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Still, in the solid emptiness of a sleeping Middle-Of-Nowhere town, Dean opened his eyes on the fabric of the pillow he was nuzzling, blinking, his mind a heavy weight pulling him back. He wasn't sure what time it was, wasn't sure where he was, or why. He was still mildly drunk from his evening spent sprawled in front of cheap action movies with Sam, and whiskey. A lot of it. His eyelids fell shut. Chasing the images, the swirls of colors and sensations. He’d been dreaming. Dreaming of skin and lips, familiar —oh so familiar, lips he knew but didn't want to know who they belonged to. Pink and full.
The flick of a tongue.
A slick wet noise forced his eyes open and he rolled back. All he could see was the white sheet creased over Sam’s hips in the second queen bed. His bare chest moving to the rhythm of his relaxed breathing. He was curled up on his side across the mattress, a strong arm jammed under his disheveled head. His other hand was moving, out of sight and Dean swallowed thickly, his pupils glazed over by the lazy —sickly thrill stabbing his guts. Sam groaned, a long breathy ‘hhmm’ as he worked his wrist patiently.
Dean had leered before. More times than he cared to remember, or admit. He never really had a choice. As a horny teenage still sharing a bed with his baby brother because dad was too broke to afford a second room. He would look under half-lidded eyes at little Sammy fumbling under the sheet, the enormity of how screwed up this all was etched into his mind, yet unable to roll away.
As a young adult, the few times he found himself crammed in the backseat of the Impala at night with an arm full of angry Sam after a fight with John over college. Sam would drag him out of the motel room in fury and curl up in his space to be held, tight and lanky, and Dean would try to ignore the way Sam's pointy hips pressed up in his. The night before Sam left for Stanford, curled up again in the backseat on the Impala, away from John's betrayed anger and broken heart. The clinging, warm hands over him and up his Henley, Sammy's face burrowed in the juncture of his neck, and the throbbing burn in his groin he knew Sammy could feel against his thigh.
He thought he could get over it. Didn't even think about it as he wrestled Sammy to the floor when they meet again. “Ooh, easy tiger!”
And then it's back, stronger and harder to live with. Sam's not a teenager anymore, he's taller, larger, and masculine, he smells like a man and Dean holds him after Jess's death, the burning in his groin is back and he doesn't know how to deal when he feels the long heat pressing back. Innocent, but not. How to fix what they've become as his baby brother cries his loss in his shoulder.
As an adult, John long gone, in silent motel rooms. The air so dense with his guilt it left him dizzy as Sam watched him back from under half closed eyes and parted lips. Lust glistening like the saliva on the visible tip of his tongue. Hushed shaky tone, asking for the other to let free of the heat under the sheet so they could relish in the supple movement of a thumb until they came, tasting the shame and the stars. He never really had a choice. Sam's the only anchor he's ever had, all he really knew and the only home he ever craved for. The warmth of his strong arms around Dean's back. It's not love. It's sick, it's needy, it soothes Dean's lacking self-esteem, knowing Sammy wants him by his side, wants him.
His fingers dragged on the warm fresh sheets and Dean pawed at his stomach under his t-shirt. Caressing, the muscles, the skin, up to his chest. Sam breathed out audibly across the room. His left hand balled into his hair, tugging gently as he let go to rub his thighs, the curve of his ass and lower. His erection heavy between his legs, Dean reached down, stirring, stretching and bending his knee between the sheets. He couldn’t help it, the cotton sending his skin tingling, the fabric crackling so —Father, forgive me my filth— maybe Sam would look over. He did. Glancing up over his elbow, his clear hazel eyes narrowed, dark and unwavering.
Sam arched his back into his hand and Dean’s breath stuck in his throat, seeing in his brother’s dilated pupils everything the obscurity was hiding from him, imagining what it felt like for Sam to bury his fingers into that velvety sheath. Dean pulled down at his sweatpants, wrapping tightly around himself so he could breathe again. The muscles of his belly cramping with need as they locked gaze. As Dean watched Sam sigh and lick his lips. He’d never caught his brother pleasuring himself this way. He’d imagined it, under the shower stream, nursing his guilt away from the world. Shaking with the stinging desire curling up deep and unforgiving.
“Show me.” Sam whispered, his breath becoming shallow. This was sick, they were sick— Dean obliged, his hand trembling, pulling the sheet down to his thighs with his sweatpants. He squeezed harder, jerking up and down as Sam bit his bottom lip with enough force Dean could see it in his jaw tightening. His lip slipped out, swollen and abused. “Slowly. With the wrist.” Dean stopped the slides he’d been savoring, teasing his head into his fist the way he knew Sam lusted for. It was agonizing but the pained groans the sight enticed, the craving in Sam’s frown, went straight to his balls every time and it was worth every second they weren’t touching. A line Dean wasn’t ready to cross.
It was eating at him. Like a cancer, blackening the last shreds of his soul he'd managed to salvage. It was eating at them. Years after years, and the mess of their lives. The desperation, deaths, deals, awkward angels and skanky demons, Lucifer and lost souls. Spreading, tainting the very air they shared.
Sam groaned, arching his back further. “It can’t be your first time.” Dean croaked. Sam’s lustful gaze fluttered at his low raspy voice, his eyelids dropping, heavy. As he reveled in Dean’s hips working up into his hand. “It isn’t. I was still a kid the first time. Sixteen. Young enough anyway that I can’t recall what drove me to try it.” Dean hummed, acknowledging the notion of an awkward lanky Sammy playing games by himself Dean wasn't sure he would have wanted to know about back then. Still sane enough to not want to know. He slid his thumb on the bundle of nerves just below his head, insisting just enough to feel his insides flip. “Sit up.” Sam asked. “Okay.” Dean groaned, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, the sheet pooling against his waist as he sat, feet laid in front of him, toes digging into the old discolored carpet.
Sam’s busy hand slipped forward, tugging down at his own sheet before palming himself with wet fingers, eyes locked on Dean’s as they moved together. Dean’s hips stuttered, every fiber of his body screaming for him to move, to get up and throw away the last semblance of good they had. How fake was this? A highly guarded illusion of normality. That he wanted to shatter so they could stop pretending like they weren’t fucking already.
Dean brought back his feet, pushing on his heels to stand, pausing before he could move and shoving his legs under the bed frame to dissipate the aborted action and give his brother a better angle. Sam’s chin twisted up, his gaze turning predatory, demanding and Dean’s guts churned knowing he’d been caught.
He couldn’t do this, they couldn’t do this—
Dean’s trembling fingers reached back for the scruff of his neck, pulling at the collar of his t-shirt to let it sink to the floor. “Ever used anything else than your fingers?” He asked and Sam breathed slowly in then out, as he worked himself, appreciative of Dean's increasing nudity as he tried to muzzle the darkness between them as much as Dean did. Failing. “It’s been a while.” Sam answered, his voice more graveled than Dean had ever heard him. Cascading down like a river, coating his burning member like silk. His hand slick with precum he fisted himself for Sam’s filthy pleasure, frustration gnawing at his ribs.
Dean groaned. “Dildo?"
"Jess… She liked to use a strap-on.” Sam confessed and the images came flooding. Images of Sam writhing, begging, images of Sam coming so hard he chocked on his own breath. A spurt of precum leaked onto Dean’s palm and he forced himself to stop, so painfully aroused his cock throbbed with every beat his pounding heart made. Sam let go of his own to reach behind his back again and Dean squeezed at the base of his shaft, waiting for the urge to let go dissipate.
“How does it feel?” Dean pushed, knowing he shouldn’t. Knowing he was toying at the line, a dangerous sick line he needed to cross so badly the tips of his fingers felt numb. “Not enough. Ever since Jess... it never feels the way I want it to.” Sam said, his expression shifting to something sorrowful, defeated. Calling for him. The hand in his hair balled so tightly, Sam’s knuckles were turning white.
“Ever slept with a man?” Dean went on, stretching and bringing back his legs under him, his body fighting his brain as he watched the calm desperation play in Sam’s bottomless gaze. “Never crossed my mind.” Never crossed his either. But he wanted to fuck Sam. Lost himself in his baby brother. Wanted to fuck him so hard it hurt. He let go of his cock and hung his head, unable to breathe again as if the world itself was weighing down on him. Dean braced himself forward on the heels on his palms, the edge of the mattress digging into his skin.
From the corner of his sight, he saw Sam roll over on his stomach. His bent leg cradling his desire as he thrusted down into the bed once. He buried his face into his elbow, blunt nails scratching at the sheet, holding on. Surrendering. “Dean…” He pleaded, and the dam broke. Drowning him as he stumbled up. Throwing him under into the darkest pit of his battered soul. He closed the distance between the two queen beds, one meter. One eternity of his sins staring back at him. He crawled over Sam, stiff, shaking. Sammy, the kid he’d been raised to care after. Protect. The kid who would curl against him in the back of the Impala, wanting for Dean to soothe his whirling anger and feeling of injustice. A good kid who’d slowly grown into the selfless man willing to brave Hell for him. The selfless man ready to die for him. War taints everything good. It crooks even the purest of love. War creates needs, cravings, monsters slithering in the sludge of your own already rotting sanity. War corrupts your very essence and how you frame the world.
Dean could hear Sam’s quick shallow breaths as he reached across him, his palm sinking into the mattress besides his waist. He paused, closed his clouded green eyes —Father, forgive us our humanity— and straddled Sam’s thighs, pushing down on him, shuddering. Trembling against his brother’s skin as he wrapped around him and buried his face into the back of his neck. Dean squeezed his knees, rubbing down his whole body against Sam’s, his home, his life, as if they could disappear into each other, and never be torn apart again. Sam exhaled harshly, moaned. Loud like a barrier collapsing. Dean reached down between them to Sam’s ass, pushed two fingers in to find it slick, loosened and so goddamn warm. Wedged under a pillow, Dean spotted the lube Sam had been using and his heart dropped. How much of this night had Sam planned for? The whiskey, the lube. It was like a car wreck, really. That you want to drive by but find yourself staring at because no one’s stopping you. “Dean, please…”
Sam shook under him, and Dean pulled his fingers out. He held at his cock, his throat tightening as he condemned them both. He felt like sobbing, the relief so overwhelming his old bones ached. Sam whimpered and it sounded like the choked-up sob Dean couldn’t let free. Grasping down at Sam’s shoulders, Dean rocked into him. Long slides as he circled his hips in a movement he couldn’t quite control as his body moved for him. Burning up from the inside as he burrowed into Sam’s warmth over and over again. “Dean… Ughnn, D—ean…” The low rumbling of his voice drawed Dean closer, its urgency making his cock throb with impending release. He stopped and Sam’s hands balled into the sheets. “No, no, please… Please!”
Breathing steadily to calm his racing heart, Dean repositioned himself higher, better on Sam’s thighs, and when he started moving again, thrusting down hard, Sam’s closed fist hit the mattress. “Fuck !” He clenched around Dean’s cock, writhing more and more erratically as Dean kept him pinned down, fucking him until he couldn’t take it anymore. The excruciatingly delicious pressure wetting the corner of Dean’s glazed eyes. Sam choked up. “I’m gonna come, keep going, keep g—” His voice strangled and the scorching spasms of his orgasm tore through him. Sam swore, arching up onto the mattress against Dean’s weight, fighting back with force as if trying to escape the maddening shock-wave setting his nerves ablaze. Dean’s breath left him, his brother’s pitiful sobs throwing him down the cliff after him. The taste of copper filled his mouth as he bite at his tongue in a stuttering of the hips. He saw the stars and prayed for forgiveness, for peace of mind.
Trembling, Dean let go of Sam’s shoulders and curled next to him on the bed. Injured animal licking his wounds. They shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn't have caved in. Fought it for so long, but Sam finally had his soul back and maybe he just couldn't do it anymore. They lost their landmarks along the way, long ago, shaped their world around each other when they were supposed to learn to let go. Lost their North in this war and found themselves wandering into shadows they weren’t prepared to fight, sharp teeth and poisoned claws waiting, only for them to offer their exposed neck and let themselves be damned. Sam’s thumb brushed at the tear running down the bridge of his nose. They never really had a chance.