"So you don't remember having sex. Ever?"
They're six hours out of Old Saybrook, Connecticut, heading west, back to the bunker. They took down a couple of shifters, but Dean got hit in the head pretty hard, blacked out for a while. He's fine now, except for this weird memory gap which seems to have cleaned his mind for him. Literally. Sam's trying to clarify the point, but it feels more like he's rubbing it in, damn it.
"Of course not 'ever,' you asshole," Dean snaps. "Of course I remember having sex."
"Just not with me," Sam persists, and Dean so wishes he would just shut the hell up.
"You're my brother, Sam," Dean shakes his head a little. "Pretty sure we never did that."
"Pretty sure we did!" Sam huffs, indignant. "Pretty sure we've been doing it for a while now. Jesus." He shakes his head. "I can't believe this. How can memory loss be so selective? Are you sure you can remember having sex?"
"Yes! Now quit asking!" Dean's memories are pretty damn hazy on this whole topic, as a matter of fact, but it's beyond embarrassing having to confess that to Sam.
Bitch just won't stop pushing the issue, though.
"Name one time you remember having sex," Sam insists. "Name the person you had it with."
Dean puffs out his cheeks, purses his lips, makes his best "blue steel" face, glances at himself in the rearview mirror to be sure it's a good one. "Carla Monson, Beaverton High School, Homecoming 1995."
Sam shakes his head. "Doesn't count," he says. "I was too young to pay attention then, and I didn't know her. It's got to be somebody I knew. Name somebody since we started hunting together again. Since 2005."
"Jesus, Sam, we're getting pretty particular here," Dean shifts nervously in the driver's seat, adjusts his hands on the wheel.
"I need to see how far the damage goes," Sam says. "Seriously, Dean, maybe we should get you checked out..."
"No fuckin' way," Dean growls. "This is not a problem. I'm functioning just fine without all those memories. They probably weren't very good anyway."
Sam makes a hurt noise and Dean glances at him. The kid's hunched down in the seat, legs spread, knees pressed to the dash, looking so sad and forlorn you'd think he's the one who's just lost all memory of his sex life.
Which – okay, so maybe –
"Hey, so what?" Dean tries again. "So we just start over. You know, like I'm a virgin again."
He can't believe he just said that, and he cringes inwardly. But Sam perks up a little, glances over at him with a doubtful expression, hesitant but maybe just a little hopeful.
"You're serious?" he asks tentatively. "You'd do that? Just go there all over again?"
"Sure, why not?" Dean shrugs. "It's just a little pity-fucking for the brother who never gets any. How tough can it be?"
"It's incest, Dean," Sam shakes his head. "You used to tell me if you had it to do all over again, you wouldn't."
"I'm a jerk," Dean shrugs again. "Besides. Maybe it'll shake something loose in the old grapefruit, get the juices flowing again. You know they say sex is mostly in the head anyway. Maybe it'll jog my memories."
"Maybe," Sam agrees, but he sounds doubtful. He's been crabby and miserable ever since he figured out Dean's memories were missing. Which happened pretty quick after the injury, when Dean came to in Sam's arms, with Sam breathing, "Oh thank God," and starting to kiss him, for god's sake. Which made Dean scramble away, exclaiming, "What the hell, Sam!" The hurt and confusion in Sam's face was almost enough for Dean to let the kid just do whatever weird, freaky think he needed to do in order to reassure himself that Dean was fine.
Almost. Because when Sam started touching him again, checking for other wounds, it became obvious that wasn't all he was doing. Especially when Sam buried his face in Dean's neck and started kissing there too –
"Ow! Stop! Sammy, what the hell?" Dean pushed the kid away, holding him at arm's length and glaring sternly. "What do you think you're doing?"
Even then, Dean could chalk up Sam's overly-touchy behavior to a little excess emotional reaction, like when they were kids and Sam used to curl up with Dean and bury his face in Dean's neck, and sometimes Dean would wake up in the night with Sam humping him in his sleep. Normal kid stuff. Dean would gently peel Sam's overheated body off of him, or wake him up enough so he could take himself in hand, leave Dean's hipbone out of it.
Once they stopped sharing a bed, it wasn't even an issue.
At least, that's how Dean remembered it, until they got back to the motel to shower, and Dean came out in his towel and turned his back on Sam for a minute and suddenly he was being wrapped up from behind in gigantic tree-trunk arms, Sam's pointed chin digging into the crook of his neck, Sam's third leg pushing into the crack of his ass –
There was no mistaking it this time. And Sam didn't take well to Dean's indignant rejection. Figured Dean was playing some kind of lover's game at first, till it became clear that something had happened to Dean's memories.
They slept in separate beds that night, but Sam tossed and turned pretty much the entire night, keeping Dean awake. In the morning, Sam got up early to get coffee and do research on selective memory loss, then started right in on the questions. Which had now gone on pretty much all day, and Dean was tired and worn down and at the end of his rope because yeah, it was pretty clear that the rest of his memories were intact, for the most part (he'd sort of taught himself to be hazy about some of the more vivid things that had happened in their long, violent lives, but that was something else).
So now they're rolling into some crummy little backwater dive town in central Ohio, gassing up so they can hit the road early in the morning, then checking into the roadside motel across the street. Sam unloads the car, takes the first shower while Dean grabs some grub from the diner down the street, relieved to be doing something besides waiting in the motel room to have sex with his brother.
Because no, he's not going to get all weirded out over this incest thing. It's just a thing they do, like pumping gas or cleaning their guns. Obviously, it's a convenience thing, Dean reasons. After all, they're together all the time, stuck sleeping in the same room when they're on a case. There's never time for a little action on the side, not really. And even if there was, it's too dangerous. The Winchesters don't dare drag anyone into their messy lives, and random hook-ups just aren't that appealing anymore, if they ever were. Dean's not exactly clear on that point. He thinks he remembers picking up girls in bars, remembers flirting with plenty, but the actual lovin'-and-leavin'-'em part is just gone. Not there. Nada. Zilch.
So yeah, Dean can see how sex with Sam might seem safe and practical when compared with all that.
He wonders how it started. No, he doesn't. He's pretty sure he knows. It's not exactly easy to be quiet while whacking off with another person in the room, and despite all the bitching and complaining, Sam's a considerate guy. He probably offered to lend a hand one night, since he couldn't sleep anyway, and Dean probably thought he was kidding so he agreed, mostly as a joke. But then Sam climbed into bed and took Dean in hand so fast it made Dean's head spin, and Dean let it happen. Then of course Dean returned the favor. And that was it, for a long time. Just mutual masturbation assistance. Jerk-off buddies. Letting off steam after a hunt, taking care of business, just helping each other out.
Sam kissed him. Right. Okay, so it progressed to a little more than just the occasional hand job. After all, Sam's a girl; he needs all that cuddling and affection stuff. He likes to snuggle. And Dean probably got sick of pushing him away and learned to tolerate it, big sweaty octopus wrapped around him all night, nuzzling his neck and humping his hip –
And just like that, Dean's mind goes back to those early years, when they were kids. No way Dean let anything happen then. He remembers pushing Sam away, ordering him to go sleep in his own bed. He remembers sleeping on the couch, giving Sam the bed, just to avoid the whole issue. Dean can remember thinking Sam just needed a girl friend, somebody besides Dean to focus all that sexual energy on. Dean tried to get Sam to hook up, found dates for him, brought home girls with their little sisters. Dean doesn't remember much beyond coming through the door, ignoring Sam's epic bitchface as he pushed the little girl toward Sam, tried to slip away into the bedroom with his own date.
Dean remembers Sam's tear-streaked face as he confessed his painful, desperate crush on his brother, remembers Sam leaving for Stanford the next morning, taking all his unrequited passion with him. Leaving Dean alone and destitute and grieving, missing Sam like a part of his body, like his heart had been cut out, leaving a huge, aching hole that just would not stop hurting.
Dean remembers drunk-dialing Sam more than once during those horrible years, remembers driving out and stalking the kid, watching him as he made his way across green lawns, in and out of buildings. Sam was always hunched over, shoulders tight, backpack slung low, hoodie zipped up against the chill. He never looked up, never saw Dean watching him. To this day, Sam probably doesn't know how often Dean visited Stanford while Sam was going about his business, how Dean fed his craving just to see his little brother, just to make sure he was still there.
After the fire, after Jessica died and Dean took Sam with him on his hunt for their father, things were different between them. Sam was more grown-up, more self-confident. Dean was less sure of him, more wary of rejection. Sam had run away, had shown he was capable of leaving Dean in a way Dean could never do. It terrified Dean, made him careful, made him treat Sam with kid gloves at first, afraid he would spook and run at the slightest provocation.
Maybe it started then, Dean thinks. Maybe he gave in to Sam's desires as a way to keep Sam with him, to keep Sam from throwing him away again, to keep Sam from finding another replacement. Another Jessica. Maybe he even rationalized it, pointing out to Sam that neither of them could ever have a "normal" relationship, not with the life they lived. Neither of them could ever have anyone else, even if they wanted to. There could be no more Jessicas, or Lisas, or Cassies...
For the life of him, Dean can't remember having sex with those women either. He knows he did, because he remembers sleeping – just sleeping – in Lisa's bed. In Cassie's bed. But that's it. Not even a kiss...
Sam kissed him. It happened yesterday. That, he remembers.
And as worthless and pathetic as he is, Dean wants it. Wants physical proof of Sam's loyalty, of his acceptance. Dean wants Sam's promise never to leave him again. He wants Sam's forgiveness for all the terrible, selfish things Dean has done to keep Sam with him. Dean wants to feel Sam's need for Dean like a brand on Dean's skin, hot and painful and never-ending. Dean wants everything Sam will give him, everything he can rip out of him, everything Dean is too weak to take for himself. He wants everything he knows he doesn't deserve from Sam, and everything he knows he does.
By the time he returns to the motel, food bags in hand, Dean's exhausted. He puts the food on the table, next to Sam, who is researching some damn thing, wearing a black tee-shirt and his old ratty grey sweatpants. He's barefoot, and his hair is still wet from the shower, and he's so gorgeous it makes Dean's heart ache. He puts down the six-pack of beer, opens one for Sam and puts it on the table next to him. Sam looks up, smiles his thanks, dimples and teeth flashing, and before Dean can out-think it he leans down and kisses Sam, soft and easy.
"See?" Dean says when he pulls back, ignoring Sam's surprised, pleased look. "I still remember how to do that."
"Yes," Sam breathes. "Yes, you do."
They eat in silence, Dean watching crappy t.v. while Sam keeps clicking away on his damn laptop. Dean cleans up after, takes the bags out to the dumpster, vaguely considers going for smokes and more beer, maybe some whiskey. He gave up smoking a long time ago, but he still feels the urge once in awhile, especially when he's nervous.
Back in the room, Dean heads into the bathroom for his shower, takes the edge off with the hot water pouring down his back, comes hard when he thinks about Sam's soft lips, imagines Sam's long fingers curled around his beer bottle. He dries off, slips into his boxers and tee-shirt, blushes at his own modesty, knowing he usually strides out in the altogether, dresses and undresses in front of Sam all the time normally. Can't remember much else, but he remembers that.
He comes out of the bathroom with his towel over his head, scrubbing at his hair to dry it, and damn it if Sam isn't standing right there, waiting for him, so Dean almost crashes into him.
"You know, maybe this isn't such a good idea," Sam says, all serious and concerned suddenly. "You've had some kind of head trauma, and it's affecting your sex drive – "
"Nothin' wrong with my sex drive," Dean growls. "Just my sex memories."
Sam shakes his head. "Memory doesn't work that way," he says. "If you've had a stroke and it's affected the parts of your brain that control your sexual appetite – "
"Nothin' wrong with my appetite," Dean insists. "Little dress rehearsal in the shower went just fine a minute ago."
"Oh," Sam raises his eyebrows, looks taken aback for a moment.
Dean smirks and gives a little shrug. "You were the featured attraction, in case you're wondering. Surprised myself at that, I gotta admit."
Sam clearly doesn't know how to respond to that, so Dean steps up to him, right into his personal space, and kisses him again. Yep, this is definitely easier when he's not thinking about it. Because Sam's lips are already parted, and just as soft as Dean remembers, and Dean's got his pride, damn it. He knows he's a good kisser. He's just sure Sam likes it when Dean kisses him.
It's weird kissing a guy, though. There's stubble, and height. He's not sure what to do with his hands. Sam's body is gigantic, all hard muscle and firm, hot skin and so, so solid. Nothing pliable or soft to pull into his arms, to feel up and caress. He's pretty sure he feels the same way, just shorter. Dean slides one hand around the back of Sam's neck, into his stupid long hair, finds he likes how it feels slipping through his fingers. Holding Sam's head in place, he plunders Sam's hot mouth, rubbing his thumb along Sam's jaw to coax him into opening wider.
Sam moans as their tongues slide together, and suddenly Sam's long arms are wrapped around him, pulling Dean's body flush against him, and Dean can feel the hard line of Sam's erection pressing into his belly. It's weird, of course, but kinda hot too, and Dean rubs his body against it, eliciting another low moan from deep in Sam's throat. It vibrates through Dean's body where their chests are smashed together, and Sam's hands are moving south, down Dean's back till they're splayed wide over his ass, and –
"Hey, okay there," Dean jumps a little, pulls back, releasing Sam's mouth as the words are punched out of him. "Just hold on a minute."
Sam lets him go, albeit a little slowly, obviously reluctant. Which should be flattering, Dean thinks. But something here needs discussing before they go one step further, and Dean just needs to think a minute, get his foggy upstairs brain back on-line. He steps back a couple of paces, so they're not even touching any more, and Dean's body really, really wants to be back in that huge, hot embrace, so yeah, this better be quick.
"Seems like we got some ground rules to lay down here," Dean scrubs one hand over his jaw, then rubs the back of his neck. Sam's panting a little, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes and messy hair where Dean was running his fingers through it – damn, the kid looks good. "Pretty sure I don't do anal."
"Okay," Sam nods, all eager to just get back to it, ready for anything. "You're the boss. We'll do it your way."
Dean frowns, uncertainty prickling at the backs of his eyes. "I top, right?" he confirms, watching Sam's eyes flicker away as he flinches a little. "I mean, I'm the big brother. I'm the leader of this team."
"Whatever you say, Dean," Sam nods, seems a little too ready to agree with whatever Dean's saying, and that's just crazy.
"Wait, are you kidding me? Are you saying we don't do it that way?" Dean stares, flabbergasted. Horrified. "That big dick of yours? No fuckin' way..."
"Dean, it's okay," Sam assures him. "We don't need to have anal sex. I totally understand. You've had a brain injury, for god's sake. We can take it slow."
Dean shakes his head, mouth agape in disbelief. "I am not a bottom." He points his whole hand at Sam for emphasis.
Sam takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a minute. "No, of course not," he agrees when he opens them again, mask of pained disappointment firmly in place. It hits Dean that he's being a complete pain in Sam's ass, or at least he's being a pretty precious snowflake. He probably ought to just man up and take one for the team, just admit that somewhere down deep inside, Dean's a princess who likes to take it up the ass from his baby brother.
This is so fucked up.
Sam's look of resigned suffering is pushing all of Dean's guilt buttons. He knows he's not being fair to Sam, and he's missing the feel of those huge arms around him, so he steps closer, reaches down and tugs on the waistband of Sam's sweatpants. Sam lets him, leaves his arms hanging at his sides as Dean smiles up at him.
"Hand jobs are good," he ventures. "Like when we were kids."
Sam sucks in a breath. "You remember that?" he breathes hopefully, and Dean watches the colors change in Sam's eyes as his pupils dilate.
"No," he admits after a moment, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. "But I'm guessing that's how things started, and right now, I'm feeling pretty new at this. For me, it's like starting over, so – "
Sam gazes at him for another moment, swallows, then he nods. "I get that, Dean," he says. "I do. We can take it slow. Whatever works for you."
Dean slides one hand along Sam's hipbone, holds onto the waistband of Sam's sweatpants with the other. Sam's skin is warm and smooth and feels so good as Dean slides his hand up his side, under his shirt.
"Need to see you," Dean mumbles, tugging on the hem of Sam's shirt.
Sam takes a step back, yanks his tee-shirt off over his head, exposing miles of tan, muscled skin. Dean stares at Sam's bulging pecs, his flat stomach and broad shoulders, watches as Sam's ab muscles clench and release under Dean's gaze. He reaches out, lays his palm flat over the tattoo on Sam's chest, feels the skin on his own chest tighten a little in response. He lets his hand slip down through the dark, soft hair on Sam's chest, following his happy trail till Dean's tugging on the waistband of Sam's sweatpants again.
"This too," he commands. "Off."
Dean stands back as Sam pushes the pants down, steps out of them and kicks them aside. His cock bobs free, huge and dark and veined as Dean remembered (okay, maybe he'd noticed once or twice in the past how his brother was hung like a horse, so sue him). Sam's long legs are shaped as perfectly as the rest of him, dark dusting of hair over his shins matching the backs of his powerful forearms and chest.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean breathes, hearing his voice break a little at the end, covers for it by moving in closer, grabbing Sam's cock roughly and jacking him a couple of times. He reaches up with his other hand to slip his fingers behind Sam's neck, tugs so that Sam has to lean his face down, so Dean can reach his lips again. Sam moans into Dean's mouth, puts his hands on Dean's shoulders, like he's steadying himself as Dean jerks him off, as Dean worries Sam's lips with his teeth before plunging his tongue inside again, twining it with Sam's. Sam's cock feels huge and heavy in his hand, nothing like his own. He's a little worried his wrist might fall off before he can manage to get Sam all the way off – Jesus, his dick is way bigger than Dean's. There is no fucking way Dean's letting that thing near his ass...
The height thing is getting to Dean, too; his neck hurts from craning it back, and he needs Sam to be smaller. He makes a little whining noise in his throat, pulls back a little, and Sam just gets it, blinks at him in confusion for all of two seconds before he seems to understand where this is going. He pulls his own dick out of Dean's hand and drops to his knees in one smooth motion, nuzzling his face into Dean's crotch as he slides his hands down Dean's body, settles them on Dean's hips, careful not to cup his ass. Dean doesn't need to think about how perfectly his ass fits into Sam's gigantic hands; he focuses on the glorious friction as Sam rubs his stubbled chin and cheeks against Dean's cloth-covered dick, how good it feels when Sam's mouth gives it several long, open-mouthed kisses. It occurs to Dean that he needs to see his dick in Sam's mouth, and Sam gets that too, like he can read his mind, slides his long fingers into the waistband of Dean's boxers and tugs. Dean lends a hand, steps back to push the offending underwear down his legs, steps out of them as he yanks his tee-shirt off over his head so now they're both naked as jaybirds. Catching sight of Sam naked and on his knees, looking up at Dean with those flushed cheeks and parted lips, all trusting and desperate, is almost too much. Dean grabs the base of his cock and closes his eyes against the rush of emotion that causes them to smart, threatens to make him come all over Sam's hopeful, handsome face.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean hisses for what must be the hundredth time, probably more if he could just remember right. He feels Sam's hand on his hip, feels his lips and tongue on the head of his dick, and he shoves his free hand into Sam's hair, opens his eyes so he can watch as Sam carefully sucks Dean's dick into his mouth, eyes focused on what he's doing. From this angle Dean can see the balls of Sam's flushed cheeks and that enticing little beauty mark, the bulge in his brow, his upturned nose and perfect eyelashes, and Dean's pretty sure he's never seen anything more gorgeous. Sam's mouth works Dean's dick like an old pro, tonguing the slit before curling under the head, then sucking Dean's length into all that soft, wet heat with an obscene slurp. Dean tries not to thrust, but it ain't easy with a sex-god giving him the best head of his life (the only head he can ever remember getting, but whatever). He encourages Sam with little grunts as he plays with his lustrous dark hair, muttering, "That's it, Sam. That's it," as he watches his spit-soaked dick sliding in and out of Sam's mouth.
He's pretty sure he could do this all night, but Sam's got other ideas. When he pulls off with another obscene slurp, stares up at Dean with those pleading little-boy eyes of his, Dean can hardly hear his words, hardly hears Sam say, "Need you in me, Dean. Can you do that?" When Sam looks like that, Dean's pretty sure he could cut off his own arm if the boy asked him to.
So it's the least he can do to comply with such a simple request, right? Dean manages to nod as Sam scrambles over to the bedside table, grabs a tube of lube, then rolls his long body across the bed and starts working himself open.
"Jesus fuck, Sammy," Dean breathes as he stands at the foot of the bed, just watching. He doesn't understand how this is the hottest thing he's ever seen. Seeing Sam on his back with his legs spread and his fingers in his hole, writhing and panting, his muscled arms straining and flexing, is sexier than all the porn he can remember (and he does remember the porn, definitely). That's just the way it is. And when Sam reaches for him, begs him to, "Come on, Dean, come on, I need you," he does. It's awkward, nothing like he thought it would be to shove his dick into another man's ass, and maybe he's being too careful, going too slow because that little pucker is tight, damn it. He gets himself so slicked up he's dripping, and still it's the tightest thing he's ever put his dick into – at least, that he can remember. Sam wiggles and moans and pushes down, then cries out and stiffens so that Dean freezes, panicked that he's hurt Sam until Sam assures him that, "It's fine, it's good, it feels incredible." It seems to take a long time before he finally bottoms out, and he's got Sam almost bent in half, which feels even weirder. Dean wonders if they should have done this the other way, doggy-style, but he's just following Sam's lead on this, and Dean has to admit it's pretty amazing to watch Sam's face as he fucks him. When Dean tries thrusting a little, Sam positively keens, straining his neck muscles and pulling on the backs of his knees, panting and sweating and coming apart so beautifully Dean's pretty sure it's worth all the awkward first-time jitters he's experiencing. Sam doesn't seem to mind that Dean has no idea what he's doing, still can't remember doing it before. Dean feels his orgasm building as he thrusts, forgetting to be careful as sensation replaces rational thought. He grabs Sam's dick as an after-thought, needing Sam to feel what he's feeling, to share the moment of discovery in which Dean finds himself giving over all consciousness to the pure physical and emotional connection with the most important person in his life.
It hits Dean as he's coming down off his release, rocking shallowly into Sam, becoming conscious of the warm wetness of Sam's orgasm on his hand, on their bellies – it doesn't matter that he can't remember all the other times. Being with Sam is always a first-time, always an awakening, creative and pure in its originality. What Sam and Dean share is a connection that is something new, a frontier of the mind and the heart that's always a kind of beginning.
And some poet somewhere said that every orgasm is a little death, Dean smirks to himself as he wipes himself and Sam off with the sheet, then snuggles up against Sam's hot, sweaty body. Sam shifts around till he gets comfortable, letting Dean pull him over so he's lying with his cheek on Dean's chest, arm slung low across his body, legs tangled together. Dean cards his hand loosely through Sam's hair, relaxed and content to fall asleep this way, but Sam has to have the last word, of course.
"So – still no memories?"
Dean shakes his head a little. "Nothin,'" he admits, stroking Sam's hair idly. "Don't care, though. We can make new memories, right?"
Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out against Dean's chest, and Dean knows Sam's disappointed. Sam's worried.
"It's okay, Sam," Dean assures him. "I promise. I'm still me."
"I know," Sam nods a little, presses his lips against Dean's chest. But Dean knows he's different now. He can feel it. Knows Sam feels it too. He's not the Dean who remembers making out with Sam in the backseat of the Impala while their dad was blasting Zeppelin as he drove through the night. He's not the Dean who remembers trading blow jobs in truck-stop bathrooms, or getting drunk in the motel room and fucking around in front of the t.v. while their dad was on a hunt. He's not the Dean who went down on Sam that first time after picking him up from Stanford, then held him in his arms as he cried after coming in Dean's mouth.
Dean imagines all these things because he can't remember them, but he suspects they all happened anyway. And maybe that's enough. Even if he never recovers those memories, maybe just being able to reconstruct them will be enough. He hopes so.
"We'll figure it out," he says now into Sam's hair, kissing the top of his head soundly. "We've had worse."
"I know," Sam breathes again, another long sigh of resignation warming Dean's chest as the kid finally, blessedly, falls asleep.