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“It’s worth it, Dean. It is.” Sam wished and hoped his brother would meet his eyes. “It’s not fair, and…yeah, it hurts like hell. But it’s worth it.”
When Dean did look up, Sam changed his mind. Seeing Dean like that, pain-wracked and despondent, curled like a sickness in Sam’s gut.
At least Dean hadn’t blown him off, Sam told himself. At least Dean had allowed him to help shoulder this pain. But if Dean had done that, the hurt inside him had to be unimaginable, and Dean would shut up again inside himself like a turtle on the freeway if Sam gave him time to wallow in his misery.
Sam pushed himself up off the edge of the bed. Dean leaned there against the dresser, gazing distantly at the floor. Sam approached him with the same care he’d show a wounded animal, afraid one wrong or sudden move would alert Dean to his own vulnerability.
Sam stood between Dean’s knees, and Dean met Sam’s eyes again, finally. Nervousness clenched Sam’s already-choppy stomach. His lips brushed Dean’s softly. Dean’s eyes fluttering shut emboldened Sam to kiss his brother with more involvement. Dean reciprocated, their kisses open-mouthed but shallow.
The newness of their fledgling trysts had come nowhere near wearing off. Hand jobs in motel rooms, and one more blow job, which had been…amazing, but Dean still wouldn’t let Sam take responsibility for any of Dean’s orgasms. Twice Sam had curled beside Dean while Dean did the five knuckle shuffle, watched Dean pant into release, so, Sam knew Dean wanted him.
But Dean had always had a problem accepting what he wanted.
At least, until last night.
Sam swept his tongue past Dean’s lips, brushing slickly against Dean’s own slippery organ. He felt Dean close up, shut off, suddenly tense and suddenly breaking their kiss, although he lingered close.
Sam waited, the strain of uncertainty tight in his chest.
“There was a woman,” Dean explained awkwardly.
“What? Where?” For a minute Sam just didn’t place it. “In--…With the djinn?”
“Called herself Carmen. I mean…hot. I thought you were happy, with Jess.” Dean swallowed, some internal conflict etching lines in his brow. “I thought…maybe it was real.”
Sam smiled incredulously. “Dean, you think you cheated on me?”
Dean winced. “Is that stupid?”
“No, dude, it’s…” A warm glow spreading through Sam’s body began to melt his anxiety. His smile broadened. He glanced off, surprised at his joy. “It’s awesome.”
Dean gawked at him, baffled. “…that I cheated on you? I mean, I didn’t bang her, but I got halfway there, and then she had work, so--”
“That you wanted to tell me, man,” Sam interjected, proud, for once, of his brother. “You could’ve just…”
“You think I’m like that?” Dean stood on the border between offended and hurt. Sam hastened to reassure him.
“Dude, you sleep around kind of a lot. It’s just…nice to know.”
Dean exhaled his tension with a slow sigh and Sam took it as impetus to capture his lips, once more. Sam took his brother’s face in his hand, unwilling to allow Dean to balk away again, and this time, Dean’s tongue met Sam’s in the wet embrace of his mouth.
Sam took Dean’s face in his hands, Dean still a little pale, a little unsteady. Dean strung up by his wrists, his face chalky and a cruel steel needle sapping the life from him -- Dean’s blood dark, oxidized red in a paunchy blood bag one-third full hanging from its steel rack like a tick, unmoving, yet voracious. Sam didn’t know if that bag was the first or the second, or even worse, the third. Their lips parted, and the fear hit Sam like he’d never left that warehouse.
“…I told you to come pick me up.”
Dean’s lips firmed in a thin line. “I made a bad call.” It sounded enough like I’m sorry for Sam to forgive him.
As their kisses grew impassioned, arousal stirred in Sam’s cock at the promise of more-than-fraternal physical intimacy, but Sam registered Dean’s skin as too moist and slightly too cool, and backed off as Dean’s strong body trembled.
Dean played it off with a sheepish smile. “Dude, I am like kitten weak.”
Sam laughed, nose bumping Dean’s. “Do I have to wait another two years to strike tachycardic, anemic sex off my kink list?”
“You have a kink list?”
Sam could feel Dean’s mind suctioning on to the idea like a lamprey. He humored his brother only because Dean looked like death microwaved for three minutes on high.
“Ten items or less and most of them can be found at Wal-Mart.”
“…ooch, hell, there went the rest of my blood.” Dean’s eyes dropped to his jeans, just beginning to tent.
Sam rolled his eyes and swatted Dean gently, but then he was helping his brother up off the dresser and back across the floor to the bed. They’d pushed past eighteen hours without rest, but they’d both been too wound up to sleep.
“I’m gonna make a run for orange juice and shellfish,” Sam informed his brother as Dean crawled in under the covers, visibly woozy. “We’ll get you fueled up.” Their latest run in with the feds still itching under Sam’s skin, getting Dean into a hospital for a blood transfusion was out of the question. Sam wanted to guess they’d stopped the djinn on the second bag, and Dean was suffering from little more anemia than he’d suffer after a routine blood donation.
Sam caught the soul sick pain that overtook Dean’s features, again, just before Dean shut his eyes.
“…I’ll be right here,” Dean promised him. “Sleepin’ this off.”
Sam didn’t reply. He squared his jaw, snagged the keys to the Impala off the table and left for the supermarket.
----
No one big thing announced that Dean had retreated somewhere off in his head, again: just a note off in Dean’s posture and the vague preoccupation behind his eyes as Sam stood to face him. Sam tried to be fair. It had only been six days.
But Dean’s distance stabbed knives of hot emotion in Sam’s gut every time
Sam dropped the can of salt (on Dean’s foot, but that was an accident). Dean didn’t get time to curse about any possibly-broken toes, because Sam had slammed him up against the side of the nearby mausoleum so hard and so fast the air wuffed out of Dean’s lungs and Sam didn’t know where the ground in between that stone building and the upturned grave soil went.
Sam pushed his thigh between his brother’s and hitched in north. Dean ground on Sam with a barely-audible whimper, somewhere between pain and sudden arousal, Sam’s lips dominating Dean’s mouth. The bottle of accelerant sloshed as it hit the ground, forgotten. Seconds of rough, sloppy kisses, and Dean gritted his teeth and denied Sam access to his mouth’s wet interior.
“Think we could torch this spook?”
Sam shrugged. “You didn’t seem all that into it.”
Dean grunted Fair enough, breathless as much from physical abuse as from kissing. Sam promised himself he’d make it up to Dean, somehow, as he leaned in to devour his brother’s lips.
Sam wanted Dean to feel him. Sam wanted to make Dean come. The unfairness of their relationship grated against Sam’s stubborn desires.
A minute of Dean flinching and humping helplessly against Sam’s unforgiving thigh, pinned to the wall by Sam’s relentless mouth, and Dean shoved Sam off him, slapping at him with one hand. “Okay! Okay, I’m into it.”
Sam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and swallowed thickly as Dean crouched to pick up the bottle of lighter fluid. Dean hissed as he straightened, favoring his left foot.
Sam cleared his throat as his brother limped towards the open grave. Dean didn’t even pause, but Sam didn’t expect him to. Reasoning with Dean Winchester was a touch and go operation.
“Dad’s dead, Dean. I’m not.”
Sam raised his voice, so Dean couldn’t pretend not to hear him.
Dean stared six feet down at the exposed and decayed corpse. Sam didn’t know what to expect from his brother, and he felt as naked as those yellowed old bones. Dean made himself difficult to trust when it came to subtler emotions.
“…handle the salt, would’ja?” Dean prompted, hoarsely.
Sam stood still a minute, the pang of abandonment lancing his chest reminded him of every little thing he couldn’t expect from his older brother.
Grudgingly, he returned to the task at hand.
They rode back to the motel in silence, the Impala’s radio seated mutely in the dash. Sam stared out the window into the pitch black night, the satisfaction of a job soundly finished scant comfort, tonight. Sam marveled over the hard year past, at his own burgeoning willingness to work the family job, to become the hunter his father had raised him to be.
Sam didn’t kid himself; he didn’t tell himself he’d become another predator of the unholy because his dead father had wanted it for him. Sam knew better than Dean that the opposite was true. But seeing John Winchester, his father, for who Sam had always, like Dean, harbored a secret conviction of invincibility, limp and dead on a scuffed linoleum floor had driven home, at last, the fact that nowhere he could run would be far enough to escape whatever fate awaited him. Sam had no future but what he could carve out through prayer and by keeping up the fight.
Although Sam was pretty sure the whole “sexing up my brother” angle undermined the former.
Three weeks back, when Dean made a food run, he’d double-checked that on Google, feeling once foolish and twice ashamed. He knew, before he ever typed it in, the tenor of the news he’d pull up.
On the up side, Deuteronomy only prohibited sex with his sister. No sisters. Check. But Leviticus got around to making it pretty clear. Basically, no ambiguity: “'No one is to approach any close relative to have sexual relations. I am the LORD.” (And Sam still clicked to four separate translations before he conceded that fact.)
Sam had forced himself to close out of the browser and power down the machine at the point he’d started taking conversion to Hinduism under consideration. (Incest. Sodomy. The Vedas, Smriti, and Kama Sutra weren’t so damning on those counts of Judeo-Christian sin.)
But whether it came down to hunting or religion, Dean’s disillusionment rode a sour shotgun to Sam’s convictions.
Never more sour than tonight, the car rank with sweat and Dean’s eyes on the thread of asphalt stretching out before them, trees and the flashing eyes of the occasional roadside wildlife illuminated in the Impala’s headlights.
Sam knew how the night would end: three hours of sleep, and then they’d pack up and hit the road before anyone called in a grave desecration, stale with sweat by the time they’d migrated a safe distance.
----
Sam dropped down on the bed to peel off his clinging socks, water freezing cold against his skin.
“First shower,” Dean said, but he was digging in his bag for fresh clothes.
Sam won the scramble for the bathroom by scant inches, Dean cursing as he threw his shoulder into the closing door, unable to stand up to the brute force of Sam’s weight.
Sam busted up as he fell flat back with the wall, fingers fumbling to punch the lock. “Long day, or are you just getting old?”
“You better stay in there,” Dean threatened, separated from his little brother by less than two inches of wood.
Sam assessed the bathroom. Little shampoos and conditioners, bars of soap wrapped in cheap paper, coffee for energy, hot chocolate for calories, and all the water he could drink. He let his smile spread. “You know what, dude? I think I will. I’ll just wait for morning to roll around, when you’re on your hands and knees out there begging for coffee.”
“Right. That’ll happen,” Dean scoffed. “I’ll beg door to door before I beg you.” Sam imagined he could feel his brother’s body through the door, leaned heavy against the oak stained wood, smelling like hard work, winter rain, and grave dirt.
Sam grinned and pushed himself away from the wall and shimmied out of the rest of his clothes, leaving them crumpled in a soggy heap next to the toilet (with its cracked plastic seat). The water heated up amenably fast, and Sam pulled the shower curtain closed to keep the heat in, wishing the noisy bathroom fan was on a different switch than the light fixture, because he could have gone for a sauna.
Eyes closed, standing underneath the warm spray, unmoving while the heat seeped into his limbs, Sam didn’t register that Dean had broken into the bathroom until his brother threw the curtain back and stepped naked into the shower, holding up the tiny shampoo bottle and a bar of thin, cream-colored motel soap up accusatively.
“You’d think you’d want these. No wonder your showers take so damn long.”
Sam caught his breath, pinned under Dean’s irritated scowl until his eyes dropped unintentionally southwards. Dean’s naked body had grown familiar in the past weeks. Dean had never been shy with it, and reveled in showing it off. It was exactly because Dean wasn’t showing it off that heat flared deep down in Sam’s hips and Sam let Dean elbow him to the other end of the tub while passing off the toiletries.
Sam’s eyes followed Dean as he tipped his head back and let the spray wash over his face, the gel in his hair, already affected by the rain, washing out completely to leave Dean’s hair plastered to his scalp and dark with water, his long eyelashes sticking together and a sheen to his lips that took Sam straight back to those lips around his dick.
Sam’s eyes traveled down his brother’s muscular back, down the indention of his spine that became the cleft of two hard ass cheeks, down the pale backs of Dean’s thighs that gradually darkened with dirty-blonde hairs, down to Dean’s feet, where a bruise had formed blue beneath the skin.
Sam closed his eyes, light headed, and sucked in a humid breath. He took a step forward, water sloshing around his feet, the motel’s drain slow. Another step brought Sam up against Dean’s back, and Sam felt Dean inhale. Dean let his head fall forward, the water shimmering in rivulets over his shoulders.
Sam barely realized the soap was melting in his hand until the slimy feeling of it coated all four fingers. He crashed back to reality, the intoxication of his own daring going out of him, and reached back to deposit his handful on the molded-in soap dish. He looked down, again, at Dean’s neck, panting after no exertion, and lowered his head to kiss the slope of it, the soft, close-shorn hairs, South Carolina’s tasteless soft water running over his lips.
Compared to anybody but Sam, Dean stood tall at six foot two, but with his stiffening cock bumping the peak of Dean’s hips, Sam couldn’t think of Dean as anything but smaller.
For once it was Dean who initiated the heavy kissing he usually baited his little brother into initiating, rounding on Sam, mashing their lips together as Sam’s hand came up to catch the back of his neck -- like they’d never let up from their hungry fervor in the cemetery two state lines back.
They swayed together under the spigot, water beating Dean’s back and Sam’s chest, lips slippery wet, steam cloying to their skin, chest to chest and stomach to stomach, Dean’s pebbly nipples two hard nubs pressed against Sam’s skin and Dean’s dick against Sam’s thigh.
Sam broke for air, difficult to find under the water. “I need more than this, Dean,” he warned. “More than you’ve let me…”
“Oh, god yes.” Dean stared up at him with water dripping over his eyes, resolve forming in his expression. Sam kissed away the water droplet on the tip of Dean’s nose. Dean’s brow furrowed, and his eyes went out of focus as his thoughts turned inward. He shrugged. “I’ve only done it to a girl three times, but I’m thinkin’ we could use conditioner…”
Sam paused.
Sam waited for an explanation.
Dean gazed up at him with a slight crease to his brow, serious like he was planning to scale Mount Everest.
Sam finally had to ask.
“Dude…what are you talking about?”
Horror broke over Dean’s expression, and Sam stared in confusion as his brother went pale under the yellow bathroom light. “Uhm…”
It took two clicks of Sam’s brain to roll around to his own realization. Sam’s mouth fell open. He gaped dumbly, confusion setting in. “Uh…I…wanted to give you a reach around, but that’s…”
“…son of a bitch.”
Dean shoved the curtain aside and climbed out of the shower. Sam followed him out of the bathroom, the water still running.
Dean came to a stop between the two beds, just realizing Sam hadn’t let him go. The carpet grew dark with the water pouring, then dribbling off his body. Dean covered his face with his hand, pulling it down slowly over his nose as he turned to face Sam.
“I call do over,” he blurted out, nostrils flaring as he breathed in deep.
Sam’s eyebrows tugged towards his hairline. ”Really, Dean? Because you sounded pretty enthusiastic back there.” A smile stole onto the corners of his lips.
“No.” Dean pointed an accusative finger at him, scowling. “No.”
Sam rolled his eyes and felt exasperation steal over his features. He closed them, inhaled…and the humor of the whole thing hit him again. He grinned in the face of Dean’s angry discomfort. “When you make fun of your brother for wanting to ‘put it in’? Everybody loses.” The humor fell off his face, and his own brow knit. “I mean, is this…” Nervous anticipation clenched his stomach, unexpectedly. “Is this…serious?”
Dean scoffed his disbelief, emotion simmering underneath his scowl. “That is exactly the conversation we are not having.” Dean’s lips pressed together, barely controlling some further outburst. “And no, I wasn’t gonna…”
“Hold on.” Sam held up a hand, still reeling from the first round of gut punching revelations. He stood still and let his state of mind catch up to speed with his locomotive brain. He started over, calmer and quieter. “You wanted me to…”
Dean bristled, squirming under Sam’s patient gaze.
Sam shook his head. “I can’t…use you like that.” His shoulders slumped, and his voice whinged pathetic. “You haven’t even let me touch you.”
Dean’s face screwed up and for a minute, he didn’t speak.
Sam recognized playing the hurt little brother card in this conversation wasn’t exactly fair, and Sam realized how cold he was, suddenly. He felt like an idiot arguing naked with his brother, soaking wet, with water spiraling down the drain by the gallon in the bathroom, behind him.
“I watched you grow up from a chubby little kid.” Dean had never been too manly to whine, himself, when he really wanted his way. “If I let you do that, then it’s…”
“Incest?” Sam interjected, exasperation jumping to his gullet, again. “Last month called, Dean. It told you to check your voice mail.”
“Bitch,” Dean snapped, indignant.
“Jerk,” Sam volleyed back, reflexively.
Dean waved him off with two broad strokes of his arm, shifting his weight restlessly from one foot to the other, upset written in his body language, but his teeth grit against it. “Go soap up, man. I’ll be in there in a minute.”
Sam huffed his irritation, but didn’t antagonize his brother, retreating to the bathroom to shower, but leaving the door open, even though he knew Dean wouldn’t join him.
When he came out, toweling his long hair dry, Dean had turned out the lights and taken over one of the motel beds, just a lump under the covers and the dark back of a head. Sam flipped the bathroom light off and threw his towel to the side. It hit the floor with a waterlogged fwump somewhere in the darkness. Fear settled as a cool lump in his stomach when he realized what he was about to do. Nothing irrevocable. Nothing dramatic. But a coup, nonetheless, in itself.
Sam crossed the floor carefully in the darkness. He lifted the covers of his brother’s bed, and slid in behind him, his heart fluttering double time as he slipped across the mattress, bringing his chest up against his brother’s back, his hips up under Dean’s hips.
When Sam had himself convinced Dean would just lay there stiffly, Dean, finally, grudgingly shifted to fit into the c-shape curve of Sam’s body. Sam exhaled in relief against the back of Dean’s neck, sliding his arm over Dean’s side from where it rested before, tucked back uncomfortably. Their calves brushed, further down, soft hairs prickling on damp skin as they tangled together lightly.
Sam’s softened cock fit comfortably between the warm cheeks of Dean’s buttocks. Sam urged himself not to think about that, now -- but anticipated some serious morning wood.
Sam’s now-distant impression in the shower came again: small. Dean must’ve been shorter than Sam since Sam turned seventeen, but Sam had only begun to realize that physical reality in the past year. Even in college, Dean had held a place of reverence in Sam’s mind: that untouchable, miraculous figure known as “brother,” smart and sure, cool under fire and always just-better-enough in hand to hand combat, the son Sam had been so sure, at the time, was everything their father ever wanted.
Holding Dean in the darkness while the rain beat down on a dingy motel roof in South Carolina, with the rise and fall of Dean’s chest lulling him into peace, Sam understood he still clung to that childhood image of “brother” like a raggedy plush rabbit, fur worn thin in some places, torn fabric patched over in others.
Sam hadn’t been allowed a childhood plush toy or security blanket. When he’d been scared or lonely, he clung to Dean, their father never sparing with hugs or affection but their father rarely there. Dean had been Sam’s only constant. But Dean’s constant had been his now-broken faith in their father and his crusade, the faith that even if John left for a week or a month he’d come back just as unwavering in his dedication.
Sam had thought Dean’s attraction to Gordon’s cocksure style had only been a phase of the mourning process. Maybe it had been, but in the months since Lafayette, Indiana where Ava’s visions had spared Sam an abrupt end at the hands of that same hunter, Sam had thought Dean was getting better, getting back to his old self.
In retrospect, Sam realized he should have known better.
For maybe the first time in eleven years, Sam fell asleep in the same bed as his older brother, Dean’s body and half-washed musky scent familiar -- every other thing different.
----
It had taken Sam some sixty-two hours, six of them in the car, another four in a library, to work up the courage to tackle Dean onto a motel bed, a seminal event in the only possible next stage of their once-solely-fraternal relationship -- crucial, because Sam had felt it stretching into a kind of plateau.
Sam stared down into his brother’s flustered face. “No.”
“Hello! Nuckelavee!” Dean challenged breathlessly.
“You get so many points for getting that out,” Sam congratulated, forcing his mouth down on Dean’s, again. Sam was used to being the initiator, an aggressive partner, the women he’d known intimately favored that kind of dogged attention. He kissed Dean against the mattress until Dean stopped flinching and struggling against him, Dean’s one hand clenched in the sleeve of Sam’s shirt and the other digging fingernails into Sam’s chest through the thin cotton fabric.
“Tourists, man,” Dean mumbled, as Sam backed off. “Dying.” Dean sounded less convinced of the dire straits of Hilton Head’s winter renters than he had four minutes before. “Aren’t you the one into this kind of thing?”
Sam couldn’t deny that, although a few hours in bed with his brother promised better times than a skinless, pulsating mass of black-blooded equine sinew with one bloodshot eye in its piggish human face. Sam swallowed, hips twitching against Dean’s prone body. “Promise me sex.”
“Wha--…What?”
“Promise. Me. Sex,” Sam enunciated dangerously. His eyes narrowed as Dean opened his mouth to protest. “…the night’ll go faster.”
“That is so…Get off me!”
Sam’s lips pressed to a line and he rolled off his brother and climbed to his feet, disappointed. He was already stuffing their gear in their bag by the time Dean sat up at the edge of the bed.
“Are you serious?”
Sam shoved the four liter-bottles of Fiji springwater into the sack with the vehemence of any twenty-something man cock blocked naked in bed three nights in a row. He stopped packing, and turned to look at Dean. “No. No way. I’m asking for that other guy who’s been in bed with you with his clothes off. He’s shy.”
Dean winced. “Way to kill the mood.”
Sam snorted and began to tuck steel knives under his jacket. “I don’t know, Dean, did we have a mood?”
“We’re not gonna have one now, assmunch.”
Dean rose from the mattress, following Sam to the table. He bumped up against Sam’s back, reaching up to steady Sam’s hand as Sam startled. Resting his forehead between Sam’s shoulder blades, Dean’s hand slid around and slipped under the waistband of Sam’s boxers, down Sam’s pants, to cup Sam’s already-interested erection.
“Huh. Feels like a mood to me, tiger,” Dean purred. Sam shut his eyes, abdomen clenching up as Dean massaged that eager flesh.
“Dean…”
“Later, dude.” Dean’s hand massaged convincing circles. “I won’t blow you off. You know, unless--…” Dean smirked pervy, but sobered as quickly. “Hey, I promise.”
Sam’s gratitude eked from him in a choked moan.
----
The brothers washed off, Dean seated on the edge of the bathtub, hanging his head, until Sam had washed himself clean enough to scrub down his bruised and battered older sibling.
“I’m gonna concede this one, man,” Sam muttered into Dean’s ear, curled up with him in one double bed (its twin a few feet away reminding Sam of everything he hadn’t quite secured). “This? Is not your month.”
“Yeah,” Dean grumbled. “Thanks for breakin’ my foot.”
“I bruised your foot,” Sam protested, incriminated.
“And this shooting pain every time I breath is a ‘bruised’ rib.”
“You should be happy and quiet, already. I dosed you with Percocet.”
Dean grunted a sleepy, garbled noise, already drifting into an opiate-eased slumber. “Ha. Didn’t think that was aspirin…”
Falling asleep with a protective arm hooked over his winded, aching brother, Sam didn’t expect to wake up where he did: on his back, covers pressed down around by Dean’s sudden weight, Dean naked, on his hands and knees over him, dangling a little bottle of something in Sam’s face by its round, blue screw cap.
Sam blinked against the sunlight streaming in through the window as his eyes struggled to focus on Dean’s prize. “Whas’sat?”
“Conditioner, dorkus,” Dean announced proudly.
“Condi--…” Recollection smacked into Sam like a speeding truck. Sam’s dick jumped with long-delayed anticipation. “…oh.” Sam squinted at the fresh, hoof-shaped imprint in his brother’s skin, still red and angry where it hadn’t started to purple.
Dean didn’t let Sam ask about his health, setting the conditioner aside and dipping down to kiss him. Sam wiggled his shoulders until he’d worked his arms up from under the covers and he pushed them down, Dean lifting hands and knees appropriately until there was nothing separating their bodies but air. Sam dragged his legs up, the tops of his thighs brushing the backs of Dean’s, while Dean lugged the covers up over his back, tucking them into a pocket of warmth that still smelled mostly like cheap motel soap and shampoo.
“Didn’t want our first time to be special?” Dean taunted between kisses. “Candles? Dinner? Flowers?” Dean’s fingernails raked across Sam’s ribs.
Sam nipped Dean’s lower lip. “That would’ve happened when?”
“One cold day in hell.” Dean laughed against Sam’s mouth, and Sam swallowed that happy sound down.
Sam shoved off against the bed and tumbled Dean over, crawling up against his brother’s body, legs bumping Dean’s higher and open, while Sam’s lips fell to Dean’s chin, and then his throat, to suck on the thin skin stretched over Dean’s jugular. Dean craned his neck back responsively, for the first time surrendering his body without his usual reservations, tension easing from his limbs except where Sam’s mouth teased him to flinch.
Sam lapped at the indention of Dean’s collar bone, and bit his way up its edge, up Dean’s right shoulder. Sam’s entire body shook, like that first time they kissed, wracked with emotions too long pent up and the tremulous anticipation of finally giving Dean his due.
Sam rested his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, arched over his smaller brother, while his hand fell to grope out Dean’s tentatively stiffening cock and closed gently but firmly around it while pride and achievement burst like fireworks in his chest. Dean didn’t slap Sam’s hand away, just jerked into it, twice and fast, and groaned out a needy breath. The organ’s loose skin slid over its shaft with Sam’s steady motions, smoother and softer than any of Dean’s skin that Sam had been allowed to touch or kiss before, and far more sensitive. Sam thought about kissing it, or putting it in his mouth -- returning some of Dean’s favors.
“Why’d I wait?” Dean gasped out, rhetorically. Sam ignored the question, but not Dean’s dick, giving it the manual encouragement to burgeon into its erect size and weight.
That didn’t take long.
Sam eased up before Dean blew his load, stroking him slowly as he lifted his head to study his brother’s reaction. Dean blinked a few times, but like Sam was too much to look at, he shut his eyes tightly, giving Sam a voyeuristic view of Dean breathing heavily, face upturned to the ceiling, disbelief in his brow and his mouth agape like he’d discovered religion.
“Ribs…?” Sam double-checked, eyes flickering over Dean’s heaving chest.
“Just sore,” Dean promised, mind clearly somewhere else. “Overestimated it.”
Sam nodded, although Dean didn’t see it. Sam’s tremors had stilled to the occasional shuddering quake. “You still set on…?”
“I’m not ready to--…” Dean stumbled over the words as much because of passion as hesitation.
Sam gazed down compassionately on an older brother more vulnerable than Sam had ever seen him, forgetting the idea of prodding Dean to take charge. “Why do you think I am?”
Dean clenched his eyes tightly as Sam thumbed the head of his cock. “Please,” he whispered, almost inaudible, with that same hopeless agony that had been haunting him days.
Sam realized what had carried Dean this far: no ambitious search for a pleasure fuck, but the desperate need for some semblance of security in a life turned upside down.
“It’s covered, man,” Sam promised quietly, and saw and felt Dean relax beneath him. He kissed Dean’s forehead, and then Dean’s lips. But even promising that, the prospect remained unimaginable. Dean remained somehow larger than life, the big brother Sam had always looked up to and, in some ways, idealized. No matter how many ways that stone solid image of his strong, unshakeable big brother had chipped and cracked over the years, finally being asked to take the lead in their more-than-sibling relationship left Sam standing dwarfed beneath the monolithic image projected by Dean Winchester.
The lead Sam had been been struggling to pick up ever since Dean looked down at the floor, broken hearted, in that motel room states back.
He’s smaller than you, Sam reminded himself, still planting kisses on Dean’s face. He’s just as scared as you are. Sam deconstructed that not-insurmountable barrier one thought at a time. He doesn’t have anybody else.
Sam released Dean’s cock carefully, his palm just beginning to sweat. He reached up to stroke his own erection, dick hanging swollen between his legs but still soft with his apprehensions.
“How do you--…What--...do you want me…?” Sam tried not to let his nagging frustrations prickle through.
Dean cracked one eye, grinning arousal-lazy up from the pillow. “Hell yes, I want you.”
Sam flustered at those words coming from his older brother’s mouth. “That’s the part I’m clear on, actually.”
“Huh.” Dean wet his lips. “Here, lemme roll over…”
A lump stuck in Sam’s throat. “Wait,” he said -- but that was unrelated.
Concern marred Dean’s horny bliss as Sam climbed out of the bed and dug into his jeans for his wallet. He flipped it open, prying out the condom tucked amidst the fake credit cards and fake IDs.
“You’re breakin’ out the emergency condom?” Sam could hear the relief in Dean’s voice.
Sam shrugged, and grinned a little, himself. “Yours are too tight.” (Dean muttered an awed, Yeah. Would be.)
Sam remembered his last emergency condom, gone almost two years without action, and dubiously brittle when he pulled it out, abused by hot days in the car. Madison had rolled her eyes and found her diaphragm. (She’d asked Sam to help put it in.) Sam had bought another condom at a gas station in Arizona, not because he’d expected to have sex…ever, ever again in his life, at the time, but because resigning himself to never having sex ever, ever again in his life had been too depressing on top of everything else.
“If you’re worried about it you can…pull out and jizz on my back, or somethin’.”
Shock leapt through Sam’s chest like lightning and Sam stared at his older brother. He didn’t know where to start on that one.
“One,” he denounced, authoritatively. “I hope that is not your method of contraception. Two, I’m not worried about getting you pregnant, Dean.”
“That’s not my--…I use condoms. You know I use condoms! That’s just...in pornos, they…”
Sam held up a silencing hand. “I’ve seen some of the people you have sex with, Dean. If I wanted anything they had? I would’ve been sleeping with them.”
Dean rolled his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillows, shifting on the bed and lifting his hips almost-obscenely, like he was trying out the idea of something bigger than a cell phone and smaller than a break basket inside of him. Even catching only hints of that gesture, obscured by the sheets, had Sam’s cock throbbing with arousal.
“Slap the rubber on and get over here,” Dean complained, and Sam obeyed, rolling the condom over his dick with unsteady, eager fingers and his heart lodged back up in his throat.
Dean turned over onto his stomach and crawled up onto his hands and knees with the stiff hesitance of a sore body, sheets slipping off his back, clinging immodestly to his hips. Sam glimpsed Dean’s tongue flickering over his lips again. He didn’t ask if Dean was sure he could do this with his chest kicked in.
Sam picked up the bottle of conditioner and reached for the edge of those sheets, pulling them off his brother like unwrapping a birthday present, ready to get to the good things underneath and wanting the moment of anticipation to last -- except this anticipation came laced with the fear that Sam could. not. do. this.
The sight of Dean’s parted thighs and the shadowy skin hidden between them seared Sam sterile of that illusion, and fecund in every other particular. Sam reclaimed his place on the mattress, this time with Dean’s bare ass spread before him, barely concealing the opening Dean was offering Sam’s dick, a part of the body Dean took such pride in that no human soul had breached.
“Remember to breathe back there,” Dean warned, and Sam inhaled a deep breath loud through his nose, betraying what he’d already forgotten. “Don’t think it to death,” Dean added, like he’d developed his own psychic knack. Sam’s gaze ducked off, abashed, down to the bottle of hair care product in his hands commandeered for this godless purpose.
Sam unscrewed the cap. The part where he smeared the white, thick, creamy stuff over his own erection was self-explanatory, and his fingers covered the rubber surface of the condom with conditioner until it shimmered with that same pearly sheen.
Sam stared uncomprehending at his brother’s ass. Was he supposed to touch it? Play with it? Just put his dick in it? Sam wished he’d had what sounded now like common sense and explored his own inner cavity in the shower.
“There a code red back there I might need to know about?” Dean asked with a tinge of genuine concern, if maybe for his own more delicate parts.
“No! No…” Sam almost dropped the conditioner. “I was…Uh.” He stared bewildered at Dean’s back, the ridges of Dean’s spine barely visible beneath that long stretch of Dean’s skin. (At this familiar body his cock was eager to delve into.)
“Overthinkin’ it,” Dean accused. “Seriously, Sam. Do you listen when I talk?”
“Actually? A lot of the time? No.” A cold front of panic storming somewhere beyond Sam’s conscious mind rolled into its frontiers, taking the edge off Sam’s arousal.
Dean groaned and lowered himself onto his side, rolling onto his butt, propped up on his arms, and he scooched back to center. “Gimme that,” he demanded, snatching the bottle. Sam’s panic ebbed away as he identified Dean taking charge, in control.
Dean dipped his middle finger down into the bottle, its image distorted by the plastic as it stirred the conditioner inside. It came up gloppy with the oozing, iridescent stuff, and Dean sat the bottle on the bedside table and eased himself onto his back.
Sam watched Dean stretch out on the bed in front of him, eyes shut, breathing steadily. Dean rolled his hips back, anus exposed, his balls tight in the dark, curly hair above that and his cock stiff over his stomach. Sam bit his lower lip, cock painfully hard, as Dean’s hand traveled lower down Dean’s body, until that long middle finger pressed against that pinch of skin, flushed darker than the pale skin around it, faintly purplish. Dean’s other four fingers splayed out across Dean’s cheeks as that one slick digit pushed inside, Dean’s body parting easier than Sam could’ve imagined. Sam’s lip ached where his teeth dug their indentions.
Dean had no femininity in his body -- slighter than Sam, but still all angles, a deep chest, and hard thighs. So, Dean sliding his finger in and out of that pucker of flesh conjured few familiar images -- Jess fingering her clit in a small, circular motion and saying his name in the light of their bedroom lamp -- because what women had offered Sam in his past had never been so tightly guarded by their bodies.
Dean’s finger slipped out, the flesh closing behind it, conditioner, its vaguely-almond scent in the air, ringing the rim of him like beer foaming over. “…your turn.”
“Should I rub more in?” Sam glanced at the half-empty bottle.
“…there was this fourth time I almost had anal sex. Stuck two fingers in. Finger nail nicked her or I stretched her out wrong-wise and I went and made her ice cream and she bitched the rest of the night,” Dean shared. Sam privately made a note that sex made Dean the sharing and caring type. (Sam had suspected it all along.) “No,” Dean finished succinctly, wiping his finger on the fitted sheet. “Skip that.”
Sam obliged willingly, moving up against Dean’s hips, until the head of his cock nudged the tight entrance to Dean’s body. His cock looked five times too large to fit in that space. The tip just barely sank in to the natural indention of Dean’s body.
Sam promised himself not to do it halfway and grind this to a halt while Dean explained anal penetration in clinical detail. Sam confessed not doing it halfway involved not dissecting this. He inhaled and steadied his cock with one hand, angled his hips back, and pushed inside his brother with one firm and steady thrust, hissing at how easily and how wide that skin parted. Dean gritted through a sound like Nnngh and Sam shut his eyes to watch the Fourth of July celebration exploding on the backs of his eyelids, white and blinding. As the fireworks died down, Sam adjusted his hips, made himself comfortable on mattress and found the angle he needed to thrust smoothly inside, Dean thumping the bed with his fist as Sam came up flush with his buttocks.
“Too much?”
“…naw, I can dig why chicks go for this.”
Sam laughed, throat thick. He pulled out just slightly to bump back into Dean, again, and playfully, now. The unintelligible but clearly gratified sound Dean groaned offered Sam the incentive to begin slowly drawing out and pushing back inside, finding his rhythm with his brother so tight around him Sam’s eyes rolled back into his head.
When Sam fell into the hang of it, he forced himself to look down (at his dick, sliding in and slipping out of Dean’s stretched-open body.) and took a hold of Dean’s cock, again. Sam’s hips nudged Dean’s up against Sam’s hand with every thrust. Sam found an easy rhythm, jerking his brother off to the pace, stunned to feel himself moving inside Dean inches below Dean’s flushed cock. It drove home the vulnerability of Dean’s body, how penetrable the figure of hard muscle and soft tissue Sam depended on when fear or weakness battled to overcome him truly was.
With every thrust, Sam remembered some past, thoughtless kindness. Dean sticking a Band-Aid over one of Sam’s wounds, or, later on in life, suturing them. Dean remembering his birthday with a present, or the trouble of a cooked meal, which, of course Dean would remember his birthday, but sometimes nobody else was there and Sam feared, every year, that it would pass by forgotten. Dean comforting him with a punch to the shoulder and a cold longneck exactly when Sam needed it most. And Sam, now, inside Dean, somehow returning that, even if Sam couldn’t comprehend how.
The brother who laughed emotions off with a joke, and treated intimacy like a revolving door, spreading his body and inviting Sam closer than anyone else had ever come, air moaning out of his abused lungs, nudged into the pillows as Sam rolled into his body another and another time.
Sam had wanted Dean to feel him. Dean unmistakably felt him now.
Sam’s long thrusts slowed to little flinches, just firm enough to lift Dean’s hips off the bed, as he jacked Dean off harder, with a more intense purpose. Dean came over Sam’s hand with another sound thump to the mattress, cum spurting far enough to splatter the darkening bruise on his chest. Dean went boneless-limp, and Sam moved, still inside him, lowering himself over his older brother to find the kind of aggressive angle he needed to rut himself satiated.
Dean peered up at him blearily, eyes orgasm hazy, pupils wide and black. Sam met Dean’s lips easily; Dean’s mouth parted under Sam’s. They kissed sloppy while Sam thrust his pleasure inside the impossible depths of Dean’s body. Even now, Sam could barely parse the reality of this entanglement, Dean’s breath hot on his face, Dean’s chest rising and falling and Dean’s heart beating its powerful rhythm beneath that bruised rib cage, all the soft organs that Sam had feared would fail too many times, Dean’s legs raised at sharp angles from his sides, and somewhere inside the creature Sam called “brother,” Sam, too, thick and hard and demanding.
They shared no words now, Sam offering forward more than words could contain and Dean greedy for it beneath him. Sam pushed himself up on his arms and crashed into Dean with escalating thrusts, the headboard hitting the wall, the rusty mattress springs creaking, the moist squelch of sex, and Dean’s grunts and hitches of breath as Sam drove him into the bed, Sam encouraged by Dean’s helpless pleasure.
A frenzy of motion and then, Sam’s sight blanked in a white flash of bliss as his orgasm surged into Dean with three fierce, singular thrusts. Sam held himself up on unsteady arms, keen, erotic pleasure fading to a duller but persistent satisfaction. His cum warmed his soon-to-fade erection even as he slipped out of Dean’s body, held close to his skin by the rubber. Sam rolled onto his back beside Dean, sparing Dean’s chest from his weight. He lay heaving for breath, but peeled the condom off shakily before he went flaccid and his semen leaked onto their bed.
“Dude. I can’t believe I just…” Sam pushed his sweaty bangs off his forehead, squinting up at the ceiling.
“Believe it?” Dean sounded so damn smug. “I’m still feelin’ it.”
“That wasn’t even a little bit ‘Wow, now we’re going to hell,’ for you?” Sam teased, but he grinned and closed his eyes, sweat cooling on his skin and his breathing begging to return to normal.
Dean scoffed. “Fight ‘em from the inside.”
Sam’s smile stretched ear to ear, and warmth spread through his chest, right down to his fingertips. Dean shifted on the mattress. Sam thought Dean was getting up, and gasped as Dean moved in to nip the cusp of his ear, Sam’s head turning to bare his neck, instinctively.
They had miles to go before they slept, but not, Sam thought with satisfaction, for maybe another forty-five minutes.
----
“Hey, don’t forget the extra onions this time, hunh?”
“Dude.” Sam snagged the twenty from Dean’s fingers. “I’m the one who’s gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions.”
Dean just flashed that shit eating grin, and Sam climbed out into yet another wet parking lot. Dean had been like this all afternoon. Snapped straight out of his morbid streak -- unlivably alert and engaged.
“Hey, see if they got any pie.”
Sam flinched, stopped, and spun back to shoot Dean a look…before he slammed the Impala’s door.
“Bring me some pie!” Dean’s muffled voice called from inside the Impala.
The problem, Sam thought to himself, the real problem with doing a good turn for his brother was that it put Dean Winchester in a good mood. And that? Was like being handcuffed to hyperactive chimpanzee. Sam stuffed his hand in his pocket and swung open the lakeshore café’s screen door, anticipating denying Dean encore sex with the kind of vindictive pleasure he couldn’t take against a down-and-hurting Dean.
Either way it went, Sam would go to bed happy.
Sam scoped the old fashioned wall plaques advertising lemonade, burgers…and homemade pie, with two of the tasty pastries under glass cake covers.
Sam wondered if Dean could see the pies through the window.
Sam wondered what Dean would say if Dean could see the pies through the window and Sam told him the boldfaced lie that Sunnyside Diner offered no such confections.
Sam thought, as he stepped up to order, and before he slipped into blackness, that this? Was a pretty damn good day.