Heaven Knows by bloodwrites

It's twilight. The sky is streaked with red and teal and white, spreading forever over the never ending ocean.

Sam and Dean stand at the edge of a cliff. The cabin they found stands behind them, two rocking chairs on the porch.

And before them, beyond the endless sea, there's the horizon, a line splitting pastel skies from blue-black waters.

"Will it be summer forever?" Sam asks.

"No clue," Dean says. "I guess if we felt like snow, it'd probably snow."

"I like this," Sam says. "For now."

The rocking chairs are a nice touch, Dean thinks. The only thing the place is missing is a plaque above the door that reads 'Old Hunter's Home' but he's got all the time in the world and all the wood he could ever need to carve (learn to carve) something.

"It's perfect," Sam says. His eyes are on the walls lined with bookshelves, with framed family photos.

Dean's interested in the kitchen. There's a wood-burning stove, cast iron pans hanging from the ceiling, and weathered wood counter tops. It's not the industrial kitchen he put to good use in the bunker, but it fits.

"Yeah," he says. "It's like we built it ourselves."

"I think we did," Sam says. "I think that's how it works here. Maybe we don't know what we want, but Heaven does. And that's what it gives us."

"You're probably right," Dean says, as he starts for the stairs. "I'm calling first dibs on the best bedroom."

There is only one bedroom.

Sam and Dean stand at the threshold, shoulder to shoulder. On the right, there are boxes of albums and old magazines. On the left, more photographs, more books. On both sides, their favorite weapons hang on the walls.

In the center, there's a Queen-sized bed, made up with wool blankets and plump pillows. Somehow Dean knows there's a memory foam mattress under it all.

"Like we built it ourselves," he muses. "Did you know we wanted this?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes.

"You never said anything."

Sam laughs softly. "Never figured it out until after you were gone."

"Huh," Dean says.

"When did you know?"

"Yeah...just now, I guess." Dean looks up at his brother. "Do you think it'll be awkward, if we have visitors? Everyone we know knows we're brothers."

Sam shrugs. "Maybe it won't be a big deal. Doesn't feel like a big deal."

"No, it doesn't." Dean leans into his brother, and it really is no big deal. There's no swirling pit of shame in his stomach like there might have been before he died. There's no fear.

There's just comfort, and warmth, and the overwhelming love he feels for his brother, the reassurance of knowing that his love is returned.

"Let's go downstairs," he says. "Light the stove. If we built this place, there'll be cold beers in the kitchen. We'll watch the sun set on the porch."

"Sounds perfect," Sam says.

The temperature drops when darkness falls over the mountains. They retreat from the chill to the rosy warmth inside.

Dean looks in the fridge. "Wish I knew whether we had to go to the store or if the beer magically reappears in the morning."

"Maybe we'll go to the store," Sam says. "I'd like to take a drive. Tomorrow." He pulls Dean away from the fridge. "Let's go to bed."

Dean was right about the memory foam. It remembers him, and somehow, it seems to remember Sam as well. The warmth of Sam beside him is comforting, the smell of Sam on the blankets feels right, the stretch of Sam's long, powerful limbs against his own is familiar, somehow.

This moment feels enormous, significant. Like Dean's been waiting for this his whole life, like eternity has been leading up to this point and now he's here.

"You're my reward," he murmurs, voice half-muffled by the pillow.

The moon, squeezing through a gap in the curtains, illuminates Sam's face. "And you're mine."

"You're my Heaven, Sam," Dean says. "I mean it. It wasn't right till you got here."

"I'm here," Sam says. "I'm here now."

Then they're kissing. Dean doesn't know who started it, or if they both leaned in like it's been fucking inevitable this whole time.

It feels so right.

He wants more.

All Dean has to do is think it, all he has to feel is a hunger, and Sam rolls onto him. Does Sam know? Or does he want what Dean wants? Whichever it is, he's kneeing Dean's thighs apart, lying between them, and fuck—

They went to bed in pajamas. Now they're both naked, skin bare and warm and Sam's cock is hard, pressing against Dean's.

They're not kissing anymore. Dean cries out, moans, Sam's lips on his throat, Sam's arms beneath Dean's shoulders, pulling him in as he thrusts, their cocks sliding together, slick with precome.

"In," Dean gasps. "In me, inside." He feels empty, open.

Sam groans in response, a sound that's laced with relief and agreement, as though it's exactly what he wanted, what he needed, and immediately he's moving.

It's their first time. There should be fumbling, awkwardness, hesitance, but there's none. Sam's cock at Dean's hole seems natural. Like Sam beside him in the bed, it's familiar. Dean thinks there should be pain as Sam pushes inside—no lube, no experience—but there's none.

"When you died," Sam says, "it was like I had a limb cut off." He's still sinking in, slowly, inch by inch.

Dean can only moan and cling to his brother as he's filled, damn near to bursting.

"But I could still feel it. It still hurt. I still looked for you." Sam bottoms out. Balls-deep, he stills. "Dean?"

Dean can't find words. There are no words for what he feels. "This..." he tries. "Sammy." He rolls his hips, an attempt to take his brother deeper inside, and Sam responds.

There's nowhere for him to go, yet he pushes deeper, rocking his hips to the rhythm of Dean's heart beat, like he knows it, like they're synced, like they're part of a whole and finally complete.

They could go on forever. Slowly fucking (making love) for eternity. Stretching out a perfect, never ending moment, until the end of time.

Dean finds the words. "I'm never leaving you again. We'll never be apart again, Sammy."

"Never," Sam echoes, still rocking into Dean to the beat of both of their hearts. "I could do this forever, be inside you forever..."

But they have all the time in the universe. There are untold experiences before them. This night could last forever if they wanted it, or there could be millions of nights still to come.

"Fuck me," Dean says. "I wanna come like this, want you to come in me."

Sam's hips jerk, and he groans. "Dean, fuck."

"We've got forever, Sammy." Dean plants his feet on the mattress and rolls up to meet his brother's thrusts. "We can do this over and over, all of it, different ways." He grunts as Sam's thrusts quicken, as Sam holds him tight and rams his cock deep into Dean's body. "In every room of the house—"

"In the car," Sam says.

"On the car, Sammy." Dean imagines himself face down over the hood of the Impala, engine still warm from the drive, as his brother rams into him from behind.

"Jesus, Dean." Sam's thrusts accelerate, lose rhythm and go erratic.

They're connected, and Dean can feel it, he can feel Sam climbing toward a peak along with his own. "I'm with you, Sammy," he says, fully aware of the double meaning. "I'm coming with you."

Sam slips a hand between them, but it's barely necessary. Dean's coming regardless, spilling over his brother's fingers as warmth spreads inside him.

This is the moment Dean might be tempted to stretch out, to make last forever, but he won't.

He wants too badly to know what comes next. How it feels to lie sated in his brothers arms, warm in the afterglow, drifting to sleep with bare limbs tangled, waking up together in the morning.

When Sam withdraws from Dean's body, he leaves behind a delicious ache, a memory of the space he took up inside.

Talking is not something Dean wants, now, and for perhaps the first time in his life (death, existence), Sam seems to agree. They don't need words, only the touch of each other, skin to skin, gentle kisses chasing the last of the endorphins as they fade, and finally, sleep.

Soft sunlight through the windows warms Dean's skin and he slowly becomes aware and conscious. There's a warm body in the bed beside him, wrapped around him, tangled up in him.

"Sammy?" Dean says. "You awake?"

Sam groans, which means yes.

"Hmm. Morning. I'm gonna make breakfast. There's bacon in the fridge, sound good?"

Sam grunts the affirmative, and then, voice thick with sleep, "You found bacon?"

"No," Dean says. "But I know it's there." Just like he knew there was beer, and he knew about the memory foam. "There's definitely bacon."


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I'm bloodwrites, and I've been knocking around the fandom internets since the early 2000s. I write fic, almost exclusively slash. I like Dean Winchester, vampires, pirates, and CSS. Some people know me as vamp.

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