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at the edge of the world

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The lighter falls into the grave with a dull thud, a familiar echo in the darkness and silence of the night. Sam watches as the bones ignite, sparking up into an inferno that fills the plot in the ground, burning into his eyes and casting an unwelcome warmth across his arms and face. He's already sweating through his shirt, his hair pasted to his forehead, and he just wants to get out of there. Or get naked. Either one.

Dean's body heat radiates sickly against his side and Sam's never wanted to be so far away from his brother before, but Jesus, Dean's insistence of keeping on his three layers when they're in Miami, Florida is such a ridiculous and weird thing to do that Sam doesn't even want to draw attention to it. He knows Dean wants to get out of here just as bad as he does, knows Dean has it way worse.

But when he slides uncomfortably into the car beside his brother later, legs sticking to the leather seat already, he has some kind of crazy, awful idea, and it tumbles out of his mouth before he can really do anything about it.

"Let's stay here for a while," he says.

Dean raises an eyebrow from the driver's seat, face flushed and glistening with sweat, and Sam almost laughs. Dean's terrible with the heat, his short hair starting to frizz already, and Sam's pretty sure his nose is sunburned. But he's bundled into the Impala in his leather jacket, stuffy and grouchy, as stubborn as ever, and refusing to let the weather beat him.

"I think I might be ten seconds away from bursting into flames," Dean replies, fumbling in his pants pocket for his keys.

"And whose fault is that?" Sam asks. He cranks his window down as if it's really going to make any difference. The air that spills in is even warmer than the thick atmosphere inside. "If you just took your clothes off or-"

"Woah, hey, Sammy," Dean grins, lifting his palms up defensively. "I know I'm irresistible and all, but show some restraint, man, c'mon."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Shut up."

"Did I hit a nerve?" Dean's smirking, finally tugging his keys free from his pocket and jangling them around in his palm.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam whines, ignoring him, pressing on with his plan to guilt trip Dean into doing this. "Whenever we take a break, we're always in Buttfuck, Nowhere, sleeping in some dingy motel with crusted sheets and there's nothing else to do except hustle pool and listen to you fucking some girl while I'm trying to sleep." Dean laughs. "I want a real vacation. And we're already here."

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes, but Sam knows he's convinced him already, sees the hard lines of his face softening and corners of his lips tugging up into an anticipatory smile.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean says, starting the engine. "Let's find some fancy shmancy hotel with the little bottles of free shampoo so you can do all your girly shit."




And Dean finds the most expensive hotel along the beach, parking up the Impala outside and fumbling around in the glove compartment for their credit cards. Sam watches him root around, throwing useless squares of plastic onto the floor or behind him to the back seat. He taps his fingers impatiently against his thigh, trying not to show Dean just how excited he is about all this, because he knows his brother is just itching to mock him and Sam tries extra hard every day to not be the object of Dean's ridicule.

But he can barely contain it when he steps through the door into their suite, bouncing around the room and inspecting everything, toeing off his boots and socks and trailing his feet along the soft, plush carpet, throwing open the glass doors at the other side of the room, practically pissing his pants when he sees that it leads to a short path that goes straight to the beach.

Dean watches him through it all, standing by the door with their bags, face plastered with a brief smile.

"You're a giant fucking nerd, you know that?"

Sam ignores him, barelling through the door to the bedroom and throwing himself onto one of the beds. He sinks into the soft, thick mattress and plump pillows with a groan.

Dean follows and jumps down onto Sam's bed, sending him a few inches into the air with a yelp. Dean's doubled over laughing as Sam scrambles to sit up, reaching for him so he can punch him, slap him away, whatever, but Dean's already ran from the room, sound of his laughter echoing sweetly in Sam's ears, and Sam's too tired to follow him.

He relaxes against the sheets, exhausted from the three day hunt, and he wants to sleep for an entire week. He probably could, now that he doesn't have broken springs digging into his back and a constant fear of ants or cockroaches.

He reaches for his belt buckle and tries to undo it without looking, half asleep already. It takes him way longer than it should, but finally he shoves his jeans past his hips and into a pool at his feet. He doesn't even bother taking the rest off, and he's asleep before Dean is even back in the room.




When Sam wakes to the sunlight glaring painfully into his eyelids through the huge, wall-length windows, the first thing he does is look around for his brother. Dean's sprawled across his bed, on top of the blankets and wearing only his boxers, faded grey and tight against the curve of his ass. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his back and Sam has to tear his eyes away before the sight imprints itself in his brain forever, popping up in his head only to ruin his life when he's jacking off.

He struggles to get up from his bed, his joints stiff from the hunt yesterday, and he groans as his bare feet hit the floor, feels the jolt of the movement all the way up his spine. His shirt is sticking to his back with sweat and he strips off in the middle of the room, kicking his dirty clothes into a pile at the end of the bed before he pads towards the bathroom, wincing with every step.

The bathroom is huge and mold-free, at least three times the size of the tiny, disgusting bathrooms with curiously stained shower curtains of every motel they ever stayed in. He examines the fancy shampoos and picks up a couple, popping the caps and sniffing them; so, so glad that Dean can't see him right now.

Stepping under the shower is like some kind of divine, ultimate moment in Sam's life; the pressure is perfect, sending streams of warm water cascading down his skin, and he lathers up his whole body with expensive, strawberry scented body wash that Dean is gonna laugh at him for, but he doesn't care. He can't exactly pinpoint why this all makes him so happy, but it does. Whatever fucked up reasoning there is for it this time, it does.

His mind wanders as he scrubs the lather off his skin, and his hand wanders, too; trailing along his stomach and down his thighs, and he gasps softly as he falls against the tiles, fingers gripping around the length of his hard cock, and Jesus, when did that happen?

But he goes with it, lets himself have that release that's he's craved for months. He jacks himself slow and tight, palm sliding easy over his skin with the layer of bubbles collected there. He swallows hard, clenching his jaw against the tension inside him, feeling it build as his orgasm starts to jolt its way through his muscles.

He's close, and he has to bring a hand to his mouth to stifle his groans, but it's useless; it's been so long since he's done this that he almost forgot what it felt like, could barely recall how good it was and he moans through his restraint, reminding himself that Dean is asleep anyway.


His orgasm rips through him, and he lets out a strangled cry as he spills over his fingers and onto the bottom of the shower. His hand slides along the tiles behind him, looking for something to hold onto, trying to get some kind of purchase, but it's too slippery and he's struggling to keep himself upright.

The steam of the water engulfs him as he comes down, slumping further down the tiles. Shit.

He finishes washing himself hastily and dries himself off, staggering into the bedroom with a towel tight around his waist. He's bent over, rooting around in his bag for a pair of jeans, when Dean's voice sends him into a panic, almost falling over in his attempt to spin around. He really needs caffeine.

"Someone had a good time, huh?"

Dean's laying on the bed, hands behind his head and gloating at Sam, shit-eating grin firmly in place.

Sam throws a pillow at Dean's head and stalks out of the room, his face flushing embarrassingly as he puts the distance between them.




They wander around for a while after breakfast, Sam on a desperate lookout for a clothing store where he can buy at least fifty pairs of shorts and flip flops. Even in just his t shirt and jeans he's sweating, rough denim rubbing uncomfortably at his legs, his feet practically on fire as he walks in his boots and his only clean pair of socks which, appropriately, are thick as hell and made for hunts in the dead of winter.

Dean thankfully shed his leather jacket back at the hotel, but he looks lost without it, constantly rubbing at his arms and pulling at his shirt like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. Sam knows the feeling; everything is so different here, so alien, and it's hard to get settled into the right mindset, constantly looking for clues or signs from a hunt that doesn't exist.

He stumbles through the door of the nearest clothing store after Dean pushes at his back in an attempt to get it over with; Sam knows he hates shopping, and he doesn't care about it himself, but he gets the chance to pick out everything for Dean while his brother stands bored and slumped over beside him, and this can only end well.

"Hurry up," he moans. "You're such a girl."

"Shut up," Sam replies, pushing Dean away from him. "I don't wanna walk around with your sweaty ass all day, so let me pick out clothes, jerk."

Dean wanders off in the direction of a display of sunglasses, and Sam uses the opportunity to pick up a pair of bright, flower-print shorts in Dean's size, shoving them to the bottom of the basket before Dean comes back and throws a fit. He smirks as he throws a couple other pairs in, knows Dean's gonna kill him for this.

"Look at these, Sam," Dean's saying, too excited and gleeful that Sam wonders if Dean got possessed while he was over at the other side of the store. He holds up a pair of aviator sunglasses and then puts them on his face, pushing them up his nose, and he's smiling so wide that Sam's heart does little backflips in his chest. 

"I look cool, man. Like some kind of spy. I mean, technically, I guess I'm already some kind of cool, mysterious guy, but what I really need is a pair of badass sunglasses to really show it off, y'know, play it up."

Sam rolls his eyes and pulls at the price tag that's hanging from one of the legs.

"We can't afford them, Dean," he says, pulling them off his brother's face and laying them down on the stack of shirts on the display beside him.

"No," Dean agrees, snatching them back up and throwing Sam his best bitchface. "But Wes Stanley can." He pulls out his wallet and thrusts one of their credit cards at Sam's face.

Sam laughs and shakes his head. "Fine," he says, his mind made up three minutes ago when Dean approached him with the biggest smile he's had in months. "Throw them in the basket."




"Cocktails, Sammy!"

Sam bumps into Dean's back where he's stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, almost dropping the bags that Dean made him carry, and he wants to sigh and roll his eyes and kick Dean in the back of his legs but alcohol. Cold, refreshing, beautiful alcohol. He nudges Dean's arm instead, gripping the bags tighter.

There's a bar at the side of the street, neon signs lit up and casting a pool of brightness onto the sidewalk, beckoning them under the glare.

"Okay," he says, and Dean smirks at him. "But you're carrying the bags home after."

Dean's face falls, and he narrows his eyes at Sam.

"But you're such a gentleman, Sam," he objects, bumping his hip against Sam's. "Wouldn't want me to suffer the pain of that."

Sam snorts, urging Dean through the doorway, and kicking his heel for good measure. Dean stumbles over the threshold and grumbles all the way up to the bar.

Dean buys the fanciest, fruitiest cocktails and they sit at a booth near the back. Sam doesn't know what's in them, but the first glass goes straight to his head and he falls back against the seat, rubbing at his face. He pulls out a cube of ice from the empty glass with his fingers and places it on his tongue, sucking it around his mouth while Dean goes back to buy them more drinks.

He watches his brother the entire time, the way he leans so easily against the bar, gets the bartender talking animatedly about God knows what. He's giving her one of his biggest smiles, the one he saves only for people he's gonna fuck. Sam scowls and crunches the ice cube with his teeth, crushes it around with his tongue and swallows it down, bleeding a cool trail down his throat.

But Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't give any kind of indication that he's gonna fuck someone in their room tonight. And Sam's glad because this is their vacation and he doesn't want to spend it outside by himself, waiting for Dean to finish shooting his load into some stranger so that he can join him, his face flushed and elated in his post-orgasm haze.

Sam's head feels light and warm and perfectly fuzzy as they walk back to the hotel. The breeze feels amazing on his skin, relieving his flesh from the mid-afternoon sun that bears down on him, burning into his skull, but he isn't complaining. And neither is Dean, now that he's sunk a few cocktails.

He walks loose and slow at Sam's side, ambling along a little lopsidedly, humming softly a melody that Sam doesn't recognise. Sam grips tighter onto the bags, doesn't even so much as think about asking Dean to take them. He wouldn't interrupt this even if he wanted to; Dean's face is bight and open under the sun, his limbs relaxed and carefree, walking in step beside Sam. Their shoulders brush and their thighs bump together with every other step, but neither of them move away.




Sam sighs at the welcome of the air conditioning as he steps through the door to their room, dropping the bags down and falling onto the couch like he's ran some kind of marathon, exhausted and too warm even though all they did was walk a couple blocks.

Dean grabs a couple beers from the minibar and leaves them out on the table, going to pick at the bags and pulling out random items of clothing, laying them out on the coffee table in between swigs of beer.

"You got me these?" he asks, face scrunched up with disdain, holding up a pair of brightly coloured, striped shorts. Sam chuckles from his place on the couch, clasping his hands behind his head. He watches as Dean pulls out a couple pairs in shades of blue, green, red, and then bites his lip at the utterly contemptuous expression on his brother's face as he frees the pair of ridiculously bright flowery ones from the tangle of clothes. "Seriously?" he asks. Sam shrugs, face innocent.

"Y'know, I regret this," Dean complains, kicking the bag and dumping his shorts onto the couch. "We could be wearing five layers in Washington right now."

"Save it," Sam cuts across him. "You love it here. And you love your shorts."

"If you think I'm gonna go to the beach in a goddamn pair of flowery shorts-"

"Then I'd be right," Sam says, raising his body lazily from the couch and stretching his arms high above his head, arching his back and groaning at the relief of pressure that's been weighing him down all day.

"Bitch," Dean grumbles, downing the rest of his beer before Sam even reaches the bathroom. 

He drags a pair of shorts along with him, determined to get out of his jeans, and he almost whines in pleasure at the removal of the constricting denim. He pulls on his shorts and stifles a laugh as he compares them to the ones he picked up for Dean, figuring he's going to count the days until his brother gives in and pulls on his flowery shorts to avoid going to the laundromat.

He pulls his shirt over his head and throws it on the ground, kicking off his socks, and he feels at home, now. Like it makes sense for him to be here.

"How do I look?" he asks five minutes later, tightening the string of his shorts a little more and throwing his arms out in some weird kind of invitation for his brother to check out his half-naked body. He doesn't know why he does it; maybe it's the cocktails, maybe it's Miami or maybe he's just happy. Happy enough that he can mess around with Dean like this again.

Dean coughs and clears his throat loudly, eyes flicking across Sam's torso like he has no control over their movement. "Uh..." he trails off and Sam laughs at him. "Gross," Dean says at the sound of Sam's laughter. "You look gross."

"Gee, thanks," Sam smirks, grabbing for the beer Dean left out for him and taking a long swig.

"You can't ask me these things, Sammy," Dean says, but Sam can hear the edge of laughter in his voice too. "Make me feel so inadequate, man. How 'm I supposed to go to the beach with you and your- your- abs like... like Jesus!"

Sam spits out his mouthful of beer all over the carpet.

"Abs like Jesus?" he echoes, exploding with the kind of laughter that makes his ribs hurt and his muscles clench up inside of him. "The fuck kind of softcore porn novels have you been reading, dude?"

Dean falls onto the couch, taking a chug of his own beer and setting it down on the table before pulling off his shirt. Sam isn't gonna be the asshole who comments on the blush spreading across his cheeks, the twist in his expression that tells Sam he's embarrassed.

But then he stands to go to the bathroom and, in complete Dean Winchester style, the whole thing is forgotten when he gets back.




"Dean, stop it," Sam complains, slapping Dean's hands away from himself.

"I hate it, Sammy," Dean whines, rubbing at his arm again before Sam swats at him. "It makes me feel all slimy."

"Get over it," Sam says. "I'm not letting you get sunburned. I'm not gonna put up with your whining for this whole vacation."

Dean scoffs. "Whining, yeah. 'Cause that's your job." Sam nudges him hard into a stop sign.

"Fucker," Dean scowls, rubbing at his shoulder.

"Look, I didn't put my hands all over your gross hairy back for nothing, so don't rub it off, asshole."

Dean gasps over-exaggeratedly, grinding to a halt and looking up at Sam with too-wide eyes. "My back is not hairy," he says in mock outrage, and Sam rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest.

"Shut up. I wanna go swim in the ocean." 

The beach is right ahead of them now, and Sam starts to jog away, leaving his brother behind.

"Try not to drown!" Dean yells after him, and Sam flips him the finger.




The water is pleasantly warm and he wanders out into the soft waves, closing his eyes in contentment at the sun rolling off his back, drilling holes into his skin and heating him up from the inside. After a while he turns back and tries to spot Dean on the crowded beach, but this far out he can barely see individual shapes, just a mass of bodies on the sand.

He knows Dean is aware of where he is, though, that he's probably watching him, probably has been this whole time and Sam feels a sick twinge in his stomach, momentarily lost. He's stuck between wanting to be alone and wanting to be with Dean, and his mind muddles them up, reminds him that Dean is the only constant, that Dean is there when he's alone too and maybe, well, maybe he wasn't built to be by himself.

He isn't even sure where this all came from, and suddenly he feels an awful emptiness that spreads through his body, freezing up his limbs despite the warmth of the water and the sun. He doesn't want to be here, out in the ocean by himself, without Dean.

He starts to make his way back to the shore, legs heavy beneath him and his stomach twisting into knots. By the time he reaches the dry sand, all his happiness has evaporated into the ocean, leaving him empty and tired and desperately looking for Dean among the sea of people.

He spots his brother pretty quickly, like they're perpetually drawn towards each other, and every step he takes towards him fills him up with that same warmth.

Dean's laying on his front on Sam's towel, sunglasses perched on his nose and a book in front of his face, and it's all Sam can do not to stand there and stare at him for the rest of his life. Instead, he nudges Dean's leg with his foot, causing him to jerk around defensively and drop his book in the sand.

"Christ sake, Sam," he exclaims, turning around onto his ass. "Warn a guy."

Sam plonks his body down beside Dean's. "This is my towel, y'know," he points out, pulling at a loose thread somewhere between his leg and Dean's.

"Didn't know we weren't sharing towels now, like everything else," Dean answers, nudging Sam's knee with his own.

Sam looks at him for too long, hazel eyes meeting green, and there's something about the way Dean looks with the sun glinting off his face that makes it the most perfect thing Sam's ever seen. He tries to shake that out of his head as Dean stares back at him, unblinking, eyes searching his face, but it won't quit.

"Missed you," he mumbles instead, mouth curling into a tiny smile. Dean squints at him, raising his hand to block out the sun from his eyes.

"You were only out there for, what, a half hour? I know I'm awesome, Sam, but c'mon," he answers, smirking. Sam punches him in the arm.

"Hey, come into the water with me. It's warm."

Dean grumbles. "I'm working on my tan."

Sam laughs and lets his eyes rove over Dean's skin, pasty and white under the glare of the sunlight. "Fine, but you're coming in with me tomorrow, okay?" Dean ignores him, turning over onto his stomach again and pushing his sunglasses back onto his face. "Dean," Sam whines.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you want, Sammy," Dean waves him away, going back to reading his book.

Sam grabs for their bag and pulls out Dean's towel, flattening it over the sand and falling down onto it, his arm brushing Dean's. He bundles his hoodie up into a makeshift pillow and lays back, perching his sunglasses on his nose and nudging his body a little closer to Dean's so their entire sides touch. Dean doesn't move away.




Dean wakes up with some crazy idea that they need deck chairs, because "The sand gets into my shorts, Sammy, there's only so much my ass can take!" and Sam goes with him to another beach store just to shut him up. They leave half an hour later carrying two chairs, an umbrella, and a huge stack of useless shit that Dean insisted on getting, bundling it all into the back of the Impala.

And Dean sits himself on his chair that afternoon, curling up under the shade of the umbrella and pulling out some kind of mechanics magazine he bought. Sam thinks maybe this should be boring, laying around the beach all day, but with Dean, he doesn't think it's possible for anything to get even slightly mundane.

The only thing is, now he can't fit himself against his brother on the sand, press against him as hard as he can before Dean complains about personal space. But he pulls his own chair right up to Dean's and brushes their forearms together, his skin tingling and throbbing easily under the pressure of Dean's.

Dean grunts and twitches, twisting himself in the chair until he's practically leaning out of it. Sam grabs for his iPod and hits play, letting the music and the sun and the touch of Dean's skin swallow him up into some alternate reality where this is real, and he's happy, and maybe Dean likes him again, maybe Dean's happy too.




It's getting warmer, somehow, and Sam's exploding out of his skin like he never has before. But Dean doesn't complain, not once, and half the time they wander around shirtless, the sun on their backs and warm breeze dusting over their skin.

The ocean is warmer with Dean in it too, his brother's skin slipping and sliding against his own as they wrestle in the water, Dean trying to force Sam's head under the waves and Sam hooking his leg behind Dean's, sending him sprawling underwater and spluttering as he comes up for air.

"Asshole," Dean says, but he's laughing, spraying water from his mouth onto Sam's face.

"You started it," Sam points out. "It was self-defense."

"Is that so?" Dean asks, and he ducks under the water, grabbing at Sam's ankle. Sam feels his feet leave the sand and he cries out, his body jerking around as Dean pulls him under, and he thrashes wildly, trying to pull himself from Dean's grip.

When Dean lets go, he's already making his way back to the beach before Sam can get him back, so he stumbles to catch up and flicks water at Dean's back until he turns around and pushes Sam down again.

"Accept it, little brother," Dean laughs as Sam comes back up again. "You're never gonna beat me."

Sam scowls.




"Room service?"

"Fuck, yeah," Dean groans, flopping down onto the couch and kicking his flip flops off, resting his feet on the coffee table. Sam tries to grapple him for the remote, but fails, Dean keeping a tight grip as he chooses some 80s horror flick that Sam can't even complain about, and he's left to order dinner.

Dean requests pie, and grumbles when it's not on the menu, but his sour expression evaporates when the huge chocolate cake is wheeled through the door to their room. Sam's heart worries itself just looking at it but Dean devours almost half of it after his steak, stuffing mouthful and mouthful into him until he drops his fork with the clatter and falls back against the cushions, groaning and rubbing his stomach.

This is the part where Sam would roll his eyes and laugh at his brother, complaining about how he always eats too much, but it's different here; something uncomprehendingly different about how Dean normally does things. He even wrestles the remote back from Sam in an unfamiliar way, and when Sam scolds him, it isn't the same. There's no wrestling through the doorway of their room, yelling at each other about dinner, fighting over who gets the better bed. Because they don't need to do that stuff any more, not when they're in this place that's so far off from anything they've ever known.

Sam shuffles himself closer to Dean, and they's sitting back against the couch, sides pressed against each other. Dean tries to angle his arm so that his elbow isn't digging into Sam's ribs, but gives up and settles it on the back of the couch instead, just behind Sam's head.

Subconsciously, Sam swears it's subconsciously, he lets his head fall back against Dean's arm, rubbing his hair softly along his skin. Dean's sharp intake of breath is something new, another fresh experience to add to the list of things that Sam likes about this place.

The credits roll, and Dean flicks it over to some late night talk show that has them both groaning and complaining about the people on the screen. They trade insults with each other, Dean vying to be the winner of grossest and most insulting remark about the old guy they're watching, and Sam's laughing too hard to even care about how bad it is, because fuck, Dean hasn't been like this in a long time. Dean hasn't been Dean for a long time.

But now he's back. And he slowly, so very slowly, slides his arm around Sam's shoulders, and Sam's laughter stops, but he doesn't look at his brother. He lets Dean pull him in as he flicks the channel over to another movie, lays his head tentatively on his shoulder and exhales. Dean settles himself against him with a small gasp that Sam can't even be sure he heard at all, but fuck if he wants it to be real.

He's so screwed.




Sam's buzzing, the alcohol working its way through his body fast and hard, sending him into a spin that makes him crazy dizzy even as he's perched on the bar stool, leaning against their table. He hasn't drunk like this in a while, and he feels the tension ease up inside him with every passing minute, leaving his limbs loose and and his mind tranquil.

Dean's had about as much as him, but he's not nearly as drunk, and Sam always was a lightweight. Sam sees Dean's tight mouth and laughter lines crinkling his eyes, knows Dean's laughing at him in the best way he can, like only a big brother can; mocking in a way that isn't cruel but that Sam can forgive and probably join in with himself.

"Wanna head back?" he asks after their eighth cocktail in a row, drumming his fingers against the wooden table and humming Smoke on the Water under his breath.

Sam nods slowly, head spinning from the short movement, and Jesus, he needs to sleep. He's embarrassed for himself in the next second, wants to be alone and in his bed where he can pull the sheets over his head and pretend that he didn't get stupid drunk on a bunch of girly cocktails with neon umbrellas and wedges of lime on the glass. Maybe Dean would forget it too.

Dean slings his arm around him when they leave, the warm breeze fluttering welcomingly along Sam's skin, his lungs feeling clean again after the smoke and alcohol fumes from the bar. He crouches down instinctively so that Dean's arm fits comfortably around his shoulders and he falls against his brother, stumbling a little as he walks, keeping his eyes on Dean's feet.

"Easy," Dean says when Sam nearly falls into a street sign. "C'mon, Sasquatch, we're nearly there."

Sam grumbles and falls harder against him.

He barely remembers the walk through reception and the bright, warm corridors before they reach their room, Dean propping him up against the wall while he fishes the room key out of his pocket. He leans heavily on Dean's shoulder as they stumble across the carpet to the bedroom, panics slightly as his feet leave the ground before he realises Dean has placed him on the bed, and he sinks his head against the pillows, groaning.

He can hear Dean's soft footsteps as he wanders around the room, and when he's back in Sam's line of vision he's stripped down only to his underwear, black boxers contrasting beautifully with his rapidly tanning skin. Sam audibly gasps when Dean's rough, careful fingers press onto his skin, pulling his shirt over his head awkwardly as Sam makes no move to help him out. 

When Dean's fingers pull at the string of his shorts, unlooping the tight bow, Sam whines low in his throat, not really understanding the reality of what's happening around him. He bucks his hips up into Dean's touch and Dean yanks his hand away as if he got burned, hissing and drawing himself back a little. 

The room is silent save for the ringing in Sam's ears and he isn't even sure Dean is there any more until he feels the soft press of Dean's fingers again, slowly pulling down his shorts until Sam is left only in his boxers too.

The air conditioning spreads a welcome chill across his skin, drawing goosebumps over his flesh.

"Hey, Dean?" he asks, out of nowhere, not entirely certain if Dean is still in the room, unsure how long has passed since Dean was at his side.

But the answer comes from somewhere to his right, and he knows Dean's laying in his bed, facing him.

"Yeah?" he answers, his voice rough and laced with the alcohol and sluggishness that comes from carrying Sam's drunk ass home from the bar.

"Remember that time when we were in Seattle?" he asks, voice slurred and loud in the darkness of the room, too loud in his own ears. "And Dad- he left us alone for two weeks, and it was winter, and snowing, and- and it was so cold, 'cause the heating was busted-"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says, voice quiet. Sam hears the sheets rustling a little.

"And when I came home from school," Sam continues, pressing on despite the creeping tiredness that's settling in his bones. "You cooked me spaghetti every night for two weeks, 'cause I begged you to."

Dean chuckles, the sound coming from somewhere far off, somewhere Sam can't reach. Sam smiles at the memory, remembers it like it didn't happen nine years ago.

"I loved you," he whispers then, but it's loud, too loud, and he can't hear Dean's breathing any more. "I still love you," he says, louder, sure of himself, feeling it right down into his core, a steady ray of sunlight that kept strong over all these years, hidden inside his heart where no one could find it. Not even himself. Not until now.

"I love you, Dean," he breathes. He doesn't know how he manages to say it, words slurring into nothingness, but he knows Dean hears it, hears everything. "And I wanna- I wanna do these things to- I need- I-" he struggles to express himself, groaning and twisting round on the mattress, eyes refusing to open fully so that he can look at his brother, his body dragging him down into sleep.

But Dean's voice is there again, catching him, lulling him into unconsciousness. "Shh, Sammy," he whispers, his voice sweet and soft and perfect. "I know. I know."

Sam falls asleep to the sound of his brother's breaths in the dark.




The only thing he hears consistently the next day is Dean's laughter as Sam wanders around in a daze, the world blurring and spinning around him as every step threatens to tumble him to the ground or spew up the meagre contents of his stomach, bubbling hot and acidic as he walks.

Most of the day is spent lying around the beach, Dean perched on his chair listening to Sam's iPod, tapping the rhythm of the music out on his thighs, humming along quietly. Sam pretends he doesn't hear him, but he lays on his towel, falling in and out of sleep all afternoon, Dean's low hums and mumbles pulling him back into reality every so often.

They get takeout and eat it in their hotel room, because Sam's headache thrums through every muscle in his body, and he just wants to be alone.

He doesn't think about what he said last night, and Dean doesn't mention it.

And of course it's Dean's idea to drag him to a karaoke bar when he's still half-way hungover. It's difficult for Sam to complain when Dean spends most of the time annoying everybody else there with countless renditions of 80s songs that everybody's heard a million times before, except Dean does it differently, somehow way worse than Sam could imagine anybody else doing it.

Sam has nothing else to do but drink away the remainder of his hangover and watch his brother stumbling around on the small stage. Sam's past being embarrassed because really, Dean does this at least once every few months, and it's so familiar to him that he usually just tries to block it all out, drinking until Dean's voice is replaced with a welcome hum of nothingness inside his brain.

It's a testament to how much he loves his brother that he forces himself out of his seat an hour later, dragging him off stage after his third Meatloaf rendition in a row. The bar has emptied considerably, a thick smoky haze distorting the faces of all the people left behind, and Sam figures it's because of Dean, but Dean's laughing in his arms and Sam pulls him to their table and throws him down in his seat. Dean slumps across the table, the product of too much beer and cocktails, and he snickers to himself as he fiddles with the menu, feet tapping incessantly on the floor.

Dean's insane boner for pissing people off is exasperating, and Sam doesn't want to be annoyed at his brother but his head is still pounding and the room's spinning gain, and his lungs are so choked up with cigarette smoke that his insides burn with every breath.

"Can we go home now?" he asks, like some kind of bored, spoiled kid.

"Jeez, Sammy," Dean slurs, pulling himself upright and slumping back in his chair instead, eyes struggling to focus on Sam's face. Sam looks away. "Such a buzzkill."

"I don't know, Dean, maybe I'm just sick of hauling your sorry ass around and then having to follow you everywhere still," he says, and it comes out angrier than he wants it to, because honestly, he doesn't want to be pissed with Dean. Not here.

"We're not on a hunt," he continues, and Dean's eyes narrow.

"What, you think this is easy?" he asks, voice rising above the next drunk guy singing karaoke. "Being here with you?"

Sam's fists clench under the table, palms itching like he wants to fight, like he really wants to do this with his brother because God, maybe they can't even go a week without bitching each other out. Maybe it's just not possible. And Dean knows exactly how to get to him, how to worm his way under Sam's skin and down into the marrow of his bones.

He drops his eyes to the floor, gaze snapping over Dean's legs in the process, and the loud, gaudy print of flowers rolls itself across his vision, curling its way around his brain. He takes a deep breath.

Sam didn't say anything when Dean pulled on his most hated item of clothing before they left the hotel, kept quiet even when Dean walked stiffly at his side, face set into a steely glare incase anybody wanted to so much as look at him. But it's difficult now, under the vapor and flashing lights, to stop his lips from curving into a tiny smile. But Dean's looking away, watching some far off people playing pool across the bar. So Sam reminds himself that Dean's wearing shorts with flowers on them because Sam bought them for him, and his heart slows in his chest, anger evaporating into the thick, foggy air.

Instead, he asks, "What's that supposed to mean?", and when Dean turns to him again his eyes hold not even a miniscule hint of rage. He scratches at the table with his nails, stirs water from the melted ice cubes around in his glass with his straw.

"I just- it doesn't matter. Forget I said anything."

"No," Sam counters, bumping his fingers against Dean's knuckles across the table. Dean doesn't pull away, just frowns and continues stabbing at his glass with his free hand.

The way his eyes don't gloss over, the way he fidgets in his chair, how he scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly makes Sam think he isn't drunk any more.

"Talk to me, Dean," he urges. He runs his thumb over the back of Dean's hand, barely aware he's doing it, and Dean flinches, pulling his hand away and resting it on his leg under the table.

"Just drop it," he commands, and he's looking everywhere but at Sam.

"No," Sam says again. "I'm not gonna stop until you tell me what's wrong with you, man." 

"Fuck." Dean shakes his head, dropping the straw. "Wish you would leave stuff alone, Sammy." The way his face crumples under the knowledge that he has to talk makes Sam's chest ache. And maybe this isn't such a good idea.

But Dean's already resigned himself to it; Sam can see it in the way his shoulders tighten and he sits up a little straighter, a little more tense. And it spills out, tiny fragments of it, like it always does.

"After- after Stanford, when I saw you, I tried to- Jesus, I tried so hard to push it all away." Dean chews on his fingernail, staring pointedly at the discarded straw on the table.

"Push what away?" Sam asks, but Dean ignores him.

"And what you said, last night, I thought... But, it doesn't matter. None of it does. It's just this place, it's screwing with me."

Sam wants to believe that he understands what Dean's saying, that it aligns itself somehow with the jumble of excuses inside his own head, but his stomach twists and lurches with how bad he wants it to be true and it can't be. It can't be.

So he comes up with the only other logical conclusion that he can.

"You're still mad at me," he states, and it's not an accusation, just a dull sort of truth that hangs around in the empty spaces inside him. "For leaving."

"No," Dean frowns. "Jesus, Sammy, no. I'm not mad at you, it's not like that, it's-" He cuts himself off with grimace and crushes the straw in his hand, and Sam can see his jaw clenching and brain spinning itself into some demented frenzy of doubt and fear.

Maybe if they ignore it, it'll go away.

Dean's eyes reflect this back to him, and he stands, a little shakily, freeing his wallet from his pocket and heading for the bar. Sam sits for a minute, trying to force his mind into a state of blankness that doesn't leave him feeling so empty and bitter.

Dean's waiting for him when he gets outside, leaning against a mailbox with his hands in his pockets. He doesn't look up as Sam approaches.

Sam wants to say I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry. But he doesn't even know what it would be for, except he has this throbbing inside his veins that tells him there's something broken, something that he fucked up again.

He's probably in love with his brother, but it's okay. He's handling it.




They spend their days at the beach, their nights at bars, at restaurants, having room service in their suite, watching movies on the pay per view. It's like nothing Sam's ever felt before, nothing, and his happiness doesn't even feel real, like his entire life belongs to someone else and he's just going through the motions, wondering when he's gonna switch back to how he was before. When Dean's going to grumble and complain at his bitchiness and sulkiness and Sam's going to wish more than anything that he could be better, that he could be what Dean wants. That he could change.

But now, this; it's like every dream he never allowed himself to dwell on, every fleeting thought of how their lives could be if they were happy, if they were together and honest to God happy, instead of yelling at each other before they even fully wake up, getting drunk together and messing with each other and cracking jokes and being brothers  instead of fighting and throwing punches. 

Sam's never known his brother as well as he knows him here. He feels Dean right down to his bones, recognises every passing thought on his face, twist of his lips, clench of his hands against cocktail glasses in bars filled with people that Sam doesn't care about, Dean's eyes squinting against the sun at the beach, on the sidewalk, in places filled with people that aren't Dean.

And it's Sam's fault, he knows it is, for not paying enough attention to his brother, for ignoring him for days when he's pissed, yelling at him when he gets annoyed, grumbling when Dean finds a hunt that's halfway across the country, glaring into thin air when they eat lunch at a greasy, dirty diner that only cooks steak and cheeseburgers.

Dean's smiling here, and it curves his lips into the most beautiful thing Sam could ever see, touches the lines of his face and makes them softer, smoother, makes Dean young again, carefree and hopeful like the teenager Sam remembers, like the young man Sam remembers before he went to Stanford and left him behind. He left Dean behind, and it kills him, twists his insides into a filthy caricature of shame and disgust, and he spent so long being mad at his brother that he didn't realise he was really mad at himself.

But he sees it now. And he sees how Dean falls asleep so easily here, drifts off into something resembling peace and calm, and he forgives himself because he's here now, and he's changing, and this is Dean, the most important thing in his life. The only thing, the only person, that matters to him. And Dean's smile is his reason to breathe, an argument to wake up in the morning, the only thing that makes sense to him. The only thing that will stand for eternity inside his mind.

So he makes Dean smile. He buys porn on the pay per view and goes out to bring back the greasiest burgers he can find. He flicks sand at Dean's face, splashes water all over his back, squirts sun lotion on his head, lets him chase him around and wrestle him to the floor, messing up Sam's hair and ruffling his clothes. And Dean smiles. Sam smiles too, so long and so hard that his face hurts, but Dean smiles back, and Dean laughs at him when he jerks off in the shower.

And Dean's laugh is the other thing that Sam lives for.




"It's been three weeks," Dean mentions, casual as anything while they eat pancakes for breakfast. Sam stops shovelling food into his mouth and stares at his brother. "Maybe - I mean- we should probably start looking for hunts, right? Start thinking about getting out of here."

Sam's heart sinks and his hand is heavier, suddenly, and he lets his fork clatter onto the plate. Dean looks nervous, like he knows exactly how Sam feels.

"I mean, I like it here, Sammy," Dean hurries to explain himself. "It's been great and all, but, y'know... we have work to do, people to save, all that stuff."

Sam nods, chewing on his fingernail. He knows Dean's right, hell, he even agrees with him. But the thought of leaving this behind right now, going back to their real life at <i>this moment</i>, it sends rushes of icy cold through his veins, makes his heart plummet, like he knows something is unfinished, like he knows there's more for them to get out of this. There's more to do. Things he has to do before they leave.

So instead of pitching a fit, or trying to please Dean by insisting they leave straight away, he forces a smile onto his face.

"One more week?" he asks, resuming his pancakes.

And Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam doesn't even need to ask twice.




"What you watching?" Dean asks the next night, setting down his crates of beer and plastic pie containers from the store on the coffee table and plopping down beside Sam on the couch. He doesn't sit at his own side, instead he sprawls unevenly across the middle, knee bumping against Sam's. 

Sam shrugs and hands the remote to his brother, pulling a bottle free from the crate and sinking back onto the couch, settling in beside Dean in a way that makes his stomach flutter like some kind of preteen girl with her first crush.

Dean switches the channel over to some action flick that Sam barely watches, too concerned with looking at how Dean shovels the pie in his mouth, how his lips work around the plastic fork. Dean catches him more than once, but Sam can't look away, a sick, desperate desire inside him making him think this is the only thing he wants to see for the rest of his life. The part of him that screams Sam, what are you doing, Sam, this is wrong gets jostled away as a new part takes over; the dark pit inside his brain that tells him Dean is something he wants.

Something changes between them when Dean pays more attention to how he slides the fork in his mouth and places pieces of pie on his tongue. At first, it's minute, but then Sam swears Dean's making a thing out of it, wrapping his lips around the plastic and making soft slurping sounds as he pulls it out slowly, punching little groans from his throat around the pie, his eyes fluttering closed.

Sam rearranges himself, shuffles around on the couch, uncomfortable pulse between his thighs that he wants to pretend doesn't exist.

He thinks he catches Dean's smirk, but he doesn't say anything.




"You know this is the gayest thing we've ever done, right?" Dean asks him, corners of his lips twitching up into a smile. The sun's setting, beginning it's slow descent below the edge of the ocean, and they wander along the sand, in almost total silence save for Dean's little remarks.

If you wanted romance, Sammy, all you had to do was ask-

Jesus, I didn't realise we were on our honeymoon-

C'mon, Sam, hold my hand, might as well make it as gay as we can-

Sam has to hide his smile to avoid certain humiliation, but Dean's stream of comments makes him want to scream, makes him want to grab his brother and throw him down onto the sand and do stuff that he probably shouldn't be thinking about, that he hadn't been thinking about since the other day at the diner, when Dean wanted to leave this place.

And it's this that Sam knows he wants to do before they go. And if it stays here forever, doesn't follow them home, then it's okay. He's okay.

The sun sinks lower in the sky as they walk, pink glow reflecting softly off of Dean's skin, and Sam watches him from the corner of his eye the whole time, scared to look at him incase Dean reads all this on his face. 

They make it to the sidewalk before the sky darkens completely, spilling ink across the horizon, red and orange spots fighting and losing against the black as they fade below the edge of the earth. Dean's silent now, and Sam's brain twists itself into knots.

Their shadows lengthen in the glow of the streetlights as they tread the familiar path back to the hotel. Sam stalls, ambling along slowly beside his brother, pulling Dean into step beside him, slowing and slowing until he stops, unsure of himself and unsure why. But he turns to face Dean, and Dean isn't frowning, isn't glaring at him, isn't making any expression at all.


It's all he can think to say because nothing else could even make sense.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean asks, and his voice is so soft and so honest that the twisting in his gut subsides for the moment and all he knows is calm for a few seconds before Dean moves closer to him, and Sam can almost feel Dean's breath on his face, imagine the warmth whispering over his skin.

Dean's perfect like always, cheeks flushed a little from the evening sun and the drinks they had earlier, lips slightly parted as he swipes his tongue across them and eyes focused completely on Sam's face.

Sam doesn't know how to put this. Isn't sure it's going to lead to anything good; actually, he's almost certain it won't. But they're in another world, an alternate reality where things are better, where they're better, and Sam's running out of time.

So he kisses Dean, right there on the sidewalk.

Dean doesn't pull back or move away or yell at him or any of the things Sam thought he would. He's still and quiet in Sam's arms, lips soft and warm and pliant. Sam can taste the salt on his skin, the hard edge of tequila on his breath, and he darts his tongue over Dean's bottom lip, tasting the faint bitterness of lemon juice.

Dean moans into his mouth, parting his lips, and Sam takes the opportunity to slide his tongue inside. He glides it soft and slow against Dean's, and Dean responds, twitching his lips and licking tentatively at Sam's tongue, pulling at Sam's shirt before it's all over, and he draws back, pushes Sam away from him. Sam can't read his face, knows nothing of what Dean's thinking, and it kills him.

"Sam," Dean breathes, stepping closer again, looking up at him with wide, serious eyes. "Sammy."

Sam wants to apologise, wants to say he's sorry and ask Dean to yell at him and hit him and leave him. Wants to tell Dean it's okay if he never even wants to look at him again, if he wants to ride off in the Impala by himself and leave Sam stranded and alone in a ghost town, nothing but memories of Dean with the sun on his skin and those goddamn flowery shorts. Some place to stay once he's lost it all.

"I love you," he says instead. His heart explodes and pieces itself back together under Dean's stare. He steps off the edge of the universe and falls into Dean's eyes, bright and green and alive in front of him. "I love you, Dean," he says again. "I love you, I love you, I love y-"

Dean swallows up Sam's words with mouth, pressing his lips hungrily against Sam's, and Sam pulls him in tight until their chests fit together, pressed flush against each other. Dean's tongue finds its way inside Sam's mouth again and they move perfectly together, and Dean tastes like heaven, and Sam's sure as hell that this can't be real. It's a dream, something he never wants to wake up from, but Dean's nipping at his lower lip with his teeth and the reality surrounds his body and swallows him up in a sickly sweet haze of lust and guilt and need and shame.

And when Sam thinks Dean's going to stop, he doesn't. They kiss for an eternity, spit-slicked lips sliding together and tongues dancing against each other. He could probably stay here for the rest of his life, kissing Dean. Thinks maybe he wants nothing else but this ever again.

When Dean finally pulls away, it's slowly, but Sam still feels the loss hit him hard, shards of ice piercing into his skin at the disappearance of Dean's warmth against him. They look at each other for a long time, silent, but Sam skips the entire conversation in his head, reaches the conclusion that he knows is inevitable.

"Sammy," Dean says finally, and it tells Sam everything he needs to know.

"I know," Sam says, voice rough and crackly from all the kissing. "We're brothers. I'm your little brother. I know.

Dean laughs and it hits Sam square in the chest, threatening to knock him over and into unconsciousness. He wants turn around and run forever, never stop until his disgust at himself withers away into nothing, fades into some kind of insignificant aspect of his personality, just another part of himself that he stows away in the back of his mind.

"I don't care about that," Dean whispers, shuffling forward and grabbing at the front of Sam's shirt. "Don't care, Sammy. Wanted this for too long."

And Sam knows exactly what he means. This thing between them has been there for so, so long. Maybe even forever.

Sam swears his heart stops, blood in his veins stuttering to a dangerous halt, nothing circulating in his body, nothing, and he can't think. Can't breathe.

Dean dances his fingers along the neckline of Sam's shirt, light pressure of his palm against Sam's collar bone. Sam swallows, and he's so very, very scared. He thinks maybe Dean's messing with him, but he doesn't want to believe it. He wants to think this is real, it's happening; Dean wants this too. Dean wants this too. It bounces around inside his head until Dean's fingers pull him back into the present, trailing along his cheekbone and down to his mouth, sliding soft and slow over his bottom lip, still wet and swollen from the kiss. Dean's fingertips are rough and calloused and so familiar to Sam.

"You wanna-" Dean coughs and clears his throat, his hand falling softly down Sam's body until he stalls his fingers apprehensively at the hem of his shorts. "You wanna head back?"

He doesn't move his hand away, instead stroking at the sensitive skin just above Sam's shorts. Despite the warmth of the night, a deep, cold rush of want shocks through Sam's entire body, and his skin is tingling like crazy where Dean is touching him. He's so hard that it physically hurts, the ache of his dick pressed hard against his body by the constricting material.

"Yeah," Sam replies, without even thinking about it, and he wants to cringe at how husky and needy his voice sounds but Dean's eyes are shining fiercely, his wide, open smile glittering beautifully under the sterile glow of the street lights. He drops his fingers from Sam's skin and reaches for his hand instead, entwining their fingers together easily. Sam thinks it should feel weird, holding hands with his brother, but he never knew how empty he was before Dean was clutching his warm, sweaty palm in his own, dragging him back in the direction of their hotel.

The walk back to the room is short, and neither of them say anything. The only thing Sam can focus on is how Dean's fingers feel against his, fitting between his own perfectly like they were always meant to be there, pressed reassuringly against his skin. Like Dean's hand was made to hold Sam's. Like they were made for each other, in every sense of the phrase.

They're silent still after they step in the room, and the quiet echo of Sam pulling the door closed behind him is all that he can hear, the only sound he can get a grasp on above the loud rush of blood in his ears. But Dean is the only thing he can see; Dean, who's shuffling nervously from foot to foot, playing with a loose thread on his shirt, fiddling with the strings on his shorts and staring pointedly at the ground. Sam doesn't know what that means. Dean, who's always so forthcoming with women in bars. Who'll never stall, as long as he knows he's gonna get laid.

"I'm not... I'm not really sure how this is supposed to work," Sam admits, folding his arms self-consciously across his chest. And Dean finally looks up then, and he's biting his lip, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly, and Sam gets it, he does. They're both going in blind here. He can't just stand around and wait for direction from his big brother, like he's done most of his life.

Sam closes the gap between them until they're as close as they were outside. When he touches Dean's cheek, he feels his brother's slight shiver down to his bones.

They're kissing again before Sam can even wonder how it happened, work out who initiated it. But Dean's backing him into the bedroom and Sam's brain short circuits; feels his whole body spark and ignite when Dean throws him onto one of the beds, falling on top of him hard and awkwardly, knees digging perfectly into Sam's thighs.

He's grateful for Dean's mouth to swallow up his tiny, fragile gasps as Dean kisses him hard and without restraint, fisting his hand in Sam's hair and tugging his head into position every time Sam remembers he's dreaming and lets it loll to the side. But Dean keeps sucking Sam's tongue into his mouth, biting down on his already bruised lips, digging his fingertips into Sam's skull, reminding him that he's alive.

"Sam," Dean whispers, pulling back a little, and to Sam it feels like the first time he's spoke in an eternity. "Sammy."

Sam doesn't answer, eager to hear everything that spills from his brother's mouth, but Dean just stares down at him, searching Sam's face, his eyes, for any kind of resistance. Sam's open underneath him, completely exposed, hiding nothing, and it hurts, stings his soul like nothing else can. The way he always feels when he's honest with Dean.

And then Dean shifts position slightly until Sam feels that tell-tale hardness pressed against his own. Sam groans quietly, and Dean's eyes flutter closed and then open again, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and breathing deep and slow. He's beautiful, he's never been so beautiful; his tanned skin reflecting obscenely under the glare of the ceiling light, eyes bright and honest and eager, and it's unfair, so completely unfair that Dean stands out like this wherever they are, a breathtaking, captivating contrast to the lifeless reality of the rest of the world around him.

"Fuck," Dean groans, dragging his hips so that the length of his cock slides against Sam's, and Sam can feel everything under the thin material of their shorts. He's close to losing it, losing grasp of all the control he's been trying to keep for his entire life, using all his strength to stop himself from giving it all up completely and begging for Dean to fuck him over and over again. The last ten years have been some kind of sick, desperate foreplay, and the knowledge that it all led up to this one moment, that it all ends here, twists Sam's stomach into knots, seizes him with a force that makes his head spin.

"Want you so bad, Sam," Dean breathes, catching his lips in another deep, desperate kiss laced with need and guilt and all those other beautifully fucked up things between them.

"Please," Sam responds, bucking his hips against his brother's, groaning low as their erections drag against each other's again. "Fuck, Dean, please."

Dean pushes his hand up under Sam's shirt, grazing softly across his skin. Sam arches up into the touch, needing more, needing everything Dean can give him, and Dean pulls him halfway up into a sitting position to pull his shirt over his head, throwing it dismissively onto the floor as Sam falls back against the pillows.

"What d'you want?" Dean whispers, fingers tracing every curve and groove of Sam's torso, pressing against his abs and grazing across his nipples, trailing fumblingly along his collarbone. Sam guesses it's supposed to come out differently that it does, but he catches the apprehension in his brother's eyes and knows he's just looking for more confirmation or, at the very least, a detailed list of every dirty, fucked up thing Sam wants him to do to him.

So he says, "Anything." He says, "Everything."

Dean smirks, eyes glinting mischievously, a delicious twist to his lips that leaves Sam struggling to pull air into his lungs. Dean pulls his own shirt off and reaches down for the string at the front of Sam's shorts, untying it nimbly and Sam just watches, certain now that the blanket of awkwardness has disappeared from over their heads, everything thrust into the tiny space between their bodies like it's all that matters. And it is.

When Sam's fully naked, he tries to act confident, or at least like he isn't on the verge of passing out from nervousness, but Dean's eyes wander over his skin anyway, taking in every inch of Sam's body, and Sam wants to throw up from the inspection, feels sick with how much of himself that Dean is seeing.

But Dean leans down and presses a soft kiss just above Sam's hipbone, and Sam doesn't care any more. He really, really fucking doesn't care because Dean slides the tip of his tongue out of his mouth and tracks it softly along Sam's skin, across his stomach, into the groove of his belly button and across to the other side, sucking a purple-red bruise over his hipbone. Sam twists and writhes under him, grinding his hips into the empty air, and Dean pulls back.

"Tease," Sam utters, rough and breathless, so desperate and far gone from just this that he tries to grab for Dean, tries to pull him onto him, but Dean swats his hands away with a smirk.

"Nuh uh, Sammy," he chides, stroking his palm achingly slow along Sam's inner thigh, stopping short just before he reaches Sam's dick.

"Just fuck me already," Sam groans, arching up into Dean's touch like it might make him go faster. It doesn't.

"Gonna take my time with you," Dean promises, and he finally, mercifully closes his palm tight around Sam's cock. "Gonna do everything I ever wanted to do to you." Sam squeezes his eyes shut, one short movement away from biting into his fist to stem the whimper that threatens to pass his lips. "Gonna mark you up, make you mine," he continues, and Sam whimpers anyway. "You're mine, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, choking out the word. "'m yours. Show me." And Dean does.

He takes the head of Sam's cock in his mouth in one smooth motion, so sudden that Sam chokes around the breath he was holding. And Dean's good, like he's been doing this forever. Sam thinks maybe he has.

And all he knows is white hot heat around him, teasing slide of Dean's tongue on his skin, and he groans, deep and desperate, when the head of his cock hits the hard resistance of the back of Dean's throat. But Dean swallows him down and Sam lets go of all the effort it took not to thrust into Dean's mouth, knowing Dean can take it. Dean moans around almost the entire length of Sam's cock and it resonates through Sam's body, forcing little twinges and pulses inside him that tell him he's going to come embarrassingly fast if Dean doesn't slow down or stop. 

But Dean takes him right to the edge, bobbing up and down fast and tight so that he makes Sam crazy, so fucking crazy and frantically trying to stop himself from coming inside his brother's mouth.

When he pulls off, he doesn't move away, instead licking a long stripe down Sam's length to the base. He licks and sucks his way downwards, tongue fluttering over Sam's balls and Sam twitches against the bed, grabbing onto the sheets below his body. But Dean keeps going, and he trembles underneath his brother, little uncontrollable shakes because he knows what Dean is going to do, and he's terrified, but he wants it so bad that he can't bring himself to speak up, to do anything other than let it happen.

And Dean's tongue swipes once, twice over Sam's hole, quick and wet and the best fucking thing Sam has ever felt, made only more gratifying by the fact that it's Dean doing this to him. His fingers are sore and seizing up from gripping onto the sheets so hard, and he's biting his lip so violently to stop himself from thrusting onto Dean's face that the tastes the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam groans, his breath exploding into dust around him, his veins boiling under his skin, the warmth of a sick, violent lust settling deep inside him. "Fuck, fuck- ngh-"

Dean laughs softly, and it vibrates against Sam's skin, sending his hips jerking into nothingness. And then he's licking again, twisting his tongue around the rim, darting it inside Sam, fast and urgent. Sam feels on the verge of passing out, his brain fuzzy and clouded over with arousal and all he can think is Dean, Dean, Dean-

Dean pushes a finger inside him and Sam swears his body explodes around it, swept up in a feverish intensity that makes his head spin. He pushes onto it until it's all the way inside, buried as far as it can go, and then Dean crooks it inside him, wiggling the digit around, and Sam can barely see straight.

"More," he croaks, breathless, wriggling his hips around. "More, Dean, I can take it-"

Dean pushes another in, and another, attaching his lips to Sam again and licking and fingering him open, and Sam melts completely into the mattress, forgetting his name, forgetting everything but the feel of Dean's fingers and Dean's tongue and Dean.

Dean pulls his fingers and mouth away with a wet pop, and Sam doesn't even have the energy to lift his head up to look at his brother, already too fucked out without even being fucked.

"Alright down there, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam grunts, letting his eyes drift closed. Dean groans and settles himself on top of him again, slapping lightly at his cheek to force his eyes open, and the shock of green which hits his tired eyes is enough to make him alive again. "C'mon, you haven't even sucked my dick yet."

Sam's mouth waters at the visual of Dean's flushed and panting face and the phantom taste of Dean on his lips, and he heaves himself onto his elbows, squinting up at his brother.

Dean dismounts and falls back on the bed, hands behind his head and legs spread in an invitation that Sam scrambles to accept, so needy and eager for Dean's cock in his mouth that he doesn't care about anything else, doesn't even care how desperate he must look.

He keeps his eyes locked on Dean's as he slides his tongue out, testingly, to lick softly at the head of Dean's cock and collect the little pool of precome from the slit. Dean moans, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, but he doesn't take his eyes away from Sam's.

So Sam spreads his lips wide and sinks down onto Dean's dick, managing half of it before it presses painfully at the back of his mouth and he splutters around the length. Dean's fingers are twisting softly in hair, brushing his bangs off his forehead, but he doesn't try to push Sam down any further and Sam pulls off, eyes watering and coughing a little. 

But he goes back to licking and sucking at the head, groaning softy when he catches a bead of precome on his tongue. He uses his hand to work the rest of Dean's cock, slick with his spit, and Dean starts a chorus of moans and whines as Sam sucks hard at the tip, alternating between sinking as much as he can take into his mouth and licking hot, wet stripes up the length.

"Doin' so good, Sammy," Dean encourages, fingers loose in the damp hair at the nape of Sam's neck. "So fuckin' perfect at this-"

Sam wants more and more of the taste of Dean, would keep doing this until he could swallow down Dean's load, hot and thick and sweet, but he wants to be fucked so bad that he has to consciously stop himself from pushing Dean over the edge.

He pulls off with a whimper, resting back on his heels and Dean surges towards him, kissing him rough and deep, and it's all become so familiar now that every moment Dean doesn't spend kissing him is strange, alien; an indicator from another time where they didn't agree without words that they were going to fuck each other.

"Got me nice 'n wet," Dean croons, giving his dick a few tugs along the slippery length to illustrate. "Gonna go in you so easy, Sammy, you're already so open for me."

Sam's never been good with talking in bed, prefers to show his feelings with actions rather than words, so he struggles to respond to Dean in anything other than breathy moans and pants and "fuck, Dean!" but Dean doesn't stop talking, doesn't stop uttering filthy sweet words in Sam's ear until Sam could split apart with the pent up tension inside his body.

Dean pushes him back onto the bed until he's flush against the sheets, staring up at his brother like some kind of shy virgin, knowing what's going to happen now but not really knowing how to do it, how to respond. But Dean's certainty is enough for both of them.

Dean curls his fingers around the back of Sam's thighs and pushes them up towards his belly, his eyes burning holes into Sam's skin as he does, eyes dark with longing and a thirst that Sam never knew his brother had, never knew he himself had.

He wants to say something to break the spell between them, fill up the silence, but words escape him. Dean raises his eyebrows and inclines his head a little, a silent ask for confirmation, and Sam nods his head, swallowing thickly; he's more ready for this than for anything.

Dean lines up, presses the tip of his cock against Sam's slick, stretched hole and Sam whimpers.

"'M not even in yet," Dean laughs.

"Hurry up," Sam urges, fisting his hands in the sheets. "Please, Dean, need you."

"Okay, okay," Dean mumbles, gripping tighter onto Sam's legs. Sam whines, trying to push himself onto Dean's cock. 

"Christ," Dean groans, and then he's pushing inside, thick head of his cock burning past the tight ring of muscle and Sam clenches his jaw against the pain, focusing on how it's Dean doing this, and with every inch Dean sinks inside him the sharp sting ebbs away until he's fully inside and Sam's so fucking full and Dean feels better than he even could have imagined himself.

Dean pauses, staying buried deep inside Sam, eyes clenched shut tight. Sam can barely breathe, reality of what's happening punching the air out of him. He untangles his fingers from the sheets and raises his hand to his brother, brushing his palm over Dean's stomach before curling his fingers into his back and pulling him down. Dean falls with a soft grunt, landing with his elbows either side of Sam's head, and they're almost pressed chest to chest.

Dean opens his eyes and blinks at Sam a few times, lost in some other world inside his head. But then he buries his head in Sam's shoulder and starts to pull out, even slower than he sunk in.

"Dean," Sam urges, "You're not gonna break me, c'mon, fuck me, fuck me, please."

"Fuck, Sam," Dean groans, lifting up his head and looking pained, like he's been trying to restrain himself this entire time, and fuck, he probably has. He stops just before he's pulled all the way out, the head still inside Sam. "Like it rough, huh?"

Sam nods, because he needs it bad, and he's past teasing, past speaking.

Dean thrusts into him in one motion and without warning, and the noise that punches its way out of Sam's throat is barely human.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean groans, buried to the hilt. "Fuckin'- don't know what I was waitin' for. Shoulda been doing this forever... but- but you were- you're my- my-"

"I'm your brother," Sam whines, grinding against Dean's dick. "And I want you to - unf - fuck me like you mean it- Dean- c'mon-"

"Fuckin'- hell - Sam-"

Dean fucks into him without restraint, harder with every thrust, and Sam's babbling, has no idea what he's saying because he's too far gone, and Dean feels too good inside him that he doesn't give a shit about repressing himself, about how much he's probably begging Dean to fuck him harder.

"Jus' like that, huh?" Dean's saying, and Sam thinks he's lost it too. But Dean doesn't stop, a perpetual stream of commentary like he's trying to remind himself that it's really Sam, like that's the most important part of this, and it only makes Sam groan louder, meet Dean's thrusts with more force.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam forces out, teeth gritted against the sweet sting as Dean goes deep, fucking into him so violently that he slides inches up the bed, his skull hitting repeatedly off the wooden headboard with every thrust. It adds another element of pain that just makes Sam want this more, want to be fucked 'til he can't walk straight. And Dean's doing a good job of making that a reality.

Dean nips at his shoulder and sucks softly on the skin before he bites down, hard, and Sam whines, so close to the edge that he's just waiting to fall off, scared to wrap a hand around his dick because he doesn't want to be the one to come first, or maybe he just wants Dean to do it for him.

Dean's hips stutter and his thrusts get sloppier, and he falls until he's blanketing Sam with his body. "So - fuck - so close, Sammy," he mumbles in Sam's ear, voice breathy and broken, and Sam can't stand it any more. He forces a hand between their bodies, hot and slick with sweat, and gasps when his fingers find himself, wrapping tight around his aching cock.

Dean pulls back a little and grumbles, swatting Sam's hand away, and Sam bites into his tongue when Dean's hand replaces it, jerking hard and rough. He arches into Dean's touch, brain struggling to focus on Dean inside him, or Dean on him, everything blurring into one and he has to shut his eyes tight against the pressure building inside him.

Dean grips him tighter, free hand finding the back of Sam's thigh pushing it up so he can go deeper, leaving fingertip shaped imprints on his skin. Sam's falling apart under him, sure he's ripped the sheets with how hard he's clutching them, needing something, anything, steady and solid to root him to the bed.

Dean comes with a muffled groan, face pressed hard against Sam's neck, teeth nipping at his skin. Sam feels it; hot, wet pulses filling him up from the inside, and then he's coming with Dean's hand wrapped so tight around his dick that he feels like he's going to pass out. The force of his orgasm rips through him fiercely, every muscle in his body seizing up and releasing, and his hands curl around Dean's back, fingernails digging heavily into the soft flesh. He spurts over Dean's hand and between their bodies, slicking up their bellies as Dean pulls his hand away and falls flush against Sam.

His brother doesn't move, stays rigid on top of him as he comes down, breathing hard into Sam's ear. Sam isn't much better himself, feels like his chest is going to burst with the force of his breathing, every inhale creating a steady burn down his throat and into his lungs.

Everything gets slower then, time faltering gradually until the room is almost silent, their breaths quiet and shallow, and Sam's mind comes back into his body, reasoning and awareness returning all at once until the press of Dean against his sweat and come soaked body is all he knows.

Dean groans and untangles himself from Sam, pulling out with a grunt, his stomach and hand messy with Sam's come, and he examines it with a grimace, wiping his fingers onto the sheets.

"Hey," Sam complains, his voice rough and quiet, and he almost chokes around the sound. "This is my bed, asshole."

Dean laughs and smears his hand in the mess on the sheets, pulling them up to wipe at his stomach, too, and Sam's outraged; tries to sit up and do something about it, but a dull throb of pain pulls him back down and he groans.

Dean doesn't look at him with concern, and it's not like Sam expected him to. He gets up from between Sam's legs instead, falls heavily onto the bed beside him, the area that's clean and dry and not covered in sweat and come and who knows what the fuck else. He's smirking as he sinks under the sheets, making a show of how comfortable it all is, and Sam flips him off.

But a few seconds of silence pass, and Dean sits up a little, shoving the covers down his body.

"You okay?" he asks, and he sounds different, somehow. The post-sex voice of Dean Winchester that Sam never thought he'd hear, and Sam can't help how his face flushes at the thought, despite what they just did, and Jesus. He's so fucked.

"Yeah," he answers, with a certainty that can only come from fucking your brother for the first time, the brother you've been in love with for half your life. "I'm great. You?"

Dean laughs again, small and quiet, and Sam sees his own disbelief mirrored on his brother's face.

Dean nods. "Fuck," he groans, falling back onto the pillows. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. They don't need to say anything else.

Dean turns the light out and Sam can't see a thing in the darkness, can only hear his brother shuffling around beside him. But he feels it when Dean tugs on his arm, manoeuvres his body backwards until they fit together completely, Sam's back pressed against Dean's chest. Dean groans softly into Sam's hair, slinging an arm over his waist, and Sam settles against his brother, tries to curb the small smile that tugs at his lips even if he knows Dean can't see it.




There's something different about waking up the next morning, something absolute in its presence that Sam startles awake, eyes shooting open and darting around the room, bright and colourful with the morning sun shimmering through the glass wall. But there's no threat, something which he establishes when he feels Dean pressed up against his back, arm slung over his waist, his warm, soft skin enveloping Sam in a sweet haze of lust and heat.

Dean's morning wood pressed against his ass is something he should probably have expected, but it still makes a pool of heat settle in his belly, and his mind cloud with a dark fog of need. He presses back against his brother, ignoring the dull throb of pain from last night, and Dean wriggles around in his sleep, pushing himself closer to Sam and somehow Sam gets even harder, a tiny moan escaping his lips against his best attempts to stop it.

"Mmm, Sammy," Dean groans, hot, wet breath on his ear and Sam twitches. "Ready for me already?" He grasps his hand around Sam's already achingly hard cock and squeezes, and Sam twists his neck and whimpers into the pillow, boldness of last night forgotten as a blush spreads across his cheeks and his chest aches with embarrassment at how much he wants this.

"C'mon," Dean laughs, stroking his palm slowly along Sam's cock, pressing soft, wet kisses to his neck. "I already know what a slut you are for my cock, Sam." Sam groans and bites into the pillow, fisting his hand in the sheets. "Don't need to hide it." He licks a long stripe from Sam's collarbone to his jawline, trailing kisses along his skin until he reaches his ear lobe, pulling it between his teeth and sucking softly. Sam's past coherent thought now, would probably do anything Dean asked him to do, and he pulls his face free of the pillow and kisses his brother, slow and deep and perfect.

Dean grinds his hips against Sam as they kiss, head of his cock slicking precome against his ass, and Sam pushes back against him so hard that he thinks he's going to melt into Dean, their flesh becoming one whole just like their souls, when they're together; just another part of them that's tangled up forever.

Dean nudges his cock against Sam's slicked up hole, and Sam breathes out a sharp moan as his brother continues to work his hand up and down his length, stuck between jerking forward into the touch or pushing back onto Dean's cock, sliding it inside, feel it filling him up slow and deep.

But Dean decides it for him, removing his hand from Sam momentarily to spit on his palm and slick up his cock. When he goes back to stroking Sam, Sam shivers at the cool spread of Dean's spit over his skin, taking off the edge of friction and bringing Sam embarrassingly closer and closer to his release.

Dean pushes the head of his cock inside Sam then, and Sam hisses at the sharp sting of pain, his hole so used and sore from last night that he's surprised he even wants this. But Dean's filling him up and it feels better even than last night, so raw and obscene in the way Dean's dick slides past the abused ring of muscle easy, pressing into the tender flesh and making Sam writhe and moan at the sweet juxtaposition of pleasure and pain.

Dean rocks into him in slow, steady thrusts, taking the pace so different from last night, and Sam arches back into him, struggling to draw enough breath into his lungs, gasping as Dean litters sweet kisses along his back and neck, licking and sucking and biting at the skin of his shoulder.

It lasts longer, and Sam lasts longer, too; but it still hits him too fast, too violent, and when he spurts all over Dean's hand he muffles his groan in the pillow, rapid warmth spreading under his skin and leaving through his last ragged breath before it evens out to normal again.

Dean pulls out slowly, kissing Sam's shoulder as he does, and then his weight is lifted off the bed and Sam's cold all over.

"Shower?" Dean asks, an open invitation that leaves Sam scrambling up from the bed and following his brother into the bathroom.




"We gonna talk about this?" Dean asks around a mouthful of burger, fingers and lips covered in a light dusting of of slick grease and flour from the bun. Sam motions at his own face with his hand, and Dean wipes away only half of the white mess on his face, so Sam gives up.

"Uh," he answers stupidly, picking at his pasta with his fork. He shoves it around his plate, stalling the moment that he has to meet Dean's eyes. But Dean moans impatiently around the food in his mouth, and Sam sighs, fixing his eyes on his brother's and shrugging. "Do you wanna?"

Dean swallows. "Hell, no," he replies, stuffing a handful of fries into his mouth. And then, softer, "Think I said it all last night."

Sam chuckles darkly and sucks on the straw of his milkshake. "So... that's it?" he asks, wiping the froth away from his lips with the back of his hand. "You're not gonna..." he trails off, reluctant to finish the sentence incase Dean gets offended or pissed. But Dean just continues munching on his fries for a while before he answers, wiping his greasy hands on the front of his shirt. Sam grimaces.

"No," Dean says eventually. "No, Sammy. No running. You gonna-?"

Sam shakes his head so fast that he's sure he gives himself whiplash.

"Of course not."

And that's it. Dean smiles and shovels the remainder of his fries into his mouth, and the conversation's over. Sam's heartbeat returns to normal and he registers the change in the air between them, shifting from awkward and tentative to some kind of certainty, the beginning of a sort of constant presence, gluing them both together like this without any doubts inside their heads.




After lunch at the diner, Dean sneaks off somewhere while Sam stocks up on beer from the store. There's some 70s flick on tonight that Dean wants to watch, and they ran out of beer this morning - this morning - and at this point he's pretty sure his veins are just pure alcohol. But he's not complaining; he likes the buzz, the happy kind of thrill he gets with alcohol in his belly and his brother beside him.

Dean's in the shower again when Sam gets back to the room, and Sam tingles so bad inside at the thought of what they did in there this morning that Dean would laugh if he could see. He sets the crates of beer on the counter in the kitchen, and makes to go to the bedroom before his eyes linger on a small brown bag that wasn't there earlier.

So he looks, sue him; it's not like they're keeping secrets.

His smile is so wide when he pulls out the bottle of lube that his teeth hurt. He tries to calm the racing of his heart when he hears the shower splutter to a stop and Dean stumbling around the bathroom.

Sam pounces when Dean enters the room with a towel round his waist, his hair damp and tiny droplets of water scattered over his shoulders. He sees Sam holding up the lube and stops, his face twisting into uncertainty, but Sam's on him before he can even say anything, pulling him into a deep kiss and pressing his back against the wall.

"We gonna use this?" Sam asks, pulling back and holding up the bottle.

Dean laughs. "That's the idea, genius."

"Then I want to. Now," he commands, drawing back and pulling his shirt over his head, not caring about wasting time with any sort of build up.

"Jesus," Dean breathes, bracing his hands against the wall. "Toppiest bottom if ever I knew one."

"Shut up," Sam demands, forcing the bottle into Dean's palm and sliding off his shorts. He pulls at Dean's towel and lets it fall to the floor, and they're both standing there, completely naked and hard as hell.

"Hands and knees," Dean mutters, staring at Sam so intently that Sam's momentarily thrown, forgetting that he was the one who initiated this. But he drops to the ground in front of Dean and turns, pushing his ass up into the air eagerly and fisting his hands against the carpet.

He feels the weight of Dean fall behind him, and none of this is moving too fast, not even when Dean's slicked up fingers slide inside him, two of them at once, forcing their way past the ring of muscle that's still a little loose and sore from the morning and last night.

Sam thinks Dean could ask him to drop to his knees anywhere, at any time, and he'd do it. The power that his brother has over him, the kind of response he has to Dean now that they've had sex, it's terrifying in its presence, its certainty, in how Sam would absolutely do anything for him. But maybe it was always like this. Maybe Dean all had to do was ask Sam to suck him off as they rode around in the Impala with no prior talk of it, nothing to even explain it, and Sam would do it in a heartbeat.

Sam hisses when Dean pushes his cock inside him, much more easily and slippery now with the lube. It feels good, less friction than last night, and Sam knows this only means Dean has to fuck him harder to make him feel the same way as he did.

Clearly, Dean knows this too, and he fucks into Sam hard and deep, digging his fingers into Sam's ass. Sam drops to his elbows on the carpet, struggling to stay up on his hands as Dean fucks him harder, but then Dean's grabbed the back of his head and pushed his face against the floor, and fucking hell, Sam's moaning and grinding back against Dean like his life depends on this, and Dean's mumbling take it, Sammy, fuckin' take it over and over again and Sam's getting carpet burn on his cheek but Dean's nailing his prostate and he doesn't care, he doesn't care.

Sam wants to jerk his cock but wonders about the cleaning bill, but then Dean's coming; hot, thick pulses of come inside him and Sam whines and twists against the floor, the feeling of Dean's come inside him so weirdly familiar now that he never wants to give it up.

Dean gives one last groan and pulls out, pulling Sam around and pushing him onto his back, sticking two fingers inside his ass and sucking his cock down like it's nothing, taking all of it inside him, and Sam comes embarrassingly fast. But Dean hums around his dick as it fills his throat with come, and Sam watches his Adam's apple bob around as he swallows it down, every last drop until Sam's completely spent and panting on the floor.

Dean pulls his mouth off, but he doesn't take his fingers from Sam's ass, and Sam's cock twitches when Dean reaches down to kiss him, a swirl of tongues that Sam should find gross considering the salty bitterness that flavours Dean's mouth. But he moans, sucking Dean's tongue into his mouth, tasting himself there and being thankful that his dick can't get hard again just yet.

His brother sits back up with a grin and grips onto the back of Sam's thigh with his free hand, pushing him upwards until his ass is in the air. It's uncomfortable, and Sam grumbles, but he figures there must be a purpose and he's proven right when Dean pulls his fingers out and sucks them into his own mouth, cleaning them off. He makes the most obscene noises as he works his tongue over the digits, moaning and hitching his breath, and Sam's heart stutters and skips a beat.

But Dean isn't finished, and he pushes Sam's ass up a little higher with both hands now, staring down at Sam's hole. Sam blushes, wanting to hide his face but not wanting to look away from the dark heat in Dean's eyes as he takes in Sam's ass. Sam can still feel Dean's come inside him, and that's when he knows Dean's purpose. 

He muffles a whine against the back of his hand. He tries to mentally prepare for something so obscenely filthy that he somehow finds so crazy hot, that makes a pool of heat settle in his belly again, and he wants to come one more time even though he just finished shooting his load a couple minutes ago, and fuck. Dean's going to kill him. He's going to actually be the death of him.

Dean's eyes are heavy-lidded and shaded with a hunger that Sam feels under his skin. His brother flicks his eyes up to Sam's and then Sam knows he understands that Sam's reached the conclusion of what he's going to do. He smirks lazily, small quirk of his lips that Sam loves, and he wants to reach up and lick at the corner of his mouth.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean says, voice low and throaty and oozing lust. He leans forward a little, grips his fingertips tighter against Sam's skin. "Give it to me."

And Sam knows what he means, but his face is still flushed and he wants to sink into the carpet so that Dean can't see the expression on his face, how he went from demanding and insistent to a messy puddle of nervousness, so bashful and timid under Dean's white hot stare that it's more humiliating than he wants to let on.

"What do I-" he starts, the words coming out hoarse and jumbled and he clears his throat. "I mean, how do I do it?"

If it was even possible, Dean's smirk gets wider, leering at Sam in such a predatory way that Sam shivers despite the warmth of the room.

"Just push, Sammy," he replies, and lowers himself down onto the floor, fits his body in between Sam's legs. "Push it out for me."

Sam's stomach twists and contracts and he's struggling to breathe, but then Dean's tongue is at his hole, quick little licks that make him forget.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck. Okay."

Dean attaches his lips to Sam's hole and sucks on it, and it's difficult for Sam to loosen himself up, let himself go, but Dean doesn't rush him. He just sucks and licks, opening him up, coaxing it out of him. 

And Sam can feel it in there, the strange presence of something that shouldn't be inside him, and Dean's moan rumbles over his skin as Sam feels the first drops of come dribble out on to Dean's tongue.

"Fuck, baby," Dean murmurs against Sam, and the name jolts at Sam's spine. "More. Gimme it all. Every last fuckin' drop."

Sam lets go and Dean draws it out from him, and Sam's painfully hard again, his dick heavy against his stomach, but Dean is eating his own come out of Sam's ass and Sam isn't even sure he can go back to normal after this. Isn't sure he's not gonna ask Dean to do this every fucking day because it's insane how much he's getting off on it, like getting fucked by his brother isn't the dirtiest thing in the world, like there are actually other things out there that they can do together that'll make Sam feel like this

It's so fucking wrong, and he loves it.

Dean smacks his lips together as he sits back, pulling Sam's legs back down onto the carpet.

"I gotta say, I taste good," he says rubbing the back of his hand over his lips, and Sam laughs in disbelief.




Sometimes, Sam thinks he'll look in the mirror and see Dean staring back at him. And he won't even notice it isn't himself, isn't his own face.

The seventh time Sam fucks brother - he's not counting, he's really not counting - it's different in a way that he could never have expected. Dean bends him over the couch in their room and fucks into him slow and deep and silent, giving away nothing except breathy moans and tiny hiccups of breath that makes Sam squirm, and he comes without Dean even touching his dick.

Dean cleans up the couch, after; gives Sam a beer and sends him to order room service. He watches his brother wiping the cloth over the messy fabric as he presses the phone to his ear, and his chest fills up with something he can't even define, something he wasn't sure was even possible to feel. Dean never cleans up after Sam, barely even cleans up after himself.

But Dean doesn't say anything, just throws the washcloth in the trash and pulls Sam down onto the couch with him, fitting an arm around Sam's shoulders as he flicks through the channels.

Sam doesn't ask. Sometimes, Dean says the most amazing things without even using words.




"I found a hunt," Dean says, and Sam tears his eyes away from the newspaper to look over at his brother, hunched over the coffee table with Sam's laptop.

"Yeah?" Sam answers, casually, but his heart's beating too fast.

"'Bout six hours away. Looks like some kind of pissed off spirit, people disappearing from this old church, y'know, usual stuff. Good ol' salt and burn." Dean shrugs and closes the laptop over.

"So when do we need to leave?"

"Tomorrow, I was thinkin'," Dean replies.

Sam nods, folding up the newspaper and sitting it on the kitchen table, making his way over to the couch and falling with a soft thud beside his brother.

"Last day, huh?" he says, more to himself than anything. Dean snakes his arm around Sam's shoulders, pulls him close and buries his face in Sam's hair.

"Last day," he mumbles, his breath hot on Sam's scalp.

It's not that Sam doesn't want to leave. He's getting just as claustrophobic as Dean, holed up in one place for nearly a month. It's that he's scared everything's going to change when they're on the road, doesn't know how this is going to work.

"It's gonna be fine, Sammy," Dean whispers, pressing his lips against Sam's softly, rubbing his thumb across Sam's cheekbone. "Me an' you, together. Like always."

Sam manages a small smile and lets his eyes flutter closed at Dean's comforting touch. Dean replaces his fingers with his lips, trailing soft kisses along Sam's jawline, and Sam twists his fingers in Dean's hair.

"So, uh," Dean coughs and rubs at the back of his neck, pulling back. "Figure we should make the most of the time we got left, huh?"

Sam laughs and lets Dean push him down onto the couch, but swats his hand away when Dean's fingers brush along the front of his shorts.

Dean makes a face.

"Now? Really?" Sam complains, sitting up a little.

"Sorry, grandma," Dean laughs. "Didn't realise sex was only a night time activity."

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes Dean off him. "I wanna go to the beach," he whines. "C'mon, it's our last day and all."

"But I was thinkin'-" Dean pauses, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, fiddling with the hem of his shirt awkwardly. "Maybe we can go later. At sunset. Y'know, like- like the other night." His voice trails off into nothing, his eyes flickering between the floor and the coffee table.

Sam smiles, so wide and full that his face stings with the force of it. He edges closer to Dean again, rubs his palm along his jawline until he pulls his face around towards him. When their eyes meet, Dean's are nervous, and his face is scrunched up, closed, like he's embarrassed.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, sucking Dean's bottom lip from Dean's mouth and into his own. Dean groans, instantly responsive, hands finding their way to the front of Sam's shirt like he's known the route his entire life. "Yeah, let's do that," he mumbles against Dean's mouth.

"Sap," Dean grins, pulling Sam closer against him.

"You suggested it!" Sam protests, nipping softly at Dean's lip.

"Mmm," Dean groans, twirling his fingers in Sam's hair. "Shut up and let me fuck you."

Sam manages to roll his eyes even as Dean pushes him back onto the couch. "Ever the romantic, Dean."

"I said, shut up," Dean mumbles, fitting himself between Sam's spread legs and and attaching his mouth to his neck, cutting off Sam's response and making him grind his hips against his brother instead.

Or what? Sam wants to ask, but he doesn't. Figures this is just new enough for him not to be prepared for the answer.

But, as usual, Dean has other ideas.

"Gonna make you beg," Dean whispers against his ear, and a pool of heat trickles and settles deep in Sam's belly. "Gonna make you my bitch."

Sam squirms underneath him, and he wants to protest, wants to punch Dean's shoulder or nip his arm, but the words hit him too hard for him to even be irritated by them; he's hard as hell, the thought of giving up control to Dean making his legs shake and his mind go blank. So he plays it exactly how Dean wants him to, exactly how he wants to.

"Yeah?" Sam questions, his voice coming out as some kind of embarrassing, high pitched squeak. Lucky for him, Dean's too turned on and keyed up to pay attention to it.

"Oh yeah, Sammy," Dean murmurs, his voice a low purr that rumbles under Sam's skin. He fingers his way down Sam's chest and stomach, stopping short just above his pants.

"Gonna tear you apart," he continues, smirking. "Wanna fuck you open and fill you up, show you just who you belong to." Sam bites his lip to stifle any more ridiculous sounds that try desperately to stumble past his lips. 

Dean's fingers slide below the hem of Sam's shorts and ghost over his dick, painfully hard and throbbing under his touch, and Sam's about five seconds away from losing it. But Dean squeezes at the base and Sam loosens up a bit, trying to relax against the couch. Sam reaches up and grabs the back of Dean's head, pulling him in for a slow, sloppy kiss, and with Dean's body pressed so hard against his it's a wonder he can even breathe through it.

"Wanna see you ride me," Dean whispers, flicking his tongue over Sam's bottom lip. "Want you to sit on my cock, Sam." Sam nods stupidly against him, feeling dumb and lost, and Dean's answering grin just clouds up his brain even further. "But I'm gonna fuck you first, right here. Get you nice an' wet and open to sit your sweet little ass down on my cock and fuck yourself on it."

Sam's sure that Dean has reverted him back to some kind of blushing virgin, making six years of experience disappear like Sam doesn't even know what his dick is for, doesn't even know how to respond to this. And sure, he's never been exactly vanilla in bed, giving and taking it as rough and hard as he wanted, but this whole talking thing, this thing that Dean loves so much, it's new to him. And Sam's still struggling, but he wants to learn, wants to make Dean feel the way he does.

"Please," Sam gasps, all breathy and low the way he knows Dean loves it. Dean releases the hold he has on the base of Sam's dick and starts jerking his hand along it, slow, sweet friction making Sam's legs kick wildly against the couch.

"Please what?" Dean asks teasingly, thumbing the slit and rubbing circles around the head of Sam's cock.

"Just- just fuck me," he begs, throwing his head back against the cushions. Dean tsks at him and squeezes his cock so tight that Sam almost yelps, scrabbling to pull his hand away, but Dean lets go and grips both of Sam's wrists, thrusting his arms above his head and pinning them there with one hand.

"You can do better than that," he scolds, eyes burning with something Sam's noticed just under the surface for so long, something that he maybe even saw a year ago, when Sam bitched and complained and whined in the passenger seat of the Impala and all Dean did was watch him. Watch him like this. And Sam didn't realise it at the time, but maybe Dean wanted to throw him down on the back seat, push his hand over Sam's mouth and fuck him 'til he shut up, 'til he couldn't even think enough to form sentences.

Sam feels small underneath his brother, so perfectly small and defenceless and his stomach aches with how alive he feels, how this feels like something he's been waiting for forever; the chance to give up control to Dean, let Dean take charge of the entire situation, let his brother do whatever he wants to his body. And Sam's just going to lie there and take it, because he's shivering and gasping with how much he needs this.

"Please, Dean, need your cock," he says then, squirming and trying to pull free from Dean's grip. Dean rewards him by holding his wrists tighter, digging his fingernails into Sam's flesh and the thought of the bruises that are going to be there tomorrow makes Sam want to scream.

"Tell me," Dean commands, voice low and serious, shifting his weight so that he's pinning Sam fully against the couch under his body.

And Sam thinks, fuck it. Dean's not gonna make fun of him if he says something embarrassing or weird. So he lets go, makes every twisted thought he ever had about his brother spill hot and filthy from his lips.

"Want you to use me," he says breathlessly, trying and failing to buck his hips against Dean's. "Wanna be filled up with your come, Dean. Want you to come inside me, on my face- everywhere-" Dean closes his eyes and bites down on his lip, lowering his head like he's trying to stop himself from shattering. "Wanna feel you in me for days," Sam continues, words getting scrambled in his brain but he thinks he's doing this right, and the painful press of Dean's boner against him tells him the same story.

Dean seems to pull himself together, his expression replaced with a familiar shit-eating grin that makes Sam's heart melt into a puddle at his feet.

"Such a slut, Sammy," Dean teases, shoving his free hand into Sam's shorts again and stroking his dick soft and slow. "Such a fucking tease. You want my cock bad, huh? It's all you think about, ain't it- getting fucked by your big brother-"

All the air punches out of Sam and he's going to fall apart, going to beg so good for Dean that he all he's gonna ever remember is how Dean feels inside him. It shouldn't make him feel like this, it really fucking shouldn't, because it's wrong, and it's insane, but he's never been so hard and desperate in his life and he can't bring himself to even care about how crazy this is.

"You get off on that, huh?" Dean asks, and his eyes are full and wide, like he's not sure if it's the right thing to say. But he can't stop himself any more. Sam can't stop himself any more.

"Because," Dean whispers, kissing softly along Sam's cheek and ghosting his lips over Sam's ear. "'Cause I do. The thought of fucking my little brother gets me all hot, makes me- fuck, Sam, it makes me crazy. You make me crazy..." He trails off and Sam isn't sure what to say, isn't sure about anything except how much he wants to get fucked. Now.

"Dean," he says, and his brother pulls himself back onto his heels, lets go of Sam's wrists and looks at him expectantly, face flushed and glistening with sweat, eyebrows furrowed because he's unsure. And Sam knows why. "Need you," he whines, grinding his ass against the cushions, trying to get any kind of friction. "Need you inside me, Dean, need- I need my big brother-"

Sam doesn't get any warning when Dean kisses him again, rough and fierce and so achingly perfect that Sam melts into the couch. Dean works at the string of Sam's shorts, pulling them over his hips and tugging them down before he does the same with his own. He pulls both their shirts over their heads, and they're naked and panting, Sam anxious for Dean to get right to it and fuck him.

And Dean doesn't waste any time, grabbing the lube from the coffee table and slicking up his cock with a sharp hiss, using his free hand to push two fingers inside Sam's hole. But he barely bothers with any kind of stretch, pulling out and replacing them with the head of his cock before Sam can even blink. But before he pushes all the way inside, he grabs for Sam's hands again, wraps his palm around his wrists and shoves them up over his head.

He holds Sam down, completely pinned against the couch, and slides inside him in one motion that leaves Sam gasping and thrashing under him, the familiar fullness combined with Dean's force making him dribble precome against his belly. He pulls out fully and slams back inside, Sam's head spinning with the strength of it, and Sam knows he's not wasting any time, fucking Sam open fast and dirty so that he can ride Dean's cock the minute he gets hard again.

The thought draws a grunt from Sam's throat, and he lets his body fall pliant against the couch, lets Dean take complete control, and Dean only thrusts into him harder.

"Like that, Sammy?" he pants, drawing out and slamming home again, and Sam whimpers in response. "Like it when I hold you down and fuck you? Use you like- like you were made for nothing more than getting fucked on my cock?" Sam squeezes his eyes shut and nods, words escaping him, Dean's voice pulling him towards that edge, threatening to release what's been building inside him.

"Fuckin'- perfect- Sammy-" Dean splutters out a string of words that don't make sense, but Sam can barely hear them anyway, and then Dean's got his hand wrapped around his cock, jacking him off hard and rough and Sam spills over Dean's fingers before he can process it fully, white ropes of come splattering against his stomach. He can feel the pulsing of Dean's cock inside him that tells him he's about to come too, but then Dean pulls out completely, and Sam's left clenching around the empty air, eyes fluttering open in a desperation that he didn't know he had, but he needs Dean to come inside him, he needs it-

"Sit up, Sam," Dean demands, and he's pulling at Sam's arms, manhandling him into a sitting position. Sam blinks. "Gonna come all over that pretty face of yours."

Sam licks his lips, garbled, inhuman sounds punching their way out of his throat, and Dean sits up and presses his cock to Sam's face, smearing precome all over his chin.

"You're gonna look so good, covered in my come," Dean mumbles breathlessly, rubbing the head of his cock back and forth over Sam's lips. Sam knows he's right on the edge, not far off from coming. Sam darts his tongue out to collect more of the little drops of precome that dribble out, rolling it around inside his mouth. "So fuckin' pretty." 

He starts jerking his palm along his cock, fast and relentless like he did with Sam's, and Sam prepares himself, straightens up and closes his eyes, even though he'd do anything to watch Dean's face as he comes, watch that blissed out look spread over him, eyes falling closed and teeth biting into his bottom lip as he comes over Sam's face.

So Sam imagines that's what it looks like, and when the first drops of come splatter across his cheek he groans, sees Dean's expression in his head, the way his features twist up as he lets go. More of it lands on his chin, across his lips, his nose, and his neck; the warm, thick liquid sticking to his skin, heavy and sweet on his lips.

He keeps his eyes closed until Dean slumps back onto the couch and he knows it's safe to open them. He didn't realise he'd been squeezing them shut so tightly until they open and focus on Dean's face, and Dean's already staring at him hungrily despite the fact that he just came seconds ago. Sam's stomach flutters. He knows what this means.</p>
Dean comes towards him without a word, shuffling closer until they're nose to nose. The first little lick of Dean's tongue against his cheeks draws stuttered breaths from Sam's lungs and he clutches at the back of the couch to steady himself.

Dean licks him all over, moaning crazily like he can't get enough of it, and Sam knows he can't, because this is Dean's fucked up, insane, sick little thing and Sam loves it. Dean cleans up every drop of come on his face until only the slicked up mess on his lips remains, and then he presses his lips to Sam's.

Sam parts his mouth eagerly, and Dean licks all around his lips before sliding his tongue into Sam's mouth, slippery and sticky with come. Sam sucks it off, more of that bitter, salty taste lingering on his own tongue, catching on the back of his throat. They kiss, slow and deep, until it's all gone, until Sam's swallowed up all the remaining come and all he can taste is the sweet inside of Dean's mouth.

Dean pulls back lazily, eyes half-closed, and Sam falls back against the sofa with a heavy sigh. Sleep would be good right around now.

"Hey," Dean murmurs playfully, swatting at Sam's knee. "You said you were gonna ride my cock." 

Sam smiles through the blanket of tiredness. Blood is already rushing thick and fast back to his dick, and he knows how impatient his brother is. He forces himself up onto his elbows with a groan.

"Maybe if you suck me off, I'll be more than willing," he offers, stealing Dean's smirk from him.

"You don't get to do the bargaining here, Sam," Dean answers, looming over him, breathing deep and ragged.

"Why's that?" Sam asks, voice low as Dean dances his fingertips along Sam's chest.

"'Cause you're my bitch," he says, eyes bright, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and he kisses the corner of Sam's mouth.

And hey, maybe it is.




It's warmer than usual out, or maybe Sam's still so wrecked from earlier that his body is refusing to return to its normal temperature. Either way, he's sweating and panting by the time they make it to the beach, and the fact that he stumbled the entire way doesn't help either.

Dean watches him the whole way with some kind of proud, satisfied look in his eyes, and he slung an arm around Sam's waist and helped him walk. He's got this air about him that says that's my boy without even uttering any words, and maybe Sam's happy glow in spite of his pain is because he did good. He did good and now Dean is proud of him.

For the first time, Sam doesn't flush when he thinks something obscene like, He's proud of me for taking his cock. For letting him fuck me 'til I passed out, letting him split me in two and moaning like a first-rate whore.

He feels like Dean is inside his head, spewing these thoughts around his brain, but maybe they were there the whole time anyway. Or maybe, Dean's always been there.




Dean pushes him carefully onto the beach towel that he lays down on the sand, and pulls a cushion from his duffel for Sam to put under his ass. Sam laughs, glad that there's barely anybody here, just a few couples scattered around the sand or walking along the shoreline.

He sits back on his elbows and squints his eyes at the falling sun. Dean joins him, their thighs glued together, and he pulls a beer out of the cooler and hands it to Sam, settling against the towel.

They don't talk as they drink, watching the sun descending slowly. Sam's on his second beer before night really starts to take over, and he lays down on his back, staring up at the clear sky and perfect view of the bright, twinkling stars above him. The beach is deserted now, distant voices giving way to the rumbling of the sea.

Dean follows him, and they just look, and it's like when they were kids and Dean would drive him out to the edge of whatever town they were staying in. He'd climb on the hood of the Impala and throw a blanket over the both of them, and Sam would press himself close to his brother, never seeing anything wrong with it, although he knows now that they basically snuggled under a blanket together too many times to count and he wants to laugh with how obvious it all was.

They wouldn't talk a lot, then, either; Dean might put his arm around Sam and point up at all the constellations he knew, etching out their shapes against the air with his fingers. Sometimes they wouldn't say anything at all, and Sam would push himself closer, wanting physical comfort if he wasn't going to get it in words. The warmth of Dean's body against his was all he needed back then, a reassurance that everything was going to be okay as long as he had his brother.

When Sam turned fifteen, Dean would grumble and push him off. You're too old for that, Sam. You're not a little kid any more. But Sam would press his body tight against Dean's, and Dean would give in every time, laying his arm around Sam's shoulder like it came so easy to him. And it was so simple for Sam, too, to rest his head on his big brother's shoulder, nuzzle his face against his neck. Okay, Sammy, fine. Whatever you want.

Anything for you, Sammy.

Thanks, Dean.

It's dark when Sam turns to his brother, Dean's skin illuminated by the pale glow of the moon, eyes bright and honest and so full of affection when they meet Sam's that it makes Sam squirm against the sand, his gut pinch into a turmoil of feelings he didn't even know could exist.

"Love you, Sammy," Dean whispers, but it's welcomingly loud in the darkness, echoing off the black of the ocean and reverberating around the space that they occupy.

Anything for you, Sammy.

Dean pulls him close until Sam fits against his chest, kisses him soft and sweet on the top of his head, and Sam sighs against Dean's body.

"I love you," he whispers into Dean's shirt. It's muffled, dragged down by the crashing of the waves, but the way Dean's heartbeat speeds up below Sam's cheek, thrumming into Sam's own body, tells him Dean heard it. 

And even if he didn't, he already knows it anyway.

Thanks, Dean.