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His Own Kind of Prayer

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They stop at a stream on the way back, draw the horses to the edge and slide off, grateful. The sun's too warm and the ride's too long for them to linger, but they both know that they will.

Dean knocks away his scabbard before his boots hit the ground, watches Sam tug at the chainmail and his heavy leather vest and laughs, like he always does.

"So eager, Sam," he huffs.

His brother blushes, stuck halfway between metal and air, and the moment he's free, he reaches, stretches, gathers Dean in his arms. Takes what's his with his hands, his mouth, his smile.

This is their place, the only place where can do this, be this to each other and not whisper, not bite their lips till they bleed, and stay quiet, god. So quiet. It's like a church when they fuck in the keep. Has to be. Silent and sweet and the closest thing to holy that Dean thinks he'll ever see, on Earth.

Most days, he has trouble believing in God. In Heaven or in Hell. But times like this, Sam stretched above him, murmuring in his ear and working his way in, steady and slow and sure, he can't help but send up a prayer of thanks to whoever it is watching over them, whoever lets them have this. Each other.

Sam's lips over his ear, his fingers dug deep inside Dean's hips. Dean's cock sliding through the grass, his eyes stinging with the shine of the water, the sun, the blue blue sky overhead.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath, clamping his teeth shut, until Sam stops rutting, curls his hand around Dean's neck and turns him. Kisses him. Whispers:

"Let it go, Dean. Please. Let it go."

Keeps at it, repeats it, even as his hips shift, his hand slips between Dean and the earth and pulls, tugs, insists:

"Let it go. Let me hear you. Please."

Until Sam's breath catches, his body shudders, and his voice falls, a deep hollow groan. And it's the need there, the want that Dean can never see, never hear except in this place, when they're well and truly alone, when there's no chance of a page or a steward or one of their comrades-in-arms stumbling into the nave of the church, the hollow where others pray and Sam and Dean fuck, and see them, hear them, find them--that's what pushes Dean over, makes him scream Sam's name and spill his own seed into the dandelions, paint the grass below them white.

Sam comes, a hot bright rush he can feel like a brand, and slumps over, pressing little kisses into Dean's neck and saying things that Dean lets himself hear in a way he can't in the castle.

I love you. You are mine. Dean.

They wash up in the stream and let the horses graze a little longer, kissing in the shade of the trees.

When they ride, pound their way back out to the path and turn towards home, towards the flags that barely flicker on the horizon, they're comrades again, brothers in battle and in name.

Dean turns his head, lets his baby lead while he looks back in vain for the bright of the stream, the brush of the sun over his face. Over Sam's.

But it's gone, lost behind the hill, and it's just as well.

The sound of hooves in the dirt and the buzz of wind and he hears:

I love you. You are mine. Dean.

He closes his eyes, remembers the brush of Sam's lips on his back, and it's his own sort of prayer, then.

I love you. You are mine. Sam.