a stranger (2)
to draw out the timid wild one, to convince you it’s alrightÂ
There’s a sound, a deep rumble, and Dean’s awake and off the couch and holding his blade before he even really knows what’s happening, crouched ready behind the cabin door. He shakes his head, presses himself back against the wall. His heart’s beating hard and fast and he readies the knife, flips it up so the blunt edge lays alongside his wrist--only, wait. The rumble cuts off, and there’s a creak. He--he knows that sound. He sucks in a breath, through his teeth, feeling almost dizzy.
The door opens and he crashes forward, tackles the intruder even as he knows--he hopes--and oh god all that familiar weight crashes down beneath him and he splashes holy water, and borax, and grabs one long flailing arm and slices he hopes not too deep, and there’s no hiss, no bubbling skin, oh thank god and he grabs those big broad shoulders and looks into a gasping shocked face and says, “Sammy,” voice some low weird scrape he doesn’t even recognize.
Sam stares at him, open-mouthed, half-soaked and bleeding. “Okay,” Dean says, and sits up over Sam’s hips, “okay, you need--hold on--” and he does the tests himself, proves it, because he’s--he’s here, he’s real and he’s him, he knows it but Sammy doesn’t, maybe, and when he’s bleeding, too, blood trickling wet down the inside of his arm Sam grabs at his hands, stops him, says, “Dean, you’re--you’re alive,” with this slash of wonder curving through it, and Dean finds himself grinning, adrenaline still lighting him up on the inside, his heart beating too fast and his breath coming short and quick, and he knocks Sam’s hands away and grabs his damp hair and leans in and kisses him, their mouths wet with holy water.
Sam’s mouth--oh, god. He knocks it open and Sam lets him, startled-open and warm, god, he’s so warm. He left twenty messages, starting out curt and getting more desperate, all those dead numbers where Sammy’s voice had been replaced by some phone-company robot, and he didn’t know what to do, where to go. His knuckles are aching, his hands wound up so tight in Sam’s hair and Sam’s breathing open and fast against his mouth, now, saying something, and Dean--Dean can’t--
“Hey, hey,” Sam’s saying. Dean tucks his face down, bites at Sam’s jaw, his throat, and Sam’s hips surge under his, his smell still--still the same, pretty much, though the sharp stink of borax cuts through it. “Dean,” Sam says, but it’s breathier, and Dean plants a hand on the rough-wood floorboards, tucks the other down between them to the front of Sam’s jeans and curves his hand over the bulge there, hot and getting bigger, and Sam grabs at his shoulder, his hip, makes a wounded noise and arches up into it. Dean tucks his face down, closes himself into the warm Sam-smelling dark, fine shudders quivering all through him. He’s home.
