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There’s a dream Dean has and it goes like this:
The car’s parked under a tree and a checkered picnic blanket, complete with blanket and beer, is spread on the grass beside her. It’s like those dreams he used to have about Lisa, back when he still remembered what a home smelled like and it hadn’t been scrubbed away by Hell and time and reality; except it’s not Lisa there, it’s Sam, and he’s got apple pie.
“Hey,” Sam says. He’s leaning against the car, boots and flannel and all. He stoops to take a plate and cutlery out of the picnic basket to carve out a piece. He licks the knife when he’s done cutting and offers the pie to Dean. “It’s pretty good.”
In the dream, Dean knows the pie’s not just good, it’s excellent. The best pie that’s ever been made. Flaky crust, sweet filling, still warm. The works. The idea of even smelling it makes him nauseous.
“Nah,” Dean says. He’s frozen in place, wanting to go to Sam and knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to take even a single step away. “I’m good.”
Sam frowns. “You sure? It’s from that place over by the orch—”
“I’m sure,” Dean interrupts, and his palms are sweating. “I’m... yeah. It’s fine.”
His brother shrugs. “If you’re sure.” And then Sam starts eating the pie himself with gusto even though in real life his opinions on the dessert are middling at best. Dean watches Sam’s throat bob with each swallow and his lips purse as he sucks on the fork between bites and agonizes. He wants some goddamn pie. Wants it so goddamn bad. But he can’t move.
Sam finishes off his piece with a sigh. He drags his finger around the plate to gather up the escaped filling and sticks it in his mouth. “There’s plenty left,” he advises, tipping the pie tin in Dean’s direction. True to his word, Sam had only cut a modest slice. He’s barely made a dent. “You sure?”
Dean wordlessly shakes his head. Sam sighs as if disappointed then takes the fork to the remaining pie, not bothering with knife or plate. He starts to eat and Dean reaches out—
And that’s when he wakes up. Usually.
*~*
But sometimes it’s like:
The car’s missing, which doesn’t alarm him as much as it should. Sam’s sitting on the picnic blanket, but there’s no basket this time—just the pie and a case of beer. It’s a warm day, so no overshirt, or shoes. Sam’s already eating.
“Want some?” he asks. His fork goes directly into the pie tin without worry. And why should he worry? They’re brothers. They share the same genes, the same germs. They’ve shared off plates before. It’s not forbidden. “It’s pretty good.”
Dean starts to sweat.
“Nah. I’m...” He swallows, watching the tip of Sam’s tongue flick around the tines. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” Sam tilts the pie tin. No clean cuts this time, just a jagged hole where Sam’s been eating his fill.
“I’m good,” Dean repeats firmly and Sam resumes eating. Slowly. Savoring. “But, uh...”
“Yeah?” Sam asks. His mouth shines with spit and apple filling and Dean can’t stop staring.
“Save me some?” Dean requests hesitantly.
“Don’t I always?” his brother replies solemnly. He gathers more pasty on his fork. “You know I don’t like eating alone.”
That’s not true. Sam doesn’t particularly care either way, Dean’s pretty sure. They usually eat together, for expediency’s sake, but it’s not a hard fast rule or anything. It’s not like Dean watches.
“Yeah,” Dean acknowledges vaguely. He can’t move. He should, but he’s not sure which direction. He’s stuck. “Sam—”
He’s met with a blinding smile. Sam doesn’t smile enough these days. “It really is good,” he says with a teasing lit at the end. “Why don’t you have some?”
So Dean reaches out—
And he wakes up. And Sam’s in the other bed snoring away, and there are takeout containers on the motel desk, and the lingering scent of Chinese food; Dean silently vows to stop at the next Mom-and-Pop diner they see and order every pie off the menu because this is getting ridiculous. It’s not like there’s a pie shortage. There’s not reason to be dreaming about it.
That’s what he usually ends up telling himself anyway.
*~*
Occasionally though, it starts like this:
No picnic blanket this time, just grass under a tree, Sam down to his shorts and an undershirt. Dean’s not sure either of them even owns shorts, at least not since they were little. Maybe they’re swim trunks? It’s impossible to tell. He’d have to get closer to look. Dean doesn’t move.
“Hey,” Sam says. There’s no blanket or beer but there is a basket, full of red apples like something out of a fairy tale. Sam’s already taken a bite out of one, cutting a slice off with a knife. Not a kitchen knife; one of their Bowie knives. Juice drips off the tip. “Want one? They’re pretty good.”
Sam takes another slice, sliding off the edge of the shining blade into his mouth. Dean watches, hypnotized. It takes a long time for an answer to come to him. “I don’t eat fruit,” he says with as much incredulity as he can muster. He doesn’t. He would never.
His brother laughs at him. “Now, that’s not true,” Sam says, half-teasing, half-scolding. “You did once.”
Dean sweats. It’s a nice day but he’s scorching, the sun too bright and accusing. “I haven’t.”
“Sure you did. I was sixteen, remember?”
Dean doesn’t remember. Won’t remember. Can’t remember, because there’s nothing to remember. Sam’s crazy. It didn’t go down like that. “No.”
His brother shrugs as if disappointed and devours another slice, slow. Savoring. Dean can’t move a muscle. “You sure? They’re from—”
“I said no!” Dean barks. His mouth snaps shut, shocked by his own vehemence but Sam’s unperturbed.
“Dean,” Sam says patiently. He’s almost down to the core but not finished yet. “Come eat with me.”
Dean shakes his head. He won’t. He wants to, wants to so bad, wants the pierce the shining skin with his teeth, let the juice spill over his tongue and down his throat, gnaw until there’s nothing but stem and seed, but keep going until he gets the last bit of flesh—
“I can’t finish them by myself, Dean,” Sam points out.
“I’m good,” Dean lies, wiping his hands on his jeans. No, not jeans. Shorts. Has he been in shorts this whole time? “No, I’m good.”
Sam chuckles warmly. “Now we both know that’s not true,” he says. “Are you sure?”
Dean’s not sure. He’s never been more unsure in his life. He can’t help but reach out—
And Sam’s eyes meet his from across the motel room. The clock radio is on the floor, shoved from its resting place. Sam blinks slowly at him but not blearily. He’s been awake for a little while, at least.
“You okay?” Sam whispers as Dean fumbles the clock back onto the nightstand.
“I’m good,” Dean whispers back even though there’s no one to disturb. His palms are sweating. “Go back to sleep.”
“You were making noises,” Sam says and even in the dark his eyes are too intense.
“Do you remember Virginia?” Dean asks the ceiling. He can’t look at Sam or else he might move. He won’t run but he won’t move either. “You were sixteen.”
“No,” Sam answers after a moment of thought.
Dean swallows hard. “There was an orchard there. You went after school every day for three weeks.”
He can hear the frown in Sam’s voice when he replies. “Why do you ask?” Sam presses.
Dean rolls over and doesn’t answer; there’s nothing to say. Eventually, the rustle of sheets from the other side of the room tells him Sam has given up, situating himself under the covers. No one brings it up the next morning. They usually don’t.
*~*
But sometimes—too often, more often than he’ll admit—it goes like this:
No cars, no blankets, no baskets. Just the tree. It’s an apple tree. Dean’s not sure how he missed that.
Sam’s nude and unashamed. Dean knows he is the same and refuses to think about it. It’s a nice day in the garden, so clothes would be superfluous.
His brother reaches up and plucks an apple from the nearest branch. He brings it to his face and inhales deeply. Dean sweats as he watches. “I haven’t had one of these since I was sixteen,” Sam sighs and Dean disputes this but doesn’t deny it. Neither of them really took a bite that time so it doesn’t really count. “You want one? They’re so good.”
Not just good. The best, the goddamn best. So mouth-wateringly delectable that he’s been dreaming about it for over a decade and he didn’t even get a taste.
Dean can’t even open his mouth to lie this time. He’s not good. He just shakes his head.
Sam takes a bite and the crunch-snap of it is like a firecracker in Dean’s ear but the appreciated moan that follows it is a gunshot to the brain. He can’t wipe the sweat from his palms but there’s nothing to wipe on—there’s only skin. Sam is miles and miles of skin. He tears into the red skin of the fruit like a carnivore and juice dribbles down his chin, down miles and miles of skin. Sam swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs from the intrusion. “So good,” Sam repeats with a groan. Dean tries so very hard to be ashamed of his nakedness.
They lock eyes. Sam holds the fruit out as he licks his lips. “I can’t finish this alone, Dean.”
Dean tries to speak but he only croaks. There’s nowhere to run. There’s nowhere to hide. He wants to take a step but he can’t. He shouldn’t. He won’t. Back then at the orchard and now he promised himself he wouldn’t.
Sam’s eyes are dark and sad. “Don’t make me eat this alone,” he whispers.
“I—” Dean tries and falters. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want any. I’m good, I swear I’m good.
“There are so many and I want them all, Dean,” Sam continues, voice low and desperate. “I want it all, but not without you.” As if to demonstrate, he takes another bite and Dean whimpers as he watches. Squirms in place. Innocent but not guiltless. Sam sucks his fingers clean and they’re barely out of his mouth when he says, “Please?”
And how can a man be expected to say no to that?
So Dean reaches out and does not wake. He takes a step. Two. Then Sam’s got an arm wrapped around his middle, guiding the apple to his lips.
“Just one bite,” he encourages. “Just one, just a taste—”
So Dean bites down and it’s sugar and sun and sin, and Sam urges him along, runs his thumb along the corner of Dean’s mouth as he devours his prize, chasing spilled juice and he pops the digit between his lips when he finds some and sighs; and Dean’s not sweating, he’s scorching, he’s baking alive, he wants more, he wants every fruit, every tree, he wants to shove every forbidden piece down his throat until he chokes, and as he chews and swallows, Sam trails his fingers over miles and miles of skin, up and down, down, down—
And he wakes. Sam stands over his bed in a t-shirt and boxers, hair mused, and looking darkly thoughtful. “Apple orchard. Virginia,” he says. Dean doesn’t speak which is fine because Sam is not done. “I worked there after school for some spare change. They paid me in produce but I didn’t mind. You didn’t like me going there. You followed me once to tell me off.”
Dean shakes his head. That’s not why he went here. He Sam was finally starting to fill out and hauling around buckets of heavy fruit all day helped gently tease muscles out of lithe limbs and Dean wanted to see him on one of those ladders, straining to reach—
“You pinned me to a tree,” Sam says. “For a long time.”
Too long. Not long enough. Dean’s palms sweat but he’s calm. They’d both been so hard, like he is now. He doesn’t check if Sam is.
“You ran off.”
There’s nowhere to run now. Sam licks his lips nervously and they shine with spit. Dean’s hungry and he knows what lies before him is so goddamn good. So goddamn sweet.
“Not running now,” Dean replies roughly.
Sam stares. He wipes his hands on his boxers. He reaches out—