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One More Coal

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There's a reason Dean doesn't do college bars that often. They make him feel uncomfortably old and conspicuous now, like some sort of creep trying to party on down with the cool kids, and the fact that they hit on him doesn't make it any easier, just reinforces that this isn't where he should be. Boasting about it afterwards is one thing but he hasn't been in the mood for much casual fucking for a long time, drained of most impulse and almost all desire, like it's been leeched out of his bones, slowly, so slowly he never saw it going. Besides the beer is weak and the music obnoxious.


The worst thing about this one though, is that he's even more out of place than he should be. Out of place by about ten years or maybe a little more, he tries not to keep count these days. The music is shitty - early two thousands shitty, and there's a girl giving him the eye at the bar who is wearing a tied belly shirt and a denim skirt that he hasn't seen on anyone over fifteen in longer than he cares to remember. It says something about how fucked up life has been recently that accidentally shifting in time isn't the weirdest thing that's happened this week.


No, the weirdest thing that's happened this week is this dude bumping into him and spilling a beer down his side, and giving him the fucking look as he apologizes, the one that says it might not have been an accident and maybe it's an excuse to talk. The weirdest thing about it, is it’s his little brother cocking his head to one side and giving this flirty smile as he says "Do I know you?" and Christ, Dean had forgotten what Sam used to look like. Not just young - which is freaky in itself, all those lines sponged away, but happy. He's having a good time out clearly, not drunk, but just oiled enough to chat up a stranger, hell, a man- a much older one at that - and Dean should walk out right now, find whatever's causing this and kick its ass, because there's a painful palpitation in his chest at seeing Sam like this.


Only he can't and that's pretty fucked up. He can't walk away out of here right this moment, leave this Sam behind, and get back to the world where he remembers all the things he did to fuck him up, to drain the life out of him until they could barely even speak without making things worse. He slouches into his jacket a little bit and is grateful for the cap shadowing his face, even though it's kind of freaky that Sam's hitting on him. What's even freakier is that Dean wants to hit on him back. There's something about the way Sam laughs, throws his head back and goes for it, that resonates with something in him, makes something hot uncurl in his gut in a way that it hasn't done in way too long. It's not like he's going to do anything, he thinks. He's not that dude. He's not lonely and desperate enough for the way him and Sam used to be, to put that on the table between them.


He thinks that for the first seven shots of some filthy sweet gut-rot and then Sam's got his fingers on his wrist and is pulling him out of the bar into this beer garden, round a corner so they're a little bit sheltered from being seen. Dean doesn't know how he never knew this about his brother, that Sam could or would do this to anyone. Only there Sam is, kissing him, deep and sure like he's damned sure Dean's going to reciprocate. "Come on," he says. There's promise in his voice, and there's nothing left in Dean with the will to refuse. He'll hate himself for this, he already knows that deep in his bones, but he'll add it to the list of everything else that should crush him but hasn't yet. Clings to the hope that when he walked through that door, he walked into a hallucination not a time warp. That nothing he does here will impact on the future, nothing will have consequences, even as he knows the impossibility of that.


So he kisses right on back, Sam taller than him as he has been for what now consists of the majority of Dean's life, but tentative and tender like he can't quite get into this, nothing like the Sam that Dean's seen kiss a girl and make her knees weak. "Take me to your car?" Sam asks Dean with a smile, like he knows the answer. Dean doesn't know where the hell the Impala is in this world, but even if Sam hasn't recognized his face in the darkness of the bar or the yellowness of the fluorescent light above them, there's no way he wouldn't remember the car. He doesn't know how to name what the thought of Sam not knowing him does to him, the cold clenched ache of his heart and the bitterness of the despair in his blood, but he doesn't answer. Thinks maybe out here in the chiller air of the night, Sam will hear his voice for what it is, and Dean doesn't want to stop not now. He's gone so far, he might as well finish.


He's got one thing to go on that says that Sam might want this, even if he knew it was Dean, even if he knew it was his brother from the future, a battered, scruffed up version of the man he'd be. One memory of being twenty and some stranger who looked nothing like his sulky sixteen year old brother, but smelled like him and laughed a little like him though not as much, and whose face when he saw it was like some distant distorted mirror reflecting back his brother, and he's still not sure what the hell happened. Still, whether or not he's not only the Winchester to have trampled dirty footprints over his past, what Sam doesn't know probably won't hurt him, and even that lie is bitter in his mouth.


"I want to blow you," he says baldly, keeps his voice down low and quiet, and is as good as his word, sinks to his knees on the ground, mouth suddenly aching for it, needing his face hidden and his hands occupied, in case he seizes Sam by the jaw and pulls him in, kisses him again and apologizes like this to a Sam who doesn't know what Dean's done, who might forgive him, might love him all over again.


Sam answers with a little animal yelp, and Dean's as good as his word. Sinks down fast and gets Sam's pants down, and his mouth on Sam's dick with a minimum of fuss, curls his fingers around Sam's hips and holds him against the wall. He doesn't think too hard about it because he's afraid he'll back out, but this is real or as real as anything he's felt in years is. Feels the soft thickness in his mouth, only half hard, sucks with intent, a little too hard, a little too rough, not the way he'd like it himself but he thinks it'll do something for Sam. It works - in what feels like moments, Sam's hard and insistent, thrusting into his throat with all the pushiness his kisses had lacked, fingers laced in tight to Dean's hair and Dean can't even think about getting off himself. Just wants to suck Sam off, pulls off to tongue at the head and it's been so many years since he's done this, he can't even remember the person's face, or more pertinently their cock.


He's not going to be forgetting Sam's any time soon though. It's not just big, or thick, though it's both of those things, it's attached to Sam, and that gets Dean hot in a way, nothing else about this is really doing. He's stretched too far, too uncomfortably, breathes in through his nose and forces himself down an extra inch and Sam gets going like that, pulls out and fucks his mouth shallowly at first, then deeper when Dean makes a noise of protest, and he's making these sounds, spilling them out like they're nothing at all, quiet frantic little gasps like he can't believe this is happening, and knowing Sam he probably can't. Sam's slick and wet as he drives past Dean's mouth, hips helplessly thrusting forward, and Dean thinks he's on the edge, tastes the bitter edge of Sam's precome as his dick bumps against his lip for a second, Sam's movements uncontrolled and erratic now, and Dean gets one hand around the base of his dick, angles it properly and takes him in again as far as he can manage.


The thought makes him shudder and suck harder, wanting this to be done, and wanting it not to end. When it ends, reality begins again. Then Sam's pulling him off, hands too tight in his hair, and he's saying fuck me, and that's a bridge too far, that's something Dean can't do and he almost chokes on his self loathing and the spit in his mouth, there from having his throat fucked by his brother. There's lines in the sand and he's already scuffed the edges of most of them, this one he's leaving intact. Only there's tequila pounding dizzy in his veins still and Sam sounds like he's begging, little hurt noises as he puffs out air and turns his face to the wall as though he knows what he's asking for, can conceive of what it is.


Dean's put an angel in his brother, what's one more thing to stuff in? He's walked into Hell as far as it goes and it didn't burn like this, like the knowledge that he's too weak to walk away from any kind of temptation, even one that shouldn't be a temptation at all. He still doesn't know why he's given in now, taken what he's wanted for years but shoved down deep, the thought too terrifying. Thinks it might be the way this Sam smiles with no shadow in his eyes, the way he's not been smeared inside and out with others bad will, that none of the marks on him are ones that Dean has made.


So he shoves him up against the wall, and traces his fingers around Sam's hole, too tight for what he wants to do, how hard he wants to fuck him, and Sam shoves his hips back like he's waiting. His shoulders don't hunch like he thinks he's too tall, and he doesn't apologize for wanting and Dean wants to take him apart piece by piece, swallow him whole and keep him intact, a physical sort of ache that has him fumbling and spitting on his fingers and getting them into Sam with a whole lot of haste that's uncalled for and probably unnecessary, but that Sam doesn't seem to mind. He's grinding back into Dean like this is what he wants and even as transferred and transitory as this need is, Dean drinks it up like he needs it to live. A lubed condom gives him just a little bit more slick, and Sam's going to hurt after this, going to remember it, and there's a bleak satisfaction in that. When Dean's staring at the ceiling and hating himself, some past version of Sam's going to remember the ache of being well fucked, of being held open by a stranger and fucked exactly how he wants it. That at least Dean can be sure of, because Sam's neck is slick with sweat, his t-shirt soaked through and he's canted his knees so far apart to give Dean room to get in that they're almost the same height.


Dean takes full advantage of it. Presses the head of his dick up against Sam's hole and pushes in, watches the slow unforgiving slide, feels Sam convulse around him, rests his head against the curve of his shoulder and snaps his hips once until he's fully in and Sam is twitching, his breaths pained and stifled, but he's already moving, shoving himself backwards like he's not waiting for Dean to fuck him. Unbidden, Dean remembers Ruby. Remembers her delicate little hands and how they could snap a neck, could pin his brother against a wall, drip cherry red into Sam's mouth and he'd beg her for it, and he hasn't thought about her in so long, but he wonders if the seeds of that start here, if he can lay that at his own door as well. The thought's an extra knife in his back, but it only serves to shove him in deeper, to wring the sort of desperate gasps from Sam that she had done/will do, and everything's confused in his mind now, time, space, the whole damn lot of it.


Sam opens up pretty around him, not slick enough or ready enough or unrelated enough for this to be anything but what it is, the most fucked up thing Dean's ever done. It doesn't stop him, because it's never stopped him, will never stop him, and all he wants now is to come, regrets the thin skin between them - both of them, plastic and flesh, a level of savagery that never fails to surprise him when it comes to his brother and all the ways they can hurt. Sam hangs his head low and curls his fingers into the stone of the wall - it's a goddamn miracle they haven't been interrupted yet - and Dean fucks him properly, rough scratch of his jeans against Sam's thighs, can't stop it, the remorseless movement that's stolen his body, drinks in every one of the stolen sounds Sam's making, saves them as his own even if really, they're meant for someone else. When he comes, it's hard and sudden, a punch to the gut and he can barely endure the brutal-ness of it, the sweetness and finality of it, especially when he leaves Sam wanting, doesn't even realize at first, that he's whispering sorries into the soaked cotton of Sam's t-shirt before he sinks down and says it against his skin, licks the empty stretched place where he left Sam open and waiting, fills him up again with something a little bit tender and dirtier than anything else they've done tonight as though if he soothes this ill, it'll mean anything at all.


Half those apologies are for leaving Sam hard and desperate, punched open and unfulfilled and the other half is for everything this is. Sam jerks himself off as Dean buries his face against him, seeks out the hot, open clench of Sam's hole and fills it with his tongue and the rest of his unspoken flagellation, soothes the red rawness of irritated skin with his mouth. He can feel Sam come, convulse around him and drags him through it until Sam's shivering and oversensitive, until he pulls up his jeans as best as he can and turns round to meet Dean's eyes.


"Forgiven," he says, "for everything. I promise," and there's something in his voice Dean doesn't know what to do with, something in the set of Sam's mouth that sets off alarm bells. Sam knows. Maybe he did from the moment he saw Dean, maybe he just saw it now, whatever it is, he's figured it out.


"You don't mean that," he says and it's not just words. Maybe this Sam can forgive Dean for fucking him, for coming first, but he can't know the future, can't forgive Dean for things that haven't even happened yet, no matter how convincing he sounds or how much Dean wants to believe him. He turns tail and he runs then, doesn't know where to, until he bumps into the cement coated wall of the room in the Bunker and there's no night Stanford air around him now, only the mustier, older air of unvisited places and the taste of Sam in his throat. He doesn't even know if it happened, if it was a memory, a dream, a hallucination, timetravel, just that it doesn't matter if it did - he knows now what he'd do regardless.