See, there was this one time. There was this one time when everything slipped, fell and broke.
There was this one time.
It's another fucking house. Dean is fucking tired of these bullshit haunted houses. They're such a fucking cliche.
Really, man, you couldn't've gotten us something juicy? he asks as Sam licks over his belly.
Sam's eyes flash when he looks up and Dean pushes his head back down, back to the very urgent business at hand which is Dean's cock and how he's aching for Sam to suck him off.
Juicy? Whaddya want? Demons? Sam says against Dean's skin, breath hot over the spot he's just licked, just close enough and just far enough that it's sheer fucking torture. One of these days, Dean's going teach Sam about being a tease. One of these days, when he gets another good idea. Like when he told Sam he couldn't touch Dean for a whole day, at all, motherfucker. By sundown, Sam was so jittery, he almost shot the pizza delivery boy, then after he kicked the door closed against the sharp urine smell as the kid pissed himself, he calmly set aside the pizzas and attacked Dean, saying, I get to touch you now, asshole, as much as I want. And yeah, that time, Dean blacked out, it was so damn vicious and absofuckinglutely delicious.
At least demons have bodies, genius, Dean says, and then his breath is stuttering out of him because Sam is finally, shit, hot damn finally swallowing him down.
He pushes up rough into Sam's mouth and Sam uses his teeth and it suddenly becomes a perfect day, fuck.
Sam still looks like he's cleaning come off his fingers, the way he's got them at his lips.
Well, it's a house, Dean says, hands on his hips.
Yeah, jerk, I can see that, Sam says, keeps his hand at his mouth.
So what're we doing here, bitch.
Paranoid schizophrenic, Sam says, and Dean says, No, I ain't, but Sam laughs.
No, the guy, the ghost. Likes to trap people in the house. Make 'em go insane.
Dean grins. Insane, huh?
Fun, right? Sam grins back. His eyes are bonfire glows in the shade of the house.
Yeah, well, it better be damn good.
Why, you got something better to do?
Sam smirks and it twists into something dark and tasty and Dean gets goosebumps, little shivers because holy shit. Dean's little brother is something like a demon himself and the idea is kick-ass good, so mouth-watering good and Dean sidles over to palm Sam through his jeans.
Sam's smirk grows and he's getting hard, but Dean remembers, teasing, he's supposed to be teasing, so he pulls away, takes a step and says, Nah, think I'd rather see blood running down the walls. This house do that?
There's a growl from Sam and Dean stands his ground, feet apart, c'mon and take it, fucking cowboy, but Sam just raises an eyebrow, says, No, but if you want, we can get some blood running down the walls.
He's got a knife in his waistband and Dean's got a knife in his boot and they grin at each other in the sinking afternoon sunshine.
You always have the best ideas, Sammy.
'Course I do. You're too busy thinking with your dick.
And you don't.
Two steps, a flash in the air and there's a blade at Dean's neck and Sam's got Dean in a hard grip.
Sure, I do. I'm just smarter than you.
That goes for your dick as well?
Hell yeah, my dick's way smarter than you.
Dean tilts his head until he feels the blade bite into him and he watches Sam's eyes slide down to his neck as his blood wells up.
Yeah, right, bitch, he says, yanking out of Sam's grasp and Sam whines.
Pushing his hand to his neck, Dean finds the warm liquid, smearing it and Sam whines louder and Dean snickers.
C'mere, Dean says, holding his hand out, trying to act nonchalant, but when Sam starts licking the blood off his hand, he can't help it, he wants all the time, Sam and his blood and his body and then Sam's running his tongue over Dean's middle finger and fuck fuck fuck, this is better than anything, better than everything.
Sam, Sam, Sam.
I wanna fuck you, Dean. Inside, in the house. Maybe the ghost can join us.
You just wanna, oh you fucker, just wanna shoot something while we're fucking.
Sam's biting him, kissing him, saying, You always have the best ideas.
They crash against the front door, a complete and utter mess, and the door gives without a fight.
They fall inside, Sam hitting Dean in the side, and then Sam's gone. And it’s really fucking cold.
The door slams shut.
There would be times, in Hell, when Dean thought he saw ghosts. And one of them looked like Sam.
After a while, they all looked like Sam, with a rangy motion as if their bones were broken and they would stare at Dean, stretched out and cut open, with eyes that seemed to cut him open even more.
They all looked like Sam.
And once, Dean was let off the rack and he was lost without the continuous stretch of pain and blood. Until Sam walked in. A Sam with black eyes. Sam with a smile and Dean's face reflected in the black of his eyes.
A demon, who talked to Dean in Sam's voice and tried on Sam's smile and all Dean wanted him to do was go back to breaking his ribs and pulling out his liver, whether he looked like Sam or not. Might be even better if it was this Sam-being who cracked his chest and stuck bloody fingers into the cavity, rummaging around to find Dean's grinding gears. He'd wanted then, the taste heavy like copper pennies on his tongue.
The demon laughed, Sam's laugh, the sound Dean wanted to hear more than anything, until Dean picked up a wicked curved blade and stabbed the demon in the heart. And laughed. Then he took the blade and carved an X on his own chest, because X marks the spot and he needed somewhere to aim.
Dean hears his name.
It's coming from everywhere and when Dean glances around, he can't see anything. He's in an empty dilapidated house that's falling down around him, like cards, and Sam's everywhere. Nowhere.
He hears thuds. He hears gunshots. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
Then Sam's there, a shadow, his eyes cruel and cold, torture devices levelled at Dean, and his hair curves down like every blade Dean saw in Hell, every knife edge that sliced his skin, he feels them again when Sam says, Dean.
So he does now what he did then. He says, Sammy, and pulls the knife from his boot. And goes to stab this Sam-being in the heart.
Because he's in Hell again. And he needs Sam back. The pain and the blood and Sam. He needs it. In that tall diabolically glorious package that is his little brother.
Dean will fight for it, claw his way back. With every ounce left in him.
When he lashes out, he catches clothes, he catches skin and there's a spray of red.
And a moan. His Sam. As if he's got his hand down his jeans, begging for Dean's cock in his mouth.
Dean slashes again, more red, warm across his face, and another pained moan, louder, deeper and he wants to hear that sound again. He wants to hear it again and his blood is speeding fast. He licks his lips.
The ghost of Sam says, Dean.
This is like sex, fucking in Hell, heat from flames, heat from bodies, because this ghost that looks like Sam is pressed up against him and they're both hard, and it hurts as they rub together. Sam's voice all shot with want and need and blood, then Sam's grabbing his wrist saying, Dean, oh shit, it's me, Dean.
There would be times he saw Sam in Hell. So Dean flips the knife in his hand and pushes the blade into Sam's shoulder.
Fuck, Dean, fuck, Sam says right in Dean's ear, teeth sliding down Dean's cheek and Dean's still holding the knife in Sam's shoulder and he says, I want my brother.
And Sam says, Holy fuck, it's me, says something in Latin and then he’s coming, his hips shake-shudder against Dean.
And Dean comes.
He pulls out the knife and the ghost of Sam groans, says Dean’s name again and again in a breath like it’s alive, like it’s actually Sam.
His eyes are closed. He can’t look at the ghost of Sam, but he’s being hauled to his feet, what should be Sam’s hands on him and he drops the knife and there’s a window in front of him, as if Hell had windows, as if Dean could see what the world should be like, as if he is free.
The house is tilting, folding, and Dean goes limp because there’s Sam again, so close to him and he can’t fight that.
Then he’s brought up fast against Sam or the ghost of Sam or this warm body that is so like Sam’s and they’re falling.
Glass breaks in huge shards and Dean thinks, I don’t want it in my eyes.
I need to see.
I need to see Sam.
There’s sky. There’s no sky in Hell. Dean can see the sky and when he moves, glass is falling off him in painful splinters.
And he hears Sam, his brother, his real flesh-and-blood brother who’s laughing in the grass and glass and under the sky that isn’t Hell.
His real flesh-and-blood brother who rolls and gets a hand on Dean, sticky and slick with blood because he’s flesh-and-blood and he’s bleeding everywhere.
Because of the glass.
You motherfucker, you stabbed me, Sam says, laughing and he’s laughing so hard, the words come out like air, like he’s huffing or sighing or has been fighting.
I didn’t stab you, why would I stab you, Dean says, but there’s blood on his hands and Sam’s got his palms on Dean’s face, so now there’s blood on his face too. If I had stabbed you, I should be fucking you.
Well, you’re not fucking me, so this stabbing was pointless, Sam says. You fucked up.
He’s laughing and moaning and Dean thinks, Pure fucking sex, because his brother’s laughing and moaning like a porn soundtrack and the air smells like blood.
Paranoid schizophrenic, Sam says, struggling to stand before Dean gets him up.
And Dean remembers. Fucking haunted house fucking with his head and he fucking stabbed Sam, he remembers, the ghost of Sam, the demon of Sam, Sam grabbing his wrist and Dean pushing a fucking knife blade into Sam’s shoulder right before he came, messy in his jeans.
Fucking haunted house, he says, and Sam laughs harder, says, I told you and what happened? You stabbed me and I’m not even getting fucked for it. Fucker.
Dean strips off his jacket, strips off his button-down and wads it up, pressing it to Sam’s shoulder where it’s turning black and when he pulls his fingers away, they’re so red and slippery and he slides them into his mouth as fast as he can, he needs the taste, always needs the taste of Sam. Sam makes that sound, that utterly destructive sound and Dean goes to his knees, nuzzling Sam’s crotch, and he can smell Sam’s sex, the blood and come and sweat there.
Oh shit, Dean, shit, and Sam’s got a hand in his hair, painting his forehead red and Dean says against the damp denim, Wait here, wait here.
Then he’s pushing up, pushing away and Sam whimpers as his fingers leave streaks down Dean’s cheeks, but Dean’s got something he needs to do.
Because he is fucking pissed about this bullshit, a ghost getting the drop on him, getting him to stab Sam without even any foreplay and this is some seriously fucked-up bullshit, fucking bastard isn’t going to get away with it.
Accelerant in the trunk and Dean acts like he pissing on the house, dousing it with lighter fluid. Then he thinks about it, really thinks about it and decides to piss on the house anyway before he throws the matches.
He walks back to Sam with his jeans undone, loose on his hips and the house is crackling. Not enough yet, but it’ll get there, it’ll catch and go up in the blaze Dean wants.
Because Dean won’t have it any other way.
He walks back to Sam with his jeans undone, loose on his hips and Sam slips a hand inside, curling around Dean with a happy noise because Dean isn’t wearing underwear, so Sam’s smearing blood on his skin and they wait, they watch as the house starts to really catch and it’s broad daylight which makes it even nicer because fire looks different in the sunshine than it does at night; even though the flames are brighter at night, some of the smoke gets lost in the dark, but in the daylight, you can see everything and every collapsing board sounds that much louder too.
They watch until the sirens in the distance are swirling closer, then Sam puts his nose against Dean’s jaw and says, I’m bleeding, and Dean nods, gets a hand in Sam’s hair.
Yeah, let’s get you taken care of.
You gonna use your dick? Got something to cure what ails me?
Dean laughs, And who was it said that I think with my dick?
Hey, I didn’t deny that I do. Sam’s grinning and he’s got blood on his teeth.
So Dean kisses him. He can’t let a bloody kiss go to waste, ever. Especially with the way Sam pushes his tongue into Dean’s mouth and gives all the blood to Dean.
Sam’s bleeding on the seats.
You better not be fucking bleeding on the seats, Dean says.
Not my fault. Some fucker stabbed me without buying me dinner first.
Not my fault. If you’d’ve told me that stupid fucking bitch of a ghost wanted to drop me back in Hell—
You were back in Hell? Sam asks, eyes wide.
Holy fucking shit, Dean shouldn’t have said anything because now Sam’s bleeding on the seats and he’s got an angry expression on his face, like he’s going to rip apart the next person he sees and eat them. Dean likes his meat medium rare, not rare and it wouldn’t be good for Sam’s stomach anyway.
Yeah, well, I would’ve asked you to join the reunion, but—
Sam punches the dashboard and Dean swerves as they head around a corner.
Shit, Sammy, don’t beat up the car.
Dean says, C’mere, and Sam scoots over automatically, hand still holding his shoulder, his fingers in dark sticky lines like he’s been eating jam.
They kiss their way into the motel parking lot, Dean breaking away only to see if he missed the turn and Sam skids his fingertips across Dean’s tongue and if they blow through a few stop signs or red lights, it doesn’t fucking matter.
Dean strips Sam because why not, he’s covered in blood and Sam’s best when he’s naked and bloody. They don’t do anything by halves.
There's so much blood, too much blood and as much as Dean wants to taste it, have it in his mouth, there's so much he would be sick, sick from Sam and Sam is his disease.
Sam’s laughing again, moaning again as Dean bandages him, as Dean licks his chest clean and Sam’s head falls back, throat exposed and when Dean licks there to taste his pulse, Sam starts talking.
You were in Hell again. I just. That motherfucker. You were in Hell and—
Old news, Sammy, old news. I burned the house down, remember?
Yeah, but you were in Hell. I got you out of Hell.
Dean sighs against Sam’s skin and his brother shivers, tugging Dean down onto the bed.
And you got me out this time too.
These are the good times, right, Dean?
Yeah, the good times.
Sam throws a leg over Dean and pushes his face into Dean’s hair. You wanna know something?
When you really were in Hell, when I found you.
You were stretched out on the rack.
And you were just. Bleeding. Everywhere.
Yeah, Sammy, Dean says, running his fingers down Sam’s ribs, over the new cuts. He remembers because he thought Sam was a ghost or a demon or even one of those pleasure-pain phantoms he’d get sometimes when they’d pushed a knife against a nerve or just deep enough. There would be times in Hell he’d see Sam, amidst all the agony and incrementally, exponentially, he’d see Sam and he’d want. So fucking badly.
I wanted to fuck you on that table. It was just gorgeous. With the bands around your wrists and ankles, Sam says, like he’s admitting to something, something criminal and Dean pinches him because they aren’t criminals, there’s nothing wrong with them, and Sam yelps.
Well, no reason to get all excited, but I wanted you to fuck me on that table, Dean says.
There was a very handy, nice set of knives nearby, Sam says. Too bad we didn’t use ‘em.
Or steal ‘em.
Sam laughs and there’s blood on his lips and Dean needs that, needs it all, so he kisses Sam, hard.
He kisses Sam until Sam is hissing beneath him and Dean leans back, spreads his palm over the white of the bandage, pressing to watch Sam stretch into the pain, his body so long and lean, like the pain, like the want and Sam’s saying, You fucking stabbed me. Our first time and you barely remember it.
And suddenly Dean’s pissed, as if Sam’s words are lightning, and Dean’s absolute thunder. He’s off of Sam, off the bed before his brain processes it, but it’s too late, Sam’s reaching for him too late.
He’s got to break something, bend something to his anger, make something pay. Make someone. But Sam’s behind him, saying between his teeth, Dean, Dean, and he’s not about to leave Sam bloody and naked on a bed to find some guilty party somewhere, it’s not worth it, it’s not fucking worth it, even if Dean is furious enough to watch the world burn and make s’mores.
The next best things are demolition and damage and Dean’ll feel better, he will, and maybe then he’ll fuck Sam in the debris because there’s not much better than fucking Sam in the middle of chaos, it’s like falling into a black hole to see what’s there and at the end, he always sees Sam, he always sees the light in his eyes, that fuel Dean needs to keep going, that keeps every part of Dean burning, and so fuck it, Dean’s going to destroy some shit.
The TV’s the first to go, a spray of glass and sparks, then the lamps with their delicate light bulbs, then the table, wooden smashing and Sam’s huffing, sitting cross-legged on the bed like he’s hasn’t been invited or some bullshit, then the mirror in the bathroom which has an even better spray of glass than the TV did and if he had a hammer, he’d take it to the tiles, wait, he does have a hammer, out in the car and he’s crossing the room to go get it when Sam grabs his arm, yanking him off-balance.
What, Sam, fuck, I’m busy.
Yeah, and you’re fucking up the wrong thing. Aren’t you supposed to be fucking around with me? Sam demands, fingers squeezing tight, tighter, painful and his cock is hard, dark against his belly, just from Dean’s stupid rampage and Sam’s the best thing ever to happen to Dean, before Hell, in Hell, after Hell, any place on earth, at any time.
Those eyes, better than broken glass and a few paltry sparks, they’re watching him, the pupils taking over the color and Dean’s about to let the ghost get the drop on him again, and that can’t happen, a pile of wood ash and smoke won’t take the chance from him.
Dean licks his lips and uses Sam’s grip to tug his brother closer. Hey, hey, he says, trying to get his fingers on Sam’s jaw, but Sam’s almost as angry as he is, vibrating with it, with being ignored in favor of destruction when Dean could be taking him apart, making him shake apart and moan as it’s happening. Sam’s right, but Dean’ll be damned if he says so, so he says, Hey, hey, all right, okay, yes, yeah, how ‘bout if you ride me, baby boy, you ride me and you make it good, I mean magnificent, I’ll let you—
Let me what? And what the fuck, ’let’ me. I’ll do what I want, asshole. And everything I do is already fucking magnificent.
Yeah, yeah, bitch, so you say.
Gonna ‘let’ me, I’ll show you. ‘Let’ me do something, Sam says and he shoves Dean onto the bed, pulling his jeans down just far enough, just enough to get what he wants, a face full of Dean’s cock, which is how it should be. And Sam puts the flat of his tongue all along Dean, then he’s gone, walking away to fetch something and Dean’s left on the bed, going, Hey, get back here and finish what you started. I raised you better’n that.
Fuck you, hold your fucking horses, cowboy.
You’re riding me, I ain’t the cowboy this time, Dean says, scooting back to find pillows and Sam tilts his head, smirking, Fine, I guess you’re the stud horse then?
Damn skippy. Get over here and break me in.
Sam grins, big as Dean’s universe, just as bright and then he’s stalking Dean and when he comes back to bed, he’s got rope and a knife in his hands.
Dean’s tied to the bed, the knots just this side of painful, just this shade of rubbing at Dean’s skin, to make his wrists raw and red so Sam can see the stripes later. He’s shaking under Sam’s hands and mouth, shaking because that’s what Sam wants him to do.
He’s slick, he’s ready, he’s biting his lip bloody and Sam’s taking it all, greedy bastard, taking it all so hard and fast, Dean’s dazed. When Sam finally sinks down on him, Dean remembers how he blacked out that time, so fucking good, so fucking impossible and Sam makes the impossible possible somehow, in some sideways-shifting way, irrevocable and final.
Sam’s flanks shiver and it shoots through Dean like all of his synapses firing at once, but Sam’s talking and Dean has to focus, so he stares at the white bandage on Sam, as Sam says, When you were in Hell, when I came to get you out, I was so fucking hard, I almost couldn’t walk.
And Dean laughs because when Sam was walking through Hell with his hair and eyes on fire, with every weapon in his arsenal at his fingertips, and those shoulders of his that demolished hallways, Dean was on the fucking rack, seeing ghosts of Sam as they dug down to his spine and all he could think was SamSamSam on a loop and the blood not coursing down the table legs, not running hot and loose out of his body, it pooled at his groin because he wanted Sam to come get him, see him so exposed, only for his brother.
He closes his eyes because Sam’s started to move, slow and deep, taking Dean like he’s preparing him for sacrifice, petting him with his hands everywhere.
Sam says, When I got down to Hell, I knew the way. I knew how to find you.
Because when you died, oh fuck, Sam says, arching as Dean fucks up into him, When you died, you dragged me there with you. I used to see you all the time, Dean, like you were a ghost. I’d see you, shit, everywhere.
Something in Dean cracks, and it’s as if Sam can feel it, as if Sam knows, has cracked too, he moves faster, taking Dean faster and the bandage on his shoulder starts to seep red, deep and dark and lush.
Then out of nowhere, he stops, straddling Dean, impaled on Dean and he’s staring down, eyes like bruises, and he reaches behind him, says, My turn, Dean, my turn. Our first time. You’ll remember this.
The knife point slides over the sheets as Sam drags it up, then he’s pulling it along Dean’s stomach, up his chest and Dean nods, yes, fucking yes, yeah, please.
They’ve never pushed past simple cuts and long thin marks, just enough to call up the blood, just enough to call up the pain and it always tastes so good, but now Dean’s stabbed Sam, under the influence or not, it doesn’t matter, because this is what they fucking want.
You ready, Dean? You ready for me.
I’m the one who’s stabbing you now, Sammy, Dean says with a little twist of his hips and Sam tries to roll his eyes, but shudders instead, eyes closing briefly, then they’re back on Dean like all of his gasoline fantasies.
Dean can see it, Sam’s holding his breath as he holds the knife and scratches a tiny X right below Dean’s collarbone, mirror image to the blooming red bandage on Sam’s body.
Balancing the knife there, balancing on its tip, Sam rocks back onto Dean once and the ropes burn Dean’s wrists.
Sam seems to be waiting, like he wants to find the appropriate thing to say.
So Dean says, If it’s broke, just break it some more.
And Sam smiles down at him and says, You’re not broken.
Then he pushes his weight onto the blade and it slides into Dean as if Sam’s fucking into him with the knife.
After Sam’s pulls the knife out, they don’t last long, not with Dean bleeding in a steady trickle and he can feel the blood leaving him like every red-soaked minute in Hell, every wound he’s ever gotten in his life, every bloodthirsty moment he’s ever tasted, and it’s just like Sam to do that to him, it’s only Sam who can do that to him, holiest of holies, as if he’s a miracle-worker in an age of disbelief as his tongue presses soft around the wound and his body pushes hard onto Dean’s.
They don’t last long because Dean’s bleeding with every rock and push and Sam’s fingerpainting him with his blood, fingerpainting the ropes as he unties Dean and Dean’s fingers find the edges of Sam’s bandage, peeling away the tape and unwinding it and then they’re bleeding as they fuck and they’re fucking as they’re bleeding and they’re awash in it, washed clean in it and Sam’s laughing and Dean can’t stop his mouth as he says, Sam, Sam, Sam.
Dean thinks all orgasms should be red.
Breathless, they lie side by side, wounds side by side, and the sheets are a lost cause, as if there’s been a rape or a murder, though with them, it’s not either or both unless they want to play by the fucking rules and then maybe, maybe, with flimsy fucking circumstantial evidence or bastardized eye witness accounts, they could consider it that way. But the sheets would still be a lost cause.
And Sam sounds like he's crying, but maybe he's laughing or he sounds like he's laughing, but maybe he's crying and he puts a bloody thumbprint on Dean’s forehead, says, You gonna remember now?
And Dean puts pressure on Sam’s wound, palm flat, and says, Yeah, Sammy, yeah.
Riding the edges of pain and orgasm, they shower off the blood and they kiss, a little woozy, a little tipsy, a little sloppy. Now, they have fresh white bandages and clean clothes and it’s time to get the hell out of this backwater town. One less haunted house, motherfucking check.
They’re in the car, screeching away because Dean likes to leave his mark and Sam’s gripping tight to the door handle and the tires are pushing to spin the world as they blow past the city limits.
Sam says, When you were in Hell.
Ancient history, Sammy, ancient history.
Still. You’d left me and that isn’t fucking allowed. I was going to get you back.
I know. And see? Came back fine.
Sam grins, the best and brightest. Yeah, we did.
The maid knocks on the door of 108 and waits a beat. She doesn’t hear anything, no movement, no sound, not even the television, so she cracks open the door, says, Housekeeping.
She can’t see much with the door slightly ajar, but still no answer, and so no worries, she goes inside.
The television is a busted jumble, spluttering, like it’s wheezing and the lamps are just orange jagged pieces now and one of the bulbs flickers in drunken shadowy code. There’s silver shards spilling out of the bathroom and they glitter sharp as the bulb snaps on off on off.
Those small piles look like clothes, maybe shirts, maybe jeans, torn, and they’re stained. But the stains. They’re dark and shiny. Reddish-brown and black.
The room smells sticky metallic and she sniffs carefully. Then she sees why. There are thin spattered lines of blood, like hairline fractures on the walls, fragile webbing and spots where it’s stopped in thick drops. The bed is a slashed mess of red and white.
The maid doesn’t scream, just backs out, bumps into her cart and then she slams the door shut, running for the manager’s office.
Sam shoves his hand up under Dean’s shirt until he finds the bandage, running his fingers along the ragged edges and he laughs over the rush of the wind.
And that’s all Dean’s ever wanted.
Then Sam pulls away, draws his hand away to unbutton his jeans, sprawling in the seat next to Dean with a moan that makes Dean swerve into the other lane, and holy fuck, if they wreck, it’ll be Sam’s fault. But.
But Sam smirks when Dean reaches over, one hand on the wheel, one hand on Sam’s cock and they both start to jerk him off.
And that’s all Dean’s ever wanted.
If it’s broke, just break it some more.