Dean used to be able to wait it out for Sam to spill his guts.
Since Sam was a kid, Dean could tell when something was off, could question him about it, and then sit back and wait until Sam came to him singing loud and clear. Sam loves to talk. The problem has always been getting him to shut up, and lay off the chick flick moments, actually.
Sam's only ever really kept one secret from him: Stanford.
That, and the approximately forty-five new ones he's gathered up since Dean took a trip downstairs.
Dean doesn't spend a lot of time pondering logic, but this kind is easy to follow, and he doesn't like the implications one bit.
In any case, Dean's hoping that in the time it takes them to call in Bobby about Pamela and get the fuck out of town, Sam will have warmed up to the idea of telling Dean what she said. Dean's starting to think he and hope need to take a break.
It's just—the siren did a number on them both, but it's Sam who keeps wanting to bring it up, so Dean figures it bothered him the most. He thought maybe Sam got wigged enough things would change a bit, without having to fucking talk it out.
Instead, Sam is so clear on not confiding in Dean that he's hardly speaking at all. He doesn't keep up idle chatter or his usual ceaseless debrief-and-decompress droning after a hunt. He's silent except when spoken to, all the way through dinner, all the way to the motel.
Showers are taken, clothes are changed, leftovers are eaten, and teeth are brushed by the time Dean breaks.
"You seriously ain't gonna fuckin' tell me?" he demands, cutting off Sam before Sam can get into his bed.
Sam crosses his arms, straining the already taut white cotton of his t-shirt over his stupid, big biceps. It’s been a long day, but there are no circles beneath his eyes, only a stubborn crease between his brows. He’s beautiful. Bastard.
His jaw ticks. "I told you. It was nonsense, she was dying. I think she thought I was someone else, an ex or something."
At least he has the decency not to pretend he doesn't know what Dean's talking about, though that seems to be the full limit of his thoughtfulness, because that is biggest load of shit Dean's ever heard.
Sam tries to move past Dean and Dean shoves him back with a hand on his chest. Sam scowls, but stays in place, too tall in this low-ceilinged low-lit motel room.
"Fuck, Dean! Drop it!"
Dean's been dropping too much crap lately, and he's starting to drown in it. "Tell me."
"You say you did, I swear to God I will whoop your ass from here until Sunday."
Sam crosses his massive arms over his massive chest, and frowns like he's five. Then, he says, "I'm not five, dude."
Dean misses when Sam was five, or ten, or even fourteen, and shit like this was simple. Half the time, Dean was the mastermind behind Sam's antics, and if not, he was either giving Sam a proud high five or telling him it would be alright, that he'd fix it.
All of the time, Sam was never hiding anything from Dean.
"Could still whoop you," Dean tells him.
Sam glares, then sighs and looks up to the ceiling in this way that makes Dean feels small, or maybe like a nuisance.
Sam looks back at him. "It's nothing you need to know." The way he says it is like it’s meant to be a kindness, all empathetic and considerate. That makes it worse.
Rage has been Dean's easiest emotion since coming back. He figures it's the only common ground he's got between what he was down there and what he is up here. Everything else feels foreign. It's almost a relief to let it rise up now.
"If you're lying," he snaps, "then I do need to know! Biggest fucking red flag! I can't believe you're still lying to me."
Sam huffs, and turns away from him, stalking over to the other side of the room, like he just wants distance from Dean. "I never said I was going to stop! And I only lie when you start asking questions, so, here's a thought, maybe just don't do that!"
Sam doesn't get his stupid distance. Dean stalks right over to him and backs him into a wall, by the table with their open duffels on it. The wall is a tacky lavender, and Sam’s tan skin and dark hair burn bright against it.
"What's the matter with you, huh? I'm always going to ask questions, Sam. That's how it fucking works. What, you think I can't handle it? I've been handling everything for years. I've been handling you for years! I'm not the one that needs a delicate touch right now!"
"Oh, oh okay," Sam snaps, teeth bared. "Now you want to talk about it! For days I've been saying we should at least address it, but no—no, We're fine, Sammy! Let's just go hunt, Sammy! But the second you're bothered by something we have to do ten cent therapy, that it?"
Dean jabs a finger in his chest. "You're a fucking hypocrite is what you are, man. Because you wanna talk until the second it's about one of your freaky little secrets! It's not about processing or what the fuck ever."
"One of my freaky little secrets?" Sam jeers. "Are you keeping count or something?"
"I don't bother! Seems like every time I turn around, there's a new one!"
Sam tries to edge out from between the wall and Dean. Dean slams him into place with a hand on his shoulder, which Sam slaps away, but he doesn't try leaving again.
They’re cast mostly in shadows here. Dark patches of shadow pool under Sam’s eyes, beside his nose and over his chin, in the hollows of his cheeks. It makes him look older than usual. Dean wishes there was more light.
"Why do you fucking care, Dean? I mean, can’t you just leave it alone?"
Dean laughs. "It could be dangerous. The fuck you mean why do I care?"
"I could be dangerous?" Sam asks quietly, eyes glinting.
"Your words, not mine," Dean says tightly.
Sam folds his arms against his chest, looking young again, even in the shadows. "So what, Dean? What's the line? When is it too many secrets? When do you lose your patience? When is it too much, and I become too dangerous?"
Dean huffs. "Sam. If you just fucking told me—"
"And if I don't?" Sam challenges. "You gonna handle me, like you said? Been handling me all your life, right? So what's the trick now, how do we deal with Sammy this time?"
Things are feeling more out of control than Dean wants, so he plays a card he doesn't do often and goes for diplomatic. "I didn't mean it like that, when I said handle. I meant, we handle shit together, you know? When stuff goes down we—"
Sam's rolling his eyes, the little shit. "See, this is what I was talking about. Things get too real, too hard these days, you back down. Maybe you should start with the honesty, Dean, because it's killing me, right? That's the next step, that's how you handle this when you decide I've got too many secrets, that I'm too dangerous."
"I'm not killing you!" Dean snarls. "What the fuck is wrong with you that you're so afraid of telling me what Pamela said you’d rather talk us into this shit? Goddamn.”
"Right," Sam says. "What the fuck is wrong with me, right. You wonder why I can't tell you things? Fuck, Dean. You think I don't want to?"
Dean blinks, thrown off-kilter. He hasn’t had a clue what Sam wants since he got back, but his guesses didn’t really include this. His guesses still don’t include it..
“No, I don’t,” he says honestly.
Sam physically recoils from Dean, pressing back against the wall like he can escape through the sheetrock. “I want you to be with me on everything, Dean, holy shit. How can you think—what the fuck, dude? I want to tell you, I want—fuck. You make it impossible—”
Sam looks away from him, and changes the topic abruptly. "Real bold of you to call me nuts for bringing this shit up when you almost took me out with an axe."
Oh, come on. "That was the siren!" Dean fumes, and God, the way he would tear into Sam with his teeth right now, angry and righteous. "Fuck you, you almost killed me, too. Doesn't count."
Sam licks his lips, peering at Dean like a hawk eyeing a potential meal, but meaner. "Okay, but the feelings were there, the thoughts. The things that drove you, that the siren boosted or whatever."
"Yeah, and for you too," Dean interjects.
Sam glares, all bitchy. "Yeah. Yeah, but you've already wanted to kill me before, haven't you? Organically. That wasn't...new."
Dean stiffens, and feels the absurd urge to actually run away. "Fuck you. Sam. Fuck you. That shit—we dealt with that. It doesn't belong here."
They’ve both just showered but the stress is already making them sweat, clouding up the narrow space between them with the scent of it.
"Doesn't it?" Sam fires up, color high in his cheeks. "Fuck, Dean. You told me that you could kill me, man. You as much as said it when you told me that if you ever did kill me it would be on your terms. Do you think that isn't in my head, all the time now? That there are terms? That maybe I’m meeting them?"
Dean knows what Sam's going to do milliseconds before Sam does, and it's not soon enough to stop it. Sam reaches out and grabs a gun from the duffel beside them, and presses the barrel under his own chin.
"Maybe you can't anymore," Sam mutters. "Like I said, you went all soft after Hell. Do—Do you wanna kill me, Dean? Should I help?"
The words start mean, and end scared, and across the span of seconds Dean sees Sam’s face go from fierce to lost. One moment he looks like this new, ruthless Sam, and the next, like Dean’s imploring, bleeding heart baby brother.
"Fuck," Dean gets out, and pulls the gun out of Sam's hands. "Stop it. Stop it."
He gathers both of Sam’s hands in one of his own, best he can, and squeezes them tight. Sam allows it for a second, then yanks them away, looking down glumly.
Sam is quiet, and seeming very forlorn. He finally asks, "Are you afraid of me?"
"I don't know," Dean tells him, because he really doesn’t know. "Are you afraid of me?"
Sam shrugs, looking back up at Dean with his sharp eyes and unhappy, pursed lips. He really is stunning, no way around it. Dean’s irrationally angry that other people might deign to notice.
Dean's still holding the gun, its familiar weight acutely on his mind. "What happened to you?" Why couldn’t I save you? he means.
"You left." Sam's eyes are hard and his jaw is set, but his voice is small, soft.
Again Dean has that dizzying feeling of so many Sams wrapped up into this single person before him, an ever shifting mosaic of little brothers with too many needs to care for at once, and Dean’s going to go out trying anyway. Or he would—if Sam would fucking let him.
"I'm here," Dean points out fairly.
Sam's face twists, his lips tightening and his nostrils flaring. "So am I, and you still needed a new baby brother, apparently."
"Oh, please fuck off, man," Dean says tiredly. "You can't keep holding that over me. It was a siren, Sam—"
Sam shoves at him, but when Dean stumbles back a few steps, Sam reaches out and grabs his arm to yank him back in place. Dean doesn’t even think Sam realizes when he does it. The day shit like that stops, the day Sam stops reaching for him like it’s a habit, is the day it all stops being worth it.
Sam’s ranting again. "That doesn't matter! And you know what, while we're at it? You only walked right into that trap because you were so convinced I couldn't hold my own!"
"You couldn't," Dean snarls, feeling goddamn righteous, actually. "You can't. You're all twisted up, so far off the fucking reservation I can't even tell which direction you’re in! Think you're so strong, Sam? You're not. You’re a mess, and you’re lucky it wasn’t her! All the signs were pointing to that bitch—"
Sam hands are in fists on Dean's chest, his face wounded and his voice vicious when he says, "They weren't. You wanted it to be and that’s why you missed the actual monster, dude.”
Dean scoffs. “That’s a load of crap, I had every right—”
Sam steamrolls right over him. “Maybe it was because I had my dick in her, huh? Was that it, Dean? We haven't been fucking around the same, me and you. That been bothering you, not getting a piece of your little brother whenever you want?"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean warns, and that rage is creeping up over him. It should feel like fire, but instead it’s a warm blanket, wrapping around him protectively.
Sam does not shut up. There’s a manic glint in his eyes, and his breath is in Dean’s face he’s so close. Dean wants to steal it, every little exhale.
"Would you have fucked him? The siren? Bet he knew that about you, that you fuck your brother. Were you gonna fuck him and call him baby brother while you did it?" Sam’s voice is a rumbling tenor.
It takes no feeling, no thought, and no effort. In a blink, Dean presses the gun to Sam's temple.
The last time he did this, Sam was skinny and wide eyed with fluffy hair and a baggy college hoodie on. A kid. The words he'd used to bait Dean were laughable compared to now.
This Sam is a man, bigger than Dean all over, wounded and wildly dangerous, probably.
It's strange, because Sam reacts now just as he did then: he goes shivery, and then he laughs, exhilarated.
"Knew it. Knew you still did. Dean—"
"Shut up," Dean repeats quietly, vision blurred around the edges. "Shut up, Sam."
It’s a strange picture, one of Dean’s spare guns aimed at his brother’s brain, a cheery lavender as the backwash for the whole scene.
Sam's hands uncurl and lay flat on Dean's chest, heavy and warm through his thin shirt. They're even closer now, pressed up in each other's space. Dean can smell Sam's breath, minty from tooth paste. He can see Sam’s pores. Could count them, if he wanted (he does, a little bit).
"I'm not leaving you," Sam mutters earnestly. "Dean, I'm not. Last time—Last time that was what you—"
Dean presses the gun harder against Sam. "You're as good as," he gets out. "But that's not what this is."
"Is it so bad?" Sam whispers. "What I'm doing?" He swallows, and his face does something funny. "It could be—It could be so much worse." His voice does somersaults over the words, but Dean’s too strung out to read into that.
Dean shakes his head. "Bad enough now."
It's bad enough, because Sam learned it without Dean. It's bad enough, because Sam doesn't need Dean with him. It's bad enough, because someone other than Dean is at Sam's side. It's bad enough, because this is something of Sam's that is not at all Dean's.
Dean can't get the air to say all that. Besides, Sam must know what he means, really.
A wave of something that is clearly pure hurt runs across Sam's face. He could be about eighteen, then, the way it makes him look. He says, "Then go ahead and do it, dude. If it's so awful."
Dean shakes his head immediately, and still can't pull the gun away. Inanely, Dean wonders if he would be able to sell his soul again, if he needed to. If he needed to, for Sam. He probably would, even after everything the first deal brought on. He’d do it again. For Sam.
Sam shivers, eyes closing and a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his pretty mouth. "Then it isn't bad enough."
If the standard for bad enough is Dean putting Sam down like a monster or something, Dean's worried for them both, because—because he thinks he'd let it get pretty far before actually doing it. He'd hit the point where he should do it, and then run laps around that.
Dean wonders if Sam knows that, or if he's really holding his breath for the day Dean pulls the trigger.
"If you tell me, will it be bad enough?"
Sam's eyes flash open again, furious. "I'm not telling you," he says, instead of answering the question.
Fuck, what if it is bad enough, then? What then?
It's less a question than a gaping chasm, and Dean's teetering at the edge suddenly, staring straight down into it. He can see Sam's there with him, or maybe not, maybe it's a different question in his head, one Dean doesn't know.
Whatever it is, they're frozen for a moment, together. Dean doesn't know how to pull them back.
"It bothers me," Sam gets out, the words kind of choked like he's had the air knocked out of his lungs. He takes in a shuddering breath and his words are stronger when he continues. "It bothers me that we haven't been screwing around."
Dean groans, finally pulling the gun away from Sam's temple. He holds it flat against the wall above Sam's head instead, and leans in as if to kiss Sam, then dodges his mouth and drags his lips along Sam's jaw instead. He dips his tongue out to taste skin.
Sam's hands are running along his back, his neck, his hair. They're both breathing loud and hard.
"Yeah?" Dean murmurs, nosing at the soft spot under Sam's ear to make Sam sigh happily. "Whose fault is that?"
It isn't a reasonable question, but it's going to piss Sam off anyway, and that's what Dean needs right now. On cue, Sam curses angrily, and grabs Dean by his shirt, spinning him around so Dean's slammed up against the wall instead, gun clutched in his hand.
"God, shut up," Sam snarls, pinning Dean in place with his forearm across Dean's chest. One of his legs slides between Dean's. "So fucking annoying."
Dean doesn't bother responding, just waits Sam out, and this time, patience pulls through. It takes Sam all of thirty seconds of glaring and huffing to get over himself and lunge forward to kiss Dean.
So, so fucking good. They both moan like they're fucking right now or something, like their dicks are out, which they aren't.
There was a fumbling, frantic bit of grinding a couple days after Dean came back, and for a few weeks after that, some sporadic fooling around. It was a far cry from the ravenous way they'd gone at each other in the months leading up to Dean's deal, and before that, the healthy once-a-day-to-keep-the-doctor-away kind of habit.
It's ironic, this dry spell between the two of them, because he's never wanted to fuck Sam more—and that's saying something—than he does these days, and for his part, Sam openly pants after him most of the time. He gets hard-ons if they're in the car for too long or if Dean wears his one of his shirts by accident, for fuck's sake.
Dean doesn't like unraveling why they've stopped screwing despite all that, and honestly it doesn't matter right now, because all it's done is bottle everything up deliciously and whetted their appetites for this.
"Off, off," Dean mutters, tugging at Sam's shirt.
Sam leans back and strips it off without pushback. He lets Dean go at his neck and shoulders and chest as he pleases. Sam busies himself kissing up the arm Dean has pressed against the wall to hold the gun.
This skin, fuck, this skin. It's stretched over absurd, new muscle that Dean never got to familiarize himself with, but fuck, he knows this tan skin with its few dark freckles and its scars all over.
He’d swear by all the stupid angels in Heaven and the fucking demons in Hell that his fingertips and tongue know the dips and valleys of every single little pore here, every line and every hair.
Sam's sucking a mark inside Dean's elbow, over the veins there. He keeps pressing his tongue wide and flat, like he's trying to get the taste of it. Dean wants to let him, wishes he knew how to give whatever it is Sam’s looking for.
With his free hand, Dean gropes at Sam until he finds the waistband of his boxers, and places his hand over the bulge in front. Sam's scorching hot even through the fabric.
"So hard," Dean mumbles, biting at one of Sam’s nipples.
Sam hisses. "Yeah, fuck. Touch it, c'mon." He ducks his head to nose into Dean’s underarm, because he’s obsessive and rotten, just like his big brother.
"In a minute," Dean tells him, fine with seeing how much precome he can get to soak through the boxers first by teasing a thumb over the head of Sam's cock through them.
Dean finds Sam's lips with his own instead, and kisses him the same way he drinks water after a long hunt.
When Dean's hand leaves Sam's dick in favor of his hair, Sam whines, and Dean ignores him, keeps kissing him. Sam steps forward, pressing their bodies together fully, and Dean hums appreciatively.
He hasn't gotten around much since getting back. Hard to go from flaying people to fucking them. If he was going to do it with anyone, it'd be Sam, and obviously, that's been touch and go. He's starved for it, the skin and heat and salt and blood.
Sam kisses at his jaw, nipping at Dean's earlobe, and then at the thin skin of Dean's neck. They've always been so good together. So good it’s made Dean wonder if it absolves them of what they are, or makes it so much fucking worse.
"I would have," Sam pants, practically nuzzling into Dean's skin, one hand under Dean’s shirt and rubbing at his stomach. "Been so fuckin' frustrated that I would have."
"Would have what?" Dean asks, dazed, trying to breathe past the smell of Sam's skin. The scent of him might as well be fumes with the way Dean's high on it.
Sam kisses one of Dean’s cheeks, then the other, and then his lips, where murmurs, "The siren. If it'd been me first, if he'd—if he'd been like you for me. I would have fucked him, once he got me with the venom. First thing, maybe. Woulda called him big brother during, too."
The gun is pressed just under Sam's jaw before Dean can process his own intentions. His other hand on Sam's body stills immediately.
Sam straightens up slowly.
"Sorry," Dean gasps, going to tug the gun away, throw it to the floor probably. It’s different—it was never okay, and this is—it’s different, what the fuck is he doing.
Sam says, “Don’t,” as he stretches his neck out and to the side slightly, opening it up to the cool press of the metal barrel. His chest is heaving, the memory of Dean’s mouth starting to appear in a pink bloom over his tan skin.
Curious, Dean turns the gun a bit, twisting it into Sam's skin gently. Sam's eyes fall shut.
God. It isn't like Dean didn't suspect. It isn't like Dean didn't know.
"Knees," Dean tests out.
Sam blinks his eyes open. His hair is shiny in the artificial illumination of the room, catching light even in this far corner. His lips are swollen and his cheeks are pink.
Before Dean’s deal came due, they’d planned on fucking with a Polaroid camera on hand. Stupid idea, given everything about them, but achingly sexy. Not following through on that one in time is one of Dean’s biggest regrets, God’s honest truth.
"A please would be nice," Sam says throatily.
In answer, Dean moves the gun from Sam's neck to his head.
Sam breathes in sharply, and sinks smoothly to his knees in a controlled movement that makes the muscles of his body shift gorgeously. Dean follows him with the gun, keeping it pressed to the side of his head.
The barrel is silver, and stands out starkly against Sam’s hair.
The safety is on and the gun isn't cocked, but it's real and it's loaded and this is by far one of the stupidest things they've ever done.
Dean tilts his head, and moves the gun to press it between Sam's eyes, then drags it lightly along his nose and mouth, allowing it to catch briefly on the pout of Sam's lower lip. Sam’s docile through it at all, though his big body is practically vibrating with tension.
Dean uses the gun to nudge Sam's chin up so he's looking at him.
He asks, "Yeah?" and it's sincere, imploring and low, soft on his tongue.
Sam's lip sinks into his teeth, and he says, "Yeah," and it's a grating, raw sound, burst out like it was already waiting the back of his throat.
Dean should ask more questions, and so should Sam. They should both stop to think a little more. They should.
"You wouldn't have fucked the siren," Dean starts, full steam ahead.
Sam shakes his head slowly. "No," he admits, and Dean almost smiles until Sam follows up, "I would have let him fuck me."
The guilt is gone this time when Dean shoves the gun into the soft of Sam's throat, not too hard, but enough to make him cough. Dean pushes at his chin until Sam tips his head all the way back, staring up at the ceiling.
The line of his dick in his boxers is fucking obscene.
"Why?" Dean spits.
"If he'd poisoned me or whatever to think he was you, to think he was like you? Fuck. I'd think I was getting what I needed. Why wouldn't I?"
Dean rests the barrel over the visible flutter of Sam's carotid, where a single dark freckle sits. Dean’s always like to kiss that one.
"Even if it was me or him?"
Sam laughs, his teeth flashing white. "You're so insecure, Dean, Jesus. Are you like this with all your lays or just me?"
Dean can't smack Sam with the gun, so he gives him a light tap with it instead and Sam sobers up like it was a hit anyway. "Tell me."
"No, of course not." He says it reverently, tongue and lips folding over every word, like it’s been gift wrapped for Dean.
Breathing heavily, Dean trails the gun over the angles of Sam's face, still tilted up to the ceiling.
He's giving himself a moment to get a grip, and then, as he rubs the gun absentmindedly along Sam's lips, Sam kisses the gun. It's a purposeful, slack press of his mouth to the metal, and he does it again and again.
The nickname does something to the both of them.
Sam dips his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, jacking himself. Dean doesn't even have the breath to tell him off, because instead he's pulling the gun away from Sam's face and gasping, "Suck—Sam, your mouth. Gimme—"
Dean pushes his boxers down, and Sam does as asked, drops his pretty little mouth open and keeps it that way as Dean grips him by the hair and pulls him forward, pushes his dick inside like he's got an open invitation.
His little brother gags graciously for Dean, moaning and fucking his hips up into his own fist.
"Still so good at that," Dean hisses, focusing on how his dick feels right in there, in that sweet place. "You been practicing or you just built to take it down your throat, huh?"
He goes on like that, stammering out filth, and he's surprised Sam's letting him, but they're both so messed up now he really shouldn't be shocked at all. It used to be Sam would blush while they fucked if Dean said anything besides a curse word or Sam's name.
Sam's face is red right now, but it's not a blush. It's not embarrassment. It's not shyness. It's just him, choking on Dean's cock and loving it.
When Dean's about to come down his throat, he tugs Sam off without warning and falls to his knees to sit before Sam while Sam coughs and wheezes at the sudden change. His eyes and nose are streaming, and his hair is a wreck.
Dean sets the gun aside to grips his face with both hands. He kisses him before Sam can catch his breath, then kisses him until he's out of breath himself too.
They're sitting there suffocating on each other, and Dean loves it.
He tears himself away from Sam's lips, rubbing his hands up and down Sam's arms. He's so broad. Still his baby brother, though.
"Get your dick out," Dean tells him gruffly. "Lemme see it."
Sam pauses like he's thinking about being difficult again, but then he does as asked.
He shoves the waistband of his boxers under his balls, and holds his cock by the base for Dean to see. He's outrageously hard, so much so that when Dean bumps a knuckle against the underside, so lightly, the entire thing twitches and Sam moans.
"Yeah," Dean murmurs. "You always did get so fucking hard sucking me. I remember that. S'hot."
It's more obscenity, but there's something gentle about it, the slightest give in the meaning and words, that he didn't intend to put there. He holds his breath, feeling unsteady for the first time since they started this.
Sam bumps Dean's cheek with his nose, then kisses wetly, but softly, down Dean's neck. "Yeah, I remember, too."
The gentleness is there in Sam’s voice too, strange and undercurrent, and Dean finally recognizes what it is, in part. It’s something like grief.
There’s no room for that, not even the tiniest space, and Sam’s kissing him more urgently, like he’s thinking the same thing.
Dean bats Sam's hand away from his dick and wraps his own around it instead. Dean's touched his fair amount of cocks but Sam's always been his favorite, by far.
He jerks him nice and easy, feeling him out, enjoying the thickness and how the soft skin bunches up under the head slightly when he does a slow, tight pull. He luxuriates on recognizing the pulse of blood under the surface. He feels out the rigid stiffness of his dick and heaviness of his balls, both there because Sam wants him.
When an especially thick dribble of precome blurts out of the tip, Sam hisses and sinks his teeth in Dean's shoulder. "Stop stalling," he snaps, dragging his nails over Dean's back.
"Stalling what?" Dean asks innocently, jacking Sam a little faster as he kisses over his neck. A few more marks couldn’t hurt.
Dean's dick flexes wetly at that, and he knows Sam sees it, but he ignores the sweep of arousal. "Oh, is that what you want?" Dean asks, feigning surprise and mild interest.
Sam slams Dean back against the wall by his shoulders, and then puts one heavy palm on Dean's throat. Dean's dick flexes again, and he blinks burning sweat out of his eyes.
"Stop messing with me," Sam breathes, leaning in close, and he’s a little above Dean at this angle.
Sam’s breath isn't minty anymore. It smells like Dean's dick. Dean's heart might give out, but he wants to push just a little bit more.
"If you ask nicely—"
Sam gets his hand in Dean's hair and tugs, which must difficult with how short it is, but stings all the same. "I'm so fucking serious right now, Dean. Fuck me."
God, yeah, Dean has no problem waving white on this one. He nods—or tries to with the grip Sam has on his hair—and licks his lips. Sam's eyes follow the movement.
"Good," he says softly, and ducks his head down to kiss Dean lightly.
Sam sits back to shuck off his boxers the rest of the way, then gets up and goes to one of the duffels. He rummages around for half a second, then pulls out a bottle of lube.
Dean knows he fucks himself with it in the shower at least a few times a week. So does Dean, for that matter, and if they're sick enough that sharing a bottle of lube for that gets them off, it's at least between just them.
Dean's still sitting against the wall, trying to center himself at least a little. He can't even get his breathing to slow down properly, his lungs seem to refuse to take it enough slower than at breakneck speed.
Dean waves a hand in acknowledgement, then stands up and heads over to where Sam is on the nearest bed, which has muddy green sheets and a creaky boxspring with great movement for fucking.
Without faltering, "Get the gun," Sam says before Dean makes it over.
It's an order, clear as day, and Dean follows it readily. He backtracks and leans down for the gun. He tosses it on the mattress behind Sam when he gets to the bed.
Impatiently, Sam grabs Dean and puts him on his back on the bed, moving him around bodily.
"Dude," Dean snaps, glaring.
Sam ignores him, and Dean's quickly okay with that, because Sam crouches over him and kisses up his body from his hip across his belly and chest and neck until he gets to Dean's mouth.
There's the fucking apocalypse, and his brother is slipping through his fingers, and Dean's a torturer of souls, and what the fuck ever else there is destroying their lives.
But it feels, for a moment, laying here kissing Sam deep and wet, like it could be a year ago, two, even.
This could be his Sam, the one he wants back, and he could be Sam's Dean, the one Sam wants back.
But it's not.
Dean sinks his teeth into Sam’s lower lip until the thought fades to the background in his mind.
"Dean," Sam murmurs, and slides his hand down Dean's body until it bumps Dean's cock.
"Fuck," Dean whispers, eyes squeezing shut.
He's hard, so hard, and Sam has these callouses on his fingers, Dean knows exactly where they are, never forgot, and they feel fucking amazing. Sam feels fucking amazing.
Dean missed him, even in Hell where reality was an illusion and time was a practical joke, he missed him. He's missed him even more since coming back.
Sam ducks to bury his face in Dean's neck while he strokes him, firm and quick, but not frantic. It's like he just wants to touch for a moment. Dean allows it, in exchange for groping Sam's body all over as he pleases, gripping his ass and shoulders and thigh.
In the months before he died, Sam let Dean have a hand on him at all times, sometimes even prompted Dean to do it himself. The memories are a fever dream.
Sam works him up good, gets Dean panting full-on again, gets him so he's trying to push up into the touch, his hips twitching. Sam’s always liked jacking him off, sometimes did it like it made him feel good, working Dean up no matter how long it took.
"You want me so bad," Sam murmurs then, lifting his head up to say it into Dean's mouth.
It's a strange echo from years ago, when they first did this, but it tastes bitter instead of sweet on Dean's lips this time.
"Speak for yourself," Dean gets out, and slides his fingers over Sam's ass until he can dip in the crease of it brush over Sam's hole.
Sam gasps, body rutting down onto Dean's. His dick is fucking sticky with precome. Dean’s thinking about getting his mouth on it. Dean’s thinking about making it come. He groans despite himself.
"Yeah," Sam agrees, readily, no bitching, and that’s how Dean knows he's really gagging for it now. "Yeah, c'mon. You gonna fuck me up, huh? Gonna give your kid brother a seeing to?"
Dean groans. "God, shut up."
He's properly fucking Sam's fist at this point, and Sam's encouraging it, stroking him nice and tight, giving him something good to fuck.
"Yeah," Sam murmurs, kissing Dean again and again. He's laid out across Dea, rutting his heavy cock against Dean's thigh. "You're always gonna want this no matter what I do, huh? S'how bad off you are for me."
It's so fucking smug, and Dean hates it, never mind how his balls throb. "Says you," he gasps. "Gagging for your big brother's dick since high school, Jesus."
Dean says it like it's meant to be a barb, meant to snare and sting like everything else they've said tonight, but he knows better.
Sam's twisted. Sam gets off thinking about how bad he's always wanted Dean, thinking about how no one wants Dean the way Sam does.
He's whispered as much to Dean, the same way Dean's whispered about getting off knowing Sam's been hopeless for him since the start.
Dean says it harsh, but means it nice.
Sam doesn't disappoint. It's still a hair trigger turn on for him, just like Dean thought. He groans, deep and low, and says, "Fuck me, Dean." Then he grips Dean chin with his free hand, tugging until Dean opens his mouth.
“Hm,” Sam hums, eyes dancing as they bore into Dean’s.
He spits in to Dean’s mouth, right on his tongue.
Dean makes some sort of noise, his eyes rolling back. Blindly, he bats Sam's hand away from his dick so he doesn't come, because he will. Sam’s a dirty player.
"Should see yourself," Sam taunts breathily, and spits in Dean's mouth again.
Dean's going to come untouched if Sam does it one more time, so he swallows and shoves Sam off of him, gets him onto his back. Sam sprawled out naked and sweaty is better than porn, and Dean gets to touch.
Sam's grinning a bit too smugly, so Dean smacks him smartly on the cheek, not enough to mark but enough to sting, and Sam's face goes slack on obscene moan. It complements the rosiness in his cheeks and the glassiness in his eyes.
"Should see yourself," Dean mocks vindictively. He ducks down to sink his teeth into the softest part of Sam's thigh, because he knows that makes Sam need it, makes him need cock, Dean’s cock.
All these things they learned with each other, taught each other, all these private, precious things, collected in good faith and trust.
They're using them like ammo, firing shots at each other like pleasure is a weapon. That pesky grief threatens to come up again, so Dean washes it away with the comfort of rage again.
The anger is making Dean angrier and fucking Sam will make it better at least as long as it lasts.
Dean crawls back up Sam’s body, panting and tasting like Sam’s sweat.
Sam’s hands stay on him, sliding from his hair down to his neck and shoulders as Dean gets closer. His chest is heaving and he kisses sloppily and meanly as soon as Dean catches his mouth in a kiss.
Dean wants to fuck him so bad it’s like an itch in every one of his cells.
When he drags his mouth along Sam’s cheek, he makes sure to scrape with his teeth as he goes, and Sam squirms underneath him, all that power and muscle used to beg.
“On your belly. Spread yourself open, wanna see your hole.”
A breathless, derisive chuckle tumbles from Sam’s lips by his ear. “Fuck you.”
Dean shrugs, and thrusts his arm out to the right until his fingers bump his gun, the metal cooled down from his body temperature. He leans back enough to look at Sam, and presses the barrel to his temple.
Sam’s eyes flutter shut, teeth biting into his lips. “Fuck you,” he says again, but it’s a whisper this time.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Dean murmurs as Sam slowly turns over, flat on his stomach. Dean shifts to give him room, kneeling back between his spread legs, and pressing the gun between Sam’s sweat-slick shoulder blades this time.
Sam breathes heavily for a bit, just one side of his face visible to Dean and scrunched in obvious arousal. Dean allows him his moment, if only because he’s getting off severely on watching Sam like this. Finally, Sam reaches back and pulls himself open for Dean.
Dean whistles lowly because he knows it’ll piss Sam off, and reaches his free hand out to drag his thumb over Sam’s sweaty, tight hole, which flexes under the touch.
“I don’t know why you gotta fight this so much,” Dean tells him, “when you love showin’ off for me.”
“Do not,” Sam insists in a raspy voice, his knuckles white where they’re holding himself open for Dean.
Dean blows a breath out through his teeth, as if considering. He drags the gun down the straight line of Sam’s spine, all the way to his tailbone, and then bumps it lightly over his hole.
Sam twitches, full body, and moans fucking beautifully. It’s a sound Dean hasn’t heard since he got back, not like that, not so full and honest and devastated.
Swallowing, Dean circles the barrel lightly there as he mutters, “Sure about that? Don’t like knowing I wanna look at you? Knowing how much I want you, knowing you’re turnin’ me on when I get to see all’a that? Huh?”
“Dean,” Sam sobs, and fucks right down into the bed like he can’t even help it. He stills after one rock, his face going red, maybe from embarrassment.
That blush, that fucking blush. Dean’s going insane.
In one smooth movement, Dean lays himself over Sam’s back, getting the gun up to Sam’s head on one side and pressing his own mouth to Sam’s cheek on the other. His dick is pressed to the sweat-ridden curve of Sam’s lower back, their legs tangled together.
Sam’s hands are still where Dean ordered them, now crushed between their bodies.
“Don’t stop, Sammy,” Dean mutters, in between loose kisses to Sam’s cheek, his free hand rubbing up and down Sam’s flank. “Keep going, keep going all desperate, fucking the bed like you don’t know what else to do.”
Sam tries to laugh again, but doesn’t quite get there. “You’re an asshole,” he tells Dean throatily.
Dean presses the gun against him harder, and Sam groans, breath hot against Dean’s face because they’re so close.
He rocks tentatively against the mattress, and Dean murmurs encouragingly, sliding his free hand between Sam’s heavy body and the mattress. He finds his way to Sam’s cock, and cups his palm around it, so Sam has warm skin to find friction in.
It’s so fucking hot once Sam gets into it, loses the self awareness and follows the order blindly instead. Dean moans, and presses his face to Sam’s shoulder while Sam humps the creaky, reactive mattress like he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s dripping precome all over Dean’s hand, and his breath starts catching on little whines.
Dean intended to get Sam worked up, to turn him on and make him burn a little with embarrassment and neediness.
It’s mostly a surprise when Sam locks up, his hands finally flying out from between their bodies to claw at the sheets instead.
“Fuck,” he drawls, turning his head to bury his face into the mattress.
“God, you gonna come?” Dean gasps, a little disbelieving.
He tosses the gun aside, then moves to kneel up again, grabbing Sam by the hips and pulling until Sam gets the picture and forcing his way onto his hands and knees.
“Fuck me,” Sam says immediately, his head dropped down between his shoulders.
Sam’s back rising and falling dramatically with how hard he’s panting. Dean would lick just about anything off that gorgeous little-brother skin right now.
“Dean. Your cock. Inside me, right now.”
Dean’s still spinning from Sam being so wrecked he was ready to come humping the bed like a frustrated teenager. It should double down on his control over Sam right now but instead he’s struck stupid, and he hurries to do exactly as Sam is asking.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says breathlessly, squeezing Sam’s ass greedily.
Baby brother on his hands and knees gagging for cock, and still he’s the one in charge, the one with a chokehold grip on Dean’s heart and throat and nuts and everything in between. Dean spits lewdly onto Sam’s hole, and rubs it in with his thumb while he reaches an arm out blindly over the mattress in search of the lube.
Sam’s arm is moving too, and then he slaps the bottle into Dean’s palm. “Spit on me again,” Sam says hoarsely. “God, Dean, again.”
“Dirty, dirty boy, Sammy,” Dean mutters, and it’s a goddamn benediction.
He leans down and spits sharp and hard right over Sam’s hole, enjoying how it drips.
Sam whines and pushes his hips back.
Dean rumbles something in the back of his throat, doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s trying to say, and this time sinks his thumb inside Sam to the first knuckle. Sam swallows him, ass clinging tight easily like it’s daring Dean to give it more, to give a real stretch.
“Anybody fucked you?” Dean finally gets out, and oh, that’s what was trapped in his throat, that’s what he needs to say while he’s crouched here tugging his little brother’s ass open to see it flutter for him. “You let anybody in here while you were spinnin’ out?”
Sam clenches around his thumb. “No,” he says, and it might sound angry if he didn’t just sound like a whore trying to make rent, the way the word falls on a moan. “Fuck you, Dean, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t.”
Dean tugs his thumb out, and leans in to kiss Sam’s hole, sloppy and then gentle, familiar. The velvet-soft wrinkled skin of it and the musk-salt taste are secrets only he’s allowed to keep.
“Said you wouldn’t do a lot of things,” Dean tells him, as he opens the lube and slops some onto his fingers.
“Bastard,” Sam groans, as Dean circles his hole with slick fingertips. “Can’t—Can’t you just—give me a br—fuck yeah, fuck yeah, there, more.”
Dean drags his teeth over the curve of Sam’s ass, sinking another finger in immediately with the two he’s shoved inside all at once. Dean wants to savor it, the feeling of that tight, silken place only he’s ever gotten to know. He wants to feel it out again and welcome himself home bit by bit.
Sam’s making I’m-about-to-die sounds up above him, though, and Dean wants to keep those going even more. He fucks his fingers in fast and filthy, muscle memory coming back faster for this than it did with driving, he swears to God.
Sam mewls, he mewls like he hasn’t done since they first went down this sick, precious road.
The sight of it, Christ, the shine of his own fingers, busted knuckles and all, moving frantically out of Sam’s body, his hole going red around the edges already. Dean can just see the pink of him inside when he fucks particularly fast.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Sam gasps, giggling in a delirious, moaning sort of way. “Fuck yeah, you always do it right. Couldn’t—ah—with myself, wasn’t right—Dean—”
Dean surges up, still fingerfucking Sam like he was built to do this instead of hunt, to lay his chest along Sam’s back. He can feel Sam straining slightly to stay up on his hands. His wrists must be aching; maybe he’ll let Dean kiss them better.
Dean licks up Sam’s shoulder and neck, long, flat stripes that are probably turning Sam on and grossing him out in equal measure. Sweat is sour and salt on his tongue, spreading out and staining the inside of his mouth just how he wants.
“Hm?” Dean asks, nosing at the sweat soaked curls at the nape of Sam’s neck. “Yeah, you tried to fuck yourself good enough without me?”
“Uh huh,” Sam moans, circling his hips down onto Dean’s fingers, already in sync with him again. Dean wonders how long it would have to be for them to forget these parts of each other, to need to relearn, truly.
Dean cranes his head to give Sam an awful, awkward kiss that makes Sam’s body spasm needily around him.
“How long’d it take for you to need it, huh? How long since I was in the ground, since I was burning in Hell, did it take ‘fore you needed something up inside, before you were done crying about me and just getting yourself off wishin’ you had my cock?”
Sam turns his head away from Dean. “Screw you,” he grits out, and then moans like a slut again when Dean crooks his fingers the right way.
The way Sam’s face goes when Dean does that, fucks him the right way, sits behind Dean’s eyes at night, next to memories of Hell and Sam dying and Sam laughing and bright yellow irises.
Dean presses Sam’s shoulders down to the bed, then picks up the gun and touches it to the back of his head. “Answer the question.”
Sam shivers all over, mute, and Dean thinks for a moment he’s being difficult still, and then Sam says, “Okay—okay, will, I—Dean, slow—your fingers. Gonna come—”
Shit. Sam’s trying not to come. He’s quiet because he’s trying not to come while Dean has a gun on him. Dean moans, too, full bodied and unrestrained because Sam deserves to hear it this time. Dutifully, he slows down his fingers, and dodges his prostate on every small rock inside.
“Tell me,” he says, and drags the gun up and down the length of Sam’s spine from his shoulders to his neck.
It’s a neat trick they’re playing, the both of them pretending Dean’s the one with more power here, when he absolutely is not. The gun is smoke and mirrors.
“Like—Like a week?” Sam ventures, rolling his head against the bed as if in frustration. His hair is a disaster, and once Dean would have looked forward to combing it out afterward. “I don’t know, man. Soon, it was soon, okay?”
Dean’s about to taunt him, the opportunity is so perfect.
“I missed you,” Sam says, disarmingly vulnerable.
Dean’s not there. Dean can’t.
He does lean forward and kiss Sam’s cheek once, twice. He allows himself to rest his forehead against Sam’s temple. Sam accepts it, the stillness.
But like Dean said, he can’t.
“And you couldn’t do it right, hm?” Dean asks, sitting back up. “Couldn’t do anything right without me. Couldn’t get fucked, couldn’t pull yourself together.” He pauses, and twists his fingers into Sam’s prostate to make Sam go stupid right when he adds, softly, “Couldn’t bring me back.”
Sam goes tense like an angry cat, back rigid and body shaking. “Go to—” he starts, and then audibly gnashes his teeth. It would be funny if—no, it just wouldn’t be funny. Sam snaps, “Why are you stallin’? Afraid to use your cock like you’re afraid to do everything else these days, huh? Afraid of screwing your baby brother? Train left that sta—”
Dean shoves the barrel of the gun up to Sam’s lips, and pushes until Sam gives in and opens his sweet, furious mouth. His eyes roll back—dead giveaway, every time—as he sucks the barrel right in.
“Shut up,” Dean breathes to punctuate the move.
Sam nods, compliant. His mouth is all stretched out, gun bulging out his cheek. The metal has to hurt, but Sam looks blissed.
Dean pulls his fingers free of Sam’s body, and shifts until his cock is resting thick and heavy over Sam’s hole. Sam keens over the gun in his mouth and pushes back.
At this moment, flushed with half his face turned into the mattress, and his hair long and sticking everywhere, Dean wouldn’t be able to tell him apart from his Sam of two years ago, his Sam of five years ago, even.
Dean loves him, loves him so much, and the loving hurts. The loving doesn’t feel like a comfort anymore, because it just stings like rubbing alcohol in an open wound.
It’s easier to fuck Sam than to love him right now.
When Dean slides home, in one persistent thrust, Sam smacks his hands against the comforter, nails clawing at it audibly.
Sam is the best thing Dean’s felt since coming back, by far. Everything else has felt like it’s supposed to be incredible, like he’s supposed to have missed it after going so long without and he’s been telling himself all these things—food and hot showers and beds—have been wonderful to come back to.
It’s a lie. But not this, not Sam.
Dean moans whole-heartedly, letting himself enjoy it. It’s all velvet and slick and tightness, and Sam’s strong, sweaty body under his hands, and Sam struggling to moan happily around Dean’s gun, because he fucking loves this too and that makes it even better.
Dean tips his head back, tugging Sam’s hips back with one hand to get as deep as he possibly fucking can in there, and feels.
Before the deal, he always assumed he’d go to Hell for this, for fucking his kid brother. Thing is, he’d go to Hell again anyway, just to keep doing exactly this. Sam’s that good. They’re that good.
Dean tilts his head back down and smooths Sam’s sweaty hair out of his face, at least where he can reach, pressed into the mattress as Sam is.
Sam’s nostrils are flaring he’s breathing so hard. Dean gives an experimental fuck of his hips and Sam almost rips the comforter with his hands.
“That good?” Dean asks breathlessly. “That the cock you wanted? Gonna come on it? S’only ever been big brother’s cock, huh, Sammy? Only one for you.”
He knows Sam got dicked a few times in college. He’s also had Sam moan about how they didn’t compare when Dean’s been balls deep, and then whisper the same thing soft eyed and sweet mouthed in the shower afterward.
Carefully, he pulls the gun from Sam’s mouth, and sets it aside. Too soon, apparently.
Sam takes a breath and says, “Only gonna come on it if you actually fuck me right, instead of talkin’ about it.”
Dean slides his hand under Sam’s neck, and squeezes his throat tight enough Sam’s breath gets a little shallow, a little bit of wheeze to it. “You really think you don’t need me? That it? You really fuckin’ think you’re stronger?”
Sam’s shaking his head, clearly didn’t mean to go that far with this, but too fucking bad. He’s set Dean off.
“What happened to you, Sammy?” Dean asks, and starts to fuck Sam before he can answer. “You ain’t my boy anymore.”
“I am,” Sam gasps, distressed, and it breaks off into a moan. That seems to piss him off, the weakness of his own reaction to the pleasure. “I am,” he tries again, louder.
It sounds like Sam. It feels like Sam. His boy.
His boy, who lies to him and fucks demons and is turning into something Dean can’t control with a stern word or a hand to his neck or a quiet whisper of Sammy.
Dean bends over Sam, circling his hips, and murmurs, “How can I trust you?”
“Because I t—” Sam starts heatedly, then crumbles into a slutty whine when Dean fucks his hips hard enough to jolt them up the bed an inch.
He expects Sam to curse him out and try again, but instead, Sam goes boneless and says, “Go on, Dean, fuck it out of me. Go on. Dare you.”
It’s derisive and needy and cruel and sad all at once, and it makes Dean angry. He sets his teeth into Sam’s shoulder and fucks him like this isn’t his little brother but a whore meant for using. Sam’s groaning low and masculine into the bed, clenching tight around Dean’s every thrust.
Dean sits back on his heels, dragging the absurdly muscle-heavy weight of Sam with him. He guides him up so that they’re kneeling on the bed together, Sam on his cock. Dean fucks him like that, tight, controlled thrusts that burn in his thighs and ass, but it makes Sam’s voice start to pitch all high and pathetic.
His little brother is so big, and like this, Dean’s face is tucked between Sam’s shoulder blades, so Sam’s head somewhere up above him where he can’t see. He just has to imagine it, how fucked out Sam’s face is right now.
Dean reaches around to find Sam’s cock, but Sam bats his hand away, which he only ever does when he’s too close. Already, huh. Dean grins into Sam’s back, and laughs a little.
“Fuck off,” Sam gasps, or some approximation of it. Then, he’s dropping abruptly onto his forearms again, bent at a spectacular angle to keep his ass in Dean’s lap for Dean to fuck.
God, Sam missed Dean’s cock. Dean doesn’t need to hear it to know. Sam’s torso is twisted so Dean can see most of his face and he looks so fucking blissed, so gone, so unaware of anything except Dean. Sam really missed Dean’s cock, and Dean’s so fucking glad he could give it to him.
Sam’s gonna come on it, yeah, and that’s something Dean needs.
Dean would do just about anything—make a deal with demons, angels, who the fuck ever—to keep Sam like this forever: useless, and perfect, and hooked on Dean.
Dean’s fucking Sam in shallow, rapid thrusts like this but he wants in, he wants to nail Sam. He smacks Sam’s ass to make Sam yelp and curse him out, and then says, “On your back.”
He doesn’t give Sam time to process the order or follow it before he’s grabbing the gun from beside him, and nudging it against Sam’s cheek.
“You hear me?”
Sam moans, and slips off Dean’s cock, rearranging himself in a tangle of too long limbs until he’s on his back. Without prompting, he gets his hands under his knees to keep his legs up and spread for Dean.
Good boy, Dean almost says, but that’s for a different Sam, from a different Dean. Both those brothers died.
Sam’s all tan skin and taut muscle, and his hole is stretched and slick and angry-red, and this—this is sin, right here. Dean’s committing a sin looking at his baby brother like this, his baby brother he made like this, his baby brother he’s about to fuck like this.
Dean knee-walks forward, gun in hand. He bumps the head of his dick against Sam’s stretched hole, and taps it there to see Sam squirm in frustration. He means to keep doing it, because that scrunched up, annoyed look on Sam’s face is damn fucking cute.
Sam’s hands are broad and strong on Dean’s ass when they grip him there—and fuck, Sam has to put his knees up by his ears to make that maneuver work—to pull Dean forward. Sam tilts his hips and shoves them back together just like that.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, as Sam hisses, “Yes,” and they both sound relieved.
They start up immediately, a vicious kind of fucking that has them both breathing so hard they can’t speak. Sam’s bendy as ever, which is even more impressive consider the giant swell of muscle he’s become. He doesn’t seem to feel any strain at all as Dean bends him in half, ass lifted off the bed, to nail him into the mattress, just like he wanted.
Sam starts trying to say Dean’s name, in fits and starts, and it’s all choppy, broken up by hard his body is jolting with each thrust, and breathy, almost no voice to it. Dean doesn’t even think Sam knows he’s doing it.
Sam’s face is a violent red, sweat pouring down his temples and by his nose. Droplets of Dean’s own sweat have fallen onto his cheeks, and when it hits Sam’s lips, he licks it up like reflex.
He’s trying to stay looking at Dean, but his eyelids keep fluttering in pleasure, and it’s so hot Dean’s balls tighten up at the sight.
“Goddamn,” Dean gasps out, struggling to speak and fuck at the same time. The slap of skin on skin is loud, like hear-it-through-the-walls loud. “Take it—take that, fuck. Fuck, you fucking takin’ it, Sammy?”
Sam hisses, and turns his head to the side, embarrassed and probably pissed. But then he nods, frantically, and grits, “Yeah, love it, want—”
Sam’s struggling to get a hand between the contortion of their bodies, to get to his cock. Dean wants to see Sam touch himself, because it’ll make them both come, so he leans back, pausing his hips momentarily.
”Dean,” Sam whines, petulant, and turns his head to see why Dean’s stopped.
Ignoring him, Dean unfolds Sam’s legs and wraps them more loosely around his hips, pulling Sam’s ass up onto his lap to fuck him like that, with Sam’s back flat on the bed before him.
Without having to be told, Sam slides a hand down his torso—carved like marble on steroids, what the fuck about icing demons does that to a guy in four months—and grips his dick.
It’s a gorgeous thing, always has been, pink and thick and drippy. Dean spares a moment to regret it’s not halfway down his throat before he picks up his hips, his strokes deeper and harder this way.
“God, yeah,” Sam chokes out, his free hand flying up above him to grip the edge of the bed, because they’ve migrated to be more or less horizontal on the mattress.
Dean knows Sam’s been getting his, with Ruby and that doctor if not others, and Dean also knows Sam fucks like it’s his trade, but Sam hasn’t gotten fucked since Dean was last topside, and Christ, if Sam doesn’t look satisfied down to his soul with a cock up in him.
Sam can go stick his dick anywhere but he’ll only scratch the itch, scratch it down to the bone, with Dean. Vice versa, too. It’s one of the few places they’ve ever been equal, the same knife held to each of their throats.
However else Dean’s losing Sam right now, in whatever ways Sam’s slipped through his hands, Dean’s still got this on him. This is still Dean’s.
Dean’s fucking Sam so hard now grunts of exertion are being punched out of his own throat on each move, and Sam’s being pushed along the mattress.
Sam’s moaning pretty, eyes squeezed shut and mouth sagging open. His hand has still on his dick, except for his thumb, circling in jerky movements over the head. Precome is sluicing copiously over his knuckles.
“Gonna come?” Dean groans, and it’s meant to be a taunt, a goad, but it doesn’t come out that way. It comes out plaintive, and it’s too late to cover it up.
Sam catches it. His head is at the edge of the mattress now, inching towards hanging off, and he snaps it up, curling up slightly to look at Dean with eyes like a shark scenting blood in the water.
Even undercut by whorish moans and wheezy breaths from getting fucked so rough, Sam’s voice is vindictive when he says, “Need this so—bad, huh? Huh, ah, Dean? Fuckin’ me r-raw, fuckin’…me mean, an’ it’s still you so fucking needy here. Need it, shit, need me—”
Dean pitches forward, heaving Sam’s legs over his shoulders as he goes. It slides his cock deeper, making Sam’s eyes roll back and making it that much easier for Dean to drop one of his legs to grip Sam by the throat tight instead.
Sam’s eyes flash open, and Dean should be smug about how blown black the pupils are, but he’s fucking caught up looking for the bits of glue and green and tawny brown at the edges instead.
God, he is, he is needy, it doesn’t matter if he uses his cock to tear Sam up, Sam’s destroying him more, always. In sex, in their lives, in his fucking dreams.
Dean squeezes a little tighter, feels the rush of Sam’s pulse, and Sam’s mouth stretches into a circle, eyebrows furrowing. He feels Sam’s knuckles bumping over his abdomen where Sam’s fist has started flying over his cock between them.
Dean fucks him hard instead of speaking, because if he does, he’s only going to lie or to confess, and he can’t face either.
The gun is sitting on the bed at the edge of Dean’s peripherals, almost out of grasp but not quite. Dean kisses Sam, all teeth, and then loosens his hold on Sam’s neck. He rakes his hand through Sam’s beautiful, dumb hair instead, and grips it tight.
“Think you should shut the fuck up, Sammy,” he breathes. His own cock is so hard, swollen and feeling good, so fucking good, the definition of pleasure, where it’s pistoning in and out the scorching, slick grip of Sam’s body.
Sam’s head really is hanging off the bed now, and for a minute, Dean admires how he can just see the newly reddened skin of Sam’s throat, and how it moves with the whiny, embarrassing little moans Sam’s letting out.
Then Sam loops an arm around Dean’s shoulders to hold onto as he crunches up a bit, so his head isn’t lolling down and he can look Dean in the eye again while they try to fuck themselves into a better place.
Sam’s fucking heavy, one leg bent in the crook of Dean’s elbow, the weight of him hanging on by his arm around Dean’s shoulders. He was heavy when they started this two years ago, and he’s massive now, ridiculous dense muscle all over.
Dean can take it, even if it makes him sweat and groan more, and he knows it’s turning Sam on, that Dean can handle this and is handling this. There’s few people that could do this for Sam, fold him up and throw him around and support the whole, gorgeous mass of him.
Dean can do all that, and fuck him senseless at the same time. Alright, it’s turning him on too, more than worth the workout.
He is the big brother, after all.
Dean’s balls are starting to scream at him, achy and full every time they slap against Sam’s ass, but he doesn’t want this to end. The world is going to get even uglier than before when they come down from this, and he’s not ready.
Sam tugs at him with the arm he has around him, and Dean goes, tilting his head until their foreheads knock together, sweaty and solid. “Ah, ah,” Sam’s saying in a tiny voice, breath ghosting over Dean’s mouth with each sound.
Dean kisses him again, can’t help himself with this kind of proximity. Sam shoves his tongue in all nasty and presumptuous and it makes Dean’s dick give a dangerous throb.
He hisses, hips stuttering before picking up a little faster. Sam’s lips buzz with what might be a laugh or a moan, and Dean’s real close to not caring which.
He yanks out of the kiss, and focuses on fucking like he’s going for gold, circling his hips and keeping an even, ruthless rhythm. The leg Sam has down is tangling slightly with Dean’s, and he can feel how Sam’s toes are curling at the new pace.
Sam’s stopped jerking himself off again, and now Dean’s sure he’s keeping himself on edge on purpose, and Dean wonders if Sam’s reluctant for this to end for the same reasons he is.
“Why is—this always so—fucking—good?” Sam whines, choppy through the force of their fucking.
It’s Dean’s turn to laugh, but he can’t, because he’s fucking close, and he’s putting every muscle and bit of willpower he has into screwing them senseless right now.
Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean’s jaw, his dick flexing so hard Dean feels it bounce off his own stomach for a moment.
“Never gonna be this good with anyone else,” Sam murmurs, and it sounds all plaintive. Dean is going to gloat, and then Sam repeats, “Never gonna be this good with anyone else,” and this time it might as well be a taunt. A threat.
Dean’s reached for his gun in far trickier situations than this, and it takes him all of ten seconds to have it in the tight space between them, pressed up under Sam’s chin.
He’s shaking this time, and he tells himself it’s the strain from the fucking, from holding onto Sam.
Sam makes a sound like he’s coming, even though Dean knows he isn’t. “Fuck me harder,” he insists, like he’s in any sort of state to be making demands, and like Dean isn’t probably bruising his ass up inside and out.
Dutifully, he fucks Sam harder, impossibly harder, and at the same time shoves the barrel of his gun up rougher under Sam’s chin, so that Sam has to tilt his head back slightly.
“Mm,” Sam all but sighs. His free hand finds its way to Dean’s ass, sneaks in to ghost briefly over his hole to make Dean moan and want, and then further, further in over his perineum and then against his balls from behind, clumsily tracing over them with the frantic movement of their bodies.
That’s—yeah, Dean’s gonna come.
“Sam,” he warns, going dizzy-fast now, losing rhythm.
“Uh huh,” Sam assures him, still held at fucking gun point.
Dean feels his balls drawing up, and his thrusts turn into frantic, deep grinding, keeping his dick right inside, where it’s happiest.
Then Sam’s hand comes back up. Dean’s still gonna fucking blow, any second. His nipples are peaking with it. He faintly registers Sam trying to maneuver his hand between their chests.
Dean registers the click of the safety being switched off, and it is not faint.
“Sammy,” he says, eyes flying open to find Sam’s face.
Dean starts to pull the gun away, and Sam stops him.
“Don’t, don’t,” he begs, like it’ll kill him if Dean doesn’t have him at gunpoint.
Dean’s dick is starting to go unbearably stiff inside Sam’s body. There’s a moment where Dean’s clear of the haze of impending orgasm, trained for gun safety no fucking matter what, trained to make the right call, always.
The gun isn’t cocked, but the safety is fucking off, it’s tight and hot and confusing in between their bodies and no sane person would want this from anyone, would trust—
“I trust you, I trust you, I trust you,” Sam’s whispering, a chant, prayer. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s jacking himself off again. “I trust you, I trust you, I trust—”
Dean keeps the gun pointed at Sam, and comes so hard he’s aware of every pulse and flex in his dick, in his balls. He feels how each wad of come creams up his dick inside Sam’s body, and how pleasure licks its way up his spine and down his thighs and dances in his pelvis. His ears are ringing with it, his toes are curling. He’s still rocking his hips slightly, and come is dribbling out, he can feel it.
“Sammy,” Dean gasps when he can see straight again, shaking all over, and his gun is still on Sam, he’s still fucking holding his kid brother at gunpoint with the safety off.
Sam flicks the safety on and tosses the gun away faster than Dean’s brain can process.
“Fuck,” Sam’s saying, slurred like he’s high. He shoves at Dean, their limbs knocking everywhere, and then Dean’s on his back, and Sam’s saying, “Stay hard for me, okay? Okay? M’so fucking close.”
Dean nods frantically—anything, he’ll do anything for Sam, that’s who he is, that’s all he knows.
His hands reach for any part of Sam as Sam sinks right down onto his overworked dick. He lands on Sam’s thighs, feeling the muscles work under slick, beautiful skin as Sam rides him messy, no rhythm, no grace.
“Didn’t hurt me,” Sam’s gasping, head back and looking up at the ceiling. “Didn’t, fuck—couldn’t hurt me, Dean, Dean.” Sam groans and falls forward, forearms on either side of Dean’s head, and his hips rolling back. “Wouldn’t—ah—wouldn’t hurt me, not ever. Not me—not—ah, my big brother—not for a-anything—couldn’t—you didn’t—”
For all his deranged babbling leading up to it—which Dean can’t process, won’t—Sam comes totally silent, mouth stretched wide and drooling slightly onto Dean’s neck where he’s pressed his face. Dean breaks, only a little, and wraps his arms around Sam to hold him through it.
Dean’s still never cried during sex, he tells himself, because the tears on his cheeks started after he got off. Yeah.
Sam comes for a long time, it feels like, and there’s a lot of it, like the kid’s got a backlog going or something, the thick stripes of it pooling onto Dean’s abdomen and chest. Dean wants it to keep going, and going.
While he still can, Dean cards both of his hands through Sam’s sweat-drenched hair, and kisses the shell of his ear.
When Sam starts to shift, Dean takes the opportunity to wipe at his own face, and pretends not to notice Sam doing the same as he sits up.
Sam lifts his hips so that Dean’s half hard dick slips out of him, and stays sitting astride Dean for a moment, the silhouette of him blocking out most of the light in Dean’s vision.
Sam tilts his head slightly, and presses his hand against Dean’s cheek. Dean touches Sam’s chest, right at the center.
Finally, Sam rolls off of Dean, then lays flat on his back beside Dean. They’re side by side, but not enough their shoulders are touching, a good few inches between them. At least they’re more or less the right way up on the bed now.
After a moment, Sam shifts again, and then comes back, pointedly not looking at Dean when he uses one of their shirts to perfunctorily wipe Dean down, and then himself.
Sam lays back down when he’s done.
“You trust me.” Dean can’t stop himself.
Sam turns his head to look at Dean at the same time Dean does. His pupils are back to normal, and Dean’s still watching all the colors, trapped in there.
“I trust you with me,” Sam says carefully. He hesitates, his lovely, fucked out face the picture of indecision. “I want to trust you with the rest. I want to so bad, I want….”
Dean bristles, restless without the anchor of holding Sam, the way they usually do after sex. “Then tell me the rest. Start with Pamela. What did she say?”
Sam stares at him blankly. “No.” Then he leans to the other side and shuts off the bedside light.
Dean’s gun is beneath under his shoulder, and he grabs it and shoves it under his pillow angrily. He turns away from Sam, on his side.
It’s fuck o’clock in the morning and Dean’s gone through what has to be the Olympic version of sex, his whole body is sore and tired, and yet sleep doesn’t even feel like an idea his brain’s ever had.
“I wouldn’t have ever let anyone else do what we just did. Anyone. Ever.”
Sam’s voice is perfect, the right bit of raspy and slow that screams little brother needing Dean. It almost has Dean, almost is enough to make him reach out. It’s delicious, the confirmation of it and everything it suggest: Anyone. Ever.
But there’s still apparently things Sam does and tells other people that he wouldn’t do with Dean, and that curdles this victory, makes it smaller. People like Ruby, who are Anyone. Ever, to the exclusion of Dean, for some secret something he doesn’t know.
Dean shivers, sweat drying cold and tacky on his skin. They’re on top of the covers but neither of them seem inclined to get up and change that.
“I’m still your brother,” Sam tries, after a stretch of silence.
Dean sighs, and hunches in on himself. “Go to sleep, man.”
“I am. I’m still your brother, dude.””
I am, Sam had whined, when Dean had asked if he was still Dean’s boy.
“Sure,” Dean agrees, a pit in his stomach. “I just don’t think brother means what it used to, for us.”
Sam’s breath catches audibly, and two years ago Dean might not have apologized in so many words, but he would have reached out, pulled him close. Dean doesn’t do that tonight, but neither does Sam, so. It ain’t on him. It ain’t.
The Sam sleeping beside him is his brother, but also not. He won’t be his brother again until Dean knows every part of him, and no one else has their own piece, either. That includes Sam.
How else is he meant to keep Sam safe otherwise? He’s just doing his job.
Dean wakes at 3 AM to the shower running, and has a heart stopping moment where he thinks Sam’s getting ready to go run off somewhere in the middle of the night.
Instead, the shower just runs for a few minutes more, and then Sam comes back quietly into the room, and gets back into bed beside Dean. He wasn’t running off somewhere, he wasn’t even leaving Dean’s bed.
Sam was showering, as unable to stand the grime of sex as he’s ever been, but equally unwilling to stay away from Dean, even as sweaty and unwashed as he is.
It’s so achingly familiar, so precisely Sammy, that the moment Sam lays down, Dean slides over and presses up against him, nose in Sam’s wet hair and hand on Sam’s warm abdomen.
Sam stiffens, and Dean’s afraid he’s going to push him off or leave, but then Sam relaxes, melts right into him. Dean sighs, relieved, and brings his hand up briefly to trace over the arch of Sam’s brow and the slope of his nose.
They go back to sleep.
In the morning, Dean is sore like he’s been hit by a truck, and his only consolation is that Sam’s moving like he feels pretty much the same. Both their necks are mottled up purple and red with bites and sucked-in kisses.
Once, that would have been a laughing point all day and then a sex point later that night. Today, neither of them acknowledge the marks, or the soreness, or make eye contact at all.
Dean cleans the guns before they go, including The Gun—God knows it needs it—and Sam studiously keeps busy at his laptop.
The best Dean can say is that they’re not fighting, and the specific tension leftover from the siren seems to be gone, even if whatever has replaced it is just as uncomfortable.
It’s easier to pretend, anyway. They’re able to banter mellow and familiar by the time they’ve chosen a case and packed up to head toward it.
Before Dean starts the car once they’re inside it, Sam hand touches his wrist and stays there. Dean shuts his eyes briefly. Damn.
“What?” he says, opening his eyes.
Sam’s hand circles entirely around his wrist. “I think—I think we need to stop. Doing…doing. Doing this.” He gestures with a tilt of his head in the vague direction of what had been their motel room.
Dean wants it to feel like a punch to the gut, because that would means less was wrong with them—it would mean shock, and sadness, and denial. It would mean he thought this was still his in the first place.
It doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut. It honestly doesn’t feel like much at all, except maybe that another deep level has fallen open in the gaping hole sitting his chest. It’s been sinking in and in and in since he got back, and the deeper it gets, the less he feels the sinking at all.
“We probably never should have been fucking at all,” Dean says brusquely. “We’ve been needing to stop since it started, Sam. Messed up.”
Sam flinches, face paling. It makes his features sharper, older. “You know that’s never how I saw it.”
Dean grinds his teeth, and drops his eyes, can’t bear looking at his brother.
“Well, that’s messed up, too,” he says finally, and it’s just to hurt Sam, who is terrified Dean thinks he is what Dad feared.
But fuck Sam, because Sam doesn’t actually want to stop this—he said it to hurt Dean. He said it because he expected Dean to fight it, to tell Sam off and keep him closer and tell Sam how much he wants him. It’s right there in his open, sad face, and the bruising grip of his fingers on Dean’s wrist.
Sam said it to hurt Dean to get what he wanted. He said it to hurt Dean, hoping it’d make Dean expose how needy he is.
Dean can play that game, too. At least he can claim Hell made him good at this kind of torture. What’s Sam’s fucking excuse?
“So we’ll stop?” Sam says, his face flickering only a little at the blow.
“We’ll stop,” Dean agrees.
Sam takes his hand off Dean’s wrist, and another piece of what brother means falls away.
Dean tells himself he has enough pieces left to hold onto Sam anyway, to get him back. They have enough pieces left that it feels near-okay by the time they’re on the road, bickering about where to get breakfast and theorizing for the case.