Three of them, two rooms, two bags. Odd, unplacable sense of attachment. And even if it didn't quite feel right when Dean rolled onto him and pushed his hands under his shirt, it didn't quite feel wrong either. Logic dictated--
Logic didn't dictate any of this.
"Dean," he started, but Dean was already grinding down on his hips. What had been a What are you doing? turned into a "What do you remember?" on its way out of Sam's mouth.
"You," Dean said. "Flashes," as his hand travelled across Sam's arm to take his wrist, pulling it up over his head. "Why? You don't?"
Sam inhaled. His memory wasn't jogging. He was looking for sensory cues, but what he smelled was nothing knew: sweat, leather, cologne. The same smells as in the Impala, recreated between the two of them. "I can't remember much of anything," he said.
Dean's teeth closed lightly on his neck. Sam rolled his shoulder, pulling his wrist free and taking Dean's head in his hands. I should remember something. Anything at all.
"Dude," Dean said, resting one palm at Sam's navel. "The staring thing? That's a turn-off."
"Why don't I remember you?" Sam asked.
"I don't know," Dean said. "I wouldn't forget me. Honestly I'm a bit offended."
"I know. I shouldn't have," Sam said. "I shouldn't--"
"Just shut up." Dean grabbed his wrist again, pushing his weight down. "God, talk, talk, talk. Why do I even bother?" He leaned in again.
Okay, no. Sam twisted, breaking Dean's grip, flipping him, and pinning him. Dean's head smacked the unpadded floor, and he cursed under his breath. "Dude! What?"
"Not tonight," Sam said.
Dean pushed him off. "Fine! Whatever. You could've just said so. What's your problem?"
"We're amnesic," Sam said. "Do you think this might be inappropriate?"
Now it was Dean's turn to stare. "No," he said, "I didn't. But if that's how you feel."
He flipped over, turning his back to Sam. Sam groaned. "Dean--"
"Go to sleep, Sammy." The words left unspoken were We're through.
Sam snorted, turning his back on Dean as well. Hell with him, in any case. He was always this difficult.
Always. ...he was sure.
Judging from their breathing, it took a long time for either of them to sleep. And Dean had been right: it did get cold that night.
This may be the roughest thing I've written in three months. ...actually, it felt good.
Three of them, two rooms, two bags. Odd, unplacable sense of attachment. And even if it didn't quite feel right when Dean rolled onto him and pushed his hands under his shirt, it didn't quite feel wrong either. Logic dictated--
Logic didn't dictate any of this.
"Dean," he started, but Dean was already grinding down on his hips. What had been a What are you doing? turned into a "What do you remember?" on its way out of Sam's mouth.
"You," Dean said. "Flashes," as his hand travelled across Sam's arm to take his wrist, pulling it up over his head. "Why? You don't?"
Sam inhaled. His memory wasn't jogging. He was looking for sensory cues, but what he smelled was nothing knew: sweat, leather, cologne. The same smells as in the Impala, recreated between the two of them. "I can't remember much of anything," he said.
Dean's teeth closed lightly on his neck. Sam rolled his shoulder, pulling his wrist free and taking Dean's head in his hands. I should remember something. Anything at all.
"Dude," Dean said, resting one palm at Sam's navel. "The staring thing? That's a turn-off."
"Why don't I remember you?" Sam asked.
"I don't know," Dean said. "I wouldn't forget me. Honestly I'm a bit offended."
"I know. I shouldn't have," Sam said. "I shouldn't--"
"Just shut up." Dean grabbed his wrist again, pushing his weight down. "God, talk, talk, talk. Why do I even bother?" He leaned in again.
Okay, no. Sam twisted, breaking Dean's grip, flipping him, and pinning him. Dean's head smacked the unpadded floor, and he cursed under his breath. "Dude! What?"
"Not tonight," Sam said.
Dean pushed him off. "Fine! Whatever. You could've just said so. What's your problem?"
"We're amnesic," Sam said. "Do you think this might be inappropriate?"
Now it was Dean's turn to stare. "No," he said, "I didn't. But if that's how you feel."
He flipped over, turning his back to Sam. Sam groaned. "Dean--"
"Go to sleep, Sammy." The words left unspoken were We're through.
Sam snorted, turning his back on Dean as well. Hell with him, in any case. He was always this difficult.
Always. ...he was sure.
Judging from their breathing, it took a long time for either of them to sleep. And Dean had been right: it did get cold that night.