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“Tell me I’m what your hands were made for
Tell me I’m who your mouth was made for.” Tegan and Sara
...
They spent a night in Bismarck, not North Dakota, but a little nothing version in eastern Missouri. Dean still felt raw about the faith healer and the dying woman, Layla, and he wanted to eat his weight in slices of “Granny Barb’s Pies and More.” Their motel was aviation themed, with portraits of old-school, single-passenger planes, and a divider with ugly, chipped propellers.
If Dean was shaky, Sam was something else. He seemed fine before they left Ford City, when he arranged Dean’s talk with Layla. Hours later, somewhere along I-70, Sam’s mood darkened. Dean could tell because he knew the signs, dimples out one moment, brow furrowed the next. That was Sam. After a fitful nap in the car, he seemed to be agitated, cycling between staring at his own hands as he fidgeted and staring at Dean. At one point Dean glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Sam’s hand inching closer to him on the seat between them, eventually resting against Dean’s hip. When he was dying, Sam’s hands were all over him. Since he’d been cured, Sam hadn’t stopped, as if he could anchor his brother to the mortal plane with his hands alone. Dean kept trying to push him off, not wanting to be coddled, but it made Sam’s mood sour that much faster and Dean gave up. Better to let him do what he needed to do to get it out of his system.
Or, at least, until what he needed to do was straddle Dean in his chair.
They’d been watching a movie, Dean at the shiny, red table, having eaten his pie. Dean had leaned back in the armless, vinyl chair to digest and enjoy his beer, his pants unbuttoned to allow room. He sort of regretted that now that it made him that much more exposed to whatever this was. Sam had disappeared to the bathroom and when he returned he came right up to Dean, swung a leg over his and sat, hands coming up around Dean’s neck.
Dean blinked. “Shouldn’t we light a candle or something?” he quipped, trying for some levity at Sam’s intensity and boldness.
Dean’s heart ratcheted up tenfold as Sam tilted his face down and pressed his lips to Dean’s, trying to slip his tongue inside. Dean was only a little surprised at the timing. It had been years. Since before Stanford. He figured they might go down this road again eventually, but he’d been trying to maintain a healthy, brotherly distance. Especially after Jess. They hadn’t so much as talked about it in the few months since her death. Almost, maybe a dozen times, but Sam was still grieving. It wasn’t right.
But that same Sam was now tonguing the shell of Dean’s ear. Dean gripped the tops of Sam’s arms and leaned him back a bit. “Woah, woah, hey. Sammy?”
Sam dove back in for a nip of Dean’s ear and blew on the wet skin, causing Dean to shudder. “Call me Sammy again,” he whispered. Dean was on-fucking-board, stiffening in his jeans, but he needed to check in before his upstairs brain fully checked out. Sam’s mouth was back on Dean’s and he gave in for a minute, relishing the taste he’d missed for almost four years. He forced himself to pull away again. He had to focus. He owed that to Sam, in case this was pure self-destruction.
“Sammy, are you sure about this?” Dean asked as Sam tried to capture his lips again. Dean evaded him, “hey, listen to me,” he tried again, voice gravelly and commanding. Sam shuddered, staring down at him.
“Fuck me,” Sam said, forehead pressing to Dean’s, hands gripping his shoulders tightly.
“What, Sam, are you serious?” Dean asked, louder, getting a little impatient. He needed lucidity or this wouldn’t fly.
“Serious?” Sam laughed darkly. “Yeah. I’m serious. As a… as a heart attack.” Sam clenched his jaw, face and eyes shifting away from Dean’s and it clicked. Oh.
“Sammy?”
“Dean…” Sam whined. He bit his lip, expression screwed up and puppy-sweet. “You almost died. I lost her and I still wish I could kiss her one more time and I thought about how close you were to… and what if you and I didn’t ever… again… and please Dean, I need this. I need you.” And didn’t that just gut Dean and make him harder than hell. Sam squirmed a bit in Dean’s lap and Dean felt the pressure against his twitching cock through his jeans.
Since when could Dean say no to his baby brother? It might have been about self-destruction, but it was also about the soul-wrenching grief. Dean knew Sam was a deep well of anger, sadness, and bargaining. He'd bargained for Dean and won, in a way that barely felt like winning, and in their line of work, there would be more wagers sooner rather than later. They were right to cling to each other. There was a larger conversation to be had, but if Sam needed comfort in this way, if he needed to cling and feel the solidness of Dean underneath him, Dean could oblige, wholeheartedly. After all, Sam was just learning how to be Dean’s anchor. Dean had been trying to be Sam’s for most of his life. He was made for this. He reached up and kissed Sam.
Sam whimpered and deepened the kiss, making it filthy almost immediately. It felt like Sam’s tongue was forked, rapidly cycling from sliding hot and wet in Dean’s mouth and running up his ear, his neck, and down his unbuttoned henley, until it felt like it was everywhere at once. Sam was hungry. He also seemed to have more than two hands as they explored Dean’s body, running through his hair, gripping his arms, slipping up his shirt. Dean looked up at Sam with wide eyes. He held tight to the amulet around his neck as Sam lifted his shirt off and took a second to breathe while Sam tossed it. Dean tilted his head up to resume the kissing, but Sam had another idea.
As suddenly as it started Sam was up, off of Dean’s lap. But Sam wasn’t done. Just pausing to remove his own shirt and slide his jeans down, no underwear in sight. Dean swallowed, mouth going dry. He continued to stare, eyes wide as Sam leaned down and reached into Dean’s unbuttoned pants and pulled out his cock. Dean nearly choked when Sam started to straddle Dean again, lining him up.
Dean pushed back gently. “Hey! Lube? Prep?”
“Did it in the bathroom,” Sam whispered against Dean’s lips.
Dean nearly shot his load at that. Sam had planned. He’d been in the bathroom fingering himself while Dean drank off his food coma, just a few feet away.
“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean whispered, reverant.
Sam readjusted and angled himself, lining the head of Dean’s cock up and sliding all the way down.
“Fuck, Sammy!” Dean gasped, louder, curling his head into Sam’s chest.
Sam’s eyes were pure heat as he leaned his head down and whispered in Dean’s ear, “Call me Sammy again.”
He emphasized with a roll of his hips and a slow slide up and back down. He started working up a rhythm and Dean helped, bucking up into the tight, wet heat of his brother’s hole.
“Sammysammysammy, baby, fuck,” he moaned. He was not going to last long.
He looked up into Sam’s face and Sam stared back, intense stare replaced with a desperate expression, closer to his earlier anguish. His brow scrunched and his eyes welled up and Dean saw a couple of tears slide down his face as he worked up a deadly pace. Dean used his thumb to wipe away a tear and dropped his hands to grip Sam’s hips hard. He pressed his face into Sam’s chest so as not to see the vision of his wet dreams, his baby brother coming apart on his dick.
Dean’s hands slid up Sam’s back, lightly digging his nails in, as Sam rocked up and down. He felt Sam slide a hand up to his chin, forcing Dean to look up again. Sam moved the hand down and gripped Dean’s neck, maintaining eye contact as he rocked and applied a light pressure. Dean tried to maintain the gaze, but he was powerless, body taking over as his eyes fluttered shut again and a moan was wrenched out of him. He continued powerfully bucking as Sam pulled his hand away from Dean’s neck to reach behind himself and find one of Dean’s hands. Sam tugged it, sliding it between them and put it on Sam’s dick.
Dean obeyed, eyes popping back open, more focused with the task. He pushed his dick up into the tight heat, jacking Sam to the same unforgiving, frantic rhythm. Sam whimpered and squeezed Dean’s arms and Dean could tell he was getting close. Dean watched, captivated, as Sam threw his head back and came with a breathy moan. The sight was overpowering and Dean felt his own orgasm cresting. The sensation rippled through his entire body, his head falling to Sam’s chest again. He let out a long, deep moan as his orgasm overtook him. Sam wrapped both arms tightly around him, cradling Dean’s head to his chest, and rocking him through it.
After a couple of minutes, Sam gingerly stood up. Cum slid out of his ass and down Dean’s spent cock. Sam stood still for a moment, staring down at Dean, expression soft but intense, indecipherable in Dean’s post-orgasm stupor. He just stared up, dumbly, mouth agape, until Sam turned on his heels and went into the bathroom.
After a couple of minutes, Sam returned with a wet cloth and knelt down to dab at Dean’s soft cock. Dean shuddered and jerked and Sam put one hand on his chest to keep him still. Sam didn’t used to be so strong. It turned Dean on and his dick gave a helpless little twitch. Sam carefully folded the rag in on itself and tossed it into the trash bin from the floor. Dean pulled his pants back up, over his dick. They’d barely gotten down his thighs in Sam’s haste.
“Well, that was something,” Dean coughed, clearing some of the gravel from his throat.
Sam stayed between Dean’s legs on the dirty carpet, still naked. He took his turn to press his face into Dean’s bare chest, one hand coming up to grip the amulet, the other warm on Dean’s thigh. “Thank you,” Sam said weakly.
“No need to thank me, man,” Dean said, hand coming to settle in Sam’s hair. He was about to suggest Sam put on some clothes and they could finish their movie in bed when he felt the wetness on his chest. Sam was crying.
“I’m sorry,” Sam choked out.
Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Fuck. “No need to be sorry either,” he said, softly, stroking Sam’s hair. Sam stayed that way for a few minutes, while Dean stroked his hair. He quietly sobbed and shuddered, controlled in a way that told Dean he was trying not to fully fall apart. Dean murmured nonsense at him in that automatic way one did when someone cried. “You’re good. All good Sammy. Baby boy. I got you.”
Eventually, Sam’s tears slowed and they did move to the bed. Instead of Sam putting clothes on, Dean slid his jeans off and they slipped under the covers together. Sam curled into him and Dean continued to stroke his hair as he dozed off, face pressed to Dean’s chest again. Dean looked down at his brother, wondering if they were moving backwards or forwards, making a healthy choice or diving off a cliff. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. He would do whatever Sam needed. Dean was raised to be Sam’s anchor, however that looked.