Work Text:
Hindsight, they say, is twenty/twenty and they are always right. Or they seem to be this time because looking back on it Sam can see that all the indicators of a serious storm brewing were there, but not a single one of them registered at the time.
There are two very important tricks to living together with someone 24/7. The first is that there is always a simple, easily interpreted sign that it’s time for the two of you to part. For Dean, it is the drum beat to “Whole Lotta Love”, tapped out on his thigh in perfect rhythm. Sam knows the second Dean’s hand starts slapping out the staccato sound it’s time to suggest Dean slip off to a bar.
He doesn’t offer to go with, he knows that Dean won’t be needing a second man to back his play. At least not the sort of play Dean is planning on. Sam’s resigned himself to the fact that this is when Dean goes to be Dean. This is his time to put on the charming smile and let it play out to the satisfying end.
It’s ok, Sam has his own signal and his own hobbies, separate from Dean and gloriously his. As long as neither of them is ever unreachable they can go hours apart without any considerable freaking out.
The second trick is that there has to be a secret. Not anything life-threatening, or life-changing because Sam has learned that lesson entirely too well, but something that belongs just to him. It goes unspoken that they both have something, and that whatever it is the other never pushes. Sam would be lying if he said he didn’t wonder sometimes what it was Dean did when he was on his own, but if Dean knew Sam’s hobby…
Well, it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. They said that too.
Masterfully crafted plans aside, sometimes that release valve wasn’t accessible, and sometimes it had to be accessed at less than convenient moments. Take right now for example. Dean had just finished a marathon run of slipping off to bars, and yet he still seemed stressed out and jumpy. If Sam asked his brother only insisted that he was prepared, and gave no indication what he was prepared for.
Sam was willing to let it go in the interest of Dean not giving him shit in this very moment as midnight rolled around and he refreshed his browser for the thirtieth time. Dean was too wrapped up in whatever was on TV to pay attention to Sam, and Sam was too absorbed by his entry feed’s refusal to offer up the post he was looking for.
And then it was there, Sam clicking the link before the page below it had even had time to fully load. He scrolled down to the link to leave a comment, uninterested in the long list of text that lead to it, and then pasted his prepared answer and hit send.
It was done. “Decadent Desserts” was his. Years of training in hiding his emotions allowed Sam to control his hands, stare blankly at the screen as he opened his email and logged into the username Dean didn’t know.
Rep! Rep I got it! Thank your friend for me. Thank her forever because I have officially claimed ZoSo’s Big Bang.
Two seconds later the reply hit, Repetitious Rewind was always on, and Sam bit back the smile before opening it up.
I told you she was beta’ing for the elusive ZoSo didn’t I? Honey this is your shot! You’re the only two boys I know in fandom and you could totally hook up! I’m shipping it already. :p
She could ship it all day long, but Sam knew better. Much as he would love to get to know the man behind his favorite stories a little better, there wasn’t much chance of anything. Part of it was that Sam didn’t live the kind of life that allowed for such relationships, then there was the fact that Sam was entirely too wrapped up in someone else to really fall for an internet fanboy.
Which brought him to the last point, his stalkerish behavior was built entirely on the fact that ZoSo, the mysterious and infamous ZoSo, was famous because he wrote the best Sam/Dean fanfiction on the internet. Fanfiction so good that Sam, who was a main character in each of ZoSo’s stories, had a hard time occasionally differentiating between reality and the words on the screen.
ZoSo wrote what Sam longed for, dreamed of, jacked off to in the shower. ZoSo wrote the life Sam wanted, angsty enough to honest, but always with the happiest and most ridiculously sweet endings that Sam could lose himself in the creation.
And Sam was now his artist for the fandom’s most popular Big Bang.
----
“She’s already emailed me Space. What the fuck am I supposed to do? It was supposed to be you doing this!”
There was a loud crash on the other end, a dog barking, and then the familiar voice came back strained and hectored. “Stubby I will give you all the milkbones if you just please stop. Zo I don’t know what to tell you. She literally scooped you. I didn’t have a chance.”
He peered again at the blank user page before returning to the vague and unhelpful profile.
“Did she even read the other damn summaries? The comment time is seconds after the posting one.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure I should –Stubby for the love of all that is holy leave that alone- object to you instantly assuming your new artist is a she.”
“All of Shurley’s fans are a she.” A snort and Dean angrily went back to the blank user page. “All but one. Shut up.”
“She could be good. You haven’t told me yet why this one means so much. You’ve had lackluster artists before.”
Because it’s the last one. Dean didn’t say that though, because Space Case would lose her shit if he did. Instead he closed the Livejournal window and opened his email before attaching the story to a blank message and sending it back to the exuberant artist. He re-read the message, I love your work, characterization so rich, the page bleeds, and thought of the best lie to avoid telling her he was leaving the fandom.
It was getting too hard to hide from Sam. Too difficult to slip off to bars and scribble out page after page of written text before sneaking long hours on the laptop or library computers to type it out. Letting Sam know that Dean has gained fame on the internet writing story after story of them fucking and falling in love would be the ultimate in sibling ammunition.
Plus, there was the part where Sam would realize that his slutty brother wanted to have sex with him. Which may cross the line from ‘things to tease Dean about’ and land firmly in ‘reasons to leave for good’. Because Sam always needed good reasons for that move.
“I just wanted it to be special. This one was special.”
Space sighed and then the barking was cut off by a door shutting firmly. “Zo, you wanna tell me what’s really going on? Did your RL crush bleed into your work again?”
Dean thought of Sam’s dimples, the way he snorted sometimes when he laughed, and that terrible frown that seemed to linger in his eyes all the time these days.
“Yeah. Yeah, he did. It’s getting a little tiring only having him in stories Space. Watching everybody coo and faint over what’ll never fucking happen.”
Her tongue clicked audibly and then her voice dropped. “Maybe it’s time to tell him. Like, you could let him read the story. I mean, you know, after taking out all the references that Sam and Dean are brothers. ‘Cause that would probably weird him out.”
The waitress jumped at the sharpness of Dean’s laugh, and he forced an apologetic smile.
“Got it in one darling. That would definitely weird him out.”
----
Dean has managed to hit a new level of tense standoffishness. Their unspoken agreement to give each other space appears to have fallen completely apart, and in the wake of it Sam is left making up research topics and faking stomach issues so that he can spend long periods of time hidden out working in Photoshop.
The art is coming together, but more importantly the story is, without a doubt, ZoSo’s best work. Sam spends their next case reading it in odd snatches on his phone and imagining what he wants to do with it. He sends email after email to the author, his author, telling him all the different things he wants to do. ZoSo warms up with time, seems to open up to commentary and discussion. The guy is shocked to find out Sam is male, and Sam gets the odd impression he’s upset about that.
It’s wonderful and painful all at once. ZoSo understands how Sam feels, gets how longing and anger can mix so seamlessly, how despair turns to blame both inward and out. Apparently his author is in deep for some guy, and Sam couldn’t sympathize more. What begins as story discussion becomes something almost like friendship while Sam slowly and painstakingly works out every scene that affects him.
The fictional Sam and Dean are wrought with tension, closer than they’ve ever been before, and Sam finds himself holding his breath as he tries to perfectly capture that love on his screen. He’s pretty proud of the final product to be honest, and he sends the files off in the middle of the night while Dean is sleeping with a small note. Nothing that’ll give him away, just something that tries to convey what Sam is feeling.
----
ZoSo,
I hope you like these! I tried to stay with the scenes we discussed, but there was something about the middle sex scene that I just couldn’t…forget maybe? Yeah, it’s kinky, and in a way I don’t think I’ve seen in the fandom before, but there’s more to it. You managed to recognize Sam’s need to explore and experiment without betraying his devotion to Dean. I can’t even begin to tell you how hard that hit me emotionally, and how true to the character I think it is.
Confession time, I know somebody who knows your Beta, and they kind of gave me the scoop on your summary so I could pick you. That probably comes off a little creepy. I’m sorry about that, but Edlund’s books have always had a special place in my heart and you…you’re the only author in this fandom who’s ever gotten it right I think. Your work gives me hope even as it makes me miserable. If that makes any sense at all.
So I really do hope I’ve done it justice, and thank you, so much, for everything.
-Toska
----
“Ok, one, shut up you were right about it being a guy. Two, I’m sending you his work.”
Space cackled and Dean waited for the response. “Oh my god Zo he’s so in love with you. I’m shipping it right now. Zo and – Oh. Oh no.”
“Fuck. It’s really that bad isn’t it?”
Silence reigned, and Dean re-opened the original attachments and stared helplessly at the pictures.
Eight .pngs in total, a header, two icons, and the four scenes that they’d discussed. The first fight, the break down, the first sex scene, and the reconciliation. Just for kicks Toska had included a rendering of the middle sex scene, the most unrealistic and un-Sam sex scene Dean had ever written.
He had jerked off five times to it.
It wasn’t that there was a lack of love or consideration in any of them. The exact opposite actually, it was obvious he had put an enormous amount of time and care into each picture.
No, the problem was that his enormously eager and friendly artist was terrible. The perspective was off, the lines were blurry, and the facial expressions were…hideous.
“You and I both know the SamnDean mod is super strict. The guy admitted to cheating Zo. Report him and they’ll disqualify him. I had second pick anyway, so you get the artist you want and-“
“Did you read the emails?” It’s tempting. So very, very tempting, because this is his last hurrah and art like this is completely unbearable. He’s had mediocre artists before. This is worse.
But Toska is…too nice. Sensitive in a way that’s familiar and painful. Dean doesn’t want to hurt the guy, he’s gotten the impression that’s been done enough, and he doesn’t want to admit that he ratted him out. Partially because it goes against his entire mode of being, but mostly because it would probably crush the artist.
“Yes, and they’re very sweet, and he seems super nice, but Zo, look at these. This is amateur hour at best. And the details are weird. Dean is much bigger than that, and what’s with the bell on the moose head?”
Dean freezes in place, eyes travelling over the picture as he takes it in from an outsider’s perspective.
The problem with being in the fandom is that Dean has gotten entirely too used to what fans of Chuck’s insanely preposterous books think the brothers are supposed to be. Sure, Chuck is one hundred percent accurate when it comes to their stories and their internal motivations, but he’s writing for a fanbase of women that want Fabio quality men hunting monsters.
In Chuck’s universe Dean doesn’t have that one knee that’s a little bigger than the other after he was mauled by a werewolf, and Sam’s thigh isn’t riddled with burn scars from a pyrokinetic they tracked down when his brother was still a teen.
Looking at the pictures with that in mind doesn’t make them any better, but it does paint them in a very different light. He shifts to the reconciliation scene, set in a random motel room in the story.
Dean had written it thinking of The Woodsman, a cheesy themed motel in North Dakota that they’d spent a week in after a particularly bad hunt. Sam nursing two broken ribs and Dean drinking off a shattered elbow while one of the three channels they got ran a marathon of Kung Fu movies.
Sam had been relaxed for once, face vacillating between pain when he laughed and that big, stupid smile he had so often when he forgot the world around them and simply let himself be. It had made the scene easier to work with, thinking of Sam like that instead of with that tense look that replaced all of the emotions Dean preferred to see.
He remembered the way Sam would try to look disapproving over that smile when Dean would throw his beer caps at the bell hanging around the stuffed moose’s neck every time somebody kissed. He’d make that joke about the characters ringing the-
The bell.
“Space I gotta go.”
“Honey it’s not that bad we could-“
“Gotta go. Talk to you later.”
Dean sweeps everything off the table and heads for the motel.
----
Sam hasn’t heard from ZoSo since he sent the last email. Not a word. He’s staring helplessly at his own work and wondering if maybe he should have read a little more about gradients first. Or tried that layering trick he saw in a Livestream once.
Maybe it’s not the best, but he thinks he captured the feeling of it pretty well, and that should be something right? Then again, ZoSo is used to having some of the best artists in the fandom. He had Space Case for his last one, and she’s-
The door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall and Sam is left sitting in dumbfounded silence as Dean stands in the opening with one finger leveled at Sam and his chest heaving thickly.
“You’re Toska! You draw Sam/Dean art!”
Everything stops working. Sam can’t close the displayed art, can’t move from the rickety little table, and can’t come up with a single good response. Instead he sits there with his mouth hanging open and his hands spread over the keyboard like he’s about to write out an essay on why he certainly is no such thing.
“Say something Sam!”
“How – how could you know that?” Fuck. Not a denial. Not even a little one.
“Disco!” Sam’s hysterical brain isn’t even vaguely prepared for that, and he holds his hands up in surrender.
It seems that even his brother realizes the reference is too vague. A rarity for Dean.
“Ring the bell Sam. No one else would have known that room even had a moose head, let alone a fucking bell hung around it. You’re the artist.”
Little brother instincts kick into full gear and Sam is springing up from the table and pointing a finger. “You’re the author!” It doesn’t make any sense. Dean’s ZoSo? Sam’s been reading his stories for over a year, and when the hell did Dean even have the time to write?
The bars. His alone time. Sam’s alone time. While he brother was hiding out somewhere writing Sam was hanging back reading.
“So was it a fucking joke? You track me down in the one thing I kept from you so you can out me? Make some ridiculous shit just to mock me?”
Apparently Sam’s face answers the question better than his paralyzed tongue can. Ridiculous shit. He looks over his shoulder at the laptop, still proudly displaying the scene Sam spent four hours outlining. Dean’s right of course, at least about it being shit.
He takes a step forward so he can carefully close the laptop and hide his mistake before sweeping his wallet off the nightstand and pushing past Dean and through the door.
Dean never says a word.
---
It takes an hour to make his hand release his keys. In the meantime he manages to enter the room completely, shut the door, and make his way through Sam’s computer. Now that he knows what he’s looking for it’s so obvious it’s painful.
A little over a gig of Sam’s hard drive is devoted to tutorials on how to use Photoshop. Guides on anatomy, facial expressions, clothing folds. Hours of research Sam has compiled just as carefully as a hunt in the hopes of getting his work right.
Ridiculous shit.
His own voice rings in his ears as he looks at the rough drafts of Sam’s work, notes attached that are direct quotes from his story. Sam hasn’t just been working on this he’s been pouring his entire heart and soul into it and Dean threw it in his face like a dirty trick.
Because he thought it was. Because otherwise Sam has been following his nonsense for who knows how long reading and loving it. Sam has been plotting with other people in the fandom to try to get to Dean. Not because he’s in love with ZoSo the author, although there’s probably a bit of that, but because he’s in love with Dean and Sam being in love.
Snatches of the emails they’ve been sending back and forth come forward, slice at his guilt and cut it deeper and wider. It’s just amazing how you understand that love can be so hateful sometimes. There’s a gulf between them and I can’t stand it, so when you fix it that brightens everything. I just hate how much some authors misinterpret Dean, like all he can be is this two-dimensional male stereotype.
I wish there was a way to make your stories reality. You don’t even know how much I wish that.
Well yeah, he did now. Now that’d he fucked it all up in the course of a few seconds.
Dean waits patiently, and when Sam comes back he shoves his way up from the bed and holds both hands out in a plea for understanding.
Except Sam’s face tells him that he doesn’t have a chance. That there’s no going back. Instead Dean stands helplessly as Sam methodically clears the storage files that hold his research and work before looking up at Dean with a strained and helpless smile.
“Sorry. All gone now.”
And that would be it. It really would. Except Dean’s made his reputation on stories with happy endings, and goddamn it this is the time when he gets one too.
He just has to figure out how to get there.
----
A month. An entire month passes without Dean trying to bring it up or Sam trying to avoid it. There’s no halted conversations or half-started attempts at communication. It is literally wiped from the face of the earth, and Sam is glad. So very glad.
That’s probably why he’s so confused when he comes back to the motel with his arms full of the victory dinner, Dean’s ridiculous Chinese orders are getting out of hand, and finds Dean sitting in a room that is wildly different than the one Sam left.
Dean’s hung new pictures on the wall, cheap prints like Sam would expect in one of these places, but all with a fly-fishing motif. There’s a rod and reel balanced between the beds like a lamp, singing toy bass hanging over it, and flies hanging like Christmas ornaments.
His brother looks up from the computer with a grin on his face and closes the laptop before crossing the room and sliding bags out of Sam’s arms.
“Dean?” It’s out of character these days, but maybe Dean’s decided to take forgetting to the next level.
“Sammy! Guess what’s playing on TNT tonight?”
“We don’t get TNT in this shithole Dean. What the hell are you smiling about?”
His grin wavers, resolves itself, and Dean pops open his carton and flops down. Sam sees that somehow Dean has gotten his hands on a VCR and that’s what the remote seems to control.
“Yup. Fistful of Dollars. No commercials and all ours.”
Sam takes the bed closer to the door, unsure why Dean is lying on his, and watches as his brother inexplicably gets up and then crashes down beside Sam.
“So it’s you, me, and Eastwood all night long baby boy.”
“Baby – what the fuck are you doing?” He goes cold all over, hands clenching into fists as he pushes up off the bed. He remembers this. After all, Sam spent hours trying to make this just right.
Dean goes to smoothly place his carton of General Tso’s and fumbles, catching the fork without trouble and dropping the rest of it on his pants.
Sam would laugh, or keep raging, but he’s too perplexed. Because he’s not following the lines, but this is the right scene. Now Dean will groan, stand up, and say-
“Damn it! Damn it I had this planned out!”
His tongue is thick in his mouth and his hands shake. “Had what planned out?”
Back on script.
“I was gonna – shit. I was gonna be romantic and shit. You know. Do this right for once.”
Sam can’t help the smile that pulls on his lips. When he first read this it killed him that ZoSo knew Dean’s idea of romantic would be cheap Chinese food and Eastwood. Didn’t try to shoehorn him into some weird flower petals and scented candles stereotype.
Then it hits Sam how this seduction ends.
“Please, please tell me you didn’t buy the toy. That you didn’t think the way to make up for everything was to do – to do that.”
Dean swallows thickly, and then he breaks character and crosses the dingy carpet. His hands settle awkwardly on Sam’s biceps before fisting in Sam’s shirt.
“I wrote those things because I couldn’t have them. Because I thought I couldn’t have them. This was gonna be my last one, and then I was out because I couldn’t live in that fucking fake world and then face this one. Watch you slip off when you needed to blow your load and know it wasn’t me you wanted. That it wasn’t me that was making you crazy.”
Dean’s pressed all along him, heat radiating off and making Sam crazy, smell mixed with sauce and desperation, and Sam feels light-headed breathing it in.
“Then I see that fucking bell on the moose head and I think, holy shit Sam knows and he’s playing with me. The thought of it, you knowing and mocking me, it made me a little crazy. I handled it wrong, and I shouldn’t a done that. I know it. So I’m saying sorry, but I’m also saying you told me you wanted this. I want it too. You can get into it, or you can tell me to fuck off and it’ll never come up again.”
Green-gold eyes slant up and take him in, Dean’s tongue swipes across his lower lip, and then he’s kissing Sam. It’s everything, hot and wet, so smooth, and Dean laps at Sam’s mouth until he opens up and lets his older brother in.
Sam gets pressed against the wall, brain cataloguing how good everything is even as a distant part of him winces at the stickiness of the sauce and how hard it’s going to be to get it out of his jeans. Dean chuckles into his mouth, and Sam pulls back enough to give them air to speak.
“What?”
Dean’s fingers are busily working at his belt buckle, hands steady even as his mouth shakes just a short distance from Sam’s.
“You’re thinking about the sauce on your pants aren’t you? Knew I got that right.”
He hates his brother. Sam reaches down and undoes the buckle of Dean’s belt even as he considers how much damage he could do by shutting this whole thing down now. If they’d ever end up back here.
“Shut up. I want a shower first. Especially if you’re doing the thing.”
Dean grins, spreads his fingers along the side of Sam’s face and strokes softly.
“All these years I thought you were so damn closed off and you’ve been a secret slut. You gonna be good for me Sammy? Gonna spread your legs and beg for me just like I wrote you would?”
And with that Sam is harder than he should be, panting slightly against Dean’s mouth and jerking angrily on his brother’s shirt. They tumble through the room, clothes fall haphazardly before they’re in the bathroom and starting up the shower.
It’s too small for two men their size, but they make do. Sam shampoos Dean’s hair as his brother mocks him and soaps his hands. Then Sam’s being turned, pressed underneath the shower head with the water slamming into his back and Dean’s hands skimming over his flesh gentle and knowing.
Dean’s thorough, a nod to Sam’s compulsive showering, and Sam appreciates it. It’s more bathing than prep at first, but then strong fingers knead into the globes of his ass and Sam moans and bumps his head into the plastic shower wall.
Good. Dean is goddamn good at this. He knows just the right amounts of pressure to put against Sam’s muscles, relaxes him before one finger circles his hole, presses and retreats, and Sam just wants him there right now.
There’s no consideration for that though even when Sam voices his wishes. Instead Dean slides soapy hands underneath him and strokes his perineum before moving to stimulate his balls. It’s amazing how many erogenous zones Dean guessed correctly to be honest, and when fingers slip along his shaft before focusing on lathering up his pubic hair Sam wonders if Dean’s a mind reader.
Rhythmic pressure skates along his hipbones, and then Dean is back to the main event, one finger sliding soap suds into him as the other hand rubs Sam’s thigh soothingly.
“You been with a man before right Sammy?”
Sam swallows, moans as Dean’s pointer finger pushes past the first ring of resistance.
“You gotta answer me Sammy. Man?”
He nods and then finds his voice. “Ye-yes. Once.”
Lips press against his neck and teeth skim the skin there.
“Good. I’m gonna make you forget that.”
Then the finger breaches all the way, and a second one starts pressing. Sam’s getting too hot, shower water combined with lust making him pant and gasp as he scrabbles against the smooth wall.
“Wanna have this whole thing in here? Easier clean up?” Taunting. Dean’s taunting him as a second finger pushes its way in and Sam gasps at the dull burn.
“Fuck you.”
“Not this time. Maybe next time. This time I’m gonna leave you so fucked-out and worthless you won’t even be able to properly thank me.”
Dean’s mouth disappears and then Sam feels teeth press into the flesh of his left ass cheek while a third finger starts stroking his hole.
It goes on forever, Dean re-lathering his fingers before working them in and out. Then Dean taps his hip and Sam manages to pull the shower head down without ripping it out of the wall. The water is uncomfortable, weird, but when it’s done Dean’s tongue licks a stripe along his crack and Sam’s knees almost give out.
Dean grumbles when Sam insists on drying off. Which is funny, because there’s nothing Dean can offer him that will make up for the feel of wet cotton. They stumble back in, Dean laughing because he thinks he scored a point on Sam’s ‘freaky OCD’ and Sam ready to pull out the big guns.
He remembers the story. Sam can picture it now without the lingering hurt, Dean leaning against the wall of the shower and crafting each moment of this scene with his cock in one hand and the other pressed against his mouth to stay quiet. He didn’t need Dean’s fictionalized account of himself in bed to know that his brother is vocal.
Sam drops to the bed, one hand reviving his flagging erection and the other pressing against his already loose hole.
“Dean. Dean, please. I need it. I need to know how far I can go.”
The sound Dean makes will be with him forever, choked and thick, back of his throat clogged with something, and Sam’s raging hard again at the level of arousal Dean’s showing.
“Yeah baby, yeah I got you. I’m going to stretch you out ‘til you think you can’t take it anymore. Gonna rob you of all those words you like so much. Take you down to your basic parts.”
With that Dean is behind him, tongue delving between his cheeks and pressing against his hole as two fingers slide back into him. Sam moans helplessly, still having trouble remembering that this isn’t a vivid fantasy Dean inspired, but the real thing eating him out and fingering him open.
Slick and wet, Dean sucks at his rim and tongue fucks him while a fourth finger makes its way through Sam’s remaining resistance. He’s so hard he’s dizzy with it, and his fingers scrape and claw at the scratchy bedspread while he tries to remember what his lines are supposed to be.
Then Dean finds a way to twist his fingers and hit Sam’s prostate while his tongue curls in Sam’s hole, and that’s the end of it. Fuck canned dialogue.
“Holy shit, holy shit Dean, oh shit.” He’s not making any sense, expletives and gasps, and Sam honestly cannot tell how many fingers are spreading him open, only that it’s more than he’s ever really felt.
Dean’s gone then, Sam’s ass open to cool air, and he cries out and reaches one hand back to find Dean but there’s blunt pressure and the slick of lube mixing with saliva. Dean’s pressing in, cock easily pushing into Sam.
“So loose already baby, think you’ll still be that way when the second cock comes? Think I’ll be able to just push it in and let you ride?”
“Fuck, fuck please, yes, yes Dean.” His body’s on fire, a mixture of the feel of Dean finally in him and the way his brother’s voice trembles and betrays how very out of control he is. Dean’s hands are burning irons on his hips, fingers trembling against his skin.
His brother’s rhythm is fast, not punishing but swift enough that Sam can’t catch his breath properly, and then just as he thinks he’s getting used to it a finger presses against his rim and Dean slows enough he won’t do damage while he presses the digit in beside his cock.
Sam can’t figure out how to make his mouth work right. All that comes out is more helpless noise, his hands clenched so hard into the sheets, and when did he strip the bed, that his knuckles are white.
Dean works him slow, cock pulling and pushing as fingers join it. He moans with each one, Sam dimly registering that as crazy as this is making him it’s pushing Dean beyond some border into the land of madness. Neither of them are making much sense at this point.
Then it’s gone, all of it, and Sam feels empty and open. He blushes stupidly, tries to imagine how he looks, and Dean apparently reads his mind again.
His brother sounds like he’s been gargling sharp glass when speaks, more of a growl than English spilling from his lips.
“Gonna make this so good for both of us. Give you all you want. I know how bad you needed this Sammy, and I know you didn’t wanna say it. Didn’t want to risk somebody else seeing how hungry you are for me. I got you a gift though, and baby I’m gonna fuck you so hard you’re gonna be limping for a month. Just the way you like it.”
There’s a sound, Dean grunts once, and then he sounds just as shocked as Sam is when the warm head of Dean’s cock and the smaller synthetic one press against his entrance.
“Fuck. It really is like a cock ring. Looks like this’ll last longer than I hoped.”
Sam manages to turn his head just enough to catch a glimpse, the dildo strapped under his shaft and above Dean’s balls and bobbing obscenely, and then his eyes can’t stay open at the sensation of two cocks sliding into him.
Fake as the material is, the ridged veins built into it scrape along his stretched out rim and make Sam’s knees quake.
Dean takes it slow, opens him on the two cocks with care, and then when he’s fully seated his thumb strokes along Sam’s stretched out rim and Sam can’t even warn him before his orgasm hits and he’s coming untouched all over the destroyed bed.
Husky laughter hits him, shocked and low, and then Dean’s gripping him tight and moving. His prostate is constantly being hit, aftershocks mixing with it to border on pain as he experiences the world’s longest orgasm.
Sam’s legs give out, and Dean is all that’s holding him up as he shakes and shudders helplessly hoping that he can stay alive to see how this ends.
Contrary to all of his beliefs in his own physiology Sam’s erection valiantly returns as Dean finds a way to bend over and sinks his teeth into Sam’s shoulderblade. At this point Sam’s so full he can’t find words to describe it and he can’t seem to understand how Dean is doing this.
The world narrows down to the squeeze of Dean’s hands, the rasp of Dean’s stubble, the spread of his ass, and the gasping need Dean is dropping against his skin. It’s enough to drive Sam crazy, but it’s only made more intense by how out of it Dean is.
His brother, who wears a mask for almost ninety percent of his life, who was taught to never show emotion unless that emotion is vengeance, has completely broken open. Dean’s mouth is running non-stop and all he can seem to say is how much he loves Sam and how incredible Sam is for giving this to him.
Sam is almost there again, heart beating so fast he’s shaking and breathless and hanging from Dean’s hands as Dean rocks into him and reduces the world to nothing more than the quest for orgasm.
“Oh – oh shit Sam. Shit baby I can’t – I can’t – you gonna come for me again? Can you come for me again?”
And he can, he can but he can’t say it. Instead a high, thin wail comes out of his mouth and Dean takes it for a yes and caresses the head of his dick once, thumb pressing to the slit and then rubbing the nerve cluster, and that’s the end for him. Sam’s coming and Dean’s going with him.
They collapse, heavy and sweaty, and Sam can’t even muster up the energy to insist on a shower. To move out of the puddle of come and sweat he’s basically stuck in.
For a few minutes Sam struggles to get control of himself, limbs still shaking and eyes unfocused, and then he simply gives up. Watches as Dean slips from the bed and then comes back with a wet washcloth. He wipes Sam down just enough to calm him before dragging him to the other bed. They fall together, and Sam lets Dean lead his head onto one slick shoulder.
He grunts and Dean laughs before using the sheet to wipe the sweat and then lower Sam’s head again.
“So, uh, Sam. You up for talking about this?”
He can’t even move his face, how is he supposed to discuss complex emotional issues? Apparently this pleases Dean, and Sam makes a mental note to make him pay for it later.
“I’m sorry. Again. I’m sorry for assuming you were mocking me, I’m sorry for insulting your work, and I’m sorry I didn’t fuck you through the mattress before now. We wasted a lot of time.”
Sam does the only thing he can do. He bites Dean’s shoulder.
Dean laughs, body shaking under Sam’s face, and then presses a soft kiss to his temple.
“Yeah. Me too. Bitch.”