It’s nearly 2am, and the rain’s hitting the windows and roof of the Impala hard enough that Dean can barely see the road in front of him. He isn’t gonna pull over, no fucking way is he gonna stop right now, way he’s feeling. The thought of being still, of not having the roar and vibration of his baby’s engine all around him, of having to confine himself in some nameless motel room with his brother, makes him wanna press his foot down on the gas even harder.
He doesn’t though. Wants to, but he doesn’t actually wanna crash the car, not when he practically just got done rebuilding her.
He’s had enough shit break - die - on him, recently.
He grits his teeth at that thought, just to do something with the nervous energy running through him, and looks over at the passenger side of the bench. Sam. He’s asleep; finally, his head lolling slightly against the window, resting on a hoodie that’s been demoted to pillow duty since a Wendigo tore the crap out of it a month ago. He looks exhausted, even in sleep; mouth slightly open, eyes darting back and forth - not a nightmare, thank fuck - deep almost-purple bags under his eyes.
First time he’s slept in nearly 3 days, 3 days since the devious little fucker actually got Dean out of his contract. Dean should know, he hasn’t slept a wink.
The whole 3 days, Dean’s been waiting for the sound of the other shoe. Waiting for hellhounds, or demons or fuck-knows-what to show up and take Sammy away from him.
No black smoke, no red-eyed bitches with smug smirks on their meat-suit's faces, no invisible snarling mutts. He can almost believe they’re free and clear, except they’re Winchesters, and their luck only runs the one way.
He grips the steering wheel a little harder, ’till his knuckles turn white, tries to focus on the positive; he’s alive, Sam’s alive, he’s - apparently - not going to Hell in a few months.
Seven months. Seven months since Cold Oak. Since he’d gripped Sam to him, kneeling in the mud “It’s not even that bad.” “I’m going to take care of you.” Blood on his hands, Sam in his arms, whole world narrowed down to that one godawful moment SamSamSammy!
Seven months since he’d stormed out of that room, left Sam’s body on that bed “What am I supposed to do?!” and driven fast as he fucking could to the nearest crossroads. Bartered his soul to a demon with red eyes and a mouth that tasted like sulphur. Got one lousy year in exchange for his baby brother. Fuck, it’d been worth it.
He knew he wouldn’t regret it, soon as he’d burst into the room, seen Sam breathing, moving, alivealivehe’salive. Didn’t matter what happened to him, didn’t care what Bobby had said, he knew Sam’d be OK eventually. They’d hunt some monsters, save some people family business, and he’d go out knowing his brother would keep on living. In his bleaker moments, he’d wondered if that was how his Dad had felt.
‘Course, Sam’d seen things a little differently. Soon as he’d worked out what Dean had done, after the initial grief-stricken, anger-fuelled blow-out “Did you sell your soul?!” he’d hit the books harder than ever, trying to find a way outta the contract “Guess I gotta save your ass for a change“. They never talked about it; Sam sneaking out with the laptop when he thought Dean was asleep, making calls standing in motel parking lots, scribbling notes in pads and on scraps of paper, receipts, everything, when he thought Dean wouldn’t notice. ‘Course he fucking noticed, but he never tried confronting Sam, wanted to, wanted to grab him and shake him and yell at him, anything, but that might tip off the demon, which meant Sam’d go back to being…No. No fucking way.
So he’d kept quiet and let Sam try. He figured Sam needed to anyway, that he’d collect books, call Bobby and God-knows-who-else, would fight Dean tooth-and-nail until the very day his deal came due, but he’d move on, eventually. He knew Sam’d be fine. His brother was stronger than him like that, didn’t need Dean that way. Loved him, ‘course he did, but not like that, not in the twisted, messed-up way Dean loved Sam. Face it, Dean was headed for the Pit eventually, way he felt about his brother.
He never expected Sam to actually find something. Never thought there’d be a way out, ‘cos if there was people like Bobby, or Dad, would’ve known, right? That certainty, feeling that the clock was ticking, was the only reason he’d gone and…Yeah. Not going there.
The whole thing seemed stupidly simple in the end; lots of Latin, runes drawn in a circle around Dean while he knelt - reluctantly - on the concrete floor of an abandoned factory, bare-chested and covered in ink sigils and glyphs from a language he‘d never seen before; Sam pacing around him lighting herbs and candles and incense. Dean’d been so sure it wouldn’t work, only reason he’d agreed was so Sam might give up the ghost and accept what was coming. Well, that and the look Sam had levelled on him when he’d refused to do the ritual, and given how strained things had already been between them for more than a week stupidstupidsofuckingstupid, he’d folded like a cheap suit.
Imagine his surprise when instead of nothing; the markings on his body heated slightly, the circle of runes glowed white-gold on the floor, and something swept through the room hard enough to knock Sam flat on his ass. Any other time, Dean would’ve laughed himself hoarse. As it was, he just gaped at Sam, completely mute and serious as a heart attack, when Sam’d said “it worked Dean, I fucking knew it!” and led back on the floor, grinning ear-to-ear, and sighing so deep with exhaustion Dean half expected him to pass out right there.
Dean had demanded an explanation, and Sam’d rambled for ten whole minutes about soul-binding and spouted so much spiritual mumbo jumbo Dean was almost dizzy, his head too-full of itworkeditworkedholyfucknotgonnadie. Turns out the clever little shit had bound Deans’ soul to his own, wound them together so tight the demon couldn’t claim one without the other, so the contract was null and void. ‘Course Dean’d still shouted at him for half an hour about taking stupid risks and what if’s, but then Sam’d gone and hugged him so tight he couldn’t get any air, and he’d just shut up about it.
They’d loaded themselves into the car, Sam alternating between tired yawns and wired rambling, grinning like a loon, and Dean had just picked a direction and driven off, trying to let it all sink in. Trying not to think about the shitstorm they’d have to deal with when Sams’ euphoria wore off and he remembered what Dean had done a couple weeks back stupidstupidneverdrinkagain. Trying to brace himself for the moment when Sam up and left him again.
The rain and wind suddenly pick up, and a particularly loud clap of thunder wakes Sam with a jolt, like the distant lightning had actually shocked him. He takes a look around, confused expression on his face that Dean refuses to think of as adorable, and blinks bleary-eyed at him.
“We should stop man, s’fuckin’ rainin’” he says, voice thick and sleep-rough. Yeah, Sam’s a genius.
“Noticed that Sammy, thanks” he replies, with as much sarcasm as possible. “Lookin’ for a motel now, but there ain’t much on this stretch of road”.
Sam rubs sleep from his eyes and glares out the windshield, like he can command the rain to stop just by being pissed at it ‘hell, that’d be a useful superpower’ he thinks to himself ‘though I’d probably burst into flames first time he bitchfaced at me’. Luckily before he actually says anything to break the relative calm inside the car, he spots the sickly orange light from the neon sign of a motel, sitting opposite a gas station just ahead of them.
“There ya go Sammy, ask you shall receive” he says, as though he fabricated the whole thing from nothingness just for Sam ‘would if I could’ he thinks, self-deprecatingly. No quip or bitchy retort from Sam, a testament to how tired he is, so Dean just silently pulls into the motel parking lot, looks out the drivers-side window and sighs at the thought of walking to the clerks’ desk in the downpour outside. He does it anyway of course, tells Sam to stay put ‘till he gets the room key. Jacket pulled high as it’ll go; he jogs to the tired-looking, middle-aged man sitting behind the counter.
“Room with two queens, please” he says, polite as he can while trying not to think about what he just said. Dean passes him the credit card of a Mr Earl Moon, and doesn’t even blink as the guy raises an eyebrow at the name and hands over a key. Key in hand, he jogs back to the car just as Sam’s getting out, holding their two duffels, takes one from him, and runs for the room with Sam following close behind.
Safe inside, Dean shakes the rain off his jacket and drapes it over a chair, and valiantly tries not to laugh at the way Sam’s hair is plastered to his head like a wet dog.
The room is decorated in what Dean thinks is supposed to be a Hawaiian theme; all orange and green and yellow, with little faded palm trees on the wallpaper that’s peeling in three of the rooms four corners. A sad little picture of a sunset on a beach hangs crooked from the wall opposite the door, and it tilts further on its nail as Dean shuts the door behind them. He dumps the duffels on the nearest bed; his one, closest to the door, as Sam dries his hair with a no doubt scratchy bathroom towel.
Dean flicks on the ancient-looking TV, getting some weird Japanese game show, and channel surfs until he stops at a Dr. Sexy rerun. Sitting at a wobbly chair next the rooms little faded yellow Formica table, he pulls off his boots and tries to be subtle as he watches Sam change into sweats and a dry shirt. He suspects he fails when Sam blushes slightly, but he’s so tired, and too slow to look away ‘so much for controlling yourself Deano’ he berates himself, as he lies back on the bed and pretends to watch the TV, Sam settling on his own bed to the left of him.
Unbidden, images of another - though no better decorated - motel room flash into his head; Sam sitting at a wooden table, looking like a fucking giant surrounded by cheap motel furniture, hair flopping into his tired eyes as he squints at the laptop screen. Dean sitting on the bed cleaning the guns while he pretends not to watch Sam working - trying to save him. He thinks of the whiskey he still regrets buying - stuff was way too expensive with their limited funds but fuck he was so sick of luke-warm beer. He remembers passing the bottle between him and Sam, trying to get the poor kid to take a night off from all the research “C’mon Sammy have a drink with me, huh? Gonna let me get drunk all by m’self?” Sam’d rolled his eyes, muttered something about how it wouldn’t be anything new, and took the bottle anyway. They got gradually more shitfaced, and typical Sam, he turned out to be a maudlin drunk. “M’gonna save you Dean” he slurred, a couple sheets to the wind already, the friggin’ lightweight. “Not…not gonna let ‘em take you”. He hiccups, and Dean just sorta smiles at him and lets it go, no point arguing, ‘specially when Sam was half off his ass. By the time the bottle was two-thirds empty, they were both feeling no pain, and it suddenly seemed like an awesome idea to sit next to Sammy at the table, then to move his chair even closer.
Then, he’d realised how fucking pretty Sam looked - not for the first time, mind you - with the faint glow of bedside lamps and laptop screen throwing weird shadows across his sharp features. He has no memory of deciding to do it, or of moving any closer, but suddenly they were both standing - teetering more like, drunk as hell - Sams’ hands on his back, his in Sams’ still-damp hair, and they were kissing like the only way to get air was from one another’s mouths. For a moment, two, three, it was one of the best things Dean’s ever felt; Sam under his hands, warm and alive and perfect, taste of him in Deans‘ mouth, hands dipping under the bottom of his shirt, breathing sharp through his nose so as not to break the kiss. Then, suddenly, his brain’d kicked in, and he realised what the fuck he was doing.
Christ, practically a lifetime of wanting Sam, and he loses control with just under four months left to live? Seriously, he’d been drunk with - or near - Sam countless times, and he had to lose it now, when Sam already had so much shit to deal with. Of course, Sam wouldn’t tell him to fuck off, wouldn’t push him away, stupid kid trying to give Dean what he wanted before the dogs came for him, s’all it was. So he’d pulled back, fast, and just for a second, he thought Sam looked disappointed, like he wanted to keep going. But no way was Dean doing that to Sam, messing them up more than they already were, just so he could have something he wanted before the end. He’d spun on his heels, grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door. When he’d come out almost a half hour later, Sam was asleep - or doing a damn good job of pretending - on his side, facing away from the bathroom. He’d gotten into bed, praying the alcohol would prevent him remembering any of what they just did.
No such luck of course. He’d woken with the headache from Hell, found Sam packing their stuff into their duffels while studiously avoiding looking in his direction, and resigned himself to the awkwardness, ‘cos no way were they talking about it. Ever. At least the hangover gave him a legitimate excuse to throw up.
He’d hoped Sam’d find some way to forgive him, to let it go in light of his deal coming due in a few months, and after a few days they started talking without it feeling too uncomfortable, and he figured maybe, just maybe, they could avoid mentioning it right up ‘till the end. Then of course, Sam’d shaken him awake one morning, practically vibrating with enthusiasm, saying “I’ve got it Dean, I know what we have to do, I can save you”. He’d never expected that Sam’d actually been right.
A sudden snore from the next bed jerks Dean out of the memory, and he turns to look at Sam, facing away from him on the next bed, and feels about a thousand things all at once; relief, happiness, fondness, exasperation, love. He has no idea what they’re gonna do now; Yellow-Eyes is dead, their Dad is dead, and they’re both apparently staying topside. He knows there’s no escaping the incestuous elephant in the room; eventually Sam’ll crack and try and make him talk about it, but fuck, he hasn’t slept in what feels like forever, so the angsting can take a back seat for now. Between one breath and the next, he falls asleep, eyes still fixed on Sam across the room.
When he opens his eyes, it’s 4pm, his body clock is totally screwed-up, and the sunlight is shining through the rooms too-thin curtains. The first coherent thought he has is that he’s starving.
The second is that Sam’s not there.
He has a brief moment of semi-irrational panic before his brain registers the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, and then he just feels like an ass. He stomps down on the little voice in his head that says Sam’s gonna take off again now he’s gotten Dean outta the deal and Yellow-Eyes is dead. Then the rest of his brain promptly grinds to a halt as Sam emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam like something out of a damn romance novel.
Fuck his baby brother is gorgeous. He gave up on being surprised by thoughts like that years ago, when Sam seemed to go from chubby 12-year-old to coltish, gangly and almost unbelievably pretty in the time it took Dean to blink. The muscle he’s packed on since then makes him look like a marble statue, not a single bit of him that isn’t tanned despite them not being in the sun long enough for him to get one, never mind the million layers he always insists on wearing. Dean’s mouth goes dry, and what feels like every blood cell in his body rushes straight to his dick.
Thankfully Sam doesn’t seem to notice Deans’ scrutiny; moving to his duffel and pulling out clothes to change into. Dean intentionally coughs a little so Sam knows he’s awake, and then sits up so the sheets cover his crotch.
“Afternoon” Sam says with a hint of a smile “there’s food on the table, no diner nearby so I just went to the gas station across the road” he finished dressing, turns and points at the pile of plastic bags and wrappers on the table.
Dean tries to find words that won’t give him away “thanks Sammy” he settles on ‘real smooth Dean’. Sam just smiles a little wider, hint of dimples showing, and Deans’ stupid heart stutter-skips again. He finally wills his hard-on away; thoughts of Bobby in a Speedo take care of that pretty damn fast, and collapses into a chair and immediately digs in. The food’s nothing special; typical gas station snacks and pre-packaged stuff, but Dean hasn’t eaten in over a day, and he hasn’t exactly tasted what he ate lately with the thought of his deal hanging over him. He’s probably making more appreciative noises than strictly necessary, knows he is when he glances up at Sam and sees the slight pink flush on his cheeks as he watches Dean eat.
“Hungry?” Sam asks, voice sounding a little off.
“Friggin’ famished, feels like I haven’t eaten since…” he trails off, not really wanting to mention the whole thing right now. Sam obviously gets it though; he nods, sort of jerkily, and grabs a newspaper from under the pile of food on the table.
“Anything that looks like our sorta thing?” Dean asks around a mouthful of sandwich. Sam just shakes his head without looking up from the page.That suits Dean just fine, he could do with a couple days to just drive around with Sammy, maybe find a town and re-supply, preferably one with a bar and pool tables, they could do with the cash.
“Guess we should call Bobby, let him know that I’m not headin’ downstairs anytime soon” Dean says, proud of himself for sounding like he doesn’t doubt it in the least.
“Called him while you were asleep” Sam replies, still going through the paper. “He gave me the same speech you did about messing with magic and taking risks, but I think he was too glad about you being OK to really chew me out, so.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t been living in a state of constant panic for the last seven months. Dean just hums in acknowledgement and tries to think of a safe topic of conversation.
Of course, Sam isn’t having any of it.
“So, are we gonna talk about it, or just keep pretending it didn’t happen?” He says, so fucking casual that Dean wants to smack him upside the head.
“Talk about what?” He tries, knowing even before he opens his mouth that there’s no way it’s gonna work, Sam’s like a dog with a bone sometimes.
“The fact that you kissed me, and then panicked and locked yourself in a bathroom for half an hour” Sam says, eyes boring into Dean, paper still sitting open on his lap, and fuck Dean knew the bastard hadn'’t been asleep.
“I didn’t panic” he says quickly, knee-jerk reaction. “We were drunk, it was stupid.” He gets the words out, and just hopes Sam doesn’t see them for the load of crap they are.
“Yeah, Dean that’s not gonna fly” Sam replies straight away, frowning now. “You’ve been drunk around me hundreds of times, especially since you made the deal, so why that time, huh? I don’t think it was just the drink, not with the way you’ve been looking at me lately.”
Shit. He immediately wants to deny doing anything of the kind, but he knows his face has already given him away, probably pale as the dead and gaping like an idiot right now. He clenches his fists in his lap, food long forgotten, and tries to think of something to say that isn’t “I’ve wanted you since you were fifteen”.
“Look, Sam…I was just. It wasn’t. I didn’t mean to.” he come out with lamely, utterly failing to think of anything more helpful.
“You didn’t mean to?” Sam says, voice so full of disbelief Dean almost flinches. “So, what? You tripped and fell onto me, then decided to stay there for nearly a full minute?” OK, that time Dean does flinch.
“Why do you wanna talk about this so bad Sam? Huh?” Dean asks, trying to get back on the offensive before he says anything unforgivable. “What, you want a repeat performance or something?” He sneers, trying to ignore the way it makes his guts twist up.
“Maybe.” Sam replies, with the exact same defiant tone he used to use on Dad ‘Christ don’t think about Dad now, moron’.
“Wh…What?” he croaks, completely blindsided by Sams’ response. “Sam, c’mon, don’t be stupid man” he says, voice no more steady than it was a moment ago.
“I’m not being stupid Dean” Sam says, looking more than a little pissed now. “I’m saying that I’m not blind. I know you want this, and I’m saying I’m OK with it, we can…you know” he trails off at the end, not exactly losing his confidence but just sounding uncertain.
“If you can’t say it then you shouldn’t be doing it Sam” He snarks, same thing he used to say when Sam was a teenager and he’d blush and stutter when asking for advice about girls. Time was it’d make him blush harder, now it just gets him a bitchy glare.
“Dean, I want. I want us to be together.” He says finally, drawing on some inner confidence Dean seriously envies right now.
“No way, Sam!” He forces out, standing up from the chair, hoping the high ground he has for as long as Sam stays on the bed will somehow make this easier.
“Why?” Sam says, switching from bitchface to puppy-eyes so fast Dean’s actually impressed. “Who’re we hurting Dean, huh?”
“That’s not the point Sam! We. We’re brothers for fucks sake!” He stresses the word, hoping it’ll sink in and make Sam realise how wrong this is, that they shouldn’t even be talking about it.
“So what?” Is the answer he gets, Sam standing up now, and shit, so much for the high ground.
“’So what’?!” He parrots back. “So, it’s incest Sam, not exactly the stuff Hallmark cards are made of.”
He doesn’t get how Sam sounds so OK with this so fucking fast. He’s had years of feeling this scary all-encompassing thing for his brother and it still makes him feel guilty. Far as he knows, Sam’d never even thought about it ‘till Dean forced himself on him in a drunken moment of weakness.
“Dean, nothing in our entire lives has been the stuff Hallmark cards are made of.” Sam says, sounding annoyingly exasperated now. “You sold your soul for me Dean, what the fuck does that say?” Kicked-puppy expression turning to something more intense at that.
“It says we’re screwed up Sam!” Dean answers. “It says we’re twisted up enough as it is without adding…sex to it” He manages to say the ‘s’ word, but only just.
“Some people would say that after you sell your soul” Sam stresses again, and fuck Dean’s never gonna hear the end of that is he? “That after that, anything else pretty much pales in comparison.”
“Sam, no. We’re not doin’ this. You don’t even. You can’t want to. Just because I.”
The words just won’t come, he’s trying to talk Sam out of the one thing he’s always wanted, and, much as he knows that letting Sam do this for him is a really bad idea, he can’t seem to make himself say it.
“I thought you wanted me!” Sam’s shouting now, arms out at his sides, look of hurt confusion on his face.
The words just fly out of his mouth, without any kinda input or thought at all. He blames it on Sam for making him want to say anything to get that pained look off of his face.
"If you want this" Sam says, again with that stupid kicked-puppy expression which always, always makes Dean crumble, even though it totally is stupid, no matter how much his brain says otherwise. "Then why did you push me away?" Sam’s voice gets even more plaintive as he finishes, makes him sounds all of 12 years old again, and shit that is so not helping.
And damn it, Dean really doesn't wanna answer, doesn't want to drop the already dangerously thin wall around the one tiny speck of himself he hasn't already handed over to Sam on a goddamn platter. No way he can keep his trap shut though, not with Sam separated from him by less than three feet of dodgy motel carpet.
"I. I just. I thought."
Fuck, he's trying, but the words just get stuck in his chest, and the look in Sam's eyes is only making him more and more desperate to say something, anything.
"I thought it was just 'cos I was dying!"
He finally spits it out; sounding way more desperate and broken than he meant it to, and fuck, the look on Sam's face is seriously gut-wrenching now. Every lifelong brotherly (and that word is not helping) instinct is screaming 'fixitfixitfuckingfixit!' at him, but that just makes it harder to string together anything even remotely coherent.
"I thought…that you were just doing it for me. That you knew how I. That you were just pitying m...fuck I don't even know!"
He manages that much before throwing his arms out at Sam and pacing to the other side of the room, only to immediately do a complete 180 and move back again, begging Sam with his eyes and his hands and all the fucking rest of him to just get it already.
Sam is just standing there; his face pale and eyes looking suspiciously wet in the bright sunlight coming through the window, looking for all the world like Dean had just twisted a knife ‘fuckfuckfuck don't think about Sam and knives’ in his heart.
"Dean..." Sam finally says, name falling out of his mouth on a rough sigh, like water, like a prayer. "You. I wouldn't have. I..." He swallows visibly.
"I thought it was my last chance." He says finally, visibly deflating as he does, amazing Dean again that someone so huge and animated can look so damned small.
"You were dying..." his voice breaks on the last word, and Dean winces at the sound "and you weren't even. I couldn't just let you. I needed you to know how much I." his expression is pleading as much as Dean knows his was a moment ago, and Christ they're so useless at this talking shit, so used to relying on each another to know what they mean when they don't really say anything. Luckily he's had a lifetime of learning to read Sam; expressions, body language, all of him, and he thinks - hopes - he understands what his brother is trying to say, but that tiny, weak part of him compels him to ask anyway.
“So you. “ He clears his throat, tries again. “You’re sure you want. You wanna be." he tries to ask without actually asking, like that'll make it easier if Sam says no to him now. He gestures between them, trying to define something he knows he'll never have the words for anyway.
"Yeah I...that's what I want. I want you." Sam says, confidence in his voice, nodding as he finishes.
Dean wants to believe it. God he wants to believe it so fucking badly, but Sam, Sam leaves, it's what he does, and if they do this, take that one final step closer to each other, Dean knows that's it; that there’ll be nothing left of him that isn’t wrapped up in his brother, and he won't be able to take it if Sam decides he wants something - someone - else after all.
"I'm not gonna change my mind" Sam says, and damn him for knowing Dean that well anyway. “I‘ve wanted this, you, for…a long time now, and I'm not leaving Dean, I promise.” His eyes are so sincere, so full of everything Dean's always wanted to see in them, that that last bit of resistance and fear actually shuts up for once - doesn‘t go away, he knows it‘s there somewhere - and lets him consider that maybe, just maybe, Sam means it.
"OK" he says at last, trying to project confidence, knowing it still comes out way too soft, too pathetically hopeful to sound anything of the kind. Christ, he swears he hasn’t actually become a teenage girl during this talk, honest.
Sam's lips turn up slightly at the corners, and he looks at Dean with such a fond, exasperated expression that it makes Dean want to tease him for it, to just call him a love struck schoolgirl, play off the emotion shining out of Sam so brightly that it almost hurts to look at. But he doesn't, mainly because he can't seem to find any words at the moment, but still, maybe he‘s making some kind of progress here.
"OK?" Sam says, now really sounding like he's trying not to laugh - or cry maybe - Dean can't tell, way he's feeling himself right now.
"Yeah I. If you're sure then. Yeah." 'Way to sound confident Deano' he bitches at himself. Still, he can’t bring himself to break the moment with a dumb joke, not with the way Sams’ smile is growing; hope, and what he can only call joy finally pushing away the sadness that was there before. The second his cheeks dent with those damned dimples of his, Dean knows he’s fucked.
“I’m sure” Sam says, voice full of the smile that’s splitting his face and crinkling his eyes “I’m so fucking sure Dean”.
Then he’s moving, striding across what little space there was between them, standing almost chest to chest, eyes roving over Deans’ face like he’s trying to memorise it. Then his hands are on Dean’s cheeks, and he’s leaning down, pressing their mouths together hard, tongue running over Deans’ bottom lip. Dean’s mouth opens on a gasp, and suddenly Sams’ tongue is just there, stroking over his soft palette, flicking at his teeth, and Dean goes from zero to pound-nails hard so fast he feels light-headed.
Dean gives as good as gets; one hand tangled in Sams’ hair, the other running along his shoulder to his neck, holding him in place as Dean explores his brothers mouth with his tongue, tastes the indefinable flavour of Sam; and he can’t get enough, knows he’ll never get enough.
“Dean” Sam moans as they break for a desperate gulp of air, presses his forehead against Deans’, chest heaving as he breathes hard and fast, pulse jumping in the beautiful line of his throat.
“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean manages, voice just as wrecked. He runs his mouth along Sams’ jaw, up to the curve of his ear, whispers soft and rough right against it “want you, Sammy.”
Another low moan breaks loose from somewhere in Sams’ chest, cracks apart as it falls from his kiss-bruised lips.
“God, Dean.” He says again, like it’s the only word he knows, and fuck, that’s hot. Dean just kisses him again, licks his wide pink mouth open and gets as deep into his brother as he can like this, moans spilling between them, hands roving everywhere. Sams’ long fingers move up under Deans’ shirt, and he groans as they touch his skin, God Sam’s always so warm.
Sam needs to be less dressed, as of yesterday. Dean unbuttons Sams’ flannel overshirt quick as he can, groans a little at the loss of Sams’ hands on him as he pulls his arms back to get the shirt off. Then Sam’s pulling his grey t-shirt over his head, and every thought in Deans’ head turns to mush.
Fuck, Sam’s perfect. Dean runs his hand down one long, muscled arm, grasping Sams’ giant hand and guiding it back onto him, unbuttoning his shirt.
While Sam gets rid of Dean’s overshirt, he runs both his hands up from Sams’ waistband to his broad shoulders, thumbs flicking the tight brown nipples as he passes them. Sam moans again, hands spasming as he tries to get Deans shirts off.
“Fuck, Dean. Wanna touch you, c’mon, get this off” he says in one long breath, tugging at Deans’ green t-shirt. As soon as he gets it over his head, Sam is all over him, hands running down his back to his ass, hips pressed together, grinding their mutual erections against one another. More moans from both of them.
“Yeah Sammy, s’good, so good.” He says against Sams’ neck, with a hard push of his hips against his brothers.
Sam just lets out this broken whimper in response, and Dean almost loses it right there; smell and feel and taste of Sam everywhere, not even air between them. His slightly shaky hands move to Sam's belt at the same time Sam's move to his, and he grunts a laugh, too desperate and tightly wound to manage anything else.
With both their jeans outta the way, they collide again, hard planes of muscle shifting against each other, his hands in Sams’ hair, his tongue in Sam’s mouth. They break apart, dragging in air and fuck Sam looks hot messed up like this; eyes glazed over, hair everywhere, naked apart from the boxers he’s wearing that’re being pushed away from his body by the hard line of his cock.
“Bed” Sam gasps, hands not stopping their movement over Deans’ back
“Fuck, yeah, okay” he says, not quite willing to move away from Sam.
They both just sorta shuffle and tumble onto the bed, falling into each other and groaning.
“How’d you wanna? Who’s...” Sam trails off, words separated by the wet sucking kisses being pressed against Dean’s neck and chest.
“Christ, wanna fuck you.” Dean answers, without really thinking, blood not exactly in his brain. Luckily Sam seems on board, just shivers and moans again.
“Yeah I. Yeah, Dean, fuck.” He pushes Dean’s briefs down far enough to free his dick, and wraps his long fingers around it, stroking from root to tip.
“Shit, Sam.” Dean moans, shuddering in his brothers arms. “You done this before, Sammy?” He asks, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.
“Not. Not that.” Sam manages to say, and Christ he’s blushing now? “Handjobs, a couple blowjobs but not.” He trails off, and Dean can feel the heat spreading down his neck to his chest.
“Fuck, okay okay.” Dean tries to focus through the haze of pleasure spreading from where Sam is touching him, along with the rush of possessiveness at thought of being Sams‘ first.
“We’re gonna need stuff.” He groans, reluctant to move away from Sams’ awesome hands. “Gotta open you up for me Sammy; get you slick and ready for it.” The dirty-talk just kinda falls out of his mouth, the result of getting most of his sexual education from motel room pornos. Thankfully Sam seems to like it, judging from the wet patch that spreads across the front of his boxers where he’s leaking precome.
“So fucking wet Sammy” Dean teases, flicks at the slit through the material, listens to the whimper Sam makes at the touch. Finally sliding fingers under the waistband of Sam’s underwear, Dean pulls them down past his hips. Sams’ so fucking hard, dick slapping against the plane of his abs as it’s freed from his boxers, leaves a wet streak where he’s practically dripping at the tip. Sam whimpers again at the wet sound it makes, head tipped back, eyes shut tight as his chest heaves with every breath.
Dean gets up, grabs the bottle of lube and the strip of condoms - soon as he gets himself tested, he’s fucking Sam bare, he vows to himself - from the pocket of his duffle, and gets back on the bed quick as he can. Sam’s watching him now, pupils blown so wide he almost looks possessed, lips pink and swollen, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. He’s perfect, and he’s Dean's.
“So fucking sexy, Sam” Dean groans, eyes roving over Sam’s mile-long body as he slicks his fingers, gets himself down between Sam’s spread legs and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth. Sam groans so loud Dean wants to smirk around his mouthful of dick, but focuses instead on letting inch after inch slip along his tongue and into his throat. It’s been a while since he’s done this; not since Sam was at Stanford, but fuck it’s good. Sam tastes better here than anywhere else so far, dick hard and hot, skin like silk as it slides into his mouth. Taste of precome, slightly bittersweet, makes him groan, and the vibration makes Sam arch off the bed a little.
“Fuck, Dean, so good, your fucking mouth, God” Sam moans, valiantly trying to keep from thrusting too far too soon. Dean lets him a little, as he moves one hand from Sam’s balls to the taught skin behind, then below to his hole.
He runs one finger around and around the little pucker, and Sam moans again, hips shifting up toward the touch. Eventually the muscle relaxes, and the tip of Dean’s index finger slips into Sam to the first knuckle. Sams’ making some awesome noises now, grunts and whimpers and broken words, so Dean sucks harder as he pushes his finger in to the second knuckle. He moves it along the hot, tight inside wall of his brother’s body, and Sam practically comes off the bed, almost choking Dean if he hadn’t been ready for it, just backs up to the head again, tongue pushing hard into the slit.
“Christ Dean, please. Gotta. C’mon man.” Sam begs, hands gripping the sheets hard enough his knuckles are white, so Dean slides down his length again, tongue rubbing hard along the vein on the underside, while at the same time pushing his finger all the way in and finding that little spongy place inside his brother that’ll make him come.
Soon as Dean presses the tip of finger into Sam’s prostate, he arches hard off the bed, cock shoving to the back of Dean’s throat as he practically explodes. Dean gags a little, pulls back and lets the rest of the strings of come fall onto his tongue, swallowing eagerly, instantly addicted to the taste.
Before Sam’s done, he runs his middle finger around Sam’s hole and shoves, finger sliding all the way in, easily now, and Sam damn near comes again at that, high, broken moan caught in his throat as Dean works his fingers in and out. He slides his mouth off of Sams still half-hard dick and sucks in air, kissing the jut of hipbone next to his face, fucking Sam with his fingers.
“Oh my fucking God Dean” Sam pants, trying to catch his breath as his dick does it’s best to get hard again. ‘Ain’t gonna happen, but Dean appreciates the effort.
He slicks up a third finger, works it in with the other two, spreading them slow and thorough, sliding them in and out when Sam moans. Pressing against his sweet spot over and over, Sam’s head thrashing from side-to-side, and fuck Dean’s never been this turned on in his fucking life.
“You ready for me Sammy?” He asks, voice shot to Hell, not really expecting an answer with how out of his mind his brother is right now. He fucks his fingers in hard a couple times, loving the way Sam unconsciously pushes into it, running on pure sensation. He’s always wondered if he could reduce Sam to this; break down his barriers and work him over ‘till he just lets himself feel.
Tearing open a condom, he rolls it down his length, trying desperately not to shoot at the sensation of something finally touching his dick. Lubes himself quickly, spreading his fingers in Sam one more time. Christ, he’s still so fucking tight.
Getting Sam’s long legs up off the bed, ‘till Sam gets the idea and wraps them ‘round his waist, he guides the head of his cock to Sam’s clenching little hole. The first push earns him another cracked whimper from somewhere in Sam’s throat, and he slowly seats himself inside his brother, pausing every inch or so ‘till Sam nods to continue. Dean’s not small, and by the time his balls are flush with Sam’s ass they’re both sweating and breathing hard.
“God Dean, fucking move.” Sam pleads at him, hands grasping at Dean’s where they’re resting on Sam’s strong thighs.
“Yeah Sammy, gonna fuck you. Fuck, you feel so good little brother.” He really doesn’t mean to say that last part, but Sam’s dick twitches hard at the words, and Dean makes a note to exploit that later, too desperate now to tease or really draw it out.
He fucks in and out as slow as he can on the first dozen or so thrusts, letting Sam adjust, knowing first times hurt regardless. Hopefully if Sam’s anything like him a little edge of pain’ll just move things along even better. Seems he is, since by the time Dean picks up the pace, sliding in and out the way he really wants to - needs to - Sam is all the way hard again.
“Feel good Sammy?” Dean asks, breathless, wrapping one hand around Sam’s dick, letting the force of his thrusts fuck it into his fist. Sam is completely beyond speech now, tightening and clenching with every stroke of Dean’s hand, every shove of cock into his body. Dean goes faster still, lightning arcs of pleasure running up and down his spine as he gets closer to the edge.
“Gonna come in you Sammy” thrust, twist of his hips against Sam’s “fuck, wanna fill you up. Watch my come leaking outta you. Eat out your ass while you‘re still full of me. Mine.” Doesn’t even know what he’s saying, never felt anything so hot, so tight and perfect. He can feel the pressure building, feels like it’s everywhere. Christ, he’s gonna come so fucking hard.
He’s pretty sure he whites-out for a moment, total bliss running from his toes all the way up his spine and back down, coalescing in his balls as he fucking shoots inside the condom. From the way Sam lets out another groan he can feel it too; the way Dean twitches and jerks inside him as he comes apart.
He’s totally spent, can’t think, can’t even catch his breath. He slowly pulls out, ties off and tosses the condom, and collapses next to his gorgeous, fucked-out little brother.
“Fucking Christ Sammy.” He groans as he turns into the waves of heat radiating from Sam. “So fucking good.” He lands an open-mouthed kiss somewhere near Sam’s mouth, drags the bedcovers over them both before flopping onto his back and promptly passing out.
When he wakes, God knows how much later, he’s still under the comforter, itching with dried come and lube, and Sam is breathing steady and sleep-slow against his neck. He smiles tiredly, runs a hand gently from Sam’s neck to his hair and gives in to the lassitude in his body. They sleep like that, naked, sore and curled together, for the rest of the day, waking around six the following morning. They smile, a little awkwardly at first, ‘till Sam grabs the back of Dean’s neck, pulls him in, and kisses the living daylights out of him.
Things go much smoother after that.
After a day in which they do nothing but eat, drink, make out and fuck - in more positions than Dean thought Sam even knew - they decide to hit the road, Dean giving a cheeky grin and a two-fingered wave to the manager behind the desk as he double-takes at the bruises colouring both their necks, and the rather obvious limp in Sam‘s gait.
They leave a big tip for the maid.
“So, what now Sammy?” Dean asks with a drawl, more relaxed than he can remember being in pretty much forever.
“Figured we could stop by Bobby’s, let him see for himself that you’re alive an’ kicking” Sam says, faint smile never leaving his face, looking ten years younger than he had just a few days ago.
“Yeah, probably a good idea, but I meant in the broader sense there Sam.” he snorts, feigning annoyance as they get into the car, doors clunking shut at the same time.
Sam just laughs.
“Well…” Sam stretches the word out, pretending to really think about it. “I thought we’d go back to saving people, hunting things, y’know, the family business.” He says the last part with what Dean assumes is supposed to be a leer, but just makes him look slightly constipated. Something in the general vicinity of his heart still goes stupidly soft and sunlight-warm at the sight, all the same.
“Yeah, Sammy” He says, pretending he doesn’t notice the fondness in his voice, or the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He turns the key, and his baby roars to life.
“We got work to do.”