kerfuffling (kerfuffling) wrote,
kerfuffling
kerfuffling

Consequentiality: Part Four



Part Three

Dean really fucking hates interviews when they don’t lead anywhere. He’s no bleeding heart like Sam is, and no one ever wants to trust him as readily as they do his brother, so a lot of the times, they play good-cop, bad-cop, and that gets boring really quickly, especially since most of the people end up hating Dean by the end of the day.

Bobby’s luck is equally unfruitful, so Dean doesn’t even have the prospect of a late night chase-n-kill to put him in a better mood. He wants to argue that after the excitement of the morning, all the demons in the town have probably booked it, but the sky is rumbling with an unnatural electrical storm, and even though Dean’s having probably the worst time ever on this hunt, he can’t deny that the demonic omens that keep cropping up are probably suggesting something sinister, if not important.

Dean refuses point blank to go back to the hotel after dinner, so Sam grudgingly follows him to one of the po-dunk bars that litter the main drag. Smoke is heavy and gray in the air, and Sam coughs like a prissy bitch as Dean orders them both a beer and settles against the bar.

The house draft is bitter and soothing against his tongue, and he’s finished half of his glass before Sam’s even taken two sips. Dean resolutely ignores Sam, focusing all of his attention on the two tittering girls at the opposite end of the bar, dressed in their Sunday sluttiest, which is the way Dean likes it.

He’s just about to go over and talk to one of them, the one with the bleach blonde hair, when Sam puts a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sam warns.

“Oh, fuck off, you big baby,” Dean says. “We’re allowed to have fun every once in a while.”

“Dean,” Sam says, but Dean puts his blinders up and slips out of his brother’s grasp, smoothly making his way to his target, his most charming smile affixed on his face. Sam stays put, and Dean can feel the tiniest of pulls and the not-so-small influx of Sam’s irritation and something else that Dean can’t place, but it settles into a toxic weight in the pit of his stomach that he has a hard time shaking off.

The girl (Lana, Lori, something like that) is everything that Dean usually looks for when he decides to clean the pipes with something other than his right hand. She keeps pushing her arms together so that her tits nearly pop out of the low-cut top she’s sporting, and she doesn’t even pretend to be affronted when Dean stares at her chest in admiration. She’s knocking back whisky sours like they’re candy, and Dean can see the inviting glaze of alcohol in her eyes and can’t say he minds when each drink makes her clingier than the last.

Dean’s gone with a simple story this time, disgraced reporter working local channels until he can get his breakthrough story, and she buys it hook, line, and sinker, catching his every word with a titter.

“You wanna get outta here?” she asks maybe an hour later, and damn, Dean really loves it when girls don’t play hard-to-get.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he says. “My car’s out in the parking lot.” She’s just drunk enough that she doesn’t think it’s trashy to get fucked in the backseat of a car, which is just what Dean needs considering his Sam-shaped problem. He wraps one hand around her wrist and is dragging her towards the front door when Sam literally steps right in front of them and dodges every attempt Dean makes to get around him.

“Whaddya want, sugar?” the girl says, almost slurring as she presses her tits against Dean’s side.

“Let go of him,” Sam says, his nostrils flaring, which is a sure sign that he is really pissed off. Dean snorts and tries to side-step him again, but he’s four beers gone right now, and knowing Sam, he’s probably as stone-cold sober as someone can be soul-tied to someone with a healthy buzz going on.

“I mean it,” Sam grits out, and he actually grabs the girl’s arm where it’s wrapped around Dean’s bicep and pries her fingers free.

“What’s your problem?” she demands, hitting him with her purse. “Don’t touch me.”

“Sam, what the fuck?” Dean says, ignoring the girl’s boozy pout.

“We’re leaving,” Sam says stubbornly. “Without her.”

“Oh, whatever,” Dean snipes. “Take a hike, Sam. Get yourself another beer or something.”

“I’m fucking serious, Dean,” Sam says, and whoa, Dean hasn’t heard that tone of voice in a while. Sam’s face is nearly set in stone, and he’s glaring so hard that Dean’s almost surprised the girl hasn’t run away yet.

“So am I,” Dean says. “Fucking move.”

“No,” Sam says and then turns to the girl. “You know, he’s just using you to affirm his questionable heterosexuality, and he’s probably not even gonna be able to get it up. You should just go back to your friend over there.”

“Sam,” Dean hisses, because he hadn’t been expecting Sam to stoop to such Dean-like levels. “Sweetheart, he’s lying,” Dean adds, turning to the girl, but she’s looking at him with that patented bitch-you’re-fucking-kidding-me-right? look, and she’s backed away maybe five steps.

“Maybe you and your butt buddy should just go back to wherever you came from,” she hiccups, and then she flounces off, which would have been more impressive if she didn’t stumble on one of her heels and keel headfirst to the floor. Deans’ torn between helping her up--she fucking insinuated that Sam was his fucking gay partner or whatever--but her friend is there in a flash, shooting Dean the nastiest of nasty looks, and then Sam is pulling Dean in the opposite direction towards the door.

“Dude, fucking let go,” says Dean angrily, trying to yank his arm out of Sam’s grip, but Sam is steadfastly hanging on, his fingers tight enough to almost hurt. His lips are pressed together in the way that let Dean know that Sam is seriously pissed off, but he’s too buzzed to care and angry enough in his own right. He was just fucking cock-blocked by his own brother, and if Sam thinks that he’s getting away with that shit without some kind of revenge, he’s sadly fucking mistaken.

Dean struggles against Sam the entire way back to the car, but his coordination is for shit, and Sam is putting all of his strength into getting Dean where he wants him to go. He stops by the driver’s side of the Impala, and then he’s all up on Dean, which makes Dean confused for a second before he realizes that Sam is trying to find the car keys in Dean’s pocket.

“Get off,” Dean snaps, but Sam snags the keyring and unlocks the door.

“Get in,” he says lowly.

“Fuck you,” Dean responds eloquently.

“I will knock you out, Dean, I swear to fucking God.”

“Except that won’t work anymore, genius,” Dean says, smug that he’s able to reason with Sam even when Sam has the clear advantage in non-muddled mental capacity, with the lack of alcohol in his system and all. “If you clock me, you’ll just end up unconscious yourself, and then we’ll both get thrown in the drunk tank.”

Sam’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Dean braces himself. “Try me,” Sam growls. “Fucking try me. I dare you.”

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Dean taunts. “Can’t stand that I’m getting some attention from someone other than you now? You think just because what happened between us happened, we’re now boyfriends or some shit? ‘Cause that’s fucked up, dude, even for you.”

Dean doesn’t see Sam’s fist coming before it smashes into his jaw, hard enough to be incredibly painful, but not quite at the point where it’ll make Dean black out. He stumbles back against the Impala, and if Sam caused him to dent his baby, he’s fucking dead. Dean’s mouth is flooding with blood from where he bit his tongue at the point of impact and he spits it onto the asphalt, wincing as he touches a ginger hand to his jaw.

“Is that all you got?” Dean asks.

“I am not doing this here, Dean.” Sam is practically shaking, and Dean feels just as on edge, just as infuriated. “Get in the fucking car.”

Dean wants to resist, wants to push Sam or clock him, and his fists are trembling with the urge to do so. But Sam’s right--they get picked up for fighting here, and they’ll probably be in a shit ton of trouble. As long as this is going to happen, Dean would rather they get it over with in the relative privacy of their motel room where Dean can yell and accuse and fight all he wants, as long as the lobby clerk doesn’t notice.

“Fucking fine,” Dean says, stumbling his way around the side of the car and wrenching open the passenger side door. He ends up sprawled awkwardly across his seat, and he doesn’t even bother to sit up straight as Sam slides behind the wheel, slams his door shut, and peels out of the parking lot.

When Sam jerks into park in front of their room, Dean barely waits for the car to stop moving from his abrupt braking job to throw open the door and get out. He almost falls, still buzzed from the bar, but he gets to their room okay and unlocks the door with the key. Sam is a solid weight right at his back, practically breathing down his neck, and Dean has the disconcerting reality that he can’t decide if he wants Sam to get closer or just stay the fuck away.

Dean strides into the room, turning around to face Sam as soon as he hears the click of the door closing. He spreads his arms, staring at Sam, who looks murderous in the dim light.

“What’s your fucking problem, Sam?” Dean says before Sam can start on his little bitch tirade.

“My problem?” Sam asks incredulously. “My problem? What’s your fucking problem?”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Dean yells. “Since when do you think you have the right to decide who I fuck? You’re the one who went fucking crazy in there, Sam, so don’t you dare fucking blame this all on me.”

Sam’s getting closer, looming into Dean’s space with only three steps, and Dean doesn’t back away, not willing to concede even the slightest hint of weakness.

“Since you bound your soul to mine, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s so quiet that Dean almost has to strain to hear the words. “Since you kissed me. Since you rubbed yourself off on me.”

“I’m not talking about this,” Dean snarls.

“Tough shit,” Sam says back, pushing Dean hard enough that he almost falls on the bed. “For the millionth time, we’ve got to talk about this, Dean! It’s not going away.”

“Maybe you think so,” Dean says, but that’s a complete lie, and he knows it.

“Don’t you fucking say that when you know it isn’t true,” Sam says.

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean says, glaring, “You know what? Just fuck you.”

Sam’s all up in his space in under a second and Dean’s bracing himself for another hit, ready to dodge and get back a blow of his own, but then Sam’s big hands are framing his face and Sam’s lips are on his own, and it’s like he’s been hit on the head with a hammer. For one, blissful second, Dean surges into this kiss, feels it sear all the way down to his bones, and then reality catches up with him, and he pushes Sam away, hard.

“Jesus, Sam,” he spits, running the back of his hand over his mouth even though his lips are still tingling pleasantly from a kiss Dean’s pretty sure he wanted to keep going. “Have you forgotten that I’m your fucking brother.”

“Kind of a hard thing to do,” Sam points out, and his eyes are glittering with something between anger and lust and Dean just can’t fucking deal with this right now.

“You’re fucked in the head, Sam,” he says. “You know that? Stay away from me.”

“No,” Sam says, and he steps closer again, and even though Dean knows that he should be backing away and locking himself in the bathroom or something but he just can’t make his feet move. “No, I’m not going to stay away from you. Because I can tell that you’re fucking lying, and it’s all your fault in the first place, remember?” Sam taps two fingers against his temple in a mocking gesture that makes Dean clench his hands into fists.

“You’re the one who made me able to read your feelings,” Sam said. “And I don’t care if you want to keep lying to yourself, except you’re driving me fucking up the wall, and I just can’t take it anymore.”

“I’m not going to fuck my little brother, Sam,” Dean says, a little weakly.

Sam regards him stonily for a couple seconds before he shrugs his shoulders. “Fine,” he says, and then he’s dropping to his knees just in front of Dean.

Dean splutters, too shocked to do anything, and then Sam’s hands are back on his body, fumbling with the button to Dean’s jeans.

“Sam, Jesus, stop,” Dean says, but he doesn’t make any move away, just standing there dumbfounded as Sam pulls down Dean’s zipper. “What did I just fucking say?”

“You said you weren’t going to fuck me,” Sam said, “but I didn’t make any such promise. With one swift movement, Sam pushes down the waistband of Dean’s pants until they’re puddled around his ankles, and then Sam’s there, fucking nuzzling the line of Dean’s cock through his boxers, and Dean should stop this, he really fucking should, but he just fucking can’t.

“Sam,” Dean croaks, but he can’t tell if he means it to be a warning or encouragement. “Sam.”

Sam doesn’t answer, still mouthing along Dean’s cock through the fabric of his underwear, and when he reaches the head, he sucks hard and Dean makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. Sam keeps it up until Dean’s boxers are soaked through with Sam’s saliva and his cock is hard, blood thick and ready, and Dean can’t even form a coherent thought, let alone recall the reasons why this is a really fucking bad idea.

Sam finally takes pity on Dean and pulls his cock out so he can properly taste it, but Sam’s definitely acting out of revenge, because he’s not doing anything but pressing the tip of his tongue to Dean’s slit, and Dean needs so much fucking more.

“Sam,” Dean groans again, and this time, it’s definitely a call to action. He lets his hands fall into Sam’s hair, and Sam opens his mouth just a little wider and swallows the head of Dean’s dick.

It’s obvious that Sam doesn’t know what he’s doing, because Dean feels the scrape of teeth before Sam rounds his lips, and in the back of his mind, he can feel a niggling discomfort that can’t be coming from anyone else but Sam.

Dean wants to tell him to stop, to get off and go the fuck away, but even though Sam fucking sucks at giving head, it feels so fucking good that Dean doesn’t want it to stop ever. Sam tries to take more of him, swallowing around Dean’s dick, and it works for a second before Dean makes an aborted thrust that almost pushes past Sam’s gag reflex and causes Sam to back off.

But Sam is a stubborn son of a bitch, and he’s not done yet, using his tongue to trace the vein on the underside of Dean’s cock.

“Dammit,” Dean says, and it’s almost a sob. “C’mon--just fucking--Jesus” Sam has sucked him back into his mouth, doing the best impression of a hoover vacuum that Dean has even seen, and every nerve ending in Dean’s body is singing in pleasure, his head roaring with white noise, and Sam’s rubbing himself through his jeans. Dean can see the movement of Sam’s hand, the one that’s not wrapped around Dean’s own dick, and for a second, Dean wants to see it, wants to see Sam jerking his big fucking cock, coming from sucking Dean down like a two-bit penny whore.

Sam hums in the back of his throat, short and quick, as though he’s testing it out, and that is fucking it. Dean can feel Sam’s pleasure through their soul bind, can almost feel the phantom sensation of Sam rubbing one out, and Dean’s orgasm crests like a tsunami, blinding him against anything but Sam. Sam just opens his mouth and lets Dean come down his throat, looking up at Dean through his hair.

“Fuck,” Dean cries as Sam pulls off. “Fucking fuck.”

Dean’s practically shaking from the force of his orgasm, gasping as he comes down from it and things settle back into his head. The reality of it hits him like a freight train. That’s his brother on his knees, licking Dean’s come from the corner of his mouth, looking up at Dean obscenely, his pupils blown wide and his hand still working at the tent in his jeans.

Dean takes a step backwards, as if Sam’s gaze is a physical blow to his solar plexus, and falls over onto the bed, scrambling backwards as soon as he gets his arms beneath him.

“Dean,” Sam says, lowly, huskily, making an aborted movement to stand up.

“No,” Dean croaks desperately. “No, just--fucking stay away from me!” The words ring clear and loudly in the air, and Sam falls back on his knees looking at Dean with this expression that Dean doesn’t ever want to decipher. His heart is hurting in his chest, and his head is burning with everything he’s feeling that he doesn’t want to feel, and Sam’s hurting, and Dean did that, and he just can’t fucking take it anymore.

Dean rolls off of the bed and lands on all fours, which should be funny, but considering the situation, it really, really isn’t. He pulls himself up to his feet and is in the bathroom before he’s even fully standing, slamming the door behind him and leaning against it heavily.

It’s three hours before Dean gets the courage to leave his pretended privacy, and Sam is lying in one of the beds in the dark, hardly moving. Dean knows he’s awake, knows he has to be, but there’s nothing that Dean can say or do to change the situation. For the first time in what feels like forever, Dean climbs into his own bed, burrows into sheets that aren’t warmed by another body, and tries to go to sleep. It takes a very long time.



Dean wakes up bleary eyed in the dim light of morning as his phone rings incessantly on the bedside table. He doesn’t reach it in time to answer before it switches over to voicemail, but whoever’s calling tries again immediately, giving Dean the opportunity to pick the phone up.

“‘lo?” he asks, his voice groggy from sleep.

“Where are you?” says Bobby, obviously annoyed. “You boys were supposed to meet me half an hour ago.

Dean takes half a glance at the crappy alarm clock that’s sitting on the bedside table and lets out a bitten-off curse. Eight-thirty, and Bobby’s right--they are late. With everything that happened the night before, Dean had forgotten to set an alarm, and apparently so had Sam.

“Give us an hour,” Dean says grumpily. “Overslept. Just text us where we should go or whatever.”

“Boy, you know that I hold as much regard for texting as I do for a monkey with a ukelele. Just call when you girls are done gettin’ ready.” Bobby doesn’t even say goodbye before he hangs up, which is definitely an indication that he’s pissed, but Dean doesn’t really give a fuck. He knocks his knee on the nightstand as he passes to his duffel bag, and he can already tell that this morning is going to be shit.

He isn’t wrong. By the time both of them are dressed and fairly presentable, it’s obvious that Sam is just as willing to speak to Dean as Dean is to Sam, which is to say, not at all. They don’t share a single word between them, relying on nonverbal cues and annoyed gestures until they’re in the car on the way to a fast food joint for some quick grub before another full day of investigation.

Sam gets his normal breakfast--a yogurt parfait and orange juice, or some shit, even though Dean knows that Sam finds it about as appetizing as Dean used to. Just to be spiteful, Dean orders two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits along with a danish to go with his large coffee, and even though they should be the best thing he’s eaten in months, they taste like sandpaper going down, sticking in his throat.

By the time they’re back on the road, and Bobby has sent them to do a little recon at an abandoned house somewhere just off the main drag of town, Sam’s irritation and hurt and frustration is buzzing in the back of Dean’s mind, almost driving him to complete and utter distraction. He misses the turn off once, and only Sam’s aggravated sigh and “Back there, Dean, Jesus” makes him realize his error.

The house doesn’t have anything particularly damning inside--no indication that it’s a hideaway for anything sinister or demonic. There is some sulfur scattered, but it’s been disrupted by wind or movement, because there’s not a heavy accumulation, and even though Sam insists that they wait there for a couple hours at least to see if anyone comes home, nothing happens.

After their little stakeout yields no results, Sam insists on talking to the neighbors about the house’s owner’s mysterious disappearance. Dean can’t be fucked to do anything but sit in the car, though, no matter how angry Sam is, and he slouches in his seat and watches Sam make his way to surrounding houses, pulling forward whenever Sam emerges and moves on but making no move to get out of the car. The separation is paining him deep in his chest, the connection straining, but Dean relishes it, takes it as evidence that he isn’t indefinitely Sam’s plaything and that eventually they’ll get over this whole soul thing and live normal lives again. It’s an empty lie to tell even himself, but Dean takes comfort in it.

All in all, the day is fruitless, which just aggravates Dean more. He tries to suggest to Bobby that maybe he can finish up the hunt on his own and let Sam and Dean go onto do something else, but Bobby is adamant that there’s a bevy of demons hiding somewhere and Sam backs him up, which gives Dean no chance but to grin and bare it.

Dean barely eats dinner that night as Bobby and Sam go over everything they already know, picking at his hamburger half-heartedly. Bobby gives him a few askance glances, almost concernedly, but Dean doesn’t care. He feels nauseous, like something roiling in the pit of his stomach, and considering the state of Sam’s dinner once the check is paid, he’s not the only one feeling a little off.

Bobby makes the suggestion that they go to the local bar after dinner to drink the edge off, but Sam immediately dismisses the idea, telling Bobby that they’re tired, which isn’t completely a lie, but Dean thinks it has more to do with what happened the last time they decided it was time for a little alcohol therapy. Bobby’s looking between them as if they’ve grown two heads, and Sam’s smiling his tight little smile that he only uses when he’s seriously upset and trying not to show it.

“You know Sam,” Dean says, even though his words sound fake and forced, just hanging there in the air. “Still thinks he has a bedtime.” Sam gives a short laugh that doesn’t sound natural at all, and Bobby’s still giving them this look but he lets them go with a half-wave and a shrug of his shoulders, trucking off to his car so he can get drunk on whiskey.

Dean’s holding the keys to the Impala so hard in his hand that they’re making an imprint on his palm, but he doesn’t feel the bite of the metal as it twists into his skin. Sam’s walking rigidly, five paces ahead of him, and waiting impatiently by the passenger-side door as Dean unlocks the car. The drive back to the motel is thankfully short and silent, but the tension in the air is making the hair on the back of Dean’s neck prickle uncomfortably.

When they get in their room, Dean makes a big show of picking out his clothes so he can take them into the bathroom with him as he showers, which is something he and Sam had never bothered with before. Living in each other’s pockets had made privacy practically nonexistent, and they’d never cared before about seeing each other in various states of undress, because that came with the territory.

Dean fervently wishes that things were still the same.

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice low and serious, and Dean feels his shoulders tense. He continues to rifle in his bag, pretending that he hadn’t heard Sam, which was maybe a mistake, because Sam took that as a reason to come closer.

“Dean,” Sam says again, laying one light hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean immediately whips around and whacks Sam’s arm away from him.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Dean snarls.

“Grow up,” Sam says harshly, his nostrils flaring with irritation. “You can’t just ignore everything, Dean. Jesus Christ.”

“I shoulda known,” Dean says, glaring at the floor because it was easier to do that then meet Sam’s gaze. “What, Sam? What can we possibly talk about that will change what happened? Or make things better?”

“It happened,” Sam says staunchly. “And you’re freaking the fuck out about it.”

“Of course I’m fucking freaking out, Sam,” Dean grits out. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t seem to forget the fact that my baby brother was on his knees last night sucking me off.”

Sam’s face flushes when Dean chances a glance to see the effect his words had on his brother, but he looks as set and stubborn as ever. “We can’t ignore what’s going on, Dean,” Sam repeats with an air of forced calmness. “

“So what is it, then? What’s going on that’s made you certifiably fucking insane? What made you think that it would be a great fucking idea to have sex with me?”

“You feel it too,” Sam says, breathing as though he’d just run a marathon even though he was standing stock-still.

“What, Sam? What do I feel? Since you’re the fucking expert now.”

“You’re confused,” Sam says, and there’s a hitch in his voice that wasn’t there before. “You don’t know what’s going on, and you don’t know why you feel like this, and it’s driving you crazy. So you just ignore it but it’s getting stronger and I feel it too, and it’s all your fault in the first place. I shouldn’t want to do this with you, and you shouldn’t feel like this about me, but we do, Dean. We fucking do, and we’re going to have to deal with it.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Dean says, but there’s this sinking feeling in his stomach, because Sam’s words are resonating truer than Dean would ever want them to. He thinks he’s going to be sick with it, with the feeling of dirty-bad-wrong, with the want that keeps boiling up even though it shouldn’t.

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t fucking lie to me, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s really starting to sound upset, which Dean hates. “I know what you’re thinking. I can feel it.”

“Just fucking leave me alone,” Dean roars. “Stop reading my mind, stop thinking about what I’m feeling, stop trying to fuck me. I don’t want that, you hear me? I. Don’t. Want. It.” With that, Dean grabs his clothes and practically runs into the bathroom. It takes him almost five minutes to calm down enough to get undressed and into the shower, and he can feel Sam’s hurt and anguish through the link, almost strong enough to make him want to give up everything he’s been fighting this with and go outside and back to his brother.

He doesn’t though, just sets his shoulders and lathers shampoo into his hair, wondering just when Lady Luck, fucking bitch that she is, is going to give him a goddamn break.



It takes another argument, loud enough that their neighbors pound on the wall to make them shut up, before Dean grudgingly gets into bed with Sam, with the condition that Sam stay on his own fucking side all night. The closeness feels good, and there’s a part of Dean that’s yearning to roll over and burrow into Sam’s heat, but that would be crossing the Line, and besides, Dean didn’t just spend a half an hour shouting at Sam to touch him the second he gets into bed. Instead, he just scrunches up to the very edge of the mattress and shoves both of his hands under the pillow to resist temptation.

It very nearly works.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, he feels groggy but rested, warm and content and unwilling to move. For a second, he doesn’t know why he’s feeling so content, but then he cracks open his eyes and his eyelashes brush against something that ends up being Sam’s cheek. Sam’s looking right at him, his mouth parted, and Dean can feel the soft exhalations of Sam’s breath on his skin.

It makes him want to arch into Sam’s body. It makes him want to taste the salt of Sam’s skin. The want is there, singing, thrumming until it’s almost unbearable, and Dean can’t move, he just fucking can’t, because Sam is right here, and it feels so good.

Sam makes the decision for both of them, like he’s been doing for the past week, and Dean’s eyes cross as Sam inches closer. Granted, Sam is giving him plenty of warning, plenty of time to get away, but Dean can’t, he just fucking cannot, and he’s able to take one sharp breath before Sam’s lips gently touch his, chapped and dry, and just what Dean needs.

There’s something in the back of Dean’s head that’s shouting at him about how wrong this is and how he didn’t want this to happen, and move, goddammit, why aren’t you fucking moving? but Dean can’t listen to it, can’t pay attention to anything but the press of Sam against him. He makes this tiny sigh, almost a moan, and he’s opening his mouth to Sam’s tongue, feeling it slide against him, sour with morning breath. Sam’s kissing almost desperately, as though he has something important to convey to Dean that he can only do this way, and Dean responds in turn. His hand clenches Sam’s bicep almost of its own accord, and that’s Sam’s hand at the back of Dean’s head, running through his hair and pressing Dean’s mouth even closer.

Dean’s lightheaded by the time Sam breaks away, breathing hard as though they’d been doing something much more strenuous than kissing. Dean’s face is tingling, rubbed raw by Sam’s stubble, and he wants to keep going, wants to make out in bed until it’s afternoon and he’s stupid with it.

“That’s why,” Sam rasps. “That’s why we can’t keep ignoring it. That’s how I know you feel it too.” Dean can’t think of a response, can’t do anything but stare at Sam, and then Sam’s rolling out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

Dean feels like he should be in a bad mood, should still be feeling just as shitty today as he did yesterday, but there’s something stopping him from it. He can’t tell if it’s him or Sam, but he feels good, like he always does after a night spent so close to his brother, and even though he knows that this fucked up shit can’t go on, just on principle, it doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

Just thinking about Sam’s mouth, about the way that it felt sucking Dean down, is enough to get Dean half-hard, and by the time he has his own turn in the shower, he’s definitely ready for it, if you get his drift. Sam had the nerve to come out of the bathroom with the smallest imaginable towel slung around his hips, and seeing Sam like that, wet and mostly naked, was more that enough to turn Dean’s crank. He doesn’t take his time, striping his cock until he’s almost moaning with it, fucking into his hand as the warm water beats down on the back of his neck.

He thinks that Sam is going to say something about it when he comes back out into the room, but Sam only gives him a look before bending over and tying his shoes. Dean’s almost affronted--he’d been expecting a confrontation of sorts and had prepared everything that he’d wanted to say in retaliation--and he’s off-kilter now that he doesn’t have to argue. He almost wants to start something, but he’s feeling good now, too good to get in a fight with Sam about something they don’t see eye-to-eye on.

Dean picks up some fast food for them and two large, strong coffees, as they go to meet Bobby, somewhere on the eastern edge of town in a crappy apartment complex. He had left a message, calm-as-you-please, but it sounded like he’d finally found something worthwhile, which was enough to make Dean excited. If he wasn’t allowed to stab something soon, he’d be really fucking annoyed.

Dean and Sam stand skeptically outside of the building as Sam checks Bobby’s message again just to make sure that they’re at the right address. The place looks like it should have been condemned a decade ago, and Dean’s doubting the structural integrity--if he falls through the rotting floor and breaks his leg or something, he’ll be fucking pissed, but everything checks out with what Bobby told them, so they go on only a little hesitantly.

The room the step in to has a definite feeling of neglect, and rot hangs heavy in the air. Dean is cautious, gun propped on his forearm in case something comes out from the bowels of the building, but nothing is stirring save for dust particles swimming in the air. It’s quiet, that oppressive silence that presses down on Dean’s ears, and instantly he knows that something is not right here, and his senses go on high alert. Beside him, Sam tenses, and Dean takes comfort in the fact that he’s there. That and that he can feel the cool press of the demon-killing blade tucked into his back pocket.

Their progression inside is slow, hampered by sweeps of their guns whenever they hear so much as a whisper of sound. There’s nothing there, as far as they can tell, even though Bobby explicitly directed them here, and with each passing second, Dean is more on edge.

By the time they make it to the back door, Dean’s neck is prickling unpleasantly with sweat even though it’s fairly cool inside. He’s about to turn around, cautiously following the barrel of his gun, and head up the creaky stairs to recon the top floor when Sam silently throws out an arm to stop him. Jerking his head towards the backyard, Sam creeps along the wall so he can look out the window. For a second, Dean is unsure of what he’s looking for when the glass suddenly shatters around Sam, peppering the floor with glass, and in an instant, Sam is being pulled through the ragged remnants of the window by something that’s inhumanly strong.

Dean can sense the pull of the glass on his brothers skin, can practically feel it as Sam’s blood begins to drip to the ground, and for a second, all he can do is stare in dumbstruck horror.

It’s only a second, but it may as well be the difference between everything and nothing, because Sam is gone, right out of Dean’s sight, and Dean throws caution to the wind. “Sam!” he bellows, and then he’s crashing out into the pale sunlight of the back lawn, overgrown with tangled weeds and pricker bushes.

It’s immediately apparent that they’ve fallen head-first into a trap, not for the first time, but Dean feels ashamed as is. Bobby is hog-tied to a tree, and his head is lolling with what looks to have been a heavy blow to the temple. It’s obvious that Bobby was the bait to get them there, and Dean is torn between standing his ground and running to help Bobby free. But it’s only a fleeting thought, because everything is once again focused on Sam, Sammy, who’s struggling against the hold of a demon who obviously chose his meatsuit for brawn rather than brains. Dean’s heart skips about three beats, and he needs to get Sammy free, but he’s only managed about half a dozen steps before someone else steps out from the scrub and positions herself in Dean’s path.

“Now, now,” she tsks, shaking her head as her eyes swim into a sickly white. “After all the effort I put into getting you here, we mustn’t let it end that easily.”

Dean feels nauseous with how much he hates her, even though he doesn’t even know who or what she is. He can feel the evil boiling off of her, making bile rise in the back of his throat, and if he thought he could get away with it, he’d be reaching back for that knife right about now. But as angry as he is, as desperate as he might be becoming very shortly, he knows that he can’t give away that trick yet.

“Oh?” he says, faux-calmly, giving a light little laugh in an attempt to gall her. “You should’ve called, sweetheart. It would have been easier.”

“But where,” she says slowly, her lips curling into a sinister smile, “is the fun in that? I’ve heard so much about you boys. I just had to see if the rumors were accurate.”

“Believe me, baby,” Dean says arrogantly, “you’ll know they are soon enough.”

She laughs full-throated, actually throwing her head back, and for a second Dean can see the pulse of blood in her jugular vein. He badly wishes for the chance the slice it open. “Such bravado,” she coos. “But entirely undeserved, I do believe. It was laughingly easy to get to the slip on you two.”

“Don’t count us out yet,” Sam grits out, and he’s still struggling against meat-head-Demon’s iron-clad grip.

“Better listen to him,” Dean says, cocking his head towards Sam.

The demon’s eyes narrow dangerously, but she’s still smiling, still amused. “If you knew what I was,” she says silkily, “you wouldn’t be so assured.”

Dean’s already doubting the odds of the situation they’ve found themselves in, and the unctuous tone of her voice is sounding alarm bells left and right. “I know what you are,” he sneers. “And you’re fucking stupid if you think I’m gonna be afraid of you sons of bitches at this point in the game.”

“Oh come now, Dean,” she snaps, and all good humor is gone from her voice quick as smoke. “You already know that I’m more powerful than the run-of-the-mill demon scum you’re used to dealing with.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t kill you,” Dean says. “I don’t know if you got the memo, but it’s not like we haven’t fucked with our fair share of your high-and-mighties.”

“I’m not Alistair,” she says. “I’m not Lilith or Ruby or Azazel. I was commanded out of purgatory by my Mother, and she put me here to dispose of you.”

“Kinda full of yourself, aren’t you?” Dean says, but it feels like ice has slipped down into his belly.

“I think it is deserved,” she says silkily, “seeing how you have fallen so neatly into my trap with such little effort. But I tire of this, Dean.” She turns her head then, sharp and commanding, and at first, Dean doesn’t know what’s happened. He feels pain down to the tips of his toes, emanating through every cell, and if he had the presence of mind to be screaming, he’d be doing so.

He can’t comprehend anything through the thrill of it and the ache, and then the demon’s there, putting one hand on his shoulder right at the moment he thinks he’s about to pass out, to die, and it ebbs away to something tolerable but still present, burning right in his gut.

“What did you do, you bitch?” he snarls, half-kneeling in the dirt although he doesn’t remember falling.

“Nothing to you,” she says, smiling like the cat that got the fucking canary. Dean can’t place her words for just a second before he’s hit with a horrible thought, as sudden and terrible as being run over by an errant Mac truck would be. He doesn’t even need to look to know, even though he was oblivious only seconds before, and turning his head hurts more than he could imagine, and not in a physical sense.

Sam looks shocked, pale white and shaking, still firmly in place in the giant’s hold, but he’s stopped struggling, both of his hands clutching at his gut. Dean can already see the blood seeping through his fingers, splattering on the ground, and the piss-dark scent of death is so heavy on the air that Dean could vomit with it.

“A little barbaric,” the demon continues lithely, “but it gives you the message, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t doubt my little friend over there--it may be a gut shot, but he knows what he’s doing. I daresay your brother doesn’t have long.”

Each breath Dean takes feels as though it’s tearing through his throat. Things are filtering through their link now that he has the forethought to center his attention on it--pain, and grief, and something that feels a whole lot like No, I’m sorry, Dean, Dean, no, which is so fucked up seeing that Sam’s the one who’s dying.

“Your angel friend did quite a number on you two,” she says, each word piercing through Dean. “Soul bind? I must admit, it’s genius. Quite the solution there. Too bad it won’t do you any good now. I’m going to tear it apart and make you watch your brother die, see his soul scatter into so many pieces, not even the whole of Heaven’s army will be able to piece it together again.”

“No,” Dean says, and it’s almost like a moan, filled with a pleading tone that he wouldn’t have thought possible to come from his own mouth.

“Oh, please, you haven’t learned your lesson after all of these years?” the demon coos, bending down so she can whisper right in his ear. “A deal won’t get you out of this one, Dean. I’m afraid you’re going to have to suffer along with everybody else.”

Dean can’t formulate a response, he physically can’t, not when he can literally feel Sam fading with each passing second. Sam’s to his knees now too, too weak to stay standing, and his captor is looming over him, laughing ruthlessly. Bobby is still unconscious, still tied to the tree, and Dean has nothing but the knife at the small of his back and he can’t even find the strength to unsheathe it.

“Why?” Dean rasps, and he’s startled to hear his own voice, especially since he hadn’t been planning on saying anything, too focused on the sear of his brother’s eyes. “Why aren’t I dying too?” Even as he says it, he desperately needs to know, as though the thought had just occurred to him and wasn’t letting go. Sam was dying, so Dean should be dying too. It was the natural order. How things were supposed to be.

The demon laughs, high and tinkling and so damned evil, that Dean’s stomach turns at the sound of it. “Didn’t I just tell you?” she asks, running a hand through Dean’s hair in an almost loving caress. “I am going to tear you apart from the inside out. Let you feel every second of that little bond of yours fraying beyond repair as you see your brother die for the final time. And then you know what, Dean? I’m not even going to kill you. I’m going to let you live with what happened, because it will be your own special piece of hell on earth, won’t it?”

“No,” Dean says to himself, because he can see it and feel it, and she’s right, he can’t imagine anything worse. “You fucking bitch,” he spits.

“Why thank you,” she says. “I always enjoy an honest compliment. I say your brother doesn’t have long left now. You’d better say your goodbyes. Oh, and Dean? Make them good. They’re going to have to last for forever.”

Dean can see it, back like it was when Sam first died with his severed spinal cord in that ghost town, kneeling in the mud, his weight heavy on Dean. It still hurts--Jesus, more than almost anything--but Dean can’t stay here next to the demon-bitch--he needs to get to Sam. He can’t even get to his feet, and even though the demons find it absolutely fucking hilarious, Dean crawls until he’s within arm’s reach of his brother.

Sam’s skin is warm underneath his hands, burning through everything, and he’s bleeding from his mouth, but he seems oddly content as he lets Dean haul him steady so they can look at each other.

“Sorry,” he gurgles, and there’s blood on his teeth, making him look like a fucking zombie or something. “Didn’t mean to. It’ll be okay, Dean. I’ll be okay.”

“No it fucking won’t,” Dean says, only it’s more like a scream wrenched from his lungs to explode on the air.

The demon is laughing uncontrollably as Sam slumps over, unconsciously still and so pale that Dean can almost see the blood pulsing underneath his skin.

“How does it feel, Dean?” she asked vindictively. “To know that you’ll never see Sam alive again? His soul is scattered so far, I doubt even God himself could piece it back together again. Mother may, if you beg nicely, I suspect. It might take decades of servitude, but she could come around--you never know.”

Bile rises in Dean’s throat at her words, at the very thought that Sam is dying, but she’s wrong because he’s not gone yet. He might barely be holding on, blood might be seeping out of his belly, slow now but still steady, but Dean can still feel the thready presence of him at the back of his mind. The demon bitch hasn’t taken the bond apart yet, no matter how cocky she was about her ability.

She’s not paying attention, too convinced that Dean is insensate with pain or grief, and Dean can sense his chance as surely as if something was broadcasting it far and wide. It’s like a second wind, buoyed by the stubbornly clinging presence of his brother, hurt and fucked but still there and whole. The knife is burning a brand into the small of Dean’s back, and as she bends down to cradle Dean’s face, apparently preparing herself for another strike at Dean’s mental state, he lets his intent seep into his bones and in one swift movement, he brings his hand up, holding the knife in a steady grip.

She steps backwards in astonishment, but it’s too late. He catches her deep in the stomach, mimicking the wound her associate gave Sam, and there’s a flash of brilliant white light, brighter than Dean remembers it being, and the woman she was possessing falls to the ground limply, lifeless in a way Sam hasn’t managed.

Her lackey, now not reassured by her strength, takes a dozen paces backwards, and before Dean can even fathom getting to his feet to give chase, the demon abandons its host, spewing itself into the air in a spurt of noxious smoke before disappearing on the wind. Dean finds he couldn’t care less.

Now that the immediate threat has been taken care of, Dean’s newfound wave of strength ebbs as quickly as it appears, and he slumps over his brother. He can still feel Sam, even through all of that, even though Dean’s jeans are soaked through with Sam’s blood, and Dean tries with all of his might to keep Sam there and alive, pulling at him through their bond.

It might be minutes or hours of sitting there, Dean putting everything he has into their bond, and when he feels a hand fall heavily on his shoulder, he almost doesn’t realize that someone else is there.

“How bad?” Bobby grumbles, and Dean finds that he can’t even speak. He has the feeling that Bobby’s still talking, trying to get Dean to answer, but he can’t, he fucking can’t, and it’s not long before he hears the wail of an approaching ambulance, dim through the haze that’s settled over him.

Dean has enough sense in him to know that there’s no way Sam will make it if Dean even thinks about letting go, so even though the paramedics do their damnedest, Dean keeps on Sam as closely as possible, until they have no choice but to load them both into the back of the ambulance, working around Dean to get Sam’s vitals.

The hospital is a blur, a blaze of sensation and pain and Sam, and when Dean finally comes back to himself again, he finds that he’s been uncomfortably wedged into a hospital bed that’s actually two pushed together, and he’s pressed up tight against his brother with an IV line in his left hand.

“You always were too damned stubborn for your own good,” Bobby says gruffly from a chair besides the window, and Dean nearly falls off of the bed in surprise. He’d been so out of it that he hadn’t even managed to properly gauge whether he was alone or not.

“Whuh?” he says eloquently, because he’s not quite awake enough for this conversation, and the doctors must’ve put Sam on some strong shit, because he can feel the affects as strongly as if the medicine was dripping through his own IV.

“Doctors didn’t know what to make of it,” Bobby says blithely, yanking his cap down so it better shields his eyes. He almost looks as though he’s about to take a nap right there in the sun like a cat, right in the middle of the conversation. The image makes Dean want to smile for the first time in a while.

“Make of what?” Dean asks slowly, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. He chances a glance at Sam, but the fucker is still asleep and therefore of no use to the conversation. Just looking at him makes Dean want to close his eyes, and he has to struggle to keep his attention on what Bobby’s telling him.

“You wouldn’t let go, not for nothing,” Bobby said, “and when they’d try to make you, both your vitals and Sam’s would go absolutely haywire. Sam flat-lined two times before they realized that the contact was somehow keeping him alive even though he should’ve died.”

“But he’s okay, though,” Dean says, and he almost doesn’t need an answer. Sam is there at the back of his mind, quiet perhaps, but definitely alive.

“You’re so damn predictable,” Bobby grumbles. “Don’t care that you nearly died and woulda made me dig two graves instead of one. But yeah, Dean, he’s okay. Or he will be. And so are you, if you were even wonderin’ at all.”

“Good, that’s good,” Dean says distractedly. He can feel the warmth of Sam’s skin underneath his palm, and it’s lulling him into a calm sort of peacefulness.

Bobby snorts and stands up. “Now that it’s obvious you’ll live to be a pain in my ass for another day, I’m gonna go make sure that the insurance is squared away so you two don’t end up putting me in jail.”

“‘Kay,” Dean mumbles, and Bobby’s gone before he knows it, and Dean finds that he really doesn’t care. Even though moving makes the needle in Dean’s arm pull uncomfortably, he finds a way to pillow himself along Sam’s side and is asleep again in a handful of seconds.

The next time he wakes up, he’s curled around Sam, almost like a comma, and Sam’s staring back at him, blinking through his own haze of exhaustion, like they’d both awoke to each other in that instant. The only thing Dean can hear is the intermittent beep of the monitors in the background and the muted clatter of goings on in the hall outside of their door. Dean is so relieved he could cry.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Sam says, his voice so torn up that it’s barely more than a whisper, but his lips are curled in a weak half smile that lets Dean know that he’s okay.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says, but there’s no ire in it. “I’m not the one who let a demon spill my fucking guts on the ground.”

Sam laughs and it sounds like it must hurt, and he winces almost immediately. Dean can feel the phantom pain in the back of his throat. “What happened?” Sam croaks, still pushing himself even though he probably lost twice as much blood needed to kill him.

“Stop talking, idiot,” Dean chides. “Do you want to make things worse?” Sam gives him a look, but before he can open his mouth to be a dumbass about things, Dean continues on explaining.

“Demon cut you open,” he says roughly, noticing for the first time that his voice isn’t that much better off than Sam’s, all low and gravely. “Just slit your stomach before you’d even noticed the knife. And it didn’t take long before you went unconscious, you big girl.”

Dean’s attempt at humor falls flat even for him, and Sam narrows his eyes. Dean thinks that Sam’ll just ignore his sore throat, but then he feels the push of Sam’s feelings through their connection, and he can hear a faintly niggling then what at the back of his mind.

Dean sighs heavily, but if Sam’s furrowed eyebrows are any indication, he’s picking up more than Dean wanted to share. “Demon bitch, the head honcho, she said she knew about the soul bind or whatever,” Dean says and Sam’s eyes go wide. “She thought she could pull it apart, or something, but she couldn’t, could she? Cas knows his shit. Anyways, I think that’s why I stayed awake. Hurt like fuck, but I could tell she was doing something inside of my head, I think. But she didn’t get it, Sam. She couldn’t. And when she was distracted ‘cause she thought you were dead, I stabbed her with our knife.”

How did you know? whispers the voice that’s Sam’s and yet not in the back of Dean’s head.

“Of course I knew,” Dean snaps, not even needing Sam to clarify. “Could feel you holding on, couldn’t I? I wasn’t fucking letting you die that easy, Sam.” He can still feel it though, the terror and helplessness and watching Sam bleed out for what felt like the millionth time.

Sam doesn’t respond, either physically or mentally, but he takes Dean’s hand and places it over his heart. It comforts Dean, the steady, strong thrum beneath his hand, and they stay like that until the nurse bustles in for her evening rounds.



It takes nearly three days before Dean gets sick of the poking and prodding and convinces Sam to sign out AMA. The doctor goes into a tirade about how Sam was lucky to be alive, Dean too, and that they were being incredibly cavalier by not following his orders. Dean doesn’t give a fuck. As far as he’s concerned, Sam’s fine enough to be getting on with things, and it’s not like they’re the ones who’re going to be paying for the medical bills they racked up on a fake insurance account.

Bobby’s there when they bust through the hospital doors, and he drives them back to the Impala, using the time to tell them that there’s jack shit going on any more, at least not where they were. Not that Dean was expecting anything. They separate as they usually do, without fuss or fanfare, and Bobby’s truck disappears down the street, heading northward.

It takes them twice as long as it should to get out of the state, mostly because even though Sam is healing faster than he should, he’s still groggy and in pain, and even their illegally-gotten stash of meds doesn’t dull that shit forever. Dean keeps getting them motel rooms with king beds, no matter the nasty looks he gets along the way, but it doesn’t really help besides enabling Dean to keep the closest possible eye on Sam, who grumbles even though he doesn’t mean it.

By the time they hit the east coast, the weather is mild and they’ve been traveling for a long time, but Dean can’t find it in him to complain. He knows that they should be looking for the Mother, or whatever, but Bobby’s on that, and he’s fucking tired. He knows it won’t take them long to dig up another case, hopefully something that’s easy and provides no risk besides the obvious, but he’d like to be on his A-game before trying anything like that. Sam seems to be in agreement, and they follow the Atlantic shoreline south into Georgia before they stop in a po-dunk town that’s, of course, known for its peaches.

He gets a room for them in a rundown little motel with peeling blue paint, quaint in a way that all seaside motels are when they aren’t marketed towards rich tourists, and Dean doesn’t look twice at the bed before he’s kicking his shoes off and climbing underneath the sheets. Sam is right behind him.

They sleep for maybe twelve hours, deep and uninterrupted, and as close as always. The next morning, Dean is lulled to wakefulness by the slightly annoying call of about a million seagulls and the more tolerable crash of the ocean on the shore. He thinks that he can probably convince Sam to kick around in the water today, even if it is too cold for swimming or anything of that nature.

Sam is awake too, of course, and for a minute, Dean just lets himself lay there, breathing in the salt-fresh air, too comfortable to move.

“Dean,” Sam says, and he’s brushing his lips against Dean, the first non-brotherly contact they’ve had since the shitstorm with the demon.

Dean thinks he should back away, knows that this is, as it always has been, a bad idea. But he still wants it, and Sam almost died, and things might not be different now, but they sure feel like it

Dean opens his mouth again, maybe for a protest, or perhaps an acquiescence, but Sam doesn’t give him the chance to even make a noise, just surges forward and kisses Dean soundly, covering Dean’s mouth with his own seamlessly. Dean’s nerves tingle with the contact, and he lets himself stop thinking as Sam’s hand falls onto Dean’s shoulder. The slide of Sam’s tongue against his, wet and sour with sleep and so intimately there, makes Dean shiver. He wants this, loves that he’s able to get so close to Sam so he can remind himself that they’re still together in this here and now.

Sam’s kissing frantically, almost as if he thinks Dean’s about to freak out and leave and he’s trying to give Dean every reason he can why this isn’t the shittiest idea in a long run of shitty ideas. Sam’s morning breath is awful, and he probably hasn’t brushed his teeth in days, but Dean can’t stop sucking on his tongue, kissing him like he’s dying for it.

Sam breaks away harshly, panting even though they haven’t done anything yet, and he looks at Dean, so close that his eyes almost have to cross for him to see Dean’s face properly.

“Please,” he says, so low and reverent that it’s like the most fucked up prayer Dean has ever heard.

Dean should say something like no or brother or fucking fucked up, Sam, but he can’t. “Okay,” he whispers, and the word hangs there in the air, heavy and meaningful, before Sam acknowledges it and starts kissing Dean again, so fast that Dean almost gets whiplash with the force of it.

Dean loses track of time as he opens his mouth wider, trying to give Sam just as much as Sam’s giving him. At one point, Sam maneuvers them both so Dean’s on his back and Sam’s on top of him, a reassuring weight that Dean should find to be stifling, but it really isn’t. He just spreads his legs and lets Sam settle there, the press of him waking Dean up, making his skin tingle.

They’re still mostly clothed, but after a little bit of making out, Sam seems to get it into his mind that they’re over-dressed for the occasion, and Dean has to agree even if a small part of him is still panicking over what’s happening. He lets Sam worm his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground before pulling his own shirt off of his head. The touch of their chests with nothing between them but skin and sweat is enough to make Dean’s head spin, and Sam doesn’t give him a break to adjust, just breaks his mouth from Dean’s so he can kiss down Dean’s neck, following the line of his body until his mouth is skimming the skin above Dean’s jeans.

Dean is hard in his pants, has been for a long time, and he knows that Sam is aching. Sam lets his mouth travel along the line of Dean’s cock, not doing anything but tracing it through Dean’s clothes, and Dean’s had enough. He uses one hand to unbutton his jeans, and then Sam’s immediately on him, crawling back up until he can kiss Dean properly again while helping Dean kick his pants off.

Dean doesn’t bother to keep up with the pretense that things aren’t about to go as far as they can, so he struggles out of his boxers and nudges them off of the bed with his foot. Sam, of course, isn’t about to be shown up, and it isn’t long at all before they’re naked, fucking grinding against each other as Sam devours Dean’s mouth and Dean makes little mewling noises in the back of his throat.

“Can I,” Sam pants against Dean’s mouth. “Dean, can I?”

There are a million things to say to that question, but Dean can only manage one word. “Yeah,” he says, moaning as Sam finds a particularly sensitive spot underneath his ear. “Fuck, Sam, yeah.”

Sam takes his time opening Dean up, but it’s still Sam’s gigantic fingers and spit, so it burns like a motherfucker and is damn uncomfortable besides. Dean squirms against the intrusion of it, wishes like fuck that Sam had something better than saliva to ease the way, but every time Sam gives him a look, that you sure? tilt of his head, Dean nods. Sam needs this, and Dean wants it, so that’s all there is to it.

When Sam pushes in, he tries to go slowly, but Dean has to take measured breaths against the pain of it. It’s not nearly as bad as half of the injuries he’s ever sustained, but it’s the weirdest feeling in the world, and he feels strangely exposed, lying on his back as his younger brother fucks him open.

“Feel so good,” Sam babbles when he bottoms out. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this, Dean, fuck.”

And yeah, it still fucking burns on Dean’s end, too much dick and not enough of anything else, but he can fill Sam’s pleasure, licking at the back of his mind, and it relaxes him.

“C’mon,” he says as Sam looks at him to see how they standing. “Fucking move already.”

Sam’s first thrust is tentative, but when Dean doesn’t break or cry or do anything that would suggest that things weren’t okay, he lets himself speed up. His hands are gripping Dean’s biceps so hard that Dean will be surprised if he doesn’t have bruises tomorrow, and Dean likes this part. He raises his head enough so he can kiss Sam, needs that further connection, and Sam lets his weight fall so he’s able to kiss back, although he’s so far gone that it’s more like he’s resting his mouth on Dean’s

Sam’s mounting pleasure begins to override Dean’s pain, and it isn’t long before Sam’s thrusting frantically and Dean is going along with it, moaning breathlessly as Sam pounds him into the mattress.

“Gonna,” Sam grunts, breathing hard. “Jesus, Dean, gotta fuckin’ come.”

“Come on,” Dean says instantly. “Come already, fuck, Sam.”

If Dean was less out of it, he’d make fun of Sam for his o-face, but he’s too busy spurting himself, getting off on the friction of Sam’s belly against his dick. It takes forever to come down again, even as Sam slips out, and Dean can feel pleasure everywhere, leaking out of his body as he cools off.

“Thanks,” Sam says, rolling off.

“No,” Dean says, and he feels slightly angry through his haze of happiness. “You don’t get to fucking thank me, Sam. We’re in this together. You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want.”

Sam laughs against Dean’s shoulder. “Good to know,” he says, and Dean can feel himself slip into a doze just as Sam does the same.

It’s still early when they rouse again, and Dean still doesn’t want to move. He watches Sam watching him and thinks about how fucked up their lives have been. He figures that this is as close to a happy ending that they’re going to get--pursued by a fucking Mother of all evil, soul-tied to each other, trapped in an incestuous relationship.

All things said and done, Dean thinks that it’s good enough for him.

END

Masterpost
Tags: fic!, pairing: sam/dean, spn big bang 2011
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