They fucked for the first time in months when they came back from that silly play. In the garage in the bunker, Sam took the silly little prop amulet down off the rearview mirror and caught the edge of how Dean smiled, to himself, turned away a little like he didn’t want Sam to catch him—but Sam had. He’d thought about the weird world-tilting moment, watching those girls say the words they’d always said to each other, the thing that had always mattered most, through years of death and blood and betrayal. He’d tucked the little prop into his jacket pocket, and before Dean could turn the conversation to something safe, something clean, like they were something less, something they’d been choked away from by terrible circumstance for far too long—he caught Dean by the wrist and pulled him in close, and there tucked against the side of their car he’d kissed Dean, one hand on his jaw to keep him in place, and Dean had shuddered, wide open, yearning up into Sam like someone starved.
God, Sam had missed it. Missed him. Even with the fury at Dean’s duplicity closing up his throat like a sickness, he’d wanted him—and that hadn’t helped with the anger, not at all, because then it really had felt like a sickness. Dean thought of himself like poison, like someone Sam needed to be protected from, and that’s not true, not in the least. Yet—then, all Sam had wanted to do was throw Dean down onto his belly on their bed and lash his wrists to the headboard and fuck him, hard and punishing, fill him up with something awful and give him nothing in return. Like Dean had done to him, no matter his intentions. He wanted to hurt Dean, make him cry. That was the poison. It twisted this thing between them, beyond what Sam thought could be repaired—until he saw Dean die, again, and any last trace of fury was wiped away, burnt out and leaving only blackened, twisted panic in its wake.
That first time, the first time they were on the same page together in so long—Sam didn’t do anything special. Dean was blasted-open fragile, hesitant, baring his throat, and Sam wanted it sweet, that time. Nothing between them but skin. Dean had clung to him, after, tired and relieved and tucked in close against Sam’s chest, and—yeah. Everything was okay, right then.
It’s been a week, nearly two, since that last case. Sam’s been working in the library, looking for any way to take that awful thing off of Dean’s arm. Dean’s been working, too, but he hasn’t really... settled. He sits with Sam and reads, for an hour, and then he’s off, working on the car, cleaning the kitchen, heading into town to pick up groceries. He’s down in the shooting range right now, and the cracks of gunshot from his Colt are muffled almost to silence but Sam can still hear them, with the library so quiet. Slow and steady. Been going on for almost half an hour now. Sam imagines the paper targets, neat holes through head and heart, the near-perfect spacing Dean’s had trained-in almost since birth. In his head, he can actually see Dean reloading—pushing a fresh clip into that pretty gun, his face tight with concentration and stifled worry.
Sam pushes the useless book he’s been searching through away, drags his knuckles tight over his mouth. Been a while, he thinks. At night Dean pushes in close, opens up to Sam like he’s desperate. Like he needs something more, and Sam hasn’t gone there, yet, wasn’t sure it would be welcome, after so long without him taking over control completely, but—maybe it’s time. Not just for their usual, either, but time to do something a little different, something that’ll center Dean back within himself.
It’s about four o’clock when Dean comes up out of the range. Sam’s sitting at the war table now, with his laptop, ostensibly reading—and he is, sort of, but he’s also watching. Dean comes out onto the steps up into the library and gives him a little frown. “Your ass going numb or what?” he says. His hands are shoved into his pockets.
Sam rolls back in his chair a little, turns his attention to Dean for real. He looks him up and down, deliberate, obvious, tracking his eyes up from his boots up his close-cut jeans, over his arms where they’re strong and obvious even through the flannel, his broad shoulders, his bare throat, and when he gets to Dean’s eyes they’re a little startled, his mouth parting a touch. Sam licks his lips, bites the lower one, and just like that a flush starts to climb up Dean’s throat and he shifts his weight, still just standing there on the top step but—stiller, now.
“You want a beer?” Dean tries, but it’s rough, sort of, not the casual question it ought to be. Sam stands up, a little flushed-warm himself just at how easy it is. Dean stands still and watches Sam cross over the concrete floor, and watches Sam climb the few steps, and then when Sam’s standing right there in front of him he lifts his chin, eyes on Sam’s, a little hope creeping into his expression. God. Sam doesn’t know how he’s missed what Dean’s been asking for.
“Dean,” he says, pitching his voice to steady and low, and watches Dean’s eyes shudder closed. He takes Dean’s wrists, circling around the span of them with his fingers like cuffs, and pulls his hands deliberately out of his pockets, moving Dean like it’s his right—and it is, now, like this. Dean lets him, of course he does, because he’s always let Sam do what he wanted—has always gone lax and malleable, giving up control to Sam’s hands, his voice, letting Sam take over. Sam pushes Dean steadily back, holding him firm at the wrists, pushes him up against the wall between the war room and the library, his shoulder tucking in against the inset light so the side of his face is lit up gold, his head knocking back against the stone. His mouth’s open, now, his head tipped back so that Sam could kiss him easy, could run his teeth over his throat, and—yeah, he wants to, right at this second. Dean’s folding, already, and it’s as insanely hot as it always has been. That dark heady feeling rises up in Sam’s gut in response, his dick plumping a little in his shorts, but—no, not yet. He drags his thumbs over Dean’s wrists, where he’s got them pressed in against the wall at his sides, digging into the warm thin skin, and just that has Dean’s eyelids dipping, his pupils spreading out dark as he watches Sam.
They’re six inches apart but the air between them is warm, and Sam dips his head down, runs his lips in the barest touch along Dean’s jaw, stubble prickling pleasantly over his skin—hovers over Dean’s cheekbone, moves back down so that his lips are just barely-not-touching Dean’s mouth—and Dean’s breath is coming faster, already, his eyes squeezed closed as he struggles not to move, the tendons in his wrists straining under Sam’s grip as his hands fist tight—and then Sam steps back, lets him go entirely. “Take your clothes off,” he says, and Dean’s eyes fly open, his face pink and startled.
He doesn’t say anything else, not that he has to. Dean’s hands open and close, once, and then he pushes off the wall, just enough that he can move freely. He shrugs his flannel off his shoulders so it falls in a red-blue puddle behind him, peels his black t-shirt over his head, and the Mark flashes, pink-red and sore looking, tucked there into the tender soft of his forearm—but then there’s Dean’s bare chest to focus on, his tattoo surrounded by the flush that’s already started streaking down it, his nipples pulling tight right before Sam’s eyes. He bends down to pull off his boots and Sam doesn’t help, just lets him waver there while he awkwardly gets them off, and his socks, Sam watching the smoothly working muscles in his pretty back—and then he’s up again and there’s the buckle free on his belt and the button and zip undone and he has to shove a little to get his jeans down, and his boxer-briefs, pushing them over the swell of his ass, down over the heavy muscle in his thighs, stepping on the hems to get himself clear—and then he’s naked, entirely, bare to Sam under all of the library’s golden clear light, his dick already heavy and dark, swelling, without a touch.
Sam stands there, looks at him for a long moment. The seconds drag out and he watches Dean’s cheeks flush darker, his eyes half-shuttered and heavy, his dick visibly twitching, blood rushing south.
“Jerk off,” Sam says, finally. Dean’s eyes find Sam’s immediately, startled and wide-open. Sam doesn’t change expression, doesn’t raise his voice. “I want to see it,” he says, so—after a second Dean shifts, spreads his feet a little wider so he’s got a better stance, and he just does it, reaches down and circles his fingers around the base of himself, curls and tugs up, the heavy shaft fattening up further in his hand. His other hand creeps down and holds his balls, not playing really but just keeping them up close, tight, the vulnerability of them hidden—and, yeah, this is something Sam could watch all day, the steady muscular pump of Dean’s arm as he jerks his wrist, the curved-in sweetness of his strong shoulders, his head dropping low as he rubs his thumb over the head, once, a smear of wetness sliding behind where he’s already starting to leak, Christ. Sam’s own dick pulses, eager, so he has to stop himself from reaching down and touching—from shoving his jeans down and bending Dean over the nearest table and fucking him, right now. He pulls in a steady breath through his teeth, blows it out slowly through his nose, and then says, “Stop,” and watches Dean jerk to a halt, his fingers curled loose around the base of his dick, his mouth parted and his eyes snapping back up to Sam’s face, waiting.
God—and Sam wants to, wants to push in and take Dean’s wrists in his hands and take over, let Dean give it up to him. He wants it hard, and now, Dean moaning under him without a thought in his head. But—
He jerks a thumb at the floor over to his left, a few more steps into the library proper. “Get on your knees,” he says, voice level. Oh, and Dean’s eyes go even heavier, and he wavers a little, muscles shaky, as he moves over into place, sinks down to his knees facing Sam with his ass settled back on his heels. He’s still got his fingers looped loosely around the base of his dick and it’s leaking, now, for real, a visible tacky clearness slipping down the shaft, sticky on Dean’s skin. His other hand he leaves open, on his thigh, lax, and he’s slipped into it, now. Sam’s got him.
He goes back down into the war room, takes the moment to suck in a few deep breaths where Dean can’t see him, trying to clear his head. He picks up the scarf from the chair next to where he’d been sitting, waiting. He found it in one of the old formerly-occupied rooms, ages ago, and never got rid of it—handy, now. It’s long and black, dense soft wool: perfect. When he comes back up the stairs he’s holding it stretched loosely between his hands, the ends dangling against his thighs. Dean blinks at it, at him.
“Let go,” Sam says, with a flick of his eyes, and Dean lets his dick fall out of his fingers—it’s hard enough that it sinks just a little, curves away from his body over where his balls are sitting flushed and high. Both hands open, now, resting easy against his thighs, and that’s—yeah. That’s what he’s going to do. “Kneel up,” he says, and Dean does, thighs flexing as he pushes himself upright, and then Sam says, “Grab your ankles,” and there’s a waver of confusion, but then—Dean does, he reaches back and circles both hands around his own ankles, the position sending his back into an arch, pressing his chest and hips out, his dick hanging obscenely in front of him, his face turned up to Sam’s, his eyes starting to go hazy.
God, he looks—his slightly-soft stomach is pulled tight, the muscles in his shoulders and thighs standing out clear. Sam wraps his fingers tight in the scarf, just for a moment, wants to reach out—god, so badly, but that’s not what they’re doing, not today. He steps forward and nudges the inside of one of Dean’s knees with his boot, says, “Wider,” and Dean shuffles, awkward, spreading and sinking a little lower in consequence with a darker flush spreading up over his cheeks. Yeah—embarrassed, now, like he gets sometimes when Sam takes the time just to stare at him, and normally Sam would already be grabbing up his face in both hands and licking into him. He walks around him instead, looking now that he’s got the opportunity—the shadows and planes of that strong dear body, the muscular swell of that perfect ass as it dips down to his back. The Mark, a sullen red on the flexed still span of his arm. Sam licks his lips, and then steps into the space between Dean’s feet, leans over and settles the scarf over his eyes.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Sam pauses, caught there with just the soft dark fabric laying over Dean’s eyes, the bridge of his nose. “You want to say something?” he says, quiet. Dean shakes his head, immediately, teeth sinking into his lip. Sam nods, not that Dean can see it now, and wraps the scarf around his head once, twice, making sure that no light could possibly come in.
They don’t really have any rules, for this thing. Sam read about how it could be, a little, way back almost a decade ago when they started, but—it didn’t feel right. What they have between them is trust. It’s all they’ve ever relied on, with each other. They have this—Sam’s voice and his touch and his decisions, and Dean’s willpower. He finishes tying the scarf into a knot at the back of Dean’s head, and steps back, around, so that he’s looking down at his front again—his desperate dick and his heaving chest, the bottom half of his face under where the black of the fabric sharply bisects it, where his mouth is bitten-pink, skin flushed so much that the freckles are barely visible.
In the silence Dean’s breathing harder, already, his body arched and poised but his muscles already quivering, visibly. He shifts a little, his hand flexing where he’s got it braced around his ankle. Sam says, “Do I need to cuff you,” with his voice as nonjudgmental as he can make it, but he's pretty sure what the answer will be. Dean shakes his head again, jerkily, and then goes still, rigid, holding in place just like Sam told him to. God, Sam could kiss him.
Instead, he walks down the steps back to the war room, shuts his laptop with a snap. Dean’s frowning behind the blindfold, already, when Sam walks back up to the entryway, making sure that his boots strike the concrete as loud as possible. “Do you want to say something?” he says, one more time. There’s a longer pause, this time, a muscle in Dean’s stomach jumping unexpectedly, and then Dean shakes his head, again. Sam’s dick lurches in his shorts and he closes his eyes for a second, almost dizzy. There is no one on the planet like his brother. “Okay,” Sam says, then, and walks back up the steps, walks past Dean and the tables, boots thudding against the floor so Dean can hear the receding sound as he makes his way down the hall, to his bedroom, alone.
It lasts as long as Dean wants it to. If there is a rule, it’s that one. All Dean has to say is no and Sam will stop, immediately. He never has, but then they’ve never really done much that would require it. No whips, no paddles, no real bondage. Even before they both took a tour downstairs, that’s not something Sam wanted and, anyway, it’s a bigger trip to see Dean pinned in place just by going... liquid, something inside him easing, going soft, letting him stay exactly where Sam put him. All it takes is Sam’s hands around his wrists, pulling, and Dean goes, sinks down and is gone—some softer blanker thing taking his place. Still Sam’s brother, still the person Sam has fought beside (and against) all his life, still the only person he’d ever want at his back—and yet. It’s important, sometimes, to let that stronger version go, just for a few hours, every once in a while.
Sam sits in his room, now, trying not to think. The TV's on, showing some documentary about—god, he doesn't even know. He hasn't been paying attention. It’s been—what, almost thirty minutes. He’s never done this, with Dean. He’s jittery almost, his dick hardening up on and off when he thinks about Dean just—kneeling, there, forced to be still. Nothing to do but breathe, nothing to focus on but his own body. His body which is his own, again, after months of being filled to the brim with black—Mark aside, this is the most familiar Dean has been in almost a year. Time to reintroduce him to himself.
Sam’s not sure it’ll work, honestly, but—when Sam left, Dean was wide open, knocked a little loose from the world. Sam might come back to find him frustrated and desperate—or hell, Dean might’ve given up on him, and Sam might end up getting into a fight here in the next few hours and have a little groveling to do—but what he wants is to go out and find Dean still there, still in position. He wants to take Dean’s face in his palms and have him still and loose and hollowed-out empty, wants to pull him up to his feet and bend him over the library table and work him open, slow and easy, eyes on the lax soft line of his mouth, and then he wants to fuck, soft and slow at first and then getting harder, wants to drag him inexorably back from that nowhere place, to watch the feeling set his sore body to straining, and then, then when he forces Dean to come, to peel the blindfold off and watch the light go into his eyes and see him wake up, to hear him say Sam—
He stands up, thighs quivering for just a moment when they're forced to hold his weight, and turns off the TV. It's been long enough. He took his boots off, and his overshirt, and there's lube in his jeans pocket. He's as ready as he can be.
He's quiet when he opens up his door, when he pads along the bare quiet corridor. It's silent, down here—just the faint electric humming from the generators, almost inaudible unless he's paying attention. Long hallway down from his room, past Dean's empty one, and then up the two steps into the library, moving softly. Dean's almost hidden from view, from this entrance, and Sam pauses for a second, waits to hear something. There—yes. Dean's breath. Loud, from here, panting, and Sam eases forward, comes around the tables and sees—
Dean's still locked into the pose Sam left him in, and for a second there's a surge of pride, almost, that he stuck with it, that he's still—only, wait. Sam steps forward and Dean's hands are locked around his ankles, the knuckles yellow-white and straining, the muscles in his arms rigid. The Mark stands out a vivid, ugly red. He's holding still, more or less, except—except that his chest is shuddering, when Sam comes around, his shoulders hunched in, and his dick's soft, vulnerable and pink and limp against his thigh, and when Sam looks at his face—oh, oh no, this wasn't— "Dean," he says, on half a breath, and Dean's teeth dig into his lower lip, his chin crumpled, and there's—there's wet, streaked over his cheeks, smearing out from under the blindfold. This isn't—some people might do this but Sam never has, has never wanted to beyond those few horrible months, and goddamn it, god damn it. Sam fucked up.
He drops down to his own knees, says again, "Dean," gets his hands on Dean's cold skin. "Dean, let go, come on—"
There's a shudder, at that, but Dean doesn't move, doesn't—so Sam gets his fingers under the scarf (skin smearing cold and sticky, god, he made Dean cry, how—), shoves it up and off, so he can see. Dean's eyes are still screwed closed, long lashes dark and clumped together, his eyelids red, and Sam says his name again, soft, his stomach twisted up so hard he's afraid he might puke. Dean's still breathing hard, his teeth dug in tight enough to his lip that the tender skin there's smearing white, tear-snot blocking his air. Sam reaches behind him, slides his hands down Dean's rigid arms and slips his fingers over the top of Dean's, says, "I'm sorry—come on, let go. Let go."
Slow—ah, and Dean makes a wrenched-open noise, his fingers uncurling like claws under Sam's, and then he just—slumps, sinks back onto himself, muscles suddenly jelly so that Sam has to catch him to keep him from going over backwards, his head dropping back heavily against Sam's bracing hand. His eyes are still closed but Sam doesn't care, if that's what he needs he can have it. He wipes at Dean's face, clearing away the snot and salt with the hem of his own t-shirt, and then tucks his head into Sam's throat, slips his hands back up and down Dean's arms, where he's too-cold, and he's just—shushing, like Dean's a startled horse or something, but he doesn't know what to do. Dean's shuddering, trembling all over, skin clammy with half-dried sweat, and now he's—what's that, almost inaudible—
"What, Dean?" Sam's trying to keep his voice low, calm, like—he doesn't even know. Like he's someone who can be trusted. He slips one hand up Dean's naked back, covers up the vulnerable nape of his neck with his palm. "Say it again. Tell me."
Dean takes in a long shuddery breath, his skin smearing against Sam's bare throat. "Sorry, Sammy," Sam hears, in a voice like tearing cloth, and Sam squeezes his own eyes shut, turns his face in to Dean's so their temples are pressed together, Dean's breath coming hot and uneven against Sam's skin as he whispers sorry, sorry, like he's the one who screwed up. He's still lax, even if his muscles are jumping and unsteady—he's not even holding onto Sam, not holding himself up. Just slumped, on his knees, upright only because of Sam's hands on his skin, his weight braced where Sam wants it. Beyond the trailed-off apologies he's still Sam's, where it counts, and Sam takes in a deep breath. Okay. Okay.
"Dean, I want you to stand up," he says, soft, right up against Dean's ear. They'll start slow. "You're going to stand up."
A wet sniff, absurdly childlike, up against Sam's shoulder—and then a nod. Dean's breath is still unsteady, but he pulls up, into himself, weight shifting back onto his knees. Sam lets go and he stays steady—and so Sam pushes up to his feet, drags his knuckles over his cheek where Dean's tears have smeared wet. It takes Dean a few seconds, but when he looks up he finds Sam's hands, waiting, and he obediently puts his own in them, lets Sam haul him up to his feet, like he's supposed to. He wavers there but Sam steps in close, gets his hands on Dean's waist and touches him, grip solid and steadying. "We're going to bed," he says—and Dean's eyes open and they're still hazy-confused, red-rimmed, god. He nods, though—and so, then, circling his hand around Dean's wrist, pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder—walking slow through the hallways, Dean's weight half on Sam's arm, and then through the open door to Sam's room with the lamplight filling the corners with shadows, and then saying to Dean, "Lay on your back, on the bed," and waiting in agony while he crawls up and does it, flopping over, his knees still reddened, his face still a wreck. Still half-gone, though, still one step in and one step out, and Sam—he turns away, has to, just for a second, because he has no idea what Dean might be able to see in his face. He's got to fix this.
He strips, drops his clothes into a pile next to the bed. Dean watches him while he knees up onto the mattress, kneels astride Dean's thighs. He licks his lips, looks over Dean's body—the pretty muscular pale of it, even now, sets Sam's blood to thrumming, and he can use that. He sets his hands on Dean's hips, rubs his thumbs along the dip of his pelvis, down toward where the hair's trimmed neat and soft, and he says Dean's name, quiet, looking into his eyes. Dean blinks at him, tear-stain still streaked all over his cheeks. Sam slips one hand down and cups Dean's balls, runs his thumb over the faint seam of them, up to the root of Dean's dick—and like magic, despite everything, there under the thin warm skin there's a surge of blood, and, yeah. Sam can still give him this.
He leans over and fishes the little tube of lube out of his discarded jeans, flicks the cap and gets a healthy slick palmful of it. Dean's lips part, watching him, and Sam says, "I just want you to lay there." He cups his palm and a thin runnel of lube drips out, trickles down onto the soft of Dean's pink dick where it's only just starting to plump up again, and when Sam flicks his eyes back up to Dean's he finds him laying still, as he was told. Of course. "Just lay there," he says, again, soft, even though he never repeats himself—never has to, because like this Dean always does as he's asked, always, even past what Sam ever wanted him to bear.
He slips his wet fingers back around Dean's sac, lets the weight of it slide over his skin—pushes back, rubbing firm over the smooth skin behind, slipping two fingers flat over the warm give of his hole, watches Dean's eyelids flicker at the touch—and then he leans forward, braces one hand on the bed and dips in and kisses him, where he's soft and open, licking inside while his slick hand curls around the warm weight of Dean's dick. A little noise gets let out into Sam's mouth—not a word, not even close, and that's allowed. That's always been allowed. "Yeah," Sam says, forehead pressed against Dean's, their noses brushing against each other, his hair falling out from behind his ears to tickle against his cheeks. He curls his hand a little tighter, Dean going stiffer in his grip, and starts to move, jerking, gliding easy and smooth. Dean makes another soft little noise, a little cut-off thing in the back of his throat, and Sam kisses him again, on the mouth and the cheek, wrist moving steady now, a wet warm schlick over the whole length of him, where he's ready all the way. Sam's own dick is plumping up but he ignores it, has to—this is for Dean, it was always supposed to be for Dean, and Sam rubs his palm up over the head, drags a messy thumb up to the crown, puts his lips up against Dean's throat to feel the groan that rumbles out—and, yeah, yeah, that's it, that's the noise he's been waiting for, and he wraps his hand around half-tight and jerks him fast, short hard movements like he's watched Dean do to himself, his own shoulder aching from holding himself upright but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all, he's got his hands on Dean's skin and he's taking care of him, like he was supposed to, giving back what he could after a lifetime of Dean carrying the world—"Come on, Dean," he says, dragging his head up so he can see Dean's face, his eyes flickering and his mouth open, his hips starting to move against Sam's hand. Sam puts his lips right against Dean's ear, bends in low so their cheeks settle together, and says, "Come on, let go, let go, give it to me," his hand curling in tight, hitching jerks right up under the head, and Dean's hips cringe up hard, his breath hitching, his fingers grasping weakly at the blanket—and then, yeah, he comes, like that, like Sam told him to, a low groan eking out of his throat, hard spurts slipping past Sam's moving fingers, slicking him up further, and Sam tucks his head down low against Dean's shoulder, tucks himself into the safe warm dark, makes sure he brings Dean down easy, pulling out the last spurts of it, and then just holding him, twitching and vulnerable. All of the tension drains out of Dean's body in the next instant, a soft moan of a breath pushing out of his throat. Sam bites his own lips together and lifts up and—yeah, he's soft, strain spooled away, his cheeks flushed and his eyes heavy. Resting, still. All Sam had wanted for him in the first place.
Clean-up is Sam grabbing his discarded undershirt and ruining it, utterly, smearing lube and come all over it and dropping it to the floor. He moves Dean carefully and drags the blanket out from under his heavy body, climbs in next to him and drags it over them both, no matter that Dean's sweating, warm through at last.
Quiet, then. He's got Dean gathered up against his chest, cuddling shamelessly. Not something Dean would admit to wanting, any other time. Breathing slow, steady, he watches the wall above Dean's head. He runs through it over and over, his fingers scratching slowly through the soft velvety hair at the back of Dean's head.
Dean's never tapped out. Not really. Even when they did flirt with the edge of pain, even when Sam talked dirty and long and low into his ear so that humiliated red streaked over his face, even when Sam played with him so long he was coming dry, almost crying—he's never said no. Sam always thought it was because he trusted Sam to pull back.
There's a shift, Dean burrowing a little closer. His arms are tucked up close between them, kind of uncomfortable, but Sam doesn't care. Dean's forehead presses in against Sam's collarbone. A sigh, and then—"Sorry, Sammy," mumbled close into the narrow space between their bodies.
"Don't," Sam says. He cups the back of Dean's head, for a second. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep, then goes back to his slow petting, slipping through the close short hair.
Soft little wet noise, like Dean's licking his lips, and then he says, quiet, voice gravelly-low and cracked, "Couldn't—couldn't get out of my own head." He shifts again, his weight tipping in closer against Sam's. His voice is no louder, wavering. "Thought you'd—I dunno. You were gone. I couldn't—kept thinking—"
He shakes his head a little and Sam tucks his own face down, presses his closed mouth into Dean's hair. Dean shifts, settles. Slightly sticky drag of his soft dick over Sam's thigh, his knee nudging up against Sam's shin. The warm breath and the sleepy-warm smell of him, a little sweaty, wholly familiar. So close, wide-open and vulnerable, easy, and Sam doesn't know how he'd ever stayed away.
Only—yes, he does. Dean's got his arms folded up between them and so Sam can't feel the hotter throb where a mark swells painfully up out of his skin. He doesn't care, though. What happened is past, and he knows now that he'll never leave again. No matter what comes. "You and me," Sam says, a little muffled into Dean's hair. "No matter what. I promise."
Sounds a little desperate, maybe. He doesn't care. There's a pause, and then one of Dean's hands unfolds, lays flat against Sam's chest. He doesn't say anything. Sam takes a long slow breath, feels the weight of Dean heavy on his skin, and finds himself watching the wall over Dean's head, again, the sharp line where the lamplight falls away and the wall recedes down into shadow. He waits a long time, for Dean to fall asleep. He's not sure Dean ever does.