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Sam’s chest is still heaving, he can’t catch his breath. Collapsed amid the wrecked sheets at his side, Dean groans loud and rolls onto his back, blowing out a long breath.
“Fuck,” he says, quietly and with great feeling.
Sam laughs. “No kidding.”
“Damn, Sammy, where’d you learn to do that?”
Sam laughs again, covers his face with his hands as his shoulders shake. He feels so fucking good, his whole body is loose and heavy but his heart is so light. He peeks up through his fingers at Dean, watching as Dean props himself up on his elbows and looks down at him, his hair a complete disaster sticking up in all directions, and Sam has to make a heroic effort to keep from telling him how cute he looks.
Somewhere beyond the closed bedroom door comes a familiar metallic sound, loud and grating. Dean is reaching for the gun on his bedside table before Sam gets himself untangled from the sheet. The bunker door swings to and clangs shut and then familiar, quick footsteps sound on the stairs and their mom is calling out, “Sam? Dean? It’s just me, I got an hour down the road and realized I forgot the book Jody wanted.” She goes quiet then, like she’s listening for a response, and a moment later they hear her footsteps again out in the library.
Dean lets out a quiet huff of a breath, carefully setting the gun down without making a sound. They look at each other and Sam sees his own surprise reflected back at him in Dean’s eyes, but it isn’t until they hear their mom start walking down the hallway in their direction that Sam thinks of something that makes his whole body flush hot. They hadn’t locked the bedroom door.
They hold their breaths until she passes by without slowing and then Sam slips silently out of bed, pads over to the door. He stands there, listening and wondering how his wires ever got so crossed, until even the echoes of Mary’s footsteps have faded and then he slowly turns the lock, easing the bolt home with only the slightest creak of metal on metal. He turns back to the bed in time to see Dean collapse back against the pillows, hand over his eyes.
“Dammit, that was too close,” Dean murmurs when Sam sinks back down onto the bed at his side.
Sam rests his hand on Dean’s belly, rubbing slow circles, fingers brushing against Dean’s happy trail. “Shh,” he says when Dean lets out a surprised little sound, almost a moan, as Sam’s thumb strokes along the sensitive skin of his groin. “You better be quiet, or she’ll catch us.”
“Fuck,” Dean whispers, then adds weakly, “cut it out, Sam, not funny.”
“Who’s laughing?” He ducks his head to press wet, claiming kisses to Dean’s belly, the crease of his hip, opening his mouth to lick and suck at the base of his dick, pulling in a deep breath through his nose and letting it out as a hungry little growl, knowing it drives Dean crazy, the reminder that Sam likes the way he smells.
“Sam what are you doing, she’s still here—“
“Quiet, D, mom will hear us,” Sam whispers, his own excitement and nerves making his voice shake, making him sound very young.
“Sam,” Dean groans, and Sam closes his lips around the head of his dick, looking up through his eyelashes and meeting Dean’s heated gaze, flicking his tongue once very deliberately before he lets him out of his mouth to say, “It’s Sammy,” and bowing his head to take as much of Dean into his mouth as he can.
“Oh my god,” Dean breathes, then swears and buries one hand in Sam’s hair, his heel digging into the mattress as he thrusts up into Sam’s mouth. “Sammy, you can’t, we’ll get in trouble.”
Sam curls his hand around Dean’s hip, fingers digging into flesh as he breathes brokenly through his nose.
“Sammy,” Dean says above him, even quieter, “Sammy we shouldn’t, you’re my little brother.”
Sam shifts and presses in closer until Dean’s hitting the back of his throat. He swallows around him and listens to Dean trying to swallow his cry of pleasure. He pulls off slow, replaces his mouth with his hand and looks up at Dean, catches his eyes, glittering in the dark. He could find his brother blindfolded at the end of the world.
Something passes between them in a flash, an intuitive understanding of the knife edge they’re balanced on. The illicit thrill, the very real threat of discovery, the ever-present nagging, itching, “if-then” wonder that pervades their life story, starting with that first, monumental “if.”
What if mom hadn’t died?
They hear her footsteps again, coming back down the hall.
If mom hadn’t died, would we be normal?
Slowly, slowly, Sam lays himself out half over Dean’s body, presses his mouth to his brother’s.
If mom hadn’t died, would you still want me?
As the shadow of her passes in front of the grate in the bottom of the door, Dean murmurs, “We shouldn’t.”
Sam kisses him. “Why not?”
“Because I’m your big brother, I’m supposed to take care of you.”
Sam rolls his hips very deliberately against Dean’s. “Why can’t I take care of you?”
“Because it’s not supposed to work this way.”
“Don’t you want me, D?”
It’s a cheap shot, and he takes it without a second thought. Hears the way Dean’s breath hitches in his chest, feels the iron grip of Dean’s hand around the back of his neck.
“Don’t I make you feel good?” Sam presses, twisting the knife he’s already plunged deep into Dean’s self control, and feeling it like an electric shock when Dean’s neck twists sharply so that he can press his open mouth to Sam’s cheek as he honest-to-whoever whimpers and wraps his arms around Sam’s back, breathing raggedly.
“Want you, Sammy. Want you so much.”
“Because I make you feel good?”
“Because you’re my brother,” Dean gets out, choked, “you’re my brother and — and I—“ Dean’s lifting his hips under Sam, desperately seeking contact, and Sam bears down on him, their bellies slick with how copiously Dean is leaking between them. The pull and slide of his dick against Sam’s body is magnificent.
Out in the library, they hear the faint ring of a cell phone and then their mother’s voice as she answers the call. Sam thinks he hears her say Dean’s name, knows he hears Dean moan.
Sam kisses Dean hard, holding him down as he ruts against him, hears the blood rushing in his ears and his own helpless punched-out breaths with every thrust.
“I like it,” he babbles in Dean’s ear, trying to keep quiet. “I like fucking my big brother. Don’t care mom’s home, don’t care she’s right down the hall, I like it. I’ll be so good for you Dean, don’t care about anyone else, just you. Best you ever had, right, D? Tell me you want me more than anything.”
Dean looks like he’s about to pass out or have a heart attack and Sam isn’t too far out of his mind to have a momentary heart attack himself wondering if he’s finally gone too far, pushed too hard, but then — a bitten-off groan, an open palm smacked into the mattress at his side, a shuddering breath and Dean’s ravaged voice is spilling over into the non-space between his mouth and Sam’s.
“Sammy, Sammy, god, you’re the best, you’re the best and you’re killing me, little brother, don’t stop, more than anything, fuck, just like that. My baby brother, want you more than anything, goddamn, goddamn.”
Mary’s footsteps clang against the metal stairs, climbing higher and higher as Dean is breathing faster and harder his body wound tighter and tighter with each step and when the slam of the door reverberates through the bunker he’s silent for one protracted moment before he cries out as loud as Sam has ever heard him and Sam watches him, spellbound, before he follows right over the edge, coming so hard that everything beyond the world of himself and his brother blinks out of existence and for a while after that all is calm and still and wonderful.