hurricanes & heartaches (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} rejeneration) wrote in ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} wincest,@ 2007-06-06 16:08:00 |
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Crash & Burn (Sam/Dean) NC-17
Title: Crash & Burn
Author:rejeneration, but you can call me Jen
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for sex of the Wincest variety, language, etc.
Word Count: 4075
Summary: This is set in 2x02 right after Dean smashes the window of the Impala. Dean doesn't want to give in, but he might not have much choice.
A/N: Yay for episode repeats! I was watching Everybody Loves a Clown the other night and started thinking... Huh! This could use some sex! To be fair, I'm almost always thinking that, but... This fic was also partially inspired by this icon.
Later, when they’re back at Bobby’s, glass around his feet, he thinks maybe it’s the look on Sam’s face when Sam enters the yard. Like maybe it’s the hesitation keeping him miles away, an indestructible line in the sand. Wonders if maybe it’s the fear there, or just the black eye; not the shiner Sam’s been sporting since the accident, the bruises Dean inflicted days ago. Wielding words like weapons, when he’d told Sammy it was too fucking late.
His arms are shaking. Hell, his whole body’s trembling. Can’t feel his own mass. Weightless, boneless… soulless. How many things have they lost? Who can even count anymore? The scorecard’s a fuckin’ joke. And the worst of it? His little brother, standing there in front of him, pausing like Dean might pick up the tire iron and have a go at him next. But that’s not all of it, no. Sam looks the other direction, swallowing down a lump so big Dean can actually feel it himself.
Ain’t nothin’ gonna fix the hole in the trunk. When all else fails, eyes on the Impala, but it’s almost as empty as Dean is. Vacant enough the second Sam’s at his right, Dean’s body eats up Sam’s heat in practically every way it shouldn’t. Modes and means Dean’s long since learned to ignore. Methods for keeping his distance, fighting it off until it settles. Dust around their feet. This won’t settle though. This won’t settle if Sam keeps pushing. They both know it; it’s what Sam’s trying to hide in his eyes, what Sam’s been crowding him on all week.
There’s want there, like a big neon sign, when Dean hazards a glance. Jaw clenching so tight Sam’s gonna break teeth, fists flexing, long ass fingers flinching. Dean closes his eyes to stop fixating on a taste he can never have.
Christ. Dean groans and it’s not lust driven, just more anger. Fury. Like a firestorm in his gut… a squall brewing in his head and heart. Sam’s closer now. Dean doesn’t know how, no one’s moved, but Sam’s somehow nearer, warily stuck at Dean’s perimeter.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is all bass. Just gravel crunching over concrete under foot.
“Don’t!” If this goes any further, any fucking further they’re both screwed. He won’t go down this way. Won’t let Sam. Can’t. Sam said he was right, about the giving in. Wasn’t what Sam really wanted, was what Sam thought he owed the old man. He’d go back to school. He’d go back to where he belonged. Dean’s nodding vigilantly to a conversation taking place in his head. Fucking nuts.
And Sammy’s always the stubborn one. Probably should have dropped five to the ground on the odds of Sam closing those last few steps to reach out a cautious hand. Yanking away would solve everything. March back into Bobby’s place, break open another beer, drop the cap into the sink. Fuck Sam and his cocksucking motherfucking touchy feely shit.
Dean’s saying ‘don’t’ with his body. Hell, he’s sayin’ mor’n’that. Something along the lines of touch me and die, kid. Only problem is Sam’s not afraid of him. Dean’s never given him reason to be.
A little more courage and Sam sort of slides his hand up Dean’s back, stops at the small, curls fingers in to rest against his spine. Dean shuts his eyes again, bites down on his tongue, hoping the pain’ll dull the ache in his chest, threaten the tide trying to suck Sammy in. Only thing is, it doesn’t work. Not even a little. “Sam, please.” Weak-willed words spoken with so much blood he’s afraid it’s running from the corner of his mouth.
And right there, under the friggin sun, for all God and country to see, Sam lifts his hand away for less than a second, and slides it slowly underneath Dean’s shirt. Sweat soaking Dean’s skin, Sam’s fingertips padding through it, his gaze locked somewhere around the steering column.
Dean can’t breathe. Can’t fucking breathe to save his sorry soul, sort of falls forward, hands catching the shards of glass still clinging in the beaten window frame.
New pain. New pain is good. Dean grounds his hands into it, hard, while Sammy edges closer, full hand skipping across Dean’s ribs until he’s got an arm completely wrapped around him, jerking him backwards. “Is that what you want?” Sam utters faintly in a way Dean can’t tell if the words are spoken or simply in his head. “To suffer more?” Definitely vocal, though, Sam’s breathy voice is anger in his ear. “Bleed just a little more, Dean? Is that it? ‘Cause I can make this hurt if it’d be easier for you.”
“What do you want from me, Sammy?” Dean’s cadence is smooth, even for all the turmoil; miles of practiced road. Experimentally, he tilts his hands, dimly admires the prismatic sparkle in the sunshine.
“Come on,” Sam sighs. “Let’s clean you up.”
It’s all about hesitation. Sam’s uncertainty in approaching, Dean’s reluctance to move. If he lets Sam take him back to their room, if he lets Sam shut the door, nothing will ever be the same again. “I’ll be fine,” he lies. “It’s fine, Sam. Nothing to worry about.” Dodge the bullet, undercut the truth.
“C’mon.” Sam’s arm tightens around Dean’s waist. Tugs him backwards against his hip. It’s like he’ll carry him unless he goes willingly. Soldiered straight towards his death or something worse. So, so much worse. Worse… and, yeah, possibly better. But the aftermath? Hiroshima wouldn’t even hold a candle. “Stop,” Sam murmurs. It’s an order. Dean’s used to following those. Sam’s playing dirty pool, using old weaknesses against him. Dean can’t remember ever feeling so pathetic, and Sam’s taking advantage. Like Dean’s the easy mark.
His boots drag in the dry dirt, kicking up clouds, Sam hauling him towards the empty house. When Dean’s feet finally pick up their own slack, back stepping with each of Sam’s long strides, he almost trips and falls, but Sam’s surrounding him. Sam’s massive body and gentle words, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Not gonna let you fall, man.”
They’re across the threshold when Dean plants himself, prepares to make his stand, looks Sammy directly in the eye. Dead on this time. No bullshit. “That’s exactly what you’re doin’.”
Sam only sighs, meets him with a battle-tired stare of his own. “Dean… you wouldn’t know fallin’ from bein’ caught.”
“Nothin’ but down from here, Sam.”
Sam’s near enough his breath touches Dean’s lips, full seconds before Sam’s thumb pads over the bottom one. Slow, languid. A wash of heat, back and forth; like a metronome keeping time. There’s a question on Sam’s face, one part reservation, three parts concentration. All of it focused on Dean’s protruding flesh. A whole lot to think about in this touch, Dean guesses. “I don’t need you to seduce me, Sammy.”
Sam smiles then, bruises and cuts making him look fragile. “Might not need it, but you want it.”
Lyin’s second nature, but the way Sam’s watchin’ him, seeing straight through, he’ll never make it out the other side. It’s okay though, Sam saves him the trouble, just ducks in low, replaces his thumb with his mouth, kisses Dean for all he’s worth. And where the hell did his little brother learn how to kiss like this?
Dean expects hard and rough. What he gets is soft and slow. Sam kissing him like he’d kiss a chick, all tilted chins and slightly parted mouths, and breath lingering as he pulls away before he comes back for more. It’s not teeth and spit and the razor sharp acridity of each other’s blood. It’s gentle and sweet and seriously, what the hell? Sam’s huge freakin’ hands holding both sides of his face, angling his jaw, molding them together before he slides his tongue inside for the very first time.
It’s just a touch, though; don’t last but a second and Sam’s moving back. Dean’s almost a little relieved, except he’s not. Not at all. ‘Cause now Sam’s lookin’ at him again with his “You can’t hide from me” scrutiny. The expression that would have made Sam one hell of a lawyer. Revealing, unnerving, dangerous. “Sit on the bed. I’ll be right back.”
Alone, the sting in his palms starts catching up with the adrenaline, but Sam returns with a small kit, some water in a bowl, a fresh cloth. There’s not a whole lot of ceremony involved in Sam setting the stuff down, but when Sam falls to his knees in front of him, Dean’s blood goes in reverse, changes the direction of its normal flow.
Sam’s nothing if not determined. It’s the rule ordering everything Sam does. Wetting the rag, he wrings it out, unsnaps the kit to grab the tweezers, and meticulously and carefully sets about picking every last jagged fragment from Dean’s wounds. The cuts aren’t bad, nothing major, still hurts though. Sam eyes the Percodan. “Open your mouth.”
“I don’t need-”
“Shut up Dean, and open your goddamn mouth.”
More of that determination thing, Dean thinks, dropping his jaw a little, a treacherous zing of desire washing over him in a spontaneous flood from Sam’s tone. Sam slips a pill between his teeth, watches him swallow dry.
Once Sam has his hands wrapped in gauze, he kneels up between Dean’s spread legs and inspects the gash on Dean’s forehead. Sam’s eyes soften, less persistence, more sorrow. His fingers tour the scar, then his face, brush feather-light straight down his nose and chin. “I’m not alright, Dean.”
“You said.” He doesn’t mean to sound so indifferent.
“Neither are you, though. Ever since I saw you in that bed. Ever since I put a fucking Ouija board on the floor and prayed I could feel you. Feel you, Dean. You know what I’m sayin’, man?”
Yeah, he’s pretty sure he does.
“It’s just… game over. If I lose you, Dean, it’s done for me. And maybe it’s stupid. I mean, how dumb do ya gotta be not to ever really consider saying it out loud before the only person you’ve got left is dyin’. Maybe I’m a selfish jerk, thinking I’d always have you around. But God, Dean, I swear I could hear you in that hallway. Swear I could feel you, man. Like right here.” Lifting Dean’s bandaged hand, Sam presses it to his side. “And you know what I realized? Maybe it wasn’t what I was actually feeling. Maybe it was what I wanted to feel, Dean. Like I’d had you all this time and never knew I needed more until you just weren’t there.
“I know what I’m doing. Dean?” Sam’s vying for line of sight, relinquishing his hold over Dean’s hand where he’s palming Sam’s ribs. “I know what I want now. I’ve been thinking about it ever since you started breathing on your own again. And I think you want it, too. So I’m going to make this real easy.” Sam’s thumbs nervously inch the inside of Dean’s thighs. “Don’t make this about punishment, Dean. Please. Neither of us deserves that. You deserve to have something good, and so do I.”
“For how long?” Mind barely processes the thought before it’s spilling out. Dean gives himself a nice mental knee-to-the-groin for it, too.
“What, you want a promise ring?” Sam splits into a grin, dimples vivid between the cuts and scrapes.
There’s so much emotion on Sam’s face. Sudden brakes and then the backpedal. “You were right about the motivation, Dean, just not the intent. I started having second thoughts long before I started thinking about doing it for dad.” Sam exhales a breath, slow and thoughtful, then forces Dean to look at him. “We’ve been dancing around each other, around this for a long time, now. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’ve loved other people, Dean, God knows I loved Jess, but I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you.”
There’s a little more pressure from each of Sam’s thumbs, both of them rubbing deep into tissue and Dean has to clench a fist to keep from groaning. “So what? You just up and decided this today? Made the choice for both of us?” These words should have heat, but there is none. It’s like the restraint, Dean’s dignity, they’re all just slipping away with every circle of Sam’s hand.
“You think I can force you?”
The expression on Sammy’s face when he finally looks at him, fuck, makes him wish he hadn’t. Sam licks his mouth wet, shiny, sets his chin defiantly, tells Dean without a sound he’ll make this the best damn thing he’s ever done.
Those straying hands, those drifting, wandering, goddamned hands, they pinch the button on his jeans, pop it through the double-surged loop. “What are you doing,” Dean’s eyeing Sam carefully, breath leaving shallow and thin.
“Didn’t think you needed a manual,” Sam smirks. “I’m taking your pants off, Dean, and don’t you dare ask me why.”
Dean’s barely gotten through a struggled “Could at least buy a guy some dinner first,” when he swallows hard, Sam’s hand curving horizontally over Dean’s suddenly stiff dick. Sam lunges up for Dean’s mouth. So much heat, whether from the reaction of Dean’s body, or just Sam’s own desire, Dean's not sure which, but this time the kiss is fierce. Quiets the plaintive doubt for just a second with the intensity of Sam’s tongue stabbing over his, fighting for dominance. Dean relenting on a whimper, letting Sam have it just like he lets Sammy have everything else.
He’s got Sam’s big hand wrapped around the back of his neck, scooping him up into it, clashing their teeth together, filling his mouth with a desperate moan. Knows it’s cause he’s giving in, lifting his little brother’s chin, of his own volition, so he can have more to taste. Finding a way to cover extra distance with every flick of his tongue. So good. So fucking good.
Sam’s huffing deep and needy when he leans back a little, eyes more startling a color than Dean’s ever seen. His hand’s still trapped over the front of Dean’s boxer-briefs, snug and secure, pulsing over seam-lined gray cotton. “This isn’t about lust.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean murmurs, hooking his leg around Sam’s to bring him back.
This puts Sam at Dean’s jugular and Sam growls, fucking growls before setting his teeth right into the tendon at the apex of Dean’s neck. “You’re gonna fucking listen to me,” Sam commands through clenched teeth, and from where Dean’s sitting, he’s in no position to argue.
“Fine! Fine, Sammy,” Dean winces, laying a staying hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s not about lust, I know. I know, okay?”
Letting go, Sam slides his tongue across each indentation, mouthing every one dry. “What’s it about, then?” Sam whispers, looking up into Dean’s face.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy. Does Hallmark make a card for this? You’ve got your hand on my dick, man-”
“Dean,” Sam warns. A little shiver runs up Dean’s spine.
“It’s about this.” No way Dean can show him without using his hands. He unwraps one, utilizes his teeth to rip away the gauze and then slowly climbs the shirt Sam’s wearing, sopping wet from the moisture thick air, over his head. It hits the dusty floorboards with a thud, Sam’s bangs hanging limp over his dark eyes.
Dean’s hands are still bleeding, and he places one over the jackhammer of his little brother’s heart. Feels it race like Sam’s been runnin’. He leaves it there, understands Sam’ll get the meaning without the explanation, because there’s volumes worth of wordless importance in this action. Because when Dean finally pulls his hand away, the bloody imprint left there should make it perfectly clear he gets this is about more than just sex and filling in hollowed-out spaces. Dean scoots forward, wraps his thighs tight around Sam’s hips and licks a slow line through the wet pattern, tastes blood and sacrifice, salt and promise and forever.
He knows. He gets Sam’s devotion, it’s as prominent as his own. Doesn’t make this right, but he understands. They aren’t in the business of making small sacrifices or easy decisions. Why should this be any different?
Sam gasps as soon as Dean’s tongue hits his skin again. Hot, slick glide over perfect flesh, bruises still lingering in purple-blue blossoms over Sam’s ribcage. Dean’s blood on Sam’s chest is slim ribbons, cut in half by the swath of his tongue, Sam pressing towards Dean with both his hands propping him on the bed.
Widening his posture, stretching his back, Sam pushes up onto his knees, gently shoving Dean back so he can scale the squeaking rack, climb up Dean’s body. “Need this. Need you,” he’s saying, knees trapped on either side of Dean’s hips.
Sammy kisses him hard once more. Hands splaying over the trim and narrow of Dean’s waist, shoving dirty and rough. Material bunches, snags under Dean’s ass, coupled with the bedding, but Sam is nothing if not resourceful, lifts Dean and yanks. Dean, for his part, lets loose an undignified groan into Sammy’s mouth, a startled huff of air, then Sam’s denim is scratching almost painfully against his responsive flesh.
“Off!” Dean orders, frantic hands trying to wedge between them. Sam slants back on his knees, puts his hands to good use, makes a slow show of releasing every single button at his crotch. Fuck. Fucking… fucking… fuck, Dean thinks, because Sam’s teasing him deliberately, smooth expanse of chest rising and falling so rapidly, eyes heavy with hunger.
Sam kicks the jeans off, backwards, a move that shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, but yeah, it’s so damn graceful and obvious Dean’s dick jumps against his stomach. Sam drops back down, licks Dean’s mouth, pries Dean’s wet shirt over his head as he murmurs, “Liked that, huh?”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Sam, or I’ll shut it for you.” Dean threads one hand through Sam’s hair, pulls hard, watches Sam’s neck draw taut from the stretch. Dean bites, doesn’t nip or lovingly graze, just bites into his skin. Sam’s precum wets the inside of Dean’s thigh, and although Dean had suspected the brutality of his actions might have had Sammy screaming, Sam stubbornly proves him wrong. He’s quiet, pain mixing with passion on the canvass of his face. Makes Dean whisper “beautiful,” with a tender awe he’d never otherwise admit.
Sam’s eyes sort of wet, not really tears, just peripheral sentiment. Their naked bodies move in measured union, Sam’s hip rising to scrape back down the bone of Dean’s, Dean’s hand hovering from Sam’s spine to the slope of his ass. Dean’s legs part to accommodate Sam’s intrusion between them, Sam’s hard cock jutting against the warm, firm muscle at Dean’s navel. The pieces fit together, miraculously, just like a needle falling into the groove. So good it hurts… everywhere.
But Sam’s dogged in controlling the ache, licks his palm and wraps his massive fist around both of their dicks, jointly, stroking them with equal speed and gentle pressure. Just enough friction to drive Dean insane. “Oh Christ,” Dean groans, muffling the sound against Sam’s shoulder.
Sam whispers “Yes, yes,” into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Wanna fuck you, Dean,” he grits out, already clasping his teeth through the strain. “Turn you over, spread you out underneath me, stick my tongue inside you ‘til you scream. Make you ride my mouth, Dean. Make you beg for it.” Sam’s hand rocks back and forth, just as rough and obscene as the filth spewing out of his mouth. “Do you like this, Dean?” Sam sucks air in through his teeth, hissing, “God, tell me it’s good.”
“S’ good, Sammy. S’ good. Yeah, don’t stop.”
“Not gonna stop. Not ‘til you shoot all over me. Gonna lick the mess you make off your stomach. Hear me, Dean? Clean you up with my tongue.”
“Shit, Sam, please. Quit. Over too soon.” There’s no caution in Sam’s tone, only dark provocation and it’s pushing Dean too close to the edge. His hands, his hips, the way their flesh meets and sticks, the abrading roughness of both Sam’s words and his deeds, undoing every knot Dean’s ever tied to try and contain this. “Please, please,” Dean whispers with his lips hot on Sam’s. “Just-”
But Sam eats at Dean’s mouth before he can finish. Steals the oxygen from his lungs. Leaves him gasping, never breaking the blinding tempo he sets with his damned hand. Jacking in long, confident strokes, up and down, precome and more spit making it completely indecent. The wet slap of skin, brutal and crude. “Just a little more,” Sam moans low, sucking beneath Dean’s chin, biting savagely across his jaw line. “Show me what you look like when you come, Dean. Let me see.”
And that right there? It’s enough. A base-jump with no chute straight into nothing. Dean freefalls, orgasm clutching him so hard his spine bows underneath the weight of his brother, a perfect arch up into his hand, cockhead gushing slick wet heat between them.
Sam watches him the entire time, watches the tremors wrack his body, the intense wave of pleasure stiffening the crinkles at his eyes, then drops his gaze to witness his brother’s surrender. To see Dean’s dick twitch wildly in his hand, coating his fist and Dean’s stomach. “Fuck, Dean. Jesus Christ, you gotta be kidding me.”
Biting off a whimper, Sam reslicks his hand in Dean’s hot release and beats off almost violently, Dean reaching out to draw him back. “Shh, c’mere Sammy,” he murmurs, clasping his hand around Sam’s. Dean uses his free hand to cup Sam’s neck, pulls him down flat, drags the heel of his foot up one of Sam’s long legs. There’s still room enough for Dean to do this, for him to bring Sam home. “Promised to clean me up, baby brother, but it won’t only be me. Do it, Sammy.”
Sam pants, eyes shut tight. “Dean, Dean,” he growls, brows drawn in so close it looks like it hurts.
Lifting, Dean finds Sam’s ear, feels the shudder in every bone, tendon, muscle and joint, right as he whispers, “Let go for me, Sam.” Sam’s body jerks. Throwing his head back, he does more than let go. Sam shrieks, fucking sharp and booming, desperately holding his weight off Dean with just an arm.
Dean thinks to tug Sam’s arm free, let him fall against his chest, into a lazy, sated stupor. But before he has the chance, Sam’s slinking down, swiping a languid tongue through the silky puddle covering his abdomen, coming back with sticky lips and a self-satisfied smirk.
“Yuck,” Dean laughs, shoving Sam’s shoulder. Sam collapses to his side, teetering off the edge of the bed to find his dirty t-shirt to wipe the rest of the muck away.
“Whatever,” Sam grins, smacking his lips together pornographically. “You love it and you know it.”
“Dude, go brush your teeth.”
Sam just rolls over, cages Dean’s upper arms, and kisses his mouth… thoroughly. Dean tastes himself and Sam, exactly how he’s always imagined. Together they taste like blood, salt, promise, sacrifice, and forever. When Sam leans back, he carefully looks at Dean, drifts a hand across Dean’s forehead. “Tell me you’re not going to freak out on me.”
Dean can’t make that guarantee. What they’ve done… it’s so far past fucked up it’s international dialing, but God… for once in about five months, he actually feels good. Happy. Satisfied. Possibly even a little giddy. Like he and Sam could have a few beers, shoot some pool, maybe toast dad a couple of times without the infinite weight on his chest.
Sam’s waiting, fear and anxiety mixing on his face. “Please,” he whispers, kissing Dean so soft it’s an unmistakable plea.
“I’ll try,” he manages, shifting Sam onto his side. The day’s the same as it was before they started, hell, the whole world’s the same, but everything feels completely different. “I’ll try,” he breathes into the damp hair at the base of Sam’s neck. Then he silently studies the way his brother falls asleep, giving himself a reprieve. There’ll be time for self-recrimination later. For now he closes his eyes, listens to Sammy breathin’, holds him as the mid-day sun washes into a pink-orange dusk. Regret’ll just have to take a fuckin’ number, Dean decides, drifting off, too.
Title: Crash & Burn
Author:
rejeneration, but you can call me JenPairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for sex of the Wincest variety, language, etc.
Word Count: 4075
Summary: This is set in 2x02 right after Dean smashes the window of the Impala. Dean doesn't want to give in, but he might not have much choice.
A/N: Yay for episode repeats! I was watching Everybody Loves a Clown the other night and started thinking... Huh! This could use some sex! To be fair, I'm almost always thinking that, but... This fic was also partially inspired by this icon.
Later, when they’re back at Bobby’s, glass around his feet, he thinks maybe it’s the look on Sam’s face when Sam enters the yard. Like maybe it’s the hesitation keeping him miles away, an indestructible line in the sand. Wonders if maybe it’s the fear there, or just the black eye; not the shiner Sam’s been sporting since the accident, the bruises Dean inflicted days ago. Wielding words like weapons, when he’d told Sammy it was too fucking late.
His arms are shaking. Hell, his whole body’s trembling. Can’t feel his own mass. Weightless, boneless… soulless. How many things have they lost? Who can even count anymore? The scorecard’s a fuckin’ joke. And the worst of it? His little brother, standing there in front of him, pausing like Dean might pick up the tire iron and have a go at him next. But that’s not all of it, no. Sam looks the other direction, swallowing down a lump so big Dean can actually feel it himself.
Ain’t nothin’ gonna fix the hole in the trunk. When all else fails, eyes on the Impala, but it’s almost as empty as Dean is. Vacant enough the second Sam’s at his right, Dean’s body eats up Sam’s heat in practically every way it shouldn’t. Modes and means Dean’s long since learned to ignore. Methods for keeping his distance, fighting it off until it settles. Dust around their feet. This won’t settle though. This won’t settle if Sam keeps pushing. They both know it; it’s what Sam’s trying to hide in his eyes, what Sam’s been crowding him on all week.
There’s want there, like a big neon sign, when Dean hazards a glance. Jaw clenching so tight Sam’s gonna break teeth, fists flexing, long ass fingers flinching. Dean closes his eyes to stop fixating on a taste he can never have.
Christ. Dean groans and it’s not lust driven, just more anger. Fury. Like a firestorm in his gut… a squall brewing in his head and heart. Sam’s closer now. Dean doesn’t know how, no one’s moved, but Sam’s somehow nearer, warily stuck at Dean’s perimeter.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is all bass. Just gravel crunching over concrete under foot.
“Don’t!” If this goes any further, any fucking further they’re both screwed. He won’t go down this way. Won’t let Sam. Can’t. Sam said he was right, about the giving in. Wasn’t what Sam really wanted, was what Sam thought he owed the old man. He’d go back to school. He’d go back to where he belonged. Dean’s nodding vigilantly to a conversation taking place in his head. Fucking nuts.
And Sammy’s always the stubborn one. Probably should have dropped five to the ground on the odds of Sam closing those last few steps to reach out a cautious hand. Yanking away would solve everything. March back into Bobby’s place, break open another beer, drop the cap into the sink. Fuck Sam and his cocksucking motherfucking touchy feely shit.
Dean’s saying ‘don’t’ with his body. Hell, he’s sayin’ mor’n’that. Something along the lines of touch me and die, kid. Only problem is Sam’s not afraid of him. Dean’s never given him reason to be.
A little more courage and Sam sort of slides his hand up Dean’s back, stops at the small, curls fingers in to rest against his spine. Dean shuts his eyes again, bites down on his tongue, hoping the pain’ll dull the ache in his chest, threaten the tide trying to suck Sammy in. Only thing is, it doesn’t work. Not even a little. “Sam, please.” Weak-willed words spoken with so much blood he’s afraid it’s running from the corner of his mouth.
And right there, under the friggin sun, for all God and country to see, Sam lifts his hand away for less than a second, and slides it slowly underneath Dean’s shirt. Sweat soaking Dean’s skin, Sam’s fingertips padding through it, his gaze locked somewhere around the steering column.
Dean can’t breathe. Can’t fucking breathe to save his sorry soul, sort of falls forward, hands catching the shards of glass still clinging in the beaten window frame.
New pain. New pain is good. Dean grounds his hands into it, hard, while Sammy edges closer, full hand skipping across Dean’s ribs until he’s got an arm completely wrapped around him, jerking him backwards. “Is that what you want?” Sam utters faintly in a way Dean can’t tell if the words are spoken or simply in his head. “To suffer more?” Definitely vocal, though, Sam’s breathy voice is anger in his ear. “Bleed just a little more, Dean? Is that it? ‘Cause I can make this hurt if it’d be easier for you.”
“What do you want from me, Sammy?” Dean’s cadence is smooth, even for all the turmoil; miles of practiced road. Experimentally, he tilts his hands, dimly admires the prismatic sparkle in the sunshine.
“Come on,” Sam sighs. “Let’s clean you up.”
It’s all about hesitation. Sam’s uncertainty in approaching, Dean’s reluctance to move. If he lets Sam take him back to their room, if he lets Sam shut the door, nothing will ever be the same again. “I’ll be fine,” he lies. “It’s fine, Sam. Nothing to worry about.” Dodge the bullet, undercut the truth.
“C’mon.” Sam’s arm tightens around Dean’s waist. Tugs him backwards against his hip. It’s like he’ll carry him unless he goes willingly. Soldiered straight towards his death or something worse. So, so much worse. Worse… and, yeah, possibly better. But the aftermath? Hiroshima wouldn’t even hold a candle. “Stop,” Sam murmurs. It’s an order. Dean’s used to following those. Sam’s playing dirty pool, using old weaknesses against him. Dean can’t remember ever feeling so pathetic, and Sam’s taking advantage. Like Dean’s the easy mark.
His boots drag in the dry dirt, kicking up clouds, Sam hauling him towards the empty house. When Dean’s feet finally pick up their own slack, back stepping with each of Sam’s long strides, he almost trips and falls, but Sam’s surrounding him. Sam’s massive body and gentle words, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Not gonna let you fall, man.”
They’re across the threshold when Dean plants himself, prepares to make his stand, looks Sammy directly in the eye. Dead on this time. No bullshit. “That’s exactly what you’re doin’.”
Sam only sighs, meets him with a battle-tired stare of his own. “Dean… you wouldn’t know fallin’ from bein’ caught.”
“Nothin’ but down from here, Sam.”
Sam’s near enough his breath touches Dean’s lips, full seconds before Sam’s thumb pads over the bottom one. Slow, languid. A wash of heat, back and forth; like a metronome keeping time. There’s a question on Sam’s face, one part reservation, three parts concentration. All of it focused on Dean’s protruding flesh. A whole lot to think about in this touch, Dean guesses. “I don’t need you to seduce me, Sammy.”
Sam smiles then, bruises and cuts making him look fragile. “Might not need it, but you want it.”
Lyin’s second nature, but the way Sam’s watchin’ him, seeing straight through, he’ll never make it out the other side. It’s okay though, Sam saves him the trouble, just ducks in low, replaces his thumb with his mouth, kisses Dean for all he’s worth. And where the hell did his little brother learn how to kiss like this?
Dean expects hard and rough. What he gets is soft and slow. Sam kissing him like he’d kiss a chick, all tilted chins and slightly parted mouths, and breath lingering as he pulls away before he comes back for more. It’s not teeth and spit and the razor sharp acridity of each other’s blood. It’s gentle and sweet and seriously, what the hell? Sam’s huge freakin’ hands holding both sides of his face, angling his jaw, molding them together before he slides his tongue inside for the very first time.
It’s just a touch, though; don’t last but a second and Sam’s moving back. Dean’s almost a little relieved, except he’s not. Not at all. ‘Cause now Sam’s lookin’ at him again with his “You can’t hide from me” scrutiny. The expression that would have made Sam one hell of a lawyer. Revealing, unnerving, dangerous. “Sit on the bed. I’ll be right back.”
Alone, the sting in his palms starts catching up with the adrenaline, but Sam returns with a small kit, some water in a bowl, a fresh cloth. There’s not a whole lot of ceremony involved in Sam setting the stuff down, but when Sam falls to his knees in front of him, Dean’s blood goes in reverse, changes the direction of its normal flow.
Sam’s nothing if not determined. It’s the rule ordering everything Sam does. Wetting the rag, he wrings it out, unsnaps the kit to grab the tweezers, and meticulously and carefully sets about picking every last jagged fragment from Dean’s wounds. The cuts aren’t bad, nothing major, still hurts though. Sam eyes the Percodan. “Open your mouth.”
“I don’t need-”
“Shut up Dean, and open your goddamn mouth.”
More of that determination thing, Dean thinks, dropping his jaw a little, a treacherous zing of desire washing over him in a spontaneous flood from Sam’s tone. Sam slips a pill between his teeth, watches him swallow dry.
Once Sam has his hands wrapped in gauze, he kneels up between Dean’s spread legs and inspects the gash on Dean’s forehead. Sam’s eyes soften, less persistence, more sorrow. His fingers tour the scar, then his face, brush feather-light straight down his nose and chin. “I’m not alright, Dean.”
“You said.” He doesn’t mean to sound so indifferent.
“Neither are you, though. Ever since I saw you in that bed. Ever since I put a fucking Ouija board on the floor and prayed I could feel you. Feel you, Dean. You know what I’m sayin’, man?”
Yeah, he’s pretty sure he does.
“It’s just… game over. If I lose you, Dean, it’s done for me. And maybe it’s stupid. I mean, how dumb do ya gotta be not to ever really consider saying it out loud before the only person you’ve got left is dyin’. Maybe I’m a selfish jerk, thinking I’d always have you around. But God, Dean, I swear I could hear you in that hallway. Swear I could feel you, man. Like right here.” Lifting Dean’s bandaged hand, Sam presses it to his side. “And you know what I realized? Maybe it wasn’t what I was actually feeling. Maybe it was what I wanted to feel, Dean. Like I’d had you all this time and never knew I needed more until you just weren’t there.
“I know what I’m doing. Dean?” Sam’s vying for line of sight, relinquishing his hold over Dean’s hand where he’s palming Sam’s ribs. “I know what I want now. I’ve been thinking about it ever since you started breathing on your own again. And I think you want it, too. So I’m going to make this real easy.” Sam’s thumbs nervously inch the inside of Dean’s thighs. “Don’t make this about punishment, Dean. Please. Neither of us deserves that. You deserve to have something good, and so do I.”
“For how long?” Mind barely processes the thought before it’s spilling out. Dean gives himself a nice mental knee-to-the-groin for it, too.
“What, you want a promise ring?” Sam splits into a grin, dimples vivid between the cuts and scrapes.
There’s so much emotion on Sam’s face. Sudden brakes and then the backpedal. “You were right about the motivation, Dean, just not the intent. I started having second thoughts long before I started thinking about doing it for dad.” Sam exhales a breath, slow and thoughtful, then forces Dean to look at him. “We’ve been dancing around each other, around this for a long time, now. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’ve loved other people, Dean, God knows I loved Jess, but I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you.”
There’s a little more pressure from each of Sam’s thumbs, both of them rubbing deep into tissue and Dean has to clench a fist to keep from groaning. “So what? You just up and decided this today? Made the choice for both of us?” These words should have heat, but there is none. It’s like the restraint, Dean’s dignity, they’re all just slipping away with every circle of Sam’s hand.
“You think I can force you?”
The expression on Sammy’s face when he finally looks at him, fuck, makes him wish he hadn’t. Sam licks his mouth wet, shiny, sets his chin defiantly, tells Dean without a sound he’ll make this the best damn thing he’s ever done.
Those straying hands, those drifting, wandering, goddamned hands, they pinch the button on his jeans, pop it through the double-surged loop. “What are you doing,” Dean’s eyeing Sam carefully, breath leaving shallow and thin.
“Didn’t think you needed a manual,” Sam smirks. “I’m taking your pants off, Dean, and don’t you dare ask me why.”
Dean’s barely gotten through a struggled “Could at least buy a guy some dinner first,” when he swallows hard, Sam’s hand curving horizontally over Dean’s suddenly stiff dick. Sam lunges up for Dean’s mouth. So much heat, whether from the reaction of Dean’s body, or just Sam’s own desire, Dean's not sure which, but this time the kiss is fierce. Quiets the plaintive doubt for just a second with the intensity of Sam’s tongue stabbing over his, fighting for dominance. Dean relenting on a whimper, letting Sam have it just like he lets Sammy have everything else.
He’s got Sam’s big hand wrapped around the back of his neck, scooping him up into it, clashing their teeth together, filling his mouth with a desperate moan. Knows it’s cause he’s giving in, lifting his little brother’s chin, of his own volition, so he can have more to taste. Finding a way to cover extra distance with every flick of his tongue. So good. So fucking good.
Sam’s huffing deep and needy when he leans back a little, eyes more startling a color than Dean’s ever seen. His hand’s still trapped over the front of Dean’s boxer-briefs, snug and secure, pulsing over seam-lined gray cotton. “This isn’t about lust.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean murmurs, hooking his leg around Sam’s to bring him back.
This puts Sam at Dean’s jugular and Sam growls, fucking growls before setting his teeth right into the tendon at the apex of Dean’s neck. “You’re gonna fucking listen to me,” Sam commands through clenched teeth, and from where Dean’s sitting, he’s in no position to argue.
“Fine! Fine, Sammy,” Dean winces, laying a staying hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s not about lust, I know. I know, okay?”
Letting go, Sam slides his tongue across each indentation, mouthing every one dry. “What’s it about, then?” Sam whispers, looking up into Dean’s face.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy. Does Hallmark make a card for this? You’ve got your hand on my dick, man-”
“Dean,” Sam warns. A little shiver runs up Dean’s spine.
“It’s about this.” No way Dean can show him without using his hands. He unwraps one, utilizes his teeth to rip away the gauze and then slowly climbs the shirt Sam’s wearing, sopping wet from the moisture thick air, over his head. It hits the dusty floorboards with a thud, Sam’s bangs hanging limp over his dark eyes.
Dean’s hands are still bleeding, and he places one over the jackhammer of his little brother’s heart. Feels it race like Sam’s been runnin’. He leaves it there, understands Sam’ll get the meaning without the explanation, because there’s volumes worth of wordless importance in this action. Because when Dean finally pulls his hand away, the bloody imprint left there should make it perfectly clear he gets this is about more than just sex and filling in hollowed-out spaces. Dean scoots forward, wraps his thighs tight around Sam’s hips and licks a slow line through the wet pattern, tastes blood and sacrifice, salt and promise and forever.
He knows. He gets Sam’s devotion, it’s as prominent as his own. Doesn’t make this right, but he understands. They aren’t in the business of making small sacrifices or easy decisions. Why should this be any different?
Sam gasps as soon as Dean’s tongue hits his skin again. Hot, slick glide over perfect flesh, bruises still lingering in purple-blue blossoms over Sam’s ribcage. Dean’s blood on Sam’s chest is slim ribbons, cut in half by the swath of his tongue, Sam pressing towards Dean with both his hands propping him on the bed.
Widening his posture, stretching his back, Sam pushes up onto his knees, gently shoving Dean back so he can scale the squeaking rack, climb up Dean’s body. “Need this. Need you,” he’s saying, knees trapped on either side of Dean’s hips.
Sammy kisses him hard once more. Hands splaying over the trim and narrow of Dean’s waist, shoving dirty and rough. Material bunches, snags under Dean’s ass, coupled with the bedding, but Sam is nothing if not resourceful, lifts Dean and yanks. Dean, for his part, lets loose an undignified groan into Sammy’s mouth, a startled huff of air, then Sam’s denim is scratching almost painfully against his responsive flesh.
“Off!” Dean orders, frantic hands trying to wedge between them. Sam slants back on his knees, puts his hands to good use, makes a slow show of releasing every single button at his crotch. Fuck. Fucking… fucking… fuck, Dean thinks, because Sam’s teasing him deliberately, smooth expanse of chest rising and falling so rapidly, eyes heavy with hunger.
Sam kicks the jeans off, backwards, a move that shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, but yeah, it’s so damn graceful and obvious Dean’s dick jumps against his stomach. Sam drops back down, licks Dean’s mouth, pries Dean’s wet shirt over his head as he murmurs, “Liked that, huh?”
“Shut your fucking mouth, Sam, or I’ll shut it for you.” Dean threads one hand through Sam’s hair, pulls hard, watches Sam’s neck draw taut from the stretch. Dean bites, doesn’t nip or lovingly graze, just bites into his skin. Sam’s precum wets the inside of Dean’s thigh, and although Dean had suspected the brutality of his actions might have had Sammy screaming, Sam stubbornly proves him wrong. He’s quiet, pain mixing with passion on the canvass of his face. Makes Dean whisper “beautiful,” with a tender awe he’d never otherwise admit.
Sam’s eyes sort of wet, not really tears, just peripheral sentiment. Their naked bodies move in measured union, Sam’s hip rising to scrape back down the bone of Dean’s, Dean’s hand hovering from Sam’s spine to the slope of his ass. Dean’s legs part to accommodate Sam’s intrusion between them, Sam’s hard cock jutting against the warm, firm muscle at Dean’s navel. The pieces fit together, miraculously, just like a needle falling into the groove. So good it hurts… everywhere.
But Sam’s dogged in controlling the ache, licks his palm and wraps his massive fist around both of their dicks, jointly, stroking them with equal speed and gentle pressure. Just enough friction to drive Dean insane. “Oh Christ,” Dean groans, muffling the sound against Sam’s shoulder.
Sam whispers “Yes, yes,” into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Wanna fuck you, Dean,” he grits out, already clasping his teeth through the strain. “Turn you over, spread you out underneath me, stick my tongue inside you ‘til you scream. Make you ride my mouth, Dean. Make you beg for it.” Sam’s hand rocks back and forth, just as rough and obscene as the filth spewing out of his mouth. “Do you like this, Dean?” Sam sucks air in through his teeth, hissing, “God, tell me it’s good.”
“S’ good, Sammy. S’ good. Yeah, don’t stop.”
“Not gonna stop. Not ‘til you shoot all over me. Gonna lick the mess you make off your stomach. Hear me, Dean? Clean you up with my tongue.”
“Shit, Sam, please. Quit. Over too soon.” There’s no caution in Sam’s tone, only dark provocation and it’s pushing Dean too close to the edge. His hands, his hips, the way their flesh meets and sticks, the abrading roughness of both Sam’s words and his deeds, undoing every knot Dean’s ever tied to try and contain this. “Please, please,” Dean whispers with his lips hot on Sam’s. “Just-”
But Sam eats at Dean’s mouth before he can finish. Steals the oxygen from his lungs. Leaves him gasping, never breaking the blinding tempo he sets with his damned hand. Jacking in long, confident strokes, up and down, precome and more spit making it completely indecent. The wet slap of skin, brutal and crude. “Just a little more,” Sam moans low, sucking beneath Dean’s chin, biting savagely across his jaw line. “Show me what you look like when you come, Dean. Let me see.”
And that right there? It’s enough. A base-jump with no chute straight into nothing. Dean freefalls, orgasm clutching him so hard his spine bows underneath the weight of his brother, a perfect arch up into his hand, cockhead gushing slick wet heat between them.
Sam watches him the entire time, watches the tremors wrack his body, the intense wave of pleasure stiffening the crinkles at his eyes, then drops his gaze to witness his brother’s surrender. To see Dean’s dick twitch wildly in his hand, coating his fist and Dean’s stomach. “Fuck, Dean. Jesus Christ, you gotta be kidding me.”
Biting off a whimper, Sam reslicks his hand in Dean’s hot release and beats off almost violently, Dean reaching out to draw him back. “Shh, c’mere Sammy,” he murmurs, clasping his hand around Sam’s. Dean uses his free hand to cup Sam’s neck, pulls him down flat, drags the heel of his foot up one of Sam’s long legs. There’s still room enough for Dean to do this, for him to bring Sam home. “Promised to clean me up, baby brother, but it won’t only be me. Do it, Sammy.”
Sam pants, eyes shut tight. “Dean, Dean,” he growls, brows drawn in so close it looks like it hurts.
Lifting, Dean finds Sam’s ear, feels the shudder in every bone, tendon, muscle and joint, right as he whispers, “Let go for me, Sam.” Sam’s body jerks. Throwing his head back, he does more than let go. Sam shrieks, fucking sharp and booming, desperately holding his weight off Dean with just an arm.
Dean thinks to tug Sam’s arm free, let him fall against his chest, into a lazy, sated stupor. But before he has the chance, Sam’s slinking down, swiping a languid tongue through the silky puddle covering his abdomen, coming back with sticky lips and a self-satisfied smirk.
“Yuck,” Dean laughs, shoving Sam’s shoulder. Sam collapses to his side, teetering off the edge of the bed to find his dirty t-shirt to wipe the rest of the muck away.
“Whatever,” Sam grins, smacking his lips together pornographically. “You love it and you know it.”
“Dude, go brush your teeth.”
Sam just rolls over, cages Dean’s upper arms, and kisses his mouth… thoroughly. Dean tastes himself and Sam, exactly how he’s always imagined. Together they taste like blood, salt, promise, sacrifice, and forever. When Sam leans back, he carefully looks at Dean, drifts a hand across Dean’s forehead. “Tell me you’re not going to freak out on me.”
Dean can’t make that guarantee. What they’ve done… it’s so far past fucked up it’s international dialing, but God… for once in about five months, he actually feels good. Happy. Satisfied. Possibly even a little giddy. Like he and Sam could have a few beers, shoot some pool, maybe toast dad a couple of times without the infinite weight on his chest.
Sam’s waiting, fear and anxiety mixing on his face. “Please,” he whispers, kissing Dean so soft it’s an unmistakable plea.
“I’ll try,” he manages, shifting Sam onto his side. The day’s the same as it was before they started, hell, the whole world’s the same, but everything feels completely different. “I’ll try,” he breathes into the damp hair at the base of Sam’s neck. Then he silently studies the way his brother falls asleep, giving himself a reprieve. There’ll be time for self-recrimination later. For now he closes his eyes, listens to Sammy breathin’, holds him as the mid-day sun washes into a pink-orange dusk. Regret’ll just have to take a fuckin’ number, Dean decides, drifting off, too.
