Once upon a time, with the engine ticking slow and cool, with the breezes ruffling through the tall grass, with the way the trees swayed, Sam had sat on the hood of the Impala and wanted the whole world to burn, every piece of it going up with his grief and rage, all the flowers and steel crosspieces, all the asphalt and coloring books, all the bits of plastic and birds nests made of hair, twigs and shiny things.
Now, with the engine ticking slow and cool, with the breezes ruffling through the tall grass, with the way the trees sway and his brother interrupts the clean-cut of the horizon, Sam still wants things to burn, just to see Dean smile, how his face glows from heat and happiness, his grin burning a swath through Sam fast, leaving him smoldering and gasping and bleeding.
Once upon a time, when Dean was in Hell and Sam was left alone, he was sitting on a bed in a motel room somewhere, the walls a poor attempt at a soothing neutral beige. And Sam wanted to scuff up those walls, paint them, write all over them, scream out his hate and fury because he had failed, self-loathing because his brother was in Hell and it was him, all his fault, Dean loving him beyond all reason and sense and life and death. So when the incubus came back to his room, as if Sam was ever close to being prey, Sam killed him and it took every ounce of what he had left within him not to scrawl his own logic on the mocking beige walls with the incubus's blood.
Now, Dean is right there, so close and Sam isn't alone because he's got his cock sliding in and out of Dean's mouth, that pretty mouth made for Sam to abuse, and the walls are a poor attempt at a soothing neutral beige. And Sam wants to scuff up the walls, paint them, write all over them, shriek out his need and claim because he's got his brother back, those green eyes almost gone black as Dean sucks him, something deeper than desire and want, something beyond all reason and sense and life and death. So after they kill this current demon, and who's the real predator here, them or the demon, he and Dean fuck until their limbs are shaking, smeared in blood because exorcisms take too much of their patience and the walls are streaked with come and blood, their handprints, their finger smudges, their names on the mocking beige walls and this is how they're completely together.
Once upon a time, Sam was so drunk, he was seeing double and there was black space in between everything. He was suffering, tearing himself to pieces like the demons were probably doing to Dean and every sip of liquor spun him closer to oblivion and alcohol poisoning and collapsing comatose. And he had a vision, sparkling like the liquor in the bottle, shot through with light and shadows, with never an even surface. It was Eternity, Dean covered in blood and viscera and missing organs, missing an eye, his mouth open framing Sam's name and Sam would be alone, forever and a day, that edge of time that is never reached because it exists and doesn't exist and Sam would be alone, his body covered in blood and missing his soul, missing an eye since Dean is his eyes and his organs. Fuck, he was going to change that. So he did.
Now, Sam is so drunk, he's seeing double and there is white space in between everything. He's laughing, tearing his chest with harsh giggles as his knife sinks deep into a ghoul, he thinks it's a ghoul, but his stomach's aching with laughing so hard and every sip of liquor spins him closer to Dean and warmth and a fucking apocalyptic orgasm with his irritatingly fuckable brother. And he has a vision, sparkling like the liquor in the bottle, shot through with light and promise, with never an even surface. It is Eternity, Dean here in front of him, covered in red, his teeth white as he laughs with Sam, his eyes so damn green in that clear unspeakable shade, and Sam will always have Dean next to him, under him, with him, inside him, forever and a day, that edge of time that is never reached because Sam doesn't fucking care anymore and Sam will always have Dean, his tongue dotted with Dean's blood and his soul stitched into Dean's bones, missing nothing except the thrill of the perfect shot, the sound of an explosion, the way people think they can take them in a fight and end up broken and crying since Dean is his other half, his other hand who holds a gun and holds his heart. Fuck, he loves it all, loves his brother so very much. It's never going to change.