unbelievably stunning he is as he takes everything Castiel gives him.

“Cas, please, I need-”

“I know what you need.” Castiel brings his left hand around to stroke Sam’s sweat-soaked hair off his forehead at the same time he curls the fingers of his right loosely around Sam’s cock. “And you know how to get it.”

Sam hesitates, considering. He can’t see the clock from where he lies and has no clue how much time has really passed. Has it been long enough? He won’t know until he yields. Castiel can see his mind working over his options and then…

“Mercy.”

The word is barely a breath but Castiel hears it and immediately tightens his grip on Sam’s cock. Sam moans as Castiel puts his mastery of Sam’s body into making him cum as quickly as possible, instead of keeping him from cumming for as long as possible. It doesn’t take long, especially after so much time spent keeping Sam right on the edge.

Now Sam goes hurtling over it in no time at all. His body twists and flexes in the ropes, torn between getting as much stimulation as he can and getting away from Castiel’s touch as it moves from pleasure to something verging on pain. Cum streaks his belly, all the way up to his tattoo. The way he moves, the sounds he makes as he loses himself entirely in what Castiel is doing to him - it’s beyond beautiful. Castiel doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of seeing his lover in this way.

He works Sam through the aftershocks, squeezing every last drop of cum from his body and only letting up when Sam begins to squirm away from the contact. He doesn’t let go of Sam’s cock, though, as it softens in his hand.

“Do you know how long you lasted?” Castiel asks even though he already knows the answer.

Sam shakes his head, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “No, sir.”

Castiel’s lips quirk in a fond smile and he leans down to kiss Sam, capturing his mouth fully this time in an undeniably possessive gesture. “Forty-five minutes, Samuel. Ten minutes longer than last time.” Sam’s eyes go wide. “My good boy.”

The car breaking down ends up being the last straw.

Sam managed to get out of the car and pop the hood before things really hit. Now, he’s sitting on the side of the road with his back against a tire, not even trying to hide his tears. What’s the point? What is the fucking point of any of this?

Dean is gone. Cas is gone. Mom is gone. Jack is gone. Dean is gone. Sam could be telling people, maybe. They deserve to know, he should call them, and yet here he is. Crying his eyes out on the side of the road in only God knows where, U.S.A.

If John could see him now.

Sam chuckles weakly at the thoughts of his dad. What would John say?

“Nothing is ever solved by sitting on your ass. Get up and fix my car.”

Yeah. Maybe. He probably wouldn’t be so nice about it. Or maybe he would be nicer. Sam finds it harder and harder these days to remember his father’s voice.

Better to forget John than to forget Dean, though.

“Take care of my car or I’ll haunt your ass.”

“I wouldn’t mind being haunted right about now,” Sam mutters to the imaginary Dean in his head.

“Yeah, well. Too bad. Get up and fix my car.”

Sighing, Sam wipes his eyes and drags himself to his feet. Is he crazy for listening to an imaginary big brother? Maybe. No less crazy than Lucifer singing “Wake Up Little Susie” on repeat for three days straight. Hell, imaginary!Dean is an improvement on talking to the dog.

Sam braces himself against the car and gazes down at her insides like something may have become clear in the time he spent crying over it. Of course, nothing has changed. He still has no clue what’s wrong. He checks his phone again. Still no signal. Why would there be? He hasn’t moved.

A rustle draws his attention to the trees that line the side of the road. His whole body goes tight and ready as his eyes search the shadows for the source of the noise. Probably just a mouse and yet, it sounded much larger than a mouse. A deer, perhaps?

“Oh, shit.”

Sam stumbles back as a mangy wolf head rises from the undergrowth. His hand flails to his belt for a gun that’s tucked safely in the glove box. The wolf head watches him, cocked in curiosity, and then rises more to reveal… a human body?

The beast looks like a twisted version of the werewolves Sam has encountered. Thick fur covers its body in patches and a long tail sweeps out from the base of its spine. Its fingers are clawed but it holds itself nervously, arms tucked in tight as if unsure of what to do with its hands. It whines, ducks its head in a submissive manner, and steps out onto the road.

Sam steps back as it nears. He glances from the monster to the car door, wondering if he can get in and safe before the beast lunges. He’s not certain he can. What catches his eye, though, is Miracle. She sits calmly in the front seat, clearly curious but not frightened or threatened by the creature. She doesn’t seem to sense danger.

The beast whines again and turns to jog - lope would be a better term, with how gracefully it moves - down the road. It pauses about ten feet away, looks back.

Sam stares into those bright yellow-brown eyes and finds an unexpected intelligence there.

The beast moves a little further along the road and looks back again. Almost like it’s waiting for Sam to follow.

Is it?

“You want me to follow you?” Sam asks, feeling stupid for doing so but less so when the beast nods.

Unsure what else to do, Sam gets Miracle out of the car and follows.

---

The beast leads him several miles up the road and then, as evening dips into night, down a twisty back way Sam definitely would have missed without guidance. The road turns out to be a driveway leading to a lovely forest home with warm, welcoming windows. Parked in the driveway is a tow truck.

Sam gapes and turns to thank the beast but it’s vanished into the forest once more.

Stunned, Sam approaches the house and knocks. A wary older man answers.

“Yes?”

“My car broke down,” Sam says, unsure what else to say. I was led here by a friendly werewolf? “Out on the main road. I can’t get a signal but I found your driveway and was wondering if you might be able to help me?”

“Aye!” The man opens the door fully. The man speaks with a thick Scottish brogue that reminds him of Rowena. “The wulver led you here, didn’t he? Perfect timing, too. Come in, bring your dog. Eat some food. We’ll get your car after dinner.”

“Wulver?” Sam asks as he’s ushered into the warmth of the house. The smell of something delicious hits his nose and his stomach growls in response.

“Aye. The friendlier cousin of the werewolf, I suppose you could call it. Old spirits, they are. That one followed my grandfather across the sea. It looks out for travelers on this stretch of road. Very useful critters. Sit, sit. Mary! We have company. Will you bring out another plate and a bowl of water for his dog?”

Sam almost feels like he’s experiencing whiplash from the speed at which his circumstances have changed. “Oh, you really don’t have to-”

“Nonsense! If the wulver brought you here, you’re good people and in need of some help. A hearty meal will do you good. Go on, sit here. You’re not one of those vegetable only types, are you?”

“No?”

“Good, good.” The man clears a place on the table and his wife, a plump woman who looks like she gives great hugs and makes even better food, lays out a place setting in front of Sam. They even put out a bowl of water and some cut up steak for Miracle.

As the couple settles down on either side of him for their meal, Sam can’t help but wish Dean was here. Then again, Dean would have shot the wulver on sight and Sam’s really glad he didn’t. If only he had a way of thanking the beast.

As if reading his mind, the old man - Charlie, he finally introduced himself as - says, “We’ll leave some food out for the wulver tonight to thank it for bringing you to safety. Someone’s looking out for you, son.”

“Dean,” Sam gasps and Dean begins dragging himself across the floor to where his brother is sprawled.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, reaching out to grab at the front of Sam’s jacket. The fabric is soaked in blood already.

This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

There are tears in Sam’s eyes when Dean pulls himself to sit upright beside his brother, tugging Sam’s upper body into his arms.

“Hi, Sammy,” Dean says softly. “I gotcha.”

“De-an.” Sam’s voice breaks and a weak, choked off sob wracks his frame.

“I know. I know.”

There’s so much blood. Too much. Dean’s vision blurs as the reality of their situation sinks in.

Sam’s hand flails, grabbing at Dean’s face and smearing blood on his cheek. Whether it’s Sam’s or from one of the vampires, it’s impossible to tell at this point. Dean catches Sam’s hand in his and presses it to his chest. He has to bite back a sob of his own.

“I’m here,” Dean whispers, curling over his brother. “I’m here. I gotcha.”

Sam’s breathing is getting weaker and Dean’s heart must be failing, it hurts so badly to hear it.

“Don’t leave,” Sam rasps.

“Never.” Dean cups Sam’s face in his hand, hunching forward to press their foreheads together. “I’ll always be right here.”

Tears are making little trails through the blood on Sam’s face before they vanish into his hair. So much blood. Too much to ever replace.

“Hey, hey.” Dean draws Sam’s eyes back to him. “We had a damn good ride, Sammy. Didn’t we?

Sam gives him a watery smile. “Yeah. We did.”

“I think we deserve a long vacation.” The words hurt but it’s the truth.

Sam hiccups out a sob and his fingers flex against Dean’s chest. “I love you.”

Dean nods and holds Sam even tighter. “Love you, too. My baby brother. I love you so much.”

Sam’s breath shudders painfully. “Need you… to tell me…”

“It’s okay.” Dean knows exactly what it is Sam needs even though his brother can’t finish the sentence. “It’s okay.”

Dean can feel the moment Sam is gone. It’s different from all the other times one of them has died, somehow. More permanent. More painful. Like his soul is being ripped in half. Someone screams and maybe it’s him, maybe it’s all in his head. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe nothing matters.

He’s moving before he even realizes he’s made the decision. Sam’s gun is still tucked into his belt, useless in a vamp fight but brought along for the ride out of habit. The handle is cold and sticky with congealing blood when Dean draws it. He can barely see through his tears but the gun is loaded and cocking it is something he could do blindfolded. He doesn’t have to think about this decision. A world without Sam?

The barrel is cold under his chin.

“Jack,” he says softly, hoping the kid is listening somehow. “Take care of my car.”

--

Dying is always so quick.

Dean opens his eyes in the driver’s seat of the Impala, gasping. He remembers pulling… no. Don’t think about that.

“Figured it wouldn’t take you long.”

Dean’s head snaps around.

“Sammy.”

His little brother looks so young, so light as he grins at Dean from across the car. “Hey, Dean.”

Dean yanks him across the seat into a bruising hug, feeling his soul settle once more with his brother back in his arms. Sam hugs him back just as fiercely and Dean hears his brother sniffle where his nose is pressed into Dean’s shoulder but if there are tears in either Winchesters’ eye when they pull back, well. They don’t have to talk about it.

“I hoped you would take a bit longer,” Sam says. “But I can’t say I’m surprised. You never could live without me.” He’s going for teasing but there’s a rawness to his words that neither of them have spoken before, at least not this honestly. It tugs at Dean’s heart.

“You know me. Gotta look out for my pain in the ass little brother.”

Sam nods, ducking his head and Dean pretends not to see him wipe away a tear. When Sam lifts his head again, it’s to gesture toward the road that stretches out before them, disappearing around a curve into a beautiful forest. “Jack stopped by before you got here. He said he’ll take care of the car and make sure someone gives us proper hunter funerals. He and Cas will come by to visit once we’re settled.”

“He pulled Cas out of the Empty?”

Sam shrugs. “He’s God. He said that if we start driving, we can get anywhere we want. See anyone. For real, not just like. Heaven illusions or whatever. The whole place got a remodel.”

Dean’s brain is vaguely processing this information but the majority of him is too busy looking at his brother, taking in the light in his eyes that the world tried so hard to snuff out but never truly could. “Sounds like a sweet deal.”

“Where do you wanna go? Mom and Dad’s? Bobby’s? The Roadhouse?”

Dean turns at last to the road. The keys are already in the ignition and when he turns them, she sounds the best she ever has. No engine troubles up here. “Dunno. I’m thinkin’ we just drive for a while.” Just take some time reassuring his soul that Sam is never leaving him ever again.

“Sounds good to me.”

The diner is so quiet after close, even with music playing on the old jukebox Dean refurbished and Dean clattering around in the kitchen doing his own closing duties. No screaming children, no clatter of dishes, no general chatter of conversation. It’s a little creepy and yet, at the same time, Sam finds some peace.

He puts up the last chair and grabs the broom from where he left it against a barstool. Things aren’t too bad tonight. He still finds a ridiculous amount of fries that have been kicked into every dark corner but in general, the floor is pretty clean. Judging by the muffled cursing Sam can hear from the kitchen, accompanied by the slosh of water and banging of pans, the dishes aren’t going so smoothly.

His younger self might have scoffed to see them leaving like this. Not that running a diner isn’t hard work - to be honest, it’s harder than hunting in many ways - but that they would find so much satisfaction in such a mundane lifestyle.

Sam’s learning to find joy in the mundane.

It’s nearing midnight by the time Dean comes out of the kitchen, a basket of towels in his hands.

“Laundry day?” Sam asks from where he’s scrubbing at a particularly stuck bit of syrup on the countertop.

“Yup. Looks good out here, Sammy.” Dean gazes around the closed diner with approval. “Thank god Max and Stacy are opening tomorrow. I’m tired.”

Dean looks just like he always has. Worn jeans, green button-up thrown on over a plain black Henley. There are differences, though. Some subtle - the sauce stains on his T-shirt - but others had friends doing a double-take when they came to visit. Namely the pair of glasses perched on his nose, framing deep crow's feet lines around his eyes when he smiles. That and the fact that his hair is almost totally grey now.

His brother is aging. It’s a wonderful thing.

“What?” Dean asks, setting the basket on the counter beside where Sam has finally gotten the syrup to come up. “Something on my face?”

Sam shakes his head, smiling fondly, and drops his rag in the basket. “Nah, just. Thinkin’.”

“About?”

“How good life is.”

Dean considers this for a moment and then smiles. “It’s damn good, huh?”

Damn good is right.

Not perfect - not yet. They’re still living in the bunker but Sam knows Dean’s been eyeing a little house with a for sale sign just outside of town. With the bunker becoming more and more of a hub for hunters, having their own space might be night. They haven’t gone on a hunt since that awful vampire one neither of them is ready to talk about, especially not Sam. Dean’s having a good day but tomorrow, he’ll spend the whole day in his wheelchair to give his back a break and the bunker isn’t really built with wheelchairs in mind. But things are damn good, regardless.

“Head on out while I set the alarm. Wanna drive?” Dean asks, digging the keys from his pocket and holding them out to Sam.

“‘Always.”

“Easy on the brakes!”

Sam flips his brother off over his shoulder as he turns the jukebox off and leads the way out of the diner. The bell above the door chimes brightly, bidding them goodnight as they head out into the chilly early-autumn air. The Impala greets them with ever-squeaky doors. The rumble of her engine vibrates through Sam and Dean sighs happily as he lowers himself into the passenger seat.

“Feel like takin’ the long way home,” Sam says, putting her in drive. “What do you think?”

“Let’s go.”

The long way home isn’t that long but it does take them past the little house. It’s nothing too special, white siding that probably needs a paint job and a porch that definitely needs some repairs. It draws both brothers’ eyes, though.

“What would you say to moving out of the bunker?” Sam asks, knowing he has to be the one to broach the subject or Dean will never say anything.

“You’d miss the library.”

Sam chuckles. Dean isn’t wrong. “Yeah, well. I’m not saying we should leave town. Just… thinking about the long term. The bunker isn’t really practical for your chair. It would be nice to have somewhere to make entirely our own. Maybe a kitchen set up you can access even on a bad day?”

“Sounds expensive.”

“That’s not a ‘no.”

Dean just hums softly, gaze fixed on the sleepy town passing by outside. Silence settles between them for a long moment before he speaks again.

“Could be worth looking into.”

Sam smiles to himself and reaches over to turn the radio on. Bob Seger’s raspy croon fills the car.

Workin' on our night moves

Tryin' to lose the awkward teenage blues

Workin' on our night moves

“Ahh, a classic,” Dean says with a grin as he turns it up. “Too bad we only got the end. You know Seger is-”

“One of the greatest rock writers of all time,” Sam finishes, shaking his head fondly and turning the Impala towards home. “I know, Dean.”

I woke last night to the sound of thunder

How far off I sat and wondered?

Started hummin' a song from 1962

Ain't it funny how the night moves?

When you just don't seem to have as much to lose

Strange how the night moves