Genre: curtainfic, h/c
Word count: 989
Warnings: Alcoholism, addiction
Summary: Dean and Sam have settled down, but Dean’s got more than just a simple life in the ‘burbs.
Notes: I didn’t even make it through the whole Curtain!fic & art Week intro post before this really short piece tumbled out of my head
Disclaimer: I wish I did, but I don’t own them. And I make no money from this.
Dean often wonders what the others must think of him—that strange guy with the limp who’s partial to jelly donuts and compulsively shares every time but doesn’t ever say anything of real substance. If they see him as a waste of space at the meetings, they don’t say anything to him about it. He’s never asked to leave, never told to share more.
Dean speaks in euphemisms. He’s got to. The only people who know everything are Sammy, of course, and Dean’s sponsor. Dean told him the worst of it—told him about Hell and purgatory and fallen angels. Told him about selling his soul to bring his brother back then losing him all over again, soul and all. Told him about what’s really hiding in the shadows and that he spent his whole life fighting it. Told him about his dad. And his mom. And Ellen and Ash and Jo and Bobby and Adam and everybody. And all the time Dean wanted a drink so badly he could barely stand it. But he forced himself to sit on his shaking hands, clutching that sobriety coin in one of them so tight it nearly left a permanent mark on his palm. But he’d made it through without a drink. And, hours after leaving the house, his sponsor fell off the wagon and never made it to another meeting.
That only added to the guilt, and he’d spent a week after quitting seeking out Sam’s arms at random intervals, shaking like some weak little girl who’s just seen what really lives in her closet. And Sam keeps him from going to get drunk. Sam keeps him safe. After all the demons and devils they’ve faced, the hardest thing to admit is that he’s the darkest of them all.
But the meetings help—they actually do. Anonymity’s something Dean grew up taking comfort in—fake names, fake identities, fake stories. In the end, it doesn’t matter who he is, as long as he doesn’t keep a flask in his pocket or sneak a gulp from a bottle before he heads out to work. So Dean shares, every time, because he has to. He’s got to be accountable to strangers. Strangers are the people he grew up learning to save.
Dean grabs another donut on his way out and only eats half of it. He still works out as much as his body can stand. But his metabolism shifted once they settled down and now he has little bulges at his belly and sides he’s not so hot about. Besides, the other half’s for Sammy.
Sam waits for him outside the school gymnasium, the dark parking lot and pickup lane dotted with streetlamps at random intervals. Sam waits with the engine idling like some getaway driver, like Dean stole something valuable in there. Maybe that half a donut was worth more than Dean thought.
Sam always picks him up afterward. It’s a twenty minute drive to the house, a distance Dean can’t walk any longer. There are two bars and a liquor store between here and home. And though Dean isn’t allowed the credit card yet, hustling pool for beer money is still well within his list of talents. So Sam picks him up, keeps him safe. There are enough tests of Dean’s willpower without adding unnecessary ones. Plus, Sam gets a half a donut out of the deal.
Sam gets powdered sugar down his front and on his lap as he eats and drives. It drives Dean crazy with desire to watch Sam lick it off each finger, sucking each individually, swallowing with a bob of his Adam’s apple. Dean sits on his hands again and doesn’t let them go until they’ve pulled into the garage and the door is closed behind them. The car is off, keys are out of the ignition, but Dean won’t let Sam get out. Not yet.
He pounces as gracefully as he can from the passenger seat of the car he loves more than almost anything but can’t drive anymore because of the bum leg. He rubs Sam’s crotch until the powered sugar is gone and something hot and hard leaps up beneath the denim. Sam’s breaths are warm as well, fogging up the window. The seat tilts back and Dean’s on top, kissing, rubbing. Long, calculated moves can wait. Even taking off their clothes can wait. Dean rubs himself against Sam, through multiple layers of fabric, and they both come like horny teenagers unable to unbutton a button and unzip a zipper in time. Making a mess is fine, because the laundry room’s just inside from the garage.
He can’t get enough of Sam’s kisses, even after the orgasms have stripped away their abilities to speak or stand up. Dean just lies there on top, kissing, being kissed, being held, like Sam’s arms are the only safe place for him anymore, even though he’s got that support group, even though they’ve got a real house with a real garage and locks that keep it all out.
Dean’s an alcoholic. Three times a week he confesses that to a room full of strangers. But what he doesn’t tell them is that he’s also an addict. He’s addicted to routine. He’s addicted to this simple life in the suburbs. He’s addicted to this man lying beneath him and this mixture of spent and excited that makes adrenaline rush through him just like it would if he were out in a hunt. Dean loves that feeling—the alertness, the racing of his heart, the tingling skin. It’s been one year, three months, and fifteen days since his last hunt. It’s been seven months and nineteen days since his last drink. And it’s been eight seconds since his last Sammy-induced high, since the last kiss told him that after all the fighting, the loss, the darkness, he still has this one wonderful thing left to cling to.