Title: The Marrying Kind
Author: poor_choices
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: R
Warnings: Coda to 410, with all the spoilers that entails.
Word Count: 1500 words.
Summary: Projection: a defense mechanism in which one attributes to others one’s own unacceptable or unwanted thoughts or emotions.
Notes: Inspired by some observations phrenk made re: Dean and 410.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.


"It was her, wasn't it," says Sam.

They've been driving for an hour--Sam's been driving. He took the keys out of Dean's pocket once Dean had finished talking. That one touch almost killed Dean, the way Sam just reached in and took, as familiar as ever, their whole lives together almost epitomized in that one moment; Dean needing something he couldn't say, Sam giving it without question, without having to be asked.

"Thank you," was what Sam said right after, almost a whisper of breath, and Dean was too strung-out to make fun of him for it. Didn't want to even, because--he would have felt that. If it had been Sam, he would have wanted the string of confessions, the weight he didn't understand. He would have been grateful for anything Sam gave him, because Dean wants everything that Sam is; Dean wants to know every thought Sam has, every thing Sam feels. And it hurts him in places he didn't know he had that they can't be like that again, that they won't ever be.

That they might never have been.

"What," says Dean.

"You told me," says Sam, "because of her. She really meant a lot to you."

"Do we have to talk about this?" asks Dean.

"No," says Sam, and doesn't say anything else.

*

It's an hour later--an hour closer to wherever it is they're going, a place Dean doesn't know and hasn't asked about--when Dean speaks again.

"Where's Ruby?" he asks.

Sam shrugs, so slight it's barely a motion. "Wherever Ruby goes."

Dean clears his throat. It hurts a little. He hates crying; he feels it for hours afterward. "She could come with us, you know. I don't mind. If that's what you want."

"It's not," says Sam.

"I mean, I'm not into demon chicks myself," Dean keeps going as if Sam hadn't spoken. "But if that's what makes you happy, man..."

"It's not," Sam says again.

"If it is," says Dean again. "I don't mind."

"It's not."

*

Another hour and they're at the motel. Dean lets Sam handle it, leans against the wall while Sam pretends to be someone else.

Sam gestures him into the shower first, and for the first time in Dean doesn't know how long, he doesn't even think about jerking off. He keeps his mind carefully blank, but thoughts of Sam and Ruby still filter in somehow. Wondering what it was like, wondering if Sam was thinking of him the whole time.

When he comes out of the shower, Sam says, "Projection."

"Huh?" asks Dean.

"Projection," Sam repeats. "In psychology, that's when someone imagines their own undesirable thoughts as someone else's, as a defense mechanism."

"Okay," says Dean. "And?"

"You want a white picket fence, a wife, some kids, a dog, maybe," says Sam.

"What," says Dean.

"You wanted it with Cassie, you wanted it with Anna--hell, Dean, you were ready to have it with Ben. You were so eager to be that kid's dad."

"And?"

"And you want me to have it first, so you don't feel bad taking it," says Sam. "But I'm--that's never going to be what I want, Dean. It was never what I wanted."

"And what you want is this? Life on the road, angels and demons and hell and death? Revenge? I'm not even dead anymore, Sam. You don't have to avenge me."

Sam laughs, harsh and short. "This is what I want, yeah. Not the angels or the demons or the hell or the death. This."

"Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but you just took out everything in our entire lives."

Sam lets out a breath. "No, I didn't."

He's looking at Dean, and Dean knows better than to look away, even if he wants to.

"There's you."

*

When Sam comes out of the shower, he's wearing a v-neck shirt and boxers, ready for bed, even though it's early. Lately, they've been going out after they get to the hotels, because Dean needs to drink, Dean needs something he doesn't have. But now, everything is different.

"I went to Stanford to be like you," Sam says.

Dean looks at him. "What?"

"I didn't get it," says Sam. "I spent my whole life trying to be like you. Trying to be cool and popular and--the guy everyone liked. Instead of the chubby nerd."

"Sam," says Dean, "Sammy."

Sam laughs. "And I was that guy, Dean. At Stanford? I had friends, I got girls, and I still wasn't...it wasn't right. I was going to get married. I would have. And all I could think was--I wondered if you'd come to the wedding. I wondered if you'd come and be jealous of me, for once. And you would have, wouldn't you."

"Yeah," says Dean, even though Sam knows.

Sam smiles, shakes his head. "We should find you a girl," says Sam. "You deserve--you should be happy, Dean."

And Dean, Dean's never been good at talking. Sam can talk for hours, explain his feelings, write poems about his state of mind. But Dean's not like that. Dean doesn't know how to just speak. And he's already said enough for today.

Dean leans over and kisses Sam. He's always been good at communicating like this. He's an obnoxious flirt and he knows it--he coasts on his looks until girls kiss him, and then he pours everything in to that one moment. Dean knows how to say I want you, I need you, I love you with his lips, even if he can't with words.

He knows exactly when Sam starts kissing back because everything changes as soon as he does.

Sam makes a sound in his throat like he's choking, or sobbing, or dying, and his hands come up to Dean's face, rough and huge and commanding. He holds Dean and takes, plunges his tongue into Dean's mouth like it's the end of the world.

It is the end of the world, Dean remembers.

Sam isn't gentle and he isn't reverent--he's desperate and wild and Dean wonders if it was like this with Ruby. He can see her, pale skin with bruises shaped like Sam's hand all over her.

He can see himself like that too, and he whimpers into Sam's mouth, opens his mouth wider.

If it wasn't Sam, Dean might be pissed, because Dean doesn't have this kind of sex. Dean doesn't do this. But Dean has spent the last four years taking whatever Sam will give him, and he's not going to stop now.

Sam actually rips Dean's shirt pulling it off, and Dean lets out a laugh. "Jesus, Sammy."

Sam tugs Dean's bottom lip with his teeth. "Been wanting this," he says, into Dean's mouth.

"Yeah," says Dean. "Yeah."

Sam pulls off his own shirt quickly, and Dean traces the scars he still has, remembering where they came from. Sam lets him for a minute, but then he's kissing Dean again, teeth clacking together, and shoving him down on the bed. Sam all over him and on top of him, hands firm on his arms, and Dean can feel everything, can feel so much.

Sam kisses his neck, leaves bruises with his teeth, sucks and nips and licks, roves over Dean's body, and Dean lets him. Sam fucks him hard and fast, buries himself in Dean and leaves marks everywhere. Dean feels real in a way he hasn't since he got back from hell, in a way he didn't think he could in this smooth, new skin.

Sam grips his shoulder hard where Castiel's hand is still clear, and Dean flashes back to Anna. He can't forget how different it was, how different everyone else always has been.

Sam comes with a groan, dropping his forehead onto Dean's back, panting. He slides out slowly, shifts so they're facing each other on the bed.

"Dean," he says, with a smile Dean hasn't seen in years. "Dean."

He keeps saying it, almost awed, and Dean can't say anything back. He kisses Sam instead, smooth and slow and deep, and Sam kisses him back the same way, as if they've been teaching each other new languages.

Sam doesn't say I love you, and if he had, Dean would have hit him.

Sam kisses him, though.

*

"We could get a house," says Sam.

"What would we do with a house?" asks Dean.

"Get dogs, adopt some kids."

Dean thinks about it. He thinks about Cassie and Anna, about Carmen, about Ben. He thinks about Sam, because no one else in his life, no one else he has ever met, has ever taken up as much of his brain as Sam.

"It's not about the house, Sammy."

"Yeah," says Sam. He's still grinning. "But we could. If that's what you want."

"It's not," says Dean.

It's nine, time to be on the road. He's not actually sure what state they're in. But he reaches into Sam's pocket and gets the keys anyway.

He knows where they're going.