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Graveside Blues

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“Dean! Dean? You okay?”

Groaning, Dean forces his eyes to open and sees Sam hovering right above him, looking worried. No, not worried. Scared. “I’m fine,” he hurries to assure his brother, and when that doesn’t seem to convince Sam, he decides he’ll have to back up the statement by sitting up.

Which proves to be more difficult than Dean expected, and he has to bite back another groan as his body protests. He sways unsteadily, nearly losing his balance.

“Whoa, easy,” Sam instantly switches into fussing mode, supporting Dean with one large hand in the center of his back, the other wrapped tight around Dean’s arm. Maybe a little too tight, but Dean’s not going to complain, not when Sam’s like this. “That was a nasty hit, I thought you passed out. You gotta be more careful, man.”

“It’s not like it was my idea to get thrown into a gravestone, head first. You’ve got Mr. Jedadiah Merton to thank for that,” Dean nods towards the hole in the ground where the remains of the aforesaid Mr. Merton are burning up, thanks to Sam’s quick work with the salt, gas and matches.

“Yeah.” Sam sends a hateful glance in the open grave’s direction before shifting his attention back to Dean. He’s still scowling when he speaks again, reminding Dean of when he was a teenager and used to hide his worries for Dean by non-stop bitching and sulking. “I hate it when you’re the one who plays bait.”

“I know you do, Sammy.” Dean pats him on the shoulder, which is the closest he’ll get to acknowledging that yeah, he gets that it sucks for Sam to watch Dean get hurt. He refuses to feel guilty about it though, because this scenario definitely beats the alternative. “But hey,” he attempts to lighten the mood, “you gotta admit it makes more sense. I mean, the monsters would go after me anyway. That’s how irresistible I am.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam mutters absentmindedly, only half paying attention to Dean’s old jokes. His eyes are roaming over Dean’s body, hands following the same path as he checks Dean for injuries. Only when he finds nothing serious or life-threatening, just a couple of bumps and bruises, does he finally relax a bit. “Good. You’re okay.”

“I told you I was, you big girl. I’m always—”

But Dean doesn’t get the chance to say more because Sam is kissing him like his life depends on it, hands desperately grabbing at every inch of Dean they can find, tongue delving so deep inside Dean’s mouth it feels like Sam’s trying to devour his soul, or at least stake his claim on it. He's been doing that a lot since Dean told him about the kiss he shared with Amara, and Dean has no intention of asking him to stop or even tone it down. Instead, he puts his arms around Sam’s broad shoulders and opens his mouth wider, kisses Sam right back, saying I’m here, I’m alive, it’s okay the best way he can.

Still, he’s not exactly surprised when that isn’t enough; it rarely is these days. Hurried and impatient, Sam shoves his hands under Dean’s shirt, rough palms sliding up his torso and exposing pale skin to the chill night air. Dean can hear something tear as Sam makes short work of getting Dean’s jacket and shirts out of the way, leaving Dean half-naked and shivering, pushing him down into the grass.

“Alright, okay,” Dean says, pulling Sam on top of him so Sam can rest his head on Dean’s chest, ear pressed to the spot over his heart. “Okay,” he says again, and again, hands acting on their own, one rubbing soothing circles into Sam’s back, the other carding through the mess of Sam’s hair. He knows what to do; after all, this isn’t the first time they’ve been through this.

Keep touching and keep talking. It was the only thing that helped, even if just a little, when Sam was plagued with flashbacks-slash-hallucinations of his time in the Cage, and by an unusual stroke of luck amongst all the usual Winchester madness, it still works now that it’s needed again.

Sam has been a bit off ever since the possibility of having to contact Lucifer was brought up, and actually confronting the damn son of a bitch down in Hell only made it worse. After that, Sam was skittish, jumpy, not sleeping well, eating less than he should – all the things you’d expect from someone who just had to face his worst nightmare.

What Dean didn't really expect, though, was the way Sam would suddenly get all freaked out at the slightest chance of Dean getting hurt, just like right now. Dean isn’t even concussed, for God’s sake, and yet Sam’s acting as if it's the end of the world. Minor injuries like this one, barely worth mentioning, definitely shouldn’t be enough to throw Sam off his game.

The explanation came one night about a week ago, when Sam lay curled up against Dean, drowsy and sated after a long makeout session that turned into lazy mutual handjobs that got them both nice and relaxed, knocked down the walls they usually kept up, even in front of each other. Then, he mumbled quiet, short sentences against Dean’s collarbone, stumbling over the words he was too ashamed to admit in the light of day.

How Lucifer sneaking into his dreams and sending him visions had seriously shaken his conviction that this, the world around him, was real. How now, on top of everything else, Sam was having trouble finding something to believe in. How Dean was his stone number one, just like years ago, and how he needed Dean to be fine, to be there, or his entire world would crumble.

“Okay, Sammy. I’m here,” Dean told him that night before kissing the top of his head, grateful that Sam couldn’t see his face, because there was no way he could keep his expression unreadable. Learning that once again, he had to be strong and steady for Sam, no matter the inner tumult of doubts and fears that was churning inside him because of that disarming, emasculating ‘bond’ to Amara... it placed a weight on his shoulders. A weight that he secretly welcomed because it belonged there, it grounded him, made him who he was. “I’m here and I’ll always be here, okay? You know you can count on that.”

And Sam has been counting on it ever since.

“Just listen to it, alright?” Dean says just to fill the silence, knowing Sam finds the sound of his voice comforting. “My heart. Beats as steady as ever.”

“Mhmm,” Sam nods and moves his hand from where it was resting on Dean’s hip, up Dean’s side until he reaches Dean’s right nipple, which is already stiff from the cold. He circles it with a finger, once, twice, then chuckles. “Your heartbeat’s getting faster now.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean starts, but doesn’t finish the thought. The pad of Sam’s index finger brushes against his nipple, and Dean shudders, feels Sam growing hard in his jeans. Moans when Sam lifts his head to put his mouth on his other nipple, sucking gently. “Fuck, Sam.”

“Mhmm,” Sam only hums again, climbing fully on top of Dean and covering him with his larger body, like a blanket, like a shield. He kisses Dean, deep and invasive, his weight pinning Dean down and holding him immobile. Keeping Dean safe so he can be safe, and isn’t that what they’ve always done?

Dean knows what comes next, he’s starting to get back into the swing of this thing they’ve got going, so when Sam begins to work Dean’s pants open, he obediently lifts up, lets Sam pull his jeans and boxers down to his knees, grass blades tickling his bare ass, the earth underneath cold and slightly damp when it comes into contact with his skin. It kind of makes Dean wish that just rubbing against each other was good enough for Sam, but then Sam tries to make him turn around, making it clear that they’re going all the way.

Because, naturally, nothing does the job of convincing Sam that Dean, and consequently the entire world, is real and okay, better than Sam putting his cock inside him. And Dean’s fine with that. At least this is something he can always give, something Sam can always have.

“Easy, Sammy, watch the merchandise,” Dean grumbles even as lets himself be manhandled onto all fours, ass up and hands in the damp grass. Despite the token complaining, he’s grateful for the change of position; hopefully it will hide the lack of interest his dick is currently showing.

In Dean’s defense, he and Sam already fucked this evening before heading out to the cemetery, and now that he’s pushing forty, Dean’s recovery time sadly isn’t what it used to be. Add that to the fact that he just got thrown around by an angry spirit, and is only a few yards away from an open grave with a smoldering corpse inside. Not to mention that after his recent trip down to the Pit, Dean’s had to substantially increase the self-prescribed dosage of alcohol in order to be able to be who Sam needs him to be, and while that keeps him functional in all the aspects that matter, it also has its downsides.

But Sam doesn’t have to worry about any of that.

“Come on, Sammy, do it,” Dean urges his brother on, canting his hips and wiggling his ass in invitation. “Lube’s in my back pocket.”

Sam finds it quickly, and wastes no time getting Dean as ready as he can with the travel-size packet. It’s not nearly enough, the stretch of Sam’s long, insistent fingers burning, but Dean bites the inside of his cheek and holds still, accepts the fingers and the pain because it’s Sammy and Sammy will never be unwelcome.

Especially when those fingers unerringly zero in on Dean’s prostate and against all odds, Dean starts to harden for the second time tonight. Leave it to Sam to make the impossible happen. “More,” he demands, eyes screwed shut but lips curving into the smile of a proud big brother. Relaxing, pushing back. “Come on already.”

“Dean,” Sam whispers when the head of his cock breaches Dean, his hands digging bruises into the meat of Dean’s shoulders. He’s holding onto Dean like a drowning man clutching at a straw, and that terrifies Dean just as much as it fills him with purpose, with determination to be strong enough to keep Sam afloat.

“Sam,” he answers, voice strained as he struggles to take in more of Sam’s considerable girth and length. It’s a tight fit, but not as tight as when they first did this, horny and young and inexperienced, Sam opening Dean up with nothing but spit and muttered apologies, Dean’s mouth dropping open in surprise when the first press of Sam’s fingers into him was enough to give him a truly mind-blowing orgasm. And provide the much-needed lube in form of his own come.

He ached to feel Sam inside him then, and he aches to feel him inside now. He always will.

Sam says his name again when he finally bottoms out, forehead resting between Dean’s shoulder blades, his breathing ragged already. He’s smelling Dean, inhaling the scent of his sweat, rubbing his nose against his skin, putting his hands all over him in an obvious attempt to take Dean in with all his senses.

“Closer,” he whines all of a sudden, frustrated, and pulls out, scooting back. He's tugging at Dean’s left boot, trying to get if off, rather ineffectively. “Need you closer.”

He might not be making much sense, but Dean knows what he needs. “Gimme a sec, I’ll take care of it, okay?” When he starts taking off the rest of his clothes, Sam starts to undress, too. Between the two of them, it’s an awkward tangle of limbs and sleeves and pant legs, but in the end they’re both naked as the day they were born and Sam is on Dean again, clumsy in his overeagerness.

“Hang on, you overgrown human puppy.” With some difficulty, Dean disentangles himself from Sam’s grasp so he can spread out their jackets and shirts on the ground, because the last thing he wants is to catch a cold, get a fever and give Sam another scare.

“You’re such a practical old lady,” Sam comments with fond amusement before putting his hands on Dean again, mouth latching onto Dean’s earlobe.

Dean pushes him away before shoving him onto their makeshift bed, where Sam lands on his back. “I’ll show you an old lady.” He climbs on top of his brother, legs bracketing Sam’s slender hips, hands going down to guide Sam’s cock back where it belongs.

They both let out relieved moans when Sam’s fully sheathed inside Dean again. Their eyes meet.

“Good?” Dean asks.

“Good,” Sam answers, and thrusts up into Dean, making Dean’s breath hitch. That’s all the encouragement Dean needs before he lifts up, pausing with just the head of Sam’s cock inside him, and then slams back down forcefully. It still hurts more than he’d like, but the sounds Sam is making, the way Sam’s giant palms feel on his thighs, more than make up for it.

Then a gust of wind reminds Dean of where they are, and he speeds up the pace.

Sam lasts a few more minutes, which is longer than Dean expected, before he’s muttering how this isn’t close enough either and sits up, flipping them over so that he’s on top again, settled between Dean’s legs, pressing the full length of his body against Dean’s. “Better.”

“I’ll make it even better.” Ignoring the way his joints are protesting, Dean wraps his legs around Sam’s waist, locking them even tighter together. The happy sigh Sam breathes into his ear tells him it was the right move, and he crowns it with wrapping his arms around Sam too. He doesn’t care that it makes him look like a tree-hugging koala bear as long as it gets him closer to Sam.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam is chanting, voice growing frantic. But it’s the good kind of frantic, so Dean just lets himself melt into his brother’s embrace.

When Sam shudders above Dean, burying his teeth in Dean’s neck as he fills him up with his release, it’s almost enough to take Dean over the edge. Several quick tugs of his large hand around Dean’s cock do the rest, and Dean lies there, gasping, heart racing, Sam’s weight crushing him into the ground.

They're silent.

Gradually, he becomes aware of a zipper slider digging into his lower back, of the way his hip joints are complaining, and of the air around them, which is fucking freezing. “Uh, Sam? How do you feel about moving?”

“Okay,” Sam agrees, but all he does is slide down a little, so that his head is resting on Dean’s chest again.

“Sam?”

“Now I can hear it,” Sam says, voice tired and sated and happy. Calm. “Your heartbeat. ‘S nice.”

Dean can’t help smiling. “Very nice.” A shiver runs through him. “And very cold. We should get dressed, Sammy. Get back to the motel.”

“Alright.” Sam springs to his feet and helps Dean up, graciously ignoring the stiff way Dean is moving.

They get dressed and pack their stuff, take a last look into the coffin of the vengeful spirit to make sure everything’s burned properly, and head across the cemetery back to the Impala.

A quick shower in the motel to fight off the cold that's seeped into their bones, and then they crawl into bed, Sam instantly taking his favorite spot with his ear pressed against Dean’s heart and falling asleep soon after.

It takes longer before sleep comes for Dean, and he dreams about Amara putting a leash around his neck and leading him away from Sam, from Earth, into dark, cold, endless space. In the dream, Dean is unable to stop it and follows her, meek as a lamb, his mind empty of thought.

He wakes up from the nightmare with a start, disoriented and scared, until Sam, still fast asleep and yet somehow sensing Dean’s discomfort, drapes one arm over his chest, proprietary and comforting at the same time.

She can’t have me, Dean thinks determinedly, concentrating on the weight of Sam’s arm on him, on the warmth of Sam next to him, and goes back to sleep.