Word Count: 1,267
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for 2x12 'Nightshifter'. Contains incest themes.
Summary: Sam is so screwed. Reflections during the final scene of 'Nightshifter'...
Notes: Thanks to marishna for the beta and txtequilanights for the reassurance. This fic is kind of not my usual style, and it's my first attempt at anything remotely Sam/Dean, but it just wouldn't go away until it was written...
Sam didn’t think that he’d ever been this ruthlessly efficient in all his life. He had struggled with the first SWAT Team member with the usual small amount of fuss. Strikes, blows, that one moment of equal tension, and then Sam won out in the end, like that had ever been in doubt. He’d grabbed the officer’s helmet, flashlight, and Kevlar, and gone after Dean. But when he stepped into that hallway and saw Dean helpless, on his knees, with another officer closing in for the kill, and something inside him just snapped.
The second officer never even knew what hit him.
Dean blinked up at him from the floor, unused to seeing Sam be so cold, especially to officers of the law, but he accepted Sam’s hand up without hesitation. Dean’s fingers were hot, slicked with sweat, and impossibly strong in Sam’s grasp. They ended up nose-to-nose over the shifter’s body, silent understanding passing between them.
Then, as one, they turned and dragged the two officers into the nearest closet.
Sam pulled off the helmet and jacket again – he’d need a more complete disguise for their ultimate escape – and propped the flashlight up against the doorframe to give them minimal light to work in.
Dean yanked off his shirt in one smooth, easy roll of his shoulders and wiped off the sweat from his brow with it. In the tight space, Sam’s heaving chest brushed Dean’s back with each inhale. Sam didn’t say a word, just watched as Dean leaned over and expertly unfastened the first officer’s belt. It shouldn’t have gotten to Sam just how good Dean was at that, like stripping a man naked was something he did every day, but then there were a lot of things that shouldn’t get to Sam but did anyway.
“Well?” Dean hissed over his bare shoulder when Sam hadn’t done much more than stare for precious seconds.
Sam shook his head and began disrobing the second officer; it was a lot harder than Dean made it look.
He’d just gotten the officer’s shirt off when he heard the clank of a belt buckle and Dean’s jeans dropping to the floor dim circle cast by the flashlight. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and forced himself not to look up where Dean now was standing, in nothing but boxers, only inches away. Dean stumbled slightly when he stepped out of his jeans, and his hand brushed Sam’s shoulder for balance as he kicked them away. That was just too much, and Sam’s eyes flicked up for one moment. It was too dark, of course, and Dean’s boxers were black. He couldn’t really make out the contours his eyes sought. His mind provided the outlines anyway, tormenting him in that relentless way it had taken to recently.
He turned back to his own officer and began removing his boots. Anything to keep from thinking about the tight space he and Dean were enclosed in together and the way Dean’s hips shimmied back and forth as he pulled on SWAT pants a size too small.
It was better to focus on the thick, sticky blood at the back of the man’s head where Sam had struck him hard with the butt of his gun. There were gentler ways of rendering a man unconscious, ways that caused less damage, and Sam knew at least half a dozen that would have been just as effective. Those wouldn’t have taken the edge off the rage he’d felt when he’d seen Dean cornered and trapped, though.
Worrying about whether he was turning into a monster was always an effective diversion from worrying about whether his feelings for Dean were something more than brotherly. Sam just wasn’t sure that they were an improvement.
He finally got the officer down to his boxers while Dean was adjusting his newly-acquired Kevlar. The SWAT gear was thick and bulky and covered more of Dean’s body than even his usual baggy clothes did. Sam was supremely grateful for that at the moment.
He hurriedly shed his own clothing, knuckles scraping the wall painfully when he stretched just a bit too far in one direction. He hissed instinctively at the light pain.
Dean hissed as well, for entirely different reasons.
Sam turned and realized with stunned clarity that Dean was backed against the door, staring at him the same way he’d been trying not to stare at Dean earlier. Sam was the one without clothing, but when their eyes met for a brief moment, Dean was the one who looked naked. Just as quickly, Dean’s eyes flitted away, and he stared pointlessly and persistently at the ceiling over Sam’s head.
And that was the moment when the first officer decided to wake up with a moan. Sam spun around just as the officer realized what had happened and swept out with his foot. Sam went down hard, and Dean swore, and somehow – amidst all the tangled limbs – Sam got his hand over the officer’s mouth to keep him from calling out for help.
Dean dealt with the man’s hands, as per their unspoken agreement, and cuffed him neatly. A harder pistol butting this time, like what Sam had given to the other officer, and the two of them emerged victorious, tangled together on the floor of the closet, hot and sweaty and panting. And Sam was still in nothing but his underwear. Just perfect.
“Hurry it up, already.” Dean’s voice was a ragged whisper, like some part of him was in pain, trying to hold back.
Shaking, Sam rushed into the borrowed clothing. They were close enough in the darkness that Sam could feel the brush of Dean’s body with each turn and twist into the SWAT uniform. Arms brushing thighs, chests and backs, all punctuated by sharp, harsh breaths.
They all but fled from the closet when Sam was finally done.
It all became trivial after that point, easy to fool the FBI, to move together with purpose out of the cordoned off area and out into the parking lot. The air hit Sam’s lungs hard and hot as they ran up stairs, down corridors, out into the comparative open of the parking garage. Beside him, Dean’s breaths struck a perfect counterpoint to his own, as if their bodies were moving together in one elaborate symphony, separate notes but inextricably linked together in one whole, fluid, moving cadence.
They didn’t stop until they reached the car, didn’t speak, didn’t think. The car doors shut behind them, and Sam could’ve sworn in that instant that he could hear the accelerated thump of Dean’s heartbeat, deep down in his throat, surging through his veins. Then Dean let out a slow breath, and Sam realized that it was just his own pounding pulse. Maybe they’d been syncopated together, or maybe he’d just imagined it all.
The desire was still there, though, throbbing just beneath the surface. As was the fear, sharp and twisting deep within his gut. They were both Sam’s constant companions these days, drowned out only by the most concerted efforts of Dean’s mischievous grins and light-hearted jabs.
With a half-wistful sigh, he pulled off the SWAT helmet. Beside him, still acting upon the unspoken signals that kept them so perfectly in tune, Dean did the same.
A moment’s pause, and then Dean’s voice came sharp and startling in the interior of the car, “We are so screwed.”
And the part that made those words ring with the most truth was that it took Sam more than a full minute to realize that Dean was only talking about the FBI.
Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.