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I'm No Angel

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It's days later that Sam confronts him, and maybe Dean should have seen it coming. But Sam's moods are mercurial lately. Completely unpredictable. And as far as Dean can tell, things are fine between them—or as fine as they ever are lately, which is maybe not saying much.

But it's days later, Sam behind the wheel on a quiet county road, and Dean is startled when his brother pulls off onto a dusty, rutted lane.

"Sam, I'm pretty sure this isn't Topeka."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snaps. He jerks the wheel to the side and brakes too hard, yanking the parking brake into place.

They pass a tense moment with empty silence between them, and Dean would say something if he had any idea which of Sam's issues has come to play. As it is, he's reeling and confused, blindsided by the rage in Sam's eyes when his brother turns an intent stare on him. He opens his mouth but in the end thinks better of it, and instead waits for Sam to speak.

"Did you think I wouldn't know?" Sam asks, and Dean feels his eyebrows rise.

"Know what, exactly?" Not that he's never known Sam to talk crazy, but usually Dean has half a hint where to start. Usually he's not stuck facing a forest of ambiguous fury, wondering where Sam's latest hissy fit has its roots.

"I could smell her on you, Dean. She was all fucking over you."

That clicks quickly enough, and Dean feels his brows knit as he says, "Anna?"

"Did you fuck her here in the car, Dean? In the back seat? Was she any good?" Sam's voice is soft and livid.

"Was she— Sam, what the hell is wrong with you? How is it your business anyway?" Dean usually has no issue sharing the lowdown on his conquests with Sam, but this is different. This is his—not quite salvation, but so much more than sex. Anna offered him forgiveness along with her touch, and Sam has no right to interrogate him like being with her was something filthy—like it was wrong.

He's about to explain as much with choice words, but Sam's next move startles him silent. Sam slides across the seat in the span of a blink, into Dean's space and past it to squash him against the door. The angle is uncomfortable, one knee bent against the seatback and the other leg splayed into the foot well, Sam a close-pressed wall of heat between them and isn't this awkward as hell.

"Sam?" he says, tentative caution so as not to set his brother off.

"No more," Sam says, but it comes out as more of a snarl than anything. And Dean would be working out a response, but he can't—not when Sam kisses him, hard and sudden. A crush of lips and Sam's tongue in his mouth before Dean has a chance to blink, let alone close his lips against the assault. Sam's hands are everywhere at once, rough and possessive, touching him, and fuck, when Sam grinds his hips into the splay of Dean's thighs Dean realizes his brother is hard.

Dean gets his hands between them, shaking against Sam's chest, and shoves. It's not enough to dislodge his brother completely, but it gives him an inch of space. Air to breathe, even if it's Sam's air, too.

There are a hundred things Dean should say here, most of them starting with 'what the fuck,' but his voice is lodged low in his throat, cut off by panic and the rapid pulse of blood beneath his skin. He meets Sam's eyes and doesn't recognize his brother in the heated want of that look. Sam's gaze is dark with it, wide and too intense, and Dean's mouth feels suddenly dry.

Sam rocks against him again, deliberate and a little bit taunting, his hands a bruising hold on Dean's hips. Dean closes his eyes and inhales sharply. He doesn't want to acknowledge that his own dick might be starting to take an interest, but Sam is intent; is obviously not going anywhere or planning on giving Dean any extra space. Another grinding shift, slide of denim almost chafing between them, and suddenly Sam's mouth is a hot, wet press against his throat. Sucking and biting, and Dean cries out in surprise when Sam's teeth sink in hard just below his ear.

"Fuck!" Dean hisses, pushing at Sam's chest again, all startled instinct, but it does no good this time. Doesn't make Sam back off so much as an inch. "Sam, wait. Sam—fuck, Sam, stop."

"Mine," Sam snarls, and his hands find Dean's fly, yank it open fast enough to be uncomfortable. Then Sam is manhandling him down onto his back on the seat, working Dean's pants off in an impressively coordinated flurry of movement. It happens too quick for Dean's token resistance to do an ounce of good, and he suddenly feels a lot more naked than he did before. Edgy and vulnerable and unable to pretend away what he knows is happening here.

"Sammy, think about this a minute," he says. "Just… just step back for a second, okay?"

"No," says Sam, scary quiet, and then he's kissing Dean again. Crushing him into the seat cushion, and Dean doesn't mean to whimper, but the denim of Sam's pants rubs uncomfortable against his naked skin, sensitive and exposed, and even so his dick is swelling, like it's got a mind of its own and the hell with Dean's thoughts on the matter. Sam's hand closes around him without warning, grasping Dean's dick between them, and Dean gasps, his fingers finding purchase in the fabric of Sam's collar.

The touch disappears along with the kiss, and Dean mistakes it for a moment's respite just before Sam's fingers find their way into his mouth. It must be instinct to close his lips around them and suck them slick, to do the natural thing while he imagines he doesn't know where this is going.

"God, the mouth on you," mutters Sam. "Such pretty lips. Gonna put them to good use later."

"Sam!" Dean gasps when the fingers vanish, and Sam braces one hand on Dean's hip, steadying weight, while his other hand disappears between Dean's legs, spit-slick fingers driving him open. Dean makes a hurt sound, loud and breathy, unaccustomed to having anything inside him down there, let alone his brother's enormous fingers. He squirms uselessly, eyes drifting closed, when Sam presses another finger in beside them.

"Gonna have to do better than that, Dean," Sam growls against his ear, whole body bearing him down with muscled weight. "That's just three. My cock's a whole lot bigger than three fingers."

And Dean's ready to beg, to plead shamelessly for Sam to stop, to let him go already, because he can't take this. He'll goddamn cry if it's what he has to do to make Sam back off, but then Sam does something with his fingers. Twists and bends them, and Dean explodes with sensation, gasp of pleasure torn right out of him and he's never felt anything like it before. He's still reeling when Sam edges a fourth finger into him and does it again, and Dean can't think let alone speak, as Sam uses all four fingers to work him open—loosen him up for bigger things.

"Sam, wait," Dean whispers when Sam finally, finally withdraws his hand entirely, but his brother is already shifting into position—pulling Dean further down the seat and lining up, spitting into his hand and wiping it along his cock, and Christ, Dean's never seen anything so huge. He feels panic settle in anew when the blunt head nudges at his ass, and all he can think is that there's no way his body can take that. No way it's going to fit. It's going to split him apart, and he starts to struggle, angry at his dick for standing at stubborn attention as he tries to shove Sam away.

But Sam is heavy on top of him, all hungry intent, and he uses just one hand to hold Dean down and the other to guide himself as he pushes past the resistant ring of muscle, into the waiting tightness of Dean's body. Dean cusses up a storm, a goddamn cyclone of profanity as his brother breaches him, slow and inexorable, a burning heat that fills him to the point of pain. He's breathing heavily, on the verge of hyperventilating, and he doesn't care. All he can feel is the invasive weight of Sam's dick inside him, spreading him impossibly open, Sam's whole body a furnace crushing him down against the seat.

"Fuck, Dean, so tight," Sam gasps, not stopping until he's bottomed out, and if Dean weren't so honed in on the hard discomfort of having his ass stuffed full with his brother's cock, he'd maybe marvel at the surreal sensation of Sam's balls nestled snug against his body. Intimate and entitled. Dean whimpers and hates himself for it, but the stillness is almost worse than the raw slide of sensation as Sam moved into him in the first place. It leaves him feeling full and split, nothing to focus on but the angry burn of Sam too deep inside him, somewhere his brother's got no right to be.

"Sam," he whispers, and he doesn't even recognize his own voice.

"Jesus, Dean, I'd almost think you hadn't done this before."

It's like a slap in the face, and Dean opens his eyes. He can't wall off the hurt disbelief, even though it's the last thing he wants Sam to see. One more weakness, one more chink in his armor, and his brother's eyes go wide with realization. Dean swallows defiantly, watching the predatory grin split his brother's face as Sam's cock gives an eager twitch inside him.

"Mine," Sam snarls, deep and throaty, and starts to move. It's nothing but agony at first, the stretching burn of flesh rubbing raw, but then Sam's hands are guiding him, changing the angle, and the world explodes in better sensations alongside the pain. Shocks and stars like he felt from Sam's fingers, and Dean is pretty sure he's gasping and grunting and moaning to match his brother. It still hurts, but the pain barely registers through the overwhelming signals that are tearing him so deliciously apart.

"Come," Sam whispers in his ear, and Dean does. Without a hand on him. He gasps and shivers, buries his face against Sam's throat as Sam's enormous dick keeps pounding into him—like the end of the world pumping its way home—and Dean doesn't know how much more he can take.

But Sam finishes quickly enough, letting out a throaty groan into the overheated air as he spills deep and hot into the secret spaces of Dean's body, then collapses. Dean can barely breathe, can barely move as Sam's weight bears him down, Sam's softening cock still an uncomfortable presence until Sam shifts and pulls free with an unpleasant sound.

Dean aches with the sudden absence, feels wide and sticky and used, and then Sam's fingers are there. Playing with his sore, stretched hole, fingering him idly as Sam's come drips lazily down his thighs.

"Mine," Sam whispers, something contented in his voice. Something that says there's no question at all, and Dean realizes it's true.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and blinks back tears as he leans up to kiss Sam on the forehead. "Yours."