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Strong Black Vine

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They are both pretty drunk when it finally happens. Not drunk enough to pretend they don't remember or even drunk enough to chalk it up to bad decision making. Just pure liquid courage drunk.

It's been building for a while, and they both know it, and they don't talk about it. This is the one discussion Sam is one hundred percent okay with not having. He doesn't even know what he'd say. He doesn't have a pros and cons list about this.

All the pros are obvious, and the only con he can put his finger on is the need for absolute secrecy.

And really, in their family, what's one more secret?

He doesn't know if Dean has a pros and cons list -- he sincerely doubts it, but that's more because he's Dean than anything else -- and he doesn't know what Dean thinks about it.

He doesn't want to know. It may be the only thing he has ever not wanted to know.

Sam is bowed down with grief and guilt and fear, he is hollowed and harrowed by those things, and he doesn't want them anywhere near this. It's better not to know, and he recognizes that the first time Dean slings his arm across the back of the seat while they're driving down some prairie highway in Oklahoma, and his fingers touch the back of Sam's neck, and neither of them move away.

He knows it the dozens of times it happens afterward, different things, different times; Sam has not allowed himself to make a list.

He is being gentled like a dog, Dean is acclimating him, and Sam does nothing at all but allow it to happen while carefully not thinking about his own reasoning, or about Dean's.

He doesn't need to think about where it's leading. He just knows. So does Dean.

They're in Kentucky, which is hysterical, in a motel with birds on the sign. They've got a case full of empties on the floor, and they're playing poker without any of the usual trash-talk, so there isn't even a sudden loaded silence when Dean tosses a condom packet into the pot. The silence has been loaded for ages.

Sam dips into his back pocket without hesitation and ups the ante with a slim tube of lubricant.

Dean looks Sam right in the face and silently folds.

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then he plucks the condom and the lube out of the pot and relocates them to the bedside table. Dean sweeps the rest of the pot -- some crumpled ones, a guitar pick, a handful of bite sized Snickers bars, and a tequila flavored sucker with a worm in it -- off the ugly motel bedspread and onto the floor.

They both stand up, and Sam jerks the bedspread down and all the way off the bed, leaving nothing but the bottom sheet and two pillows. He yanks his t-shirt off over his head, and when he looks at Dean again, he's shirtless, too. He's looking at Sam, his eyes measuring the width of his shoulders, the length of his torso. He isn't checking Sam out, exactly. They know what one another look like. It's something else. Sam doesn't know what, and he doesn't try to figure it out. He just stands there and lets Dean look at him.

Dean either finds what he's looking for or decides to quit looking. Either way, he shucks out of his jeans with casual efficiency, and kicks them out of the way. He's bare underneath, which isn't exactly a surprise. Dean considers underwear to be pajamas, and even then only wears them if they have to share close quarters to sleep. Sam will probably never see Dean and a pair of underwear cohabitate again, after this.

Dean is already hard, and something relaxes between Sam's shoulder blades. Sam has seen it before, has even seen it hard before. He has, in fact, seen it in action on several occasions, though none of them had involved Sam except as an innocent bystander. But it's different, seeing Dean stand there in the light, hard for Sam, and apparently at ease with that.

Sam shucks his own jeans. He's been hard since Dean flipped the condom into the pot, and he's likely not as unselfconscious as Dean, but it is far easier than it probably should be. Even when Dean tips his gaze toward Sam's cock appraisingly. Sam knows how big he is. He's had partners of both sexes rabbit on him before. But he isn't worried. Dean and cowardice don't even live in the same hemisphere. Never in a million years would Dean back out on Sam.

When Dean looks back up at Sam's face, there isn't a trace of fear there, not even just nerves. There is no unholy glee, either, the look Sam privately calls Dean's 'let's get stupid' expression. Dean looks like he does when they're at the stage of a hunt that calls for his special skill set. He looks confident, competent, and calm. The way Dean looks when he's doing what he is meant for, and knows it. It's Dean's best expression, the one Sam trusts and loves the most.

Sam doesn't really want to say anything. The silence feels like a spell at this point, one that he doesn't want broken. But there is one thing he absolutely must know.

"Have you?" he asks. "Ever?"

"No, Sammy, I ain't ever," Dean says, sounding remarkably sanguine about it.

He walks over to the bed and sprawls out right in the middle on his back, arms out, legs apart, an eloquent invitation.

Sam does not require it to be engraved.

By the time he's settled between Dean's knees, Dean is already holding out the lube.

Sam takes it, meeting Dean's gaze. Still nothing but certainty. Fearless.

If it were anyone else, Sam might stop to smell the roses. Dean is well-worth stopping for, but Sam isn't tempted. Dean is an instant gratification kind of guy. He's also a rip-the-bandaid-off-all-at-once kind of guy. Sam is sure that both apply in this situation.

Sam slicks his fingers up, and Dean draws his knees back and plants his feet on the bed. Sam thinks about it for a second, then snags the extra pillow with his unlubed hand. He nudges Dean's hip with it, and Dean lifts up and lets Sam position it under him.

When Sam touches him, just skimming the pad of one finger over his hole, Dean doesn't even take a breath. No inhale, no exhale, no sigh, no sign of any kind of tension at all. Sam looks up, and Dean is watching Sam, just his head cocked up, his arms still loose and easy against the bed. Sam angles himself up on his knees higher so Dean can see him without having to crane his neck like that. Dean smiles faintly, and puts his head back against the pillow. His whole body is a splay of relaxation. Sam knows what Dean looks like tense, and it's nothing like this.

He doesn't think about it. He figures Dean will tell him, if he needs to know. Instead of thinking, he presses carefully forward, and Dean's body opens for him. It isn't entirely without resistance, but it's the autonomic resistance of muscle that isn't often used in this way. Dean's brows arch a little, like he's slightly surprised, but he doesn't say anything. Sam works one finger into Dean until his body accepts it, and until Sam can accustom himself to how Dean feels inside, smooth and tight and so-warm. Then he twists his wrist and purposefully and methodically locates Dean's prostate. This time Dean's eyebrows fly upward, and though his body still doesn't twitch or tense, he clenches a little around Sam's finger.

Sam is the one who inhales raggedly, and he shifts so he can splay one hand across Dean's belly. It's almost automatic, really. He's opened guys up before, he knows to calm and soothe through it. Dean doesn't actually look like he needs calming and soothing, though. His eyebrows settle back where they belong, and he licks at his lower lip, but he isn't even breathing hard. It's Sam who needs steadying, and his hand on Dean's belly works well enough.

He looks down to line up another finger, and looks up again before he presses it in. This time Dean looks uncomfortable, faintly strained around the eyes and mouth, brows slightly furrowed. He feels like a furnace inside, and his body briefly locks tight around Sam's fingers, loosens, locks tight again. Sam feels it happen in the muscles of Dean's belly beneath his hand. He loosens, and before he can tighten down again, Sam bumps against his prostate. Dean starts a little, a whole body motion, and then goes loose and languid around and under Sam's hands. His mouth falls a little open, and he doesn't close it again.

Sam works both fingers into Dean until the idea of pushing his cock into Dean's body feels less like it might end in cardiac arrest. It doesn't do any good, so he concentrates on working Dean open so he doesn't rip Dean up, which is excellent motivation. He adds more lube, shifting his fingers as wide as he can, and Dean actually makes a sound when Sam adds a third finger. It's a little huff of surprise. The strain around his eyes and mouth is back, but his body is still sweetly complacent, and he doesn't lock down again. His eyes are a little wide, but his cock is still fully hard, which can only be a good sign. Even with three fingers, it takes Sam a while to work Dean open enough that he's pretty sure it won't hurt him much.

It is going to hurt. There's nothing Sam can do about his size, nothing he can do about Dean's lack of experience. He wants to warn Dean, but Dean's expression is carefully still, his eyes wise and clear, and he doesn't have to. Dean knows, and Dean only shows fear when it's Sam who's in danger or hurt. Otherwise, his lack of fear and general sense of self-preservation are almost super-human.

This is often a source of frustration for Sam, and a healthy dose of his own fear on Dean's behalf, but this time it's soothing.

It's going to be, at the very least, very very uncomfortable, and Dean knows it, and is still lying there, legs splayed in invitation, cock leaking onto his belly. Sam shifts forward between Dean's knees. He'd like to say he has some sort of distance or perspective, but the truth is, he feels like his cerebral cortex is stripped down to the most basic of things, a jagged electrical pulse of want that arcs down his spine and spreads tendrils of fire through his lower back and belly and cock.

He would be happy to ride Dean, would love to open himself up and push himself down onto Dean's cock, which is respectably sized in its own right; it would stretch and burn so good inside Sam, but Dean has made the choice for both of them, and that's okay, too. More than okay. It's less that Sam has to think about, avoid thinking about.

He lubes up and lines up and presses careful and slow, and Dean does no more than inhale sharply as the head of Sam's cock breaches his body. Relax he would say if it were anyone else, but Dean is already relaxed in all the ways that matter. He is tight, so tight around the head of Sam's cock, and Sam's brain is crackling with the pleasure of it, but he's not clenching or straining against it. Push, bear down, Sam would say, but something prevents it. Some feeling Sam doesn't look closely at.

He pushes instead, slow, the feel of Dean's body giving way before him is like a flush of alcohol hitting his bloodstream, burning in his belly and brain. It's not so much that he's careless, but, God, it's good. Dean is perfect, smooth and hot and so fucking tight. Sam runs a hand up the back of Dean's thigh and pushes it up a little, and Dean hooks it over Sam's thigh without hesitation, does the same with the other one without prompting. Sam slides his hands under Dean's ass and lifts him just a little for a better angle, and Dean is unexpectedly not that heavy, and Sam watches as he slides in, his cock making room for itself inch by inch.


It's the first thing Dean's said since they started, and Sam goes still. Dean's voice is quiet and a little rough, but it doesn't sound like a protest. Dean's face is still, though Sam can see the faint tension of pain around his eyes and his mouth, the clenching muscle in his jaw, familiar after years of seeing it. Sam's a little astonished that Dean is letting him see it. Pain, like fear, is something that Dean is accomplished at concealing when he wants to.

Sam's hand goes to Dean's cock, no real thought involved, to provide Dean with something to offset the pain, to stroke him hard again -- Sam has never slept with a guy that has stayed hard while Sam worked his way inside, has always had to stroke his partners back to arousal after -- but Dean is still hard. As soon as Sam wraps a hand around him, in fact, Dean goes a little taut, and his cock leaks so much precome down the back of Sam's hand that he thinks for a second that Dean is coming. It's not that, though. There is a tiny lake in Dean's navel, and Sam can feel it dripping off the side of his palm like water droplets from a leaking faucet, and the idea that Dean gets hot like that, is the kind of guy that gets so wet, rockets through his brain like the sharp crack of a pistol firing, and he has to force his hips to stay still, to not respond to that with the ferocious desire to bury himself deeply enough that Dean yells out, makes a noise.

It will pass, Sam would say to anyone else. Your body has to adjust, but Dean's face is still almost serene. The strain is still there, but. "Yes," is what Sam says instead, and Dean's eyes widen faintly, as though Sam has surprised him. Sam lets go of Dean's cock and grips his hips instead, lifting and shifting, and presses in another sweet inch, watching Dean's face.

It's good, too, a good thing, because he gets to see Dean's calm patience crack away like a mask. Dean flushes from hairline to chest, his mouth falling open, and his pupils blow, just like that, like a fast-motion film capture. He sees sweat spring out on Dean's throat and his upper lip and his hands turn downward on the sheet, clenching into fists. Dean's cock jerks, still hard, and moisture doesn't just bead from the slit, it actually streams a little, and Sam feels, weirdly distantly, like he's on fire, or like he should be.

He tightens his grip on Dean's hips enough that there will probably be fingerprint bruises on Dean's skin tomorrow, and does not just push this time, but pulls as well, dragging Dean slowly onto him as the pillow beneath him rucks up under Dean's lower back. Sam holds him up, and Dean pushes his head back into the pillow hard, so Sam can only see the point of his chin for a few seconds, the long, bared line of his throat. His hips shift in Sam's grip, not a struggle, something like an aborted little writhe, and Sam flushes hot as well, his skin one big canvas abruptly speckled with heat and then cooling prickles of sweat.

"Hurts," Dean says again, voice like gravel, and the little pool of precome overflows its banks and trickles across Dean's side, slipping down the faint curve of Dean's waist. "Sammy." It's breathless and thick, but it is so obviously not an objection that Sam doesn't even think of stopping. He pushes and pulls Dean closer, raises up to his knees a little more to adjust to the angle the pillow is bending Dean's body upward at, and Dean breathes harshly through his open mouth, his cock dark red and jumping a little where it lies across his belly.

Dean says it twice more while Sam painstakingly works his way in, without censure or objection, without anything in the inflection that Sam reads as a request to stop, and there is a tickle somewhere in the back of his brain that whispers that Dean is just reinforcing the idea. Beneath that tickle is a chasm of logic and causality that Sam might explore later, or he might not. He isn't sure he wants to know what's down there.

What he does want is to be buried inside Dean, he wants it so bad that he is shaking, and eventually he has to shift forward and plant his hands on either side of Dean's chest to press the last couple of inches inside. He sees sweat drip from his face and shatter against Dean's chest. It feels like it's taken forever to get this far, and he senses that he won't make it much further, Dean is too hot and too tight and too Dean, with his face drawn into lines that could be pain or pleasure or both, his eyes wide and unfocused and distant, his body straining and tight, no careless sprawl of limbs anymore, but shivering hot skin and bunched muscle and white-knuckled fists in the sheets.

With anyone else, Sam would add more lube. He says, "Look at me, Dean," and Dean does it, looking wrecked and helpless with what Sam is sure is not fully pleasure, Dean's hard cock notwithstanding. Sam closes the remaining distance in one rough jerk of motion, and Dean's breath dies in his throat, and for a moment they are both silent and still, until Sam pulls back a little, an inch, a friction-laced burn across the thin-skin of his cock, and then back in firmly, not rough or hard, really, but undeniable.

Dean's body jerks beneath him, and his breath gasps out of him jaggedly. Sam reaches between them for Dean's cock, and his fingertips skid in the wet slick mess on Dean's belly. Sam barely touches Dean's cock -- literally, he has nothing but his fingertips against the hot silk of skin -- and Dean's back arches so hard that Sam has to jerk his hips up to compensate, and Dean comes in silence, holding his breath, face red and clenched, eyes wide open.

Sam comes, too, as much from Dean's face as from the hot, tight clench of Dean's body, without having managed even one actual thrust, hips twisting a little at the barbed-wire rush of pleasure and confusion and a faint but undeniable sense of dread, because he knows there is something wrong here. He bends and rests his forehead against Dean's chest, all curled double, and he knows.

Not the incest -- Sam doesn't give a fuck about the fucking incest, he doesn't give a fuck about social taboos or bullshit illegality -- but something. He doesn't want to know, though, doesn't want to think, and Dean drops a hand into his hair like he knows it, pushes sweaty locks away from Sam's forehead with gentle fingertips that Sam remembers from childhood and from a few times since, always when Sam has been in some way injured.

"Sammy," he says, and Sam is only barely softened. It's happened before, rarely, but he is hard enough to go again, and he wants it. He props himself up on his hands again, and looks at Dean. Dean is still flushed, but his eyes are bright with something, he looks weirdly inquisitive, and Sam couldn't be more surprised if Dean had professed his undying love for Neko Case.

"When I want to discuss this, I'll let you know," Sam says steadily, and Dean looks just as surprised as Sam feels.

There is a long moment in which they look at one another like they are strangers, and Sam's chest tightens painfully.

Sam draws out slowly, about halfway, and Dean tenses, but doesn't make a sound. Aside from his breathing and speaking, Dean hasn't made a sound yet, not pleasure, not pain. He hasn't moved either, not really. Not toward Sam, not away, just a few faint twitches and the tight, hard curve of his body when he came.

Sam presses back in all at once, a little easier with Dean slick with Sam's come, but not much. Dean is still so tight, the burn of him so good around Sam's cock, which is a little sore, too. Dean must be raw, he has to be sore, but he merely breathes out hard, once, and his head falls back onto the pillow. Already, he looks like he had, openly wrecked, helpless and flushed, and if it were anyone else, Sam would say, It's okay, or It'll be easier this time,, or, Can I?.

But it's not anyone else, it's Dean. And if it's not what Sam thought, if it's something he doesn't understand, it doesn't matter. He will take it.

It is faster, this time, harder, and Dean's breathing is by turns, harsh and heavy, and then tight and thin, and he tells Sam it hurts, twice, says Sam's name once, and when Sam is close he slides his hand between them, and Dean's belly and even the shaft of his cock are so wet it slicks Sam's entire palm, and Dean comes immediately, again, and Sam follows immediately, again.


Dean falls asleep in under a minute, the kind of sleep in which he is utterly dead to the world. Sam cleans Dean up with a warm, wet washcloth, and Dean doesn't even move. Dean's hole is dark red and swollen, but there is no blood, so Sam is satisfied with that.

The condom is still sitting on the bedside table, and Sam looks at it for a long moment. In spite of it being what had essentially been an invitation, Sam had never even considered it. He wonders briefly if Dean had, and then decides that if Dean hadn't mentioned it, it probably hadn't been important to him.

He cleans himself up, brushes his teeth, and looks in the mirror carefully for a few seconds, but he looks the same. Then he takes a piss and goes to sleep in his own bed, and he thinks he will be up a while, circling this in his mind, dissecting it whether he wants to or not, because that is just the way his brain works, but the next thing he knows, it's morning.