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The clang of the bunker door falling shut is loud, its echoes bouncing off the walls. Sam flinches, turning away even more. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean's knuckles pressed to the table, the back of his hand turning white. Then the hand disappears. It still makes Sam jerk a little when he feels Dean grip his shoulder, turning him around.
"We can't forgive this," he says in a harsh tone, eyes glittering wetly. "She made her choice, picked their side- don't you dare forgive her for this, Sam. I mean it."
"She might come around," Sam protests.
"I don't care."
He sighs. "Dean-"
He's shut up with a kiss, Dean's teeth tearing at his lips. It's wrong all around, a completely fucked-up reaction to have when you find out that your mother who's back from the dead after you've spent a lifetime idolizing her is willingly working with the people you hate, people who locked you up in a basement for days and tortured you in every way they could think of.
Sam kisses back anyway, because what about them isn't wrong? They've done worse.
He grabs at Dean's waist, tugs at his clothes until he's stumbling along, walking them both backwards, out of the war room, down the hallway, into Sam's bedroom. It's only when they're horizontal, half their clothes shed on the floor, door left ajar, that he notices the minute tremor running through Dean's muscles. Sam looks up, is both surprised and not to find his face slightly turned away. His lips are pursed tight, eyes screwed shut.
"Hey." Sam softens, noses at his jaw. "Dean, come on, look at me."
Dean opens his eyes and they're shining jewel-bright, lashes clumped with unshed tears. It's close to the way mom had looked for just a few seconds when Dean had called her by her name. Sam hates himself for the comparison, but Dean's looking at him like he's thinking the same thing about Sam. Maybe he sees something of Mary in his little brother too.
"It's okay."
"I don't-"
"Stop." It's Sam's turn to quiet him, kissing him, gentle this time, brief, before he's pulling away.
Dean makes an aborted movement, like he wants to catch Sam, like something in his head is screwed enough right now to think that Sam might be leaving too.
Sam doesn't bring attention to it- his own common sense must be falling apart because he can almost hear the faint sound of the bunker door opening again, can almost picture mom running back down the stairs and telling them she'd changed her mind. He shakes the thought away and grabs the lube from the nightstand, pressing it firmly into Dean's hand. Their fingers lock together around the bottle. "I'm here," he murmurs,
Dean pours it out on Sam's fingers. His chest quivers under Sam's other hand, heartbeat cupped under his palm, and Sam uses it to brace himself as he opens himself up. Dean tugs him back down into a kiss. His breath is shaky where it's exhaled into Sam's mouth. Sam can taste salt and grease and barbecue sauce, a combination that's as familiar to him as the scent of his own shampoo that Dean likes to steal. The same shampoo he had unconsciously picked out for Mary when they'd gotten the time to go shopping for her.
Sam wonders if his mom would taste the same as his brother does. Salt and grease and barbecue sauce, vanilla shampoo. Is Dean wondering the same thing, with his eyes shut again?
God, how fucked up can we both get? Sam thinks and sinks down on Dean's cock, hips nudging down slowly, carefully.
There's a rough growl against his lips, Dean getting antsy, impatient. He thrusts up, gripping Sam's waist. Sam's not having that though. He lifts, pulling away enough to draw a desperate whine from Dean.
"Sam-"
"I'm here," he says again, turns it into a promise with a kiss. "Just let me, 'kay?" He sinks one hand into Dean's hair, tugging gently, and uses his other hand to trap both of Dean's wrists above his head. He mouths slowly down his stubbled jaw, lips ghosting over the shadows that lead to the hollow of his throat. He rocks his hips into Dean's, sets a steady pace that makes Dean tense, straining against Sam's hold. Dean's eyes are still closed, mouth falling open on a loud gasp as Sam takes him to the root.
A breathy, garbled sound escapes Dean's lips; Sam doesn't miss the cut-off 'muh-' sound and his cock jerks against Dean's navel at that, at the implication.
"S'that what you want, Dean?" He hears himself ask, without really thinking about it. "S'that why you've been so hot and cold 'round her?"
Dean's eyes fly open. There's horror there, fear, and Sam's heart constricts in sympathy. "Me too," he confides in a whisper, and the admission makes him shudder and clench, a Pavlovian response to the dirtybadwrong of it all. "Me too, Dean," he repeats.
It's worth it to see Dean's flimsy barrier break, breath hitching. Sam leans down, the movement pushing Dean's cock inside him. He presses their foreheads together, kissing him messy and uncoordinated. Dean moans softly into his mouth and there's the taste of salt again, but this time, it's Dean's tear on Sam's tongue. They're pushed so close together that all Sam can feel is the renewed shiver that accompanies Dean's climax, all he can hear is the restrained sob that Dean would never have let him hear otherwise. It drowns out all his other senses.
"Sam," Dean whispers, freeing himself from the death grip on his wrists to touch Sam's cheek.
"I'm right here," Sam says a third time.
He swallows, relaxes slightly, nods. "Okay."
A week later, Sam drives out to the Men of Letters' base. Mom doesn't meet his eyes and he thinks... He thinks she knows, maybe. Maybe she's seen a few things and heard other things and put them together. Or maybe... Maybe she's still hiding something.
(She doesn't know what to tell him. That the line of his bare shoulders resembles that of John's? That she knows the way his arms strain to keep Dean pinned? That she's dreamt about the way Dean looked at Sam, dreamt of it directed at herself? Mary can't bear to look at him, afraid he'll read all her thoughts in that way he's so uncannily able to do- to her and Dean and victims on a case, alike. She doesn't want him to know she stood frozen by their door that day, stuck in limbo, torn between disgust and guilt, nausea and desire. Worst of all is the question- did she lead them down this path? Or did they unknowingly drag her down with them?)