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an act of faith against the night

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Dean's dick is the best Sam's ever had, possibly the best there is in general. Sam knows this because when he first went to Stanford, Sam got a little slutty. He tried to fuck Dean out of himself with a slew of anonymous, meaningless dicks that never seemed to get the job done right.

He doesn't know if it's because Dean got there first and created a space in Sam's body that nobody else will ever really fit, or if it's because Sam made himself that way, loved Dean so much his own body molded itself for him. Whatever it is, there's nothing quite like Dean's cock.

Sam whispers this to Dean sometimes when they fuck, ostensibly under the guise of stroking his ego. It's a lie and they both know it. He does it to piss Dean off because he knows Dean doesn't care if Sam thinks his is the best cock he's ever had. He'd rather his was the only one Sam had ever had.

It's fine. Usually Dean deserves to be antagonized and more often than not it means he nails Sam that much harder. Sam's not sure what Dean's trying to accomplish by doing that, because it's just positive reinforcement for Sam.

Sam's thinking about cashing in on that guarantee right now. They're sweaty and dirty in the back of the Impala. Dean will bitch later about the mess they're making of the upholstery, but right now he's stupid and lovely because Sam's sitting on his dick.

Sam likes him best this way. Fucked up.

It's the middle of a fucking hunt in the dead of the night. There's a body not 500 yards away they haven't even successfully salted and burned yet, because they'd just found the right grave when Sam had decided he wanted this now. Dean wasn't going to object. Sam's put him through another dry spell over the deal, two weeks this time, and Sam knows Dean's been getting hard if Sam looks at him the right way.

His brother is revved and wrecked under him, he'd respond so nice if Sam leaned down and muttered, "Best I ever had, missed this dick."

Dean would get nasty about it. He'd probably hurt Sam a little, and then kiss the wounds better when they're back in the motel, cleaning up later.

Sam thinks about it, struggling to breathe in the humid air of the car around them. The windows are slicked up, foggy, and it's going to smell like sex in here for the next two days.

It'll make Sam hard against all reason later, probably when they're driving down the highway tomorrow and Dean's complaining about the lack of rest stops, about how he has to piss, and that’ll only make Sam harder, because he's sick like that. Dean'll jack him off, one hand firm on the steering wheel, putting their lives in danger just to take the edge off for Sam, because he's a good big brother.

"Ah, fuck," Sam moans, the devolving train of thought getting to him there in the moment.

"Yeah?" Dean grunts, shoving two fingers into Sam's mouth. He says it like he knows what Sam's thinking, and Sam wouldn't be surprised if he actually did.

Sam drops his weight forward so he gags on the fingers, hard, drooling. He clamps his teeth down when Dean pulls them away, so that they drag over the skin of Dean's knuckles. Dean hisses and uses his damp fingers to shove Sam's chin up, straining his neck. Sam's nose is almost brushing the ceiling of the Impala.

God, he's gonna come.

"Gonna come, aren't you?" Dean says right then.

No need to taunt Dean tonight, Sam decides in a haze. He's being so good already, fuckin' perfect, such a good fuck. Sam's losing the upper hand now, which is always the end goal, even if Sam fights it the whole way. He's fucking grateful every time it happens. There’s a relief to it, a surrender, when he falls apart the way he is now. He whimpers like a bitch, nods his head, and shakes on Dean's dick.

Dean's doing him hard and focused, sharp, purposeful rolls of his hips, keeping himself deep. Dean's fingers stop pressing up against his chin, and drag down Sam's neck instead, then his bare chest, his sternum.

Sam's always the one who ends up stripped naked when they get like this, impromptu fucks at inconvenient times. Dean's always fully dressed, dick out from his fly. It annoys Sam as much as it gets him hot.


Sam knows how he sounds, can't help it: baby brother soft and sweet, a little helpless and a lot whiny. There's an audio of Sam like this on a tape recorder Dean keeps in the glove box. They use it when it's late at night and they both need to come but they're too tired to do anything except jack off together.

The thud of Dean's boots is loud as Dean shifts into kill-mode, moving his leg a bit on the floor, and his other on the seat, so he can get his hips just right to fuck Sam meanly. Sam twists away from the sensation in reflex, because it's actually too fucking good. He moans in appreciation when Dean instantly gets his hands on Sam's hips and holds him still, forcing him to take it.

Sometimes he thinks he should be the one calling Dean a good boy, because fuck, Dean's such a good boy, fucks him so nice.

Dean starts to piston his hips harder, still controlled and deep, but with enough force that Sam bounces up and hits his head on the ceiling with each thrust. Dean's hips stutter. "Shit, baby, sorry," he mutters.

"Don't stop," Sam slurs, hand on Dean's throat. "Like that, k-keep going. God, please."

Cursing, Dean gets his palm on the back of Sam's head in an effort to protect him as he starts back up that same pace. The buffer of Dean's fingers doesn't do much but the gesture makes Sam's balls throb even hotter anyway, because his big brother is so in love with him Sam could choke on it—wants to choke on it. 

"Good boy," Dean rumbles when Sam starts breathing fast and shaky, and oh yeah, that's why the good boy thing is Dean's line, holy fuck.

Sam nods, eyes tearing up the way they always do when he's about to come hard. Dean doesn't change his pace at all, keeps fucking Sam the exact same because if there's one thing Dean knows how to do, it's this.

"Good boy, good boy," Dean keeps encouraging. Sam fumbles to hover a hand in front of the bobbing head of his own dick. He makes sure not to touch, because he gets off harder that way, but he wants to feel the come hit his skin when it happens.

Sam's temple pounds so hard he thinks he might be stroking out for a blinding second, and then he feels his mouth stretch open wide, his eyes scrunch up tight, and come starts to pour all messy out of his dick onto his shaking fingers. It's so good, it's a drug, it's making him shiver, making him collapse onto Dean. His sweaty forehead feels sticky on Dean's leather jacket-clad shoulder.

Dean being still dressed means he's sweating even more, and Sam can smell the sharp stink of it, which just makes him come harder.

Dean's hips follow Sam's movements perfectly, so he doesn't lose the angle and it snugs the fat head of Dean's cock even tighter against Sam's prostate mid-orgasm. It's so fucking intense Sam yelps and bites down on his own lip, clean through, splitting it open.

"Yeah, baby, yeah, get it," Dean's muttering, kissing over his hair and circling his hips deep.

Sam's eyes roll back briefly, static running through his brain as the orgasm tails off.

"Mm," Sam moans happily, body sagging. He laughs shortly, euphoric, hands rubbing up and down Dean's shoulders, then sits up again.

Dean's whole body is still drawn tight like a bow, and in the shadows of the car and the dim glow of the single streetlight outside, Sam can see arousal still etched all over his face.

"C'mon, now," Sam slurs, encouraging Dean with a filthy roll of his hips, ignoring the pang of overstimulation it sends through his body. His hand is stringy with his own come, so he makes a show of smearing it onto his own torso.

Dean whines all pretty for him, and claws at Sam's hips. "You''re bleeding," Dean gets out, voice raspy. His hips are rocking quick and shallow, like an instinct, and he's staring at Sam's mouth.

Ah. So Sam gets a little hot at the thought of some questionable things sometimes, so what—Dean can't talk, because he's the one who likes to actually see Sam bleed when they're fucking. He likes the taste of Sam's blood, the feel of it on his own skin. That's much weirder, in Sam's opinion, considering their lifestyle. Or funny, considering how Dean can’t stand it if outside of sex Sam so much as gets a paper cut.

Sam's lip stings. He'd gnawed it good. Dean's eyes are glassy, trained on the wound, on the blood Sam can feel beading over the flesh there. Dean's hand comes up drifting towards Sam's mouth and Sam catches it by the wrist, doesn't let him touch.

"Sammy," Dean snaps, desperate for it.

Freak. Sam smiles a bit, lip burning with the pull, and pins Dean's hand behind him on the back of the bench seat. Dean's good, doesn't try it with his other hand, though he's looking at Sam needily, frustration furrowed into his brow.

It's making Sam's dick hard again. That's an issue for later.

Sam sucks his bottom lip into his own mouth, copper flooding over his tongue and pulls at it, so more blood beads out. Dean's watching him with something like jealousy in his eyes, hips fucking up harder. Sam lets the blood sit there and pulls more saliva in as well, until his mouth is good and full, wetness all over.

Without warning, Sam lunges forward, grips Dean by the jaw so hard Dean hisses, mouth falling open. Immediately, Sam rewards him by spitting right onto his tongue, blood and saliva all mixed up.

Dean shouts when he comes, fucking his dick into Sam so hard the slap of his balls on Sam's ass rings in the air.

Dean's beautiful any second of the day, he doesn't know how to look bad. He isn't like anyone else on Earth—but when he comes, it's something else.

During Sam's sophomore year at Stanford, he took an elective, introductory photography. He wasn't very good at it but there was an assignment the professor gave: take a photo of the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Sam knew he was the only person in that class thinking, my brother's face when he comes. He'd almost given in and called Dean that night, to say, I miss making you come, to beg him to at least drive there and just hold Sam. He should have done it instead of wasting time, because now he knows how precious time is.

"Dean," Sam breathes, shaky and so in love. He rolls his hips to make it good for Dean, memorizing his face.

Sometimes Sam wishes they were the type to say I love you during sex. Sometimes he wishes they were the type to say I love you ever. Sam gets both hands on Dean's face, fingertips rubbing Dean's temples softly, thumbs at the corners of his pretty mouth.

There's a trace of Sam's blood on his bottom lip.

Their blood, cells and DNA and atoms, the things that they share. Their blood, always—for as long as always lasts.

Anger floods through Sam all at once, the rage that hits him these days, no warning. His dick is half-hard, he could stop here, or he could keep going, and suddenly he knows which.

Dean's only just stopped pulsing inside of him when Sam starts riding him hard again, vicious. He moves his hands to Dean's shoulders, and he can see Dean's skin going white around his fingers where he's clutching probably too tight.

"Fuck," Dean hisses, face screwing up in pain from the overstimulation. "Fuck, Sammy."

"I'm still—" Sam pants. "I want—Can you—" He'll stop if Dean says no.

Dean's never said no.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean murmurs throatily, wincing even as he starts to move his hips to match Sam's rhythm. "Always want you."

Sam can feel Dean's come leaking out of him, more wetness pushed out with every thrust and it's making him shake. His own come is drying tacky on his stomach. It'll itch later and he doesn't care.

It's hurting Sam too. He's going too rough on his own sore prostate, and his dick is swelling up all the way too fast to be comfortable. He can hear the little wounded sounds he's making and hates them, their vulnerability and their honesty. He shoves Dean further back against the seat and window, and lunges in to seal his mouth over Dean's throat, biting hard to make himself shut up and to make Dean moan for him.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean is whispering, hands all over him. On his ass, hard and possessive. In between his shoulder blades, soft and reverent.

Sam hates Dean almost as much as he loves him.

Dean keeps hissing between his teeth, his dick must be screaming, but he stays hard and perfect for Sam. He's kissing Sam wherever he can reach, grabbing his arm and raising it up to mouth hungrily down his bicep. He licks over Sam's underarm, sucking out the sweat there because he's as disgusting as Sam.

Sam leans back slightly but hooks his arm around the back of Dean's neck to him close, to keep his face pressed to Sam's chest. Dean hums happily, and kisses over the swells of his pecs, bites and licks his nipples. He feels so good. Every spot on Sam's body touching Dean's is addicted to the sensation, dependent on it. It's the worst, it's the best, where his big dick is deep inside Sam, stretching him how Sam needs. Their hips are moving together at a frantic pace.

"Look at me," Sam gasps, keeping his arm tight around Dean's neck so Dean can't pull his head back properly.

Dean has to just tilt his chin up to look at Sam, mouth half open and still pressed to Sam's chest. His bottom lip is stretched and slick, pulling against Sam's skin lewdly. His pupils are blown wide open, glassy. Under the sex flush turning Dean bright red and the sweat making his face shiny, Sam can see all the freckles across his face. He's tried to count them so many times.

Anger bursts through Sam again, burning him up now.

"Fuck me," Sam says, lifting off Dean's dick to lay back against the other end of the bench seat. It's even harder to fuck like this in the car, they're too big, both of them, but he doesn't care. He bends and spreads his legs as much as he can and tugs at Dean's shoulder. "Do it."

Like he's on a leash, Dean shuffles forward obediently, dick brushing over Sam's hole. What a fucking thought, Sam's fevered brain supplies. If he had Dean on a leash then he couldn't go anywhere, he couldn't ever leave. If Dean was on a leash for him, Sam couldn't ever lose him, he'd always be right there—

He sobs at the thought, just as Dean shoves in. He pulls Dean down for a kiss so Dean doesn't see he's actually starting to cry, so that Dean thinks it's just from the fucking, because Sam needs him to keep going.

They're cramped like this, Sam's knees banging around against the seats, foot hitting the ceiling. Dean's elbows are bruising the insides of his thighs. Sam wishes he could take a pretty picture of that too.

Even in the tight space, with the awkward angles and their exhausted, overworked bodies, Dean's making it good for him. He's so perfect, he fucks Sam perfectly every time. Dean's mouth is at his neck again, wet noises as he sucks more marks there.

Sam's going to have to buy concealer tomorrow. The clerk will be trying to make eye contact with him, and he'll be trying to avoid it. Dean will be right there a few feet behind him, smirking all proud, because he's dumb, and he's hot, and Sam loves him.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Sam hears himself whining. His toes are curling.

Dean's shirt and jacket are rubbing up against Sam's cock because they're pressed so close. He can feel Dean's lips still on his neck, wide open now, his breath and spit slicking Sam's skin. He knows what Dean's face looks like even without seeing, he knows Dean's mouth is loose and his eyes are scrunched up, like it's so good it's destroying him.

Sam doesn't want this to stop. He doesn't want to lose this now. He doesn't want to lose this ever.

Just like he doesn't want to lose Dean's horrible morning breath, and Dean's crappy shower singing, and Dean's stupid candy bar wrapper jokes, and Dean's eyes squinting at the sun because he won't put the visor down.

Sam's sobbing again. He takes deep, shuddering breaths and clutches Dean closer, kisses the top of his head, the shell of his ear, with gentle lips. He's so angry.

"Make me come," Sam demands. His cock is twitching, he's so fucking close. "Dean, I wanna come, make me—make me—"

"Mm," Dean says against his throat. Sam doesn't even know how he's been breathing there, in that tight, sweaty space, but he knows Dean doesn't care. He keeps fucking Sam hard and fast, and lifts his head up. "You wanna come?"

The fuck did I just say? Sam wants to snap, but instead he just shakes, trembles, and nods his head. "Please," he hears himself say, vulnerable and sweet. God damn it.

"God," Dean says, eyes rolling back briefly. He slides his hand between them, arm twisted up because their rocking bodies are pressed so close, and finally gets his hand around Sam's cock.

"Ah," Sam moans, back trying to arch because it's so good but there's nowhere to move. He just has to take it. He can do that. He can always take Dean, he loves it.

Maybe he could take all of Dean, every part of him, inside, swallow him up whole and keep him there where no one else could have him ever. He'd be safe there, inside. Sam could keep him safe.

Right then Dean makes a noise, hips stuttering. "Oh, Sammy," he says. "Sammy, baby, you're crying."

Fuck. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and yanks on Dean. "Don't stop," he rasps. "Harder. Harder, Dean." His dick is twitching still, he can feel precome drooling from the head. "I'm so close."

Sam starts when he feels Dean's soft mouth on his cheek, the wet tip of his tongue. Licking up Sam's tears, kissing them away.

"I said—" Sam starts up, angrily, ignoring how new tears flood down his cheeks. Dean kisses those up too.

"I know," Dean tells him. "Don't worry. M'gonna make you come like you asked, I promise." He’s rocking his hips steadily again, but he’s slow now, dragging his cock sweet and easy right over Sam’s prostate.

Sam wriggles, all bent up and breathless under Dean. "Faster, c'mon," he tries again, knowing Dean's not going to do it.

When Dean kisses him again, he tastes like Sam's tears.

"I hate you," Sam whispers into Dean's mouth, still trying to get Dean to fuck him faster. No one should ever love this much. "It's your fault, this is your fault."

Dean gave him this, everything that Sam never wants to lose, and now Dean's just going to tear it all away. He's going to throw himself away, like he's nothing, if Sam can't save him.

Dean doesn't say anything, just keeps kissing Sam dirty and wet, his hips still fucking Sam, but it's deep and slow and making Sam whine. Sam's eyes are rolling back, his whole body shivering and going tight.

"There you go," Dean murmurs.

"I'm gonna come, Dean, I'm gonna come," Sam says stupidly, like Dean doesn't know, like Dean isn't doing this to him.

It's in his teeth he's so fucking close, making his balls draw up and his thighs tingle. It's building and building because Dean won't let it happen quick and easy. He's fucking Sam just right to make sure it's coiling up tight, tight, tight inside him. Between their bodies, Dean's jacking his cock, fast and efficient, fist twisting over the wet head.

"You're doing so good," Dean tells him, all big brother supportive and warm.

Jesus, Sam hates—loves—when it gets like this because he goes all needy and wrecked just like now. He flails a frantic hand out until Dean grabs it with his own, tangles their fingers together and squeezes tight. Sam keens, high-pitched, because he's so in love and broken-hearted and he's so close to coming, and he needs this, he needs to hold on to Dean. Dean brings their hands up and kisses over their knuckles.

"Sweet boy, you're perfect," Dean says.

Sam wants to get angry again, wants to rage, because Dean doesn't get to tell him those things anymore, not like this. Like they have all the time in the world. Like they have the time to whisper these kinds of things they'd never say anywhere else. He wants to get angry and make Dean fuck him hard, fast, rushed, because they don't have time at all.

He wants to, but he's too busy squeezing Dean's hand so tight their bones grind and then coming his brain out.

Dean, Sam's trying to say but he seems to have forgotten words, so he just mouths it silently over, and over. Come spits out onto his already messy belly, shooting over Dean's fingers still moving on his cock, working every drop he has. God, he's coming so hard he can't feel his hands and feet, can't see anything, just black and white spots dancing around. He hears himself moaning—obscene little uh, uh noises he can't stop.

"Ah, fuck, Sammy," Dean gasps. "Coming so good for me, baby, that's it. Look at you, givin' it up for me so nice." He keeps pumping his hips at that slow, easy pace, tilted just right to bump up over Sam's prostate.

When the orgasm lets him go, Sam's shaking and gasping, like he's been running or stuck underwater. It destroys him when he's like this, his brain has been wiped blank and he's just a bundle of feeling and impulses.

Immediately, he gets his weak, trembling arms around Dean and pulls him close. "C'mon, come, I want it," he slurs, hands on either side of Dean's face, kissing him sweet and sloppy. "Dean, in me."

Dean fucks him faster, but not harder, hips rabbiting into Sam. His face is scrunching up. Sam kisses it, the crinkled corners of his eyes, the tight pull of his cheeks and then over his teeth, bared because Dean's mouth is wide open.

"It's mine," Sam is rambling, still lost to the aftershocks of his own orgasm. "Your come, your cock. You. Mine. You're mine. My big brother, c'mon, c'mon."

Dean bites Sam's lip when he comes, splitting it anew and sucking up the blood as he pulses in Sam, creaming him up good for the second time that night. There's floods of it, so much that come starts leaking out of Sam again before Dean's even finished because he's got two fucking loads in there now. Some starving, messed up part of Sam feels it and only wants more.

Dean'll really bitch about the upholstery tomorrow. The thought makes Sam laugh a little, makes him smile against Dean's lips, because he's still loopy, fucked out and fucked stupid.

"There you are," Dean mumbles once he's finished coming, nudging their noses together and slowing his hips to a stop. "Sammy."

"Stay in me," Sam requests in a small voice. "Just—just until—"

"Yeah, shh, I know." Dean's nuzzling him, his cheek, his jaw, his neck. He drags his slack mouth and nose and sweaty forehead all over Sam.

They come down together like that, still connected and bent up all awkwardly in the backseat. Once Dean goes totally soft, he slips out of Sam and scoots back as much as he can, kneeling onto the floor and hunching over to start licking up the come all over Sam's body.

"Mm," Sam moans, wriggling happily. His feet and legs bump over Dean's body and that makes him smile too. He pets over Dean's head, gets his hands in Dean's sweaty hair and sighs at the feel of that soft mouth all over him. Dean licks at his chest and his navel and his hipbones, the curls at the base of his soft, tender cock.

Dean's kissing over his thighs—little pecks up and down the lengths of them—when Sam's brain starts to come back online. His throat tightens like he's going to cry again, but he's too tired for that, so he lets the anger rise up all over again instead.

"You did this to me," Sam says, and he's not talking about the blindingly fantastic orgasm.

Dean gets it. He sighs, forehead knocking against Sam's knee. "Sam."

Sam pushes his head away, moves to shift up and peer out the window. "We have to go salt and burn the body. We've wasted too much time already."


"Where are my clothes?"

Dean makes a frustrated noise but there's some shuffling and then Dean's up on the seat beside Sam, tossing Sam's clothes onto his lap.

It's kind of a pain getting dressed in the car, but it's too cold to be naked outside, so Sam makes do. Dean tucks himself back into his own jeans, zips and buckles, and then stares at Sam. Sam ignores him.

"Let's go."

Without waiting for answer, Sam gets out of the car and goes around to the trunk. He pulls out what they need and waits until Dean joins him.

"It's late, let's get it done fast. I wanna go to bed," Sam says, and marches off in the direction of the grave.

Dean tries to grab his hand, to hold it while they walk, which is just about the most ridiculous shit he's pulled so far in this whole thing, since Sam found out about the deal. Sam yanks his hand away and shoots him a glare. Dean doesn't try it again.

They dig up the grave in silence, and Sam's grateful for it—something to focus on, the ache of his muscles and the dirt getting under his fingernails. He tries not to listen to the huffs of Dean's breath beside him, tries not to count them.

It's no use.

He's started counting Dean's breaths all the time now—in the morning, when Sam wakes first; from across the booth at the diner while Dean's looking at the menu; in the car, when Dean's driving them down another fucking American highway.

The salt and burn is unceremonious. They stand and watch the flames for a while, making sure the job is done right.

"Come on," Sam says when he's satisfied, turning on his heel.

"Sam," Dean bursts out, grabbing him by the elbow.

Sam yanks his arm away, turning back around to glare at Dean. "No!"

He's still leaking Dean's come. His lip is throbbing. He can feel marks in the shape of Dean's mouth buzzing on his neck. All these things will go away, because he can't keep them around any more than he can keep Dean around, not without a fucking miracle and every day that goes by Sam's more afraid he's not going to find one.

"You did this," Sam tells him. "This is on you, man."

They've started and stopped this fight so many times, talked in circles and circles around it because Dean wants to pretend everything is fine until Sam can't do that, and then he wants Sam to say it's okay, and it's not. So they just don't talk about it, not really.

Maybe it's the orgasms, maybe it's the cold air, maybe it's the pure exhaustion, but Sam gives up. He means to end the fight there, to refuse Dean any consolation. He wants to keep Dean frustrated and sulky, but he's so tired.

Sam sits down on the ground right there, a few feet away from the still burning grave.

"You did this," Sam repeats, voice wobbling.

Dean sits down next to him. "Sammy," he starts, like he's going to say something meaningful, but then he just falls silent instead.

Sam starts counting Dean’s breaths again. Can't help it. Rage swells up again.

"What the fuck were you thinking? How could you do that? Take yourself away from me? Leave me here?"

"How could you?" Dean snaps.

Sam swivels his head around to stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"You left me alone! You died first!'

Sam blinks. "That wasn't my fault, you kn—"

Dean's lip curls. He looks frightening. "So what? This isn't my fault either, dude."

"The hell it isn't," Sam says, barking out an incredulous laugh. "What, did you trip and fall onto that fucking demon's mouth?"

Sam isn't expecting it when Dean suddenly knocks him flat to the ground, pinning him to it with a hand on his throat.

"I didn't have a choice," Dean says, shaky and quiet. He’s cast in shadows, just the light of the fire flickering over the features of his face. "Don't you get it? Everything you're feeling now, that was mine first. I got to feel that first, Sam. I got to talk to your dead body, I got to feel you go stiff and cold. Don't you dare fucking blame me if you think you understand how it feels to lose this."

Dean's hands are gripping Sam's shoulders now, pushing him into the frosty grass. He looks insane. Sam knows the feeling.

Sam swallows. Dean's right, but Sam doesn't care. "So you decided to make sure I'd get to go through that too? Nice, Dean."

"Sammy—" Dean starts, anger deep in his voice.

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam asks, cutting him off.

His face crumples, tears starting to fall again. Dean doesn't kiss them away this time, though he does bring a hand up to press against Sam's cheek when Sam sobs.

Sam turns into Dean's warm palm, doesn't care about the dirt and sweat there, just kisses over it. "I'm going to save your life," Sam promises, meaning it, and then also means it when he adds, "But what am I supposed do if I—if you—"

"Live," Dean tells him. "You're supposed to live."

"I don't want to," Sam says, and he's wailing a little. He hears himself, as lost as he was as at five years old, afraid to go to school by himself and clinging to Dean at the front gate. "Please don't make me live without you."

"Baby, Sammy, baby," he thinks Dean's saying, he can barely hear through his own sobs. Sam hasn't broken down like this in years. He wasn't ever supposed to break down like this. He made an unspoken promise to himself and to Dean that he wouldn't.

Dean stretches out on top of him, the whole of his body draped heavy and comforting over Sam's. He gets his arms underneath Sam's head, folded up like a pillow. Dean ducks his head down, pressing his cheek beside Sam, their faces lined up side to side.

Sam hiccups a few times, and takes several deep breaths. He's coming out of it pretty quick, thank God. It's probably less than a minute before the sobs stop, but it feels like an eternity. He stares up at the sky up above, black because clouds are covering all the stars. The air smells of the smoke of the fire beside them.

"You were dead," Dean breathes, right by his ear.

"I don't care."

Dean huffs a bleak-sounding laugh. "Yeah, well, I don't care if I'm gonna be dead either."

Dean reeks. He's sweaty from a long day of hunting, from fucking Sam stupid, from digging up a grave, from holding Sam down through his grief. He's dirty, in need of a shower. His hair feels greasy against Sam's temple and any trace of deodorant on his body is long gone.

Sam breathes in him, gluts himself on the smell, because there's something terribly broken in him that needs it. There's something in him that needs to memorize every secret part of his big brother in case he never has it again.

"One of us was always going to die first, you know," Dean says softly. "If you think about it that way. One of us was always gonna have to live without the other at some point. Only makes sense that it's me, I'm older anyway. There's no way to escape that, one of us being alone."

Vividly, Sam imagines bringing up a gun to his own temple right now and shooting clean through his skull to Dean's. There's a solution right there, he thinks dreamily. Not one fucking second apart.

Fuck, he's so fucked up. This is why people don't fall in love with their brothers.

To Dean, he says, "You're not even thirty yet. Don't give me that older bullshit. You shouldn't be dying."

"I'm okay with dying," Dean says.

Sam shoves Dean off of him, to the side, and sits up, glaring at the dying fire. "I'm not okay with it," he tells Dean without looking at him. "Fuck you."


He hears Dean sit up beside him, sees him from his peripherals. Dean reaches out, gets his fingers under Sam's chin and makes Sam turns his head to face Dean.

"You're a mess," Dean says softly, wiping the backs of his fingers over Sam's cheeks and chin, under his nose, cleaning him up.

I'm going to save you, Sam thinks. If you can sell your soul to a demon for me, then I can sure as fuck do whatever I have to do to get it back.

Dean won't want to hear that, but Sam knows the kind of thing Dean does want to hear and it works just as well for Sam right now. It always works for them both, because they’re broken and obsessed. 

"Come on," Sam says, getting up from the ground and grabbing Dean's arm to pull him up too. "If we make it back to the motel in less than fifteen, you can fuck me in the shower."

Dean barks a startled laugh, but there's a sparkle in his eyes again as he and Sam start to make their way back to the car. "You ain't sore?"

"You know I am and you like it, you pervert," Sam accuses.

They keep talking like that back and forth, so that when they get back to the car Dean's already riled up. He sucks Sam off against the side of the Impala. There's the whole world in Dean's eyes, staring up at Sam, and everything worth living for in his mouth, stretched tight around Sam. Sam will be damned if anyone or anything ever takes this away from him.

He'll be fucking damned.