Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~8000 words. Castration. Spoilers up to and including S2 finale.
Sam’s final deal with the red-eyed demon turned Dean into a killing machine.
Sam missteps and winces at the brittle snap of a twig. Five feet ahead, Dean goes still as death, head up, eyes open. After a quick scan of the thick underbrush, he glances reproachfully over his shoulder before quietly slipping through the tress.
Ignoring the hot flush stealing up the back of his neck, Sam follows.
He hasn’t felt this clumsy since puberty. He’s gotten used to his height, his bulk, thankful for it more than once when facing down vengeful spirits or vicious monsters, or a group of jocks pissed off about Dean’s poaching.
Not that he can remember the last time Dean made a pass at something long-legged and willing. He feels like he should’ve marked the moment in his memory, but he hadn’t known that there’d ever be a last skirt for Dean to chase. He never would’ve complained so much if he did.
Sam eases into a crouch beside his brother, alert for any sign of the wolf. Hunting in daylight isn’t something either of them are used to, but they’re not all that used to tracking fairy tales, either.
Dean motions for Sam to stay and moves closer to the well-worn path, plucking a snatch of red wool cloth from the brambles. He turns it over in his fingers and cocks a brow, mouth quirked and eyes alight.
We’re close, we’re gonna nail this sucker, is what he’s saying. Gonna bag us the big bad wolf.
It never used to be this easy to read him and Sam’s not at all sorry for that. He wastes his regrets on things Dean doesn’t care about any more.
The hunt doesn’t last long after that. Dean tracks the wolf like he’s one himself, eyes and nose to the ground, indicating a low-hanging branch twisted wrong here, a muddy, obscured pawprint there. Sometimes, Sam notices them at the same time, even points one or two out. Dean always sees them first, always catches the ones Sam misses.
Feeling useless, more of a burden than a help, Sam has almost snapped more times than inconveniently scatteredbranches. But the guilt is stronger and good at keeping things like that in check, drowning the worst of his emotions long before they reach the surface.
Dean watches so closely these days, Sam’s sure he knows. Sam’s never been that great at hiding from him, anyway.
Dean finds the cave and the ravaged bodies of the little girls, all of them empty lifeless shells with blank staring eyes and gaping holes where their stomachs should be. He finds the wolf with the shining, intelligent eyes minutes later and they pump three rounds into its hide before it can speak.
It howls and snarls, muzzle flecked with foam as it launches itself at them. It’s huge, about the size of a small pony, and fast. Dean dodges but Sam rolls a second too late, heat blazing across his shoulder from its claws. He’s been hurt often enough to realise it’s not deep, won’t need stitches, but Dean is there regardless, putting himself between Sam and the wolf.
Dean puts it down with two more shots, swinging the rifle onto his back and snatching the bowie from Sam’s belt to slash its throat. It’s still dying when Dean slashes its belly open from chest to groin, nothing but its slippery, stinking guts spilling free.
They’d both known there wouldn’t be any children to save, that sometimes, the fairy tales got it wrong, but Sam had hoped so Dean had checked.
Wiping the blade off on the beast’s fur, Dean hands it back. “You alright, Sammy?” Not waiting for an answer, he puts a hand to Sam’s shoulder and turns it toward the light, gently pushing cloth aside to survey the damage. “Doesn’t need stitches.”
It takes a few moments for Sam to answer, “No,” and only then does Dean clap him on the other shoulder in acceptance.
Sam leads the way back through the forest after they burn both the bodies and the wolf. He would’ve preferred to bring the children back, let the families have their funerals and their closure, if there’s really such a thing, but he didn’t want to come back in a few years just to dig them up again.
Dean walks no more than two feet behind him the entire way to the car parked at the side of the road. Under his heavy gaze, Sam’s skin breaks into gooseflesh.
Sam’s final deal with the red-eyed demon turned Dean into a killing machine.
She was beautiful in a way Sam hadn’t expected, soft in a light summer dress at midnight and cruel smiling eyes all for Dean. She stalked the flower borders like an animal, feet bare in the dirt, polished toes glinting in the moonlight.
Sam’s stomach lurched with sick fascination as she came to stand in front of Dean, Dean’s head bowed to face her straight on. Bile scorched his throat when they mirrored one another’s smiles.
“Didn’t realise you were such a fan,” Dean said.
“I told you years ago your pain’s worth more than your wasted soul, Dean,” she said, breathing his name like a filthy promise. “I thought you’d be happy.”
Dean barked a sharp laugh and Sam shifted uncomfortably at the bitter, grating noise. The deadline had come and gone and he’d failed miserably at finding a way to save his brother. He’d raged at Dean’s acceptance, lashed out at anyone and anything that had gotten close enough. He’d thrown himself head-first into any fight that came his way, and still the demon hadn’t shown to collect her due.
He’d almost begun to hope one cold night in October when a polite knock on their shithole motel room door ground his heart into the floor.
Afterwards, she hadn’t taken Dean with her, but sometimes the shell she left behind instead made Sam wish she had. For months Dean had lived on autopilot, eating and hunting and fucking, going through all the motions of being Dean without being Dean.
She’d show up from time to time, always with a new face but the same eyes, and twist up Sam’s guts with fear and hope and longing. But nothing ever changed, not Dean or the useless words in the books Sam ploughed through.
Sam hadn’t even realised they’d stopped smack in the middle of a crossroads just outside Jackson, Louisiana, until Dean slammed the driver’s side door shut.
He dragged in a lungful of close, muggy air and waited for something to happen. That was all Sam had ever done since the visions had stopped, waited and reacted and knew it’d be too late.
Dean said, “You finally going to quit screwing around and see this through?”
“Dean,” she replied, soft and secretive, seductive, “always in such a hurry to die.”
“Maybe next time you could borrow a body with some balls, since you don’t have any.”
The demon rocked back a step and frowned. She glanced at Sam, mouth hard before easing into another slick, reptilian smile, and laughed at Dean’s vicious scowl.
“I should’ve given you more credit,” she said.
For what, Sam almost said, but couldn’t dredge up the energy. It’d come out as weak and helpless as he was.
She moved close to Dean again, one small hand settling on his hip, the other sliding to the small of his back. “But I never thought you’d be too scared to do it yourself,” she said, tilting her face to Dean’s. “You could put an end to it so easily.” She searched Dean’s flat expression, finding more there than Sam ever could, finding enough to make her smile blossom bright and horrible.
“Bitch,” Dean spat.
She laughed and pressed closer, shifting her full attention to Sam for the first time as she said, “It wouldn’t hurt so much if it were all over, would it, Sam? If he’d just lay down and die instead of clinging to you so hard.”
Sam jerked his eyes away from where the demon’s slim fingers crept down Dean’s thigh. His mouth opened on a shocked, “No,” but it withered and cracked like dead leaves at the desperate, haunted look on Dean’s face.
There should’ve been anger, righteous fury boiling in Dean’s eyes at the idea that some demon would even dare. Not that sad plea for Sam to let Dean let go.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, sharp and bitingly cold. “I forgot you’ve finally figured out the value of family. You’re always so willing to give people what they want when it’s already too late.”
“Hey,” Dean said, but she ignored him, tucked her fingers into his belt and kept her glowing eyes on Sam.
“What would you give, if it wasn’t too late?” she asked, and shook her head before Sam could speak. “Your life, I know, but that’s the easy part. It’s harder to live without your dreams than die, Sam.”
Dean grabbed her wrist in a white-knuckled grip and hissed, “No deals. No more fucking deals.”
“I don’t have any,” Sam blurted, slapping the anger from Dean and the violence from the demon before it ripped Dean’s arm from the socket. “I don’t have any,” he repeated, chilled in spite of the sticky heat.
“I don’t believe that for one moment, Sam Winchester,” she said. “You can’t stand the idea of being alone any more than he can. Without him, you wouldn’t hunt. You couldn’t.” Her eyes narrowed, flared like the first spark of a fire. “You’d make a new family for yourself, wouldn’t you.”
“Sammy,” Dean warned. “Don’t you do it, Sammy, don’t you even think about it,” and Sam wasn’t sure at first if he meant the deal or replacing him with a wife and two kids.
“He’s always wanted one,” she said. Sam sucked in a too-quick breath seconds later when he realised she was talking about Dean, not him. “You could have almost everything he’s ever wanted, but only if he’s gone.”
It was easier than Sam thought it’d be to say, “I don’t want it.”
She smiled like that was exactly what she expected, like it was what she was waiting for, and let go of Dean. A howl sliced through the night before Dean could move, clouds of dust erupting around him before something slammed into his chest and knocked him flat on his back and skidding yards away in the dirt.
“You’re the last family he’s got,” she said, resting her palms gently against Sam’s chest as she rose up on her toes. She smelled like blood and oranges, fire and green grass. She offered up her mouth, said, “And you’re all he’ll ever have.”
Over the snarls of the hellhounds, the sound of teeth and claws shredding cloth, Dean shouted, “Sam!” and Sam asked, “How long?”
“The end of his natural days,” she whispered against Sam’s lips, “but his soul is mine then.”
Sam tasted ash in his mouth when he kissed her.
She pulled away first, the hounds silenced and only Dean’s ragged breathing filling the night. “He’s all yours,” she said, and then she was gone, too.
Dean rolled over in heap of crushed petals. Even as Sam rushed over, he was already struggling to stand, brushing himself off and accepting Sam’s offer to help haul him to his feet.
He suffered through about twenty seconds of Sam hurriedly checking him over, finding only shallow wounds and scrapes beneath the shambles of his clothes before his fist slammed into Sam’s face.
Sam shook it off, mouth thinned into a tight, hard line as he dropped to his knees to check the sluggishly bleeding gash on Dean’s thigh. Tiny yellow petals and dirt were crusted to the blood. It would need to be cleaned soon.
“I’m fine, stupid,” Dean snapped, and hauled Sam back up by his shirt. Sam braced himself for another slug, ready and willing to take it and more, when Dean’s face paled and breath rattled in his lungs.
Blood soaked the inseam of Dean’s jeans, spread quickly down to his knees. He swayed on his feet, grabbing at Sam’s shoulder with one hand and clawing at his belt and zip with the other. Heart in his throat, sick with the image of Dean’s guts spilling free without clothes to hold them in, Sam shoved Dean’s hand away and ripped open his jeans.
Dark, rich red glistened slippery wet on Sam’s fingers as he touched Dean’s belly, searched hips and thighs to find Dean’s skin unbroken and whole beneath. He groped at the hem of his shirt and hauled it off, found the few sparse patches of cloth not damp with his own sweat to mop up the mess.
Sam managed to catch him just as he doubled over, vomiting into the blood-spattered dirt.
“Hungry?” Dean asks, and Sam surprises himself by saying, “Yes.”
“Good, ’cause I’m starved,” Dean says, slaps Sam on the knee and points to the ratty shoebox of tapes. His hand doesn’t linger longer than it takes Sam to fish out his favourite Metallica mix of the moment, but then, he hadn’t really needed to touch Sam at all.
Lately, Sam finds himself cataloguing all the ways Dean touches him, looks at him. He picks at every little thing Dean does, dissecting and analysing and making comparisons until any meaning that might’ve been there is long gone.
Dean doesn’t say anything about it because that’s the way Dean is.
The car swings into the parking lot of a decent looking Mom and Pop place. Dean picks a spot near the door and saunters inside, taking in the entire space from the sparse clientele down to the cigarette burns on the old formica counter. He hitches himself up on a stool and pats the one beside him.
The girl toting the coffee pot and a stained notepad doesn’t look a day over nineteen but she eyes Dean like she’s been around the block once or twice. He matches her smile for smile, earns himself and Sam some free a la mode to go with their pie, and doesn’t once look at the small curve of her breasts when she offers him the view.
She’s disappointed when Dean says make it to go but doesn’t go back on the ice cream, just says make sure they eat it first.
Back in the car, Sam says, “To go, Dean?” and shovels a spoonful of mashed berries into his mouth.
“Want to take a better look at your shoulder.” Dean shoulder-checks and guns it like Sam’s bleeding out. “Gimme some pie.”
Sam glances down at the mushed up mess he’s made of his. He prefers it like that, crust smashed to crumbs and ice cream melted into the middle. Dean takes one look at it, snorts, and says, “C’mon, I’ll save you some of mine so you can desecrate it.”
When Sam holds out the container, Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m driving here, Sammy,” he says, and opens his mouth, head turned slightly.
Unable to help the grin that curves his lips, Sam scoops up a giant heap of pie and stuffs it into Dean’s mouth, spoon and all, and leaves it there. Dean doesn’t even bitch, just makes contented pie-eating noises around the spoon bobbing up and down between his lips.
He plucks the spoon free, licks it and offers it back. “‘S good pie, even you can’t ruin it.” The spoon waggles in front of Sam’s face. “Little more.”
“You’re gonna eat it all,” Sam says, snatching the spoon back and determinedly eating his own damn pie. He ignores Dean all the way back to the motel, right up until the moment Dean shuts the car off, twists in his seat, and points at his mouth again.
“Jesus,” Sam mutters, but he scoops up a little more, going stingy on the crust just because.
Two weeks after it happened, Sam started noticing things.
He’d verified his own sterility out of some morbid need for confirmation. Being handed the papers by a grim-faced, overworked doctor hadn’t bothered him as much as he thought it should. He’d already given up on that future. Having the actual physical possibility of it taken away only strengthened his resolve for the other.
Dean didn’t bother with doctors. He was more himself than he’d been in months, cracking jokes, hitting bars and dives for a few beers and a few more rounds of pool. Sam didn’t trust it at first, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and still, in spite of himself, he started to relax.
Dean smiled at the girls when they smiled at him and always, always knew exactly where Sam was. It took Sam a little while longer to figure out that he always knew exactly where Dean was, too. He used to vanish every now and then, five minutes or twenty, or more on some nights, but not anymore. He made lewd comments here and there but never stumbled back to the motel room reeking of sex. Eventually, the dirty commentary stopped, too.
They didn’t get in as many fights as they used to. Dean quit pissing the police off over something stupid every chance he got.
A month after the deal, Sam realised they’d passed through four states and Dean hadn’t tried to pimp him out once.
Two months, and he realised he wasn’t chafing under Dean’s constant attention. The weight of it settled on his shoulders like an old familiar shirt, warm and comforting and just a little bit taken for granted.
Three, and realised he had a horrible burning desire to know exactly how Dean had changed. Some things were obvious, others, not so much. Dean was always careful, never stripping in the same room as Sam unless it was absolutely necessary, always closing the bathroom door tight where once he’d pissed with it wide open and grinned in the face of Sam’s glares.
One night, back in small town Texas in a motel Sam was sure he’d stayed in at least three times before, when Dean wouldn’t quit tossing and turning in the other bed, Sam asked.
Dean said, “What?”
“Do you?” Sam pressed, rolling onto his side to face Dean in the streetlamp twilight.
Dean was quiet for a long time, long enough that Sam knew Dean was hoping Sam would drop off. Curiosity kept Sam awake; six years ago, he hadn’t known crap about Dean. Not really. He spent the last two getting to know every nuance of his brother, and when he’d finally gotten close enough to feel justified that he knew Dean as well as Dean knew him, the red-eyed demon had yanked the rug right out from under his feet.
“Christ, Sammy, do you really wanna know?”
Silence again. A slow, shallow breath, and Dean said, “No.”
“Can you?” Sam asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
In the darkness, Dean shook his head. “Tried a couple times,” he said, and Sam knew it was more than just a couple, he’d heard it, heard it all and wondered if he deserved to be shot for being relieved that the damage hadn’t gone further. “But whatever.”
“Whatever,” Dean said again, trying to make it not matter. Trying to make the alternative worse.
Selfishly, Sam thought it was.
They kill the wolf on the eighteenth of September, almost exactly two years and five months since Sam died.
That’s five months since the deal, and two months since Dean became more to Sam than he ever should’ve.
Sam can’t stop thinking about it. He’s not even sure he really wants to.
The concept of privacy has always been relative between them. Dean calls it Sam’s ‘sharing and caring’ moods, Sam calls it flat out nosy. He’s nosy. He wants to know what Dean’s feeling nearly every moment of every day. He wants to know how Dean survives like this.
Mostly, Sam wants to know what Dean would feel if he ever let anyone touch him again, and Sam wants to be the one to do it. That revelation snuck up when he wasn’t looking and turned his world inside out yet again.
When he thinks about it, he imagines it happened by accident. Constantly being around only Dean, being the absolute centre of Dean’s attention, was bound to mess with Sam’s head. In all the times Sam’s ever fallen for someone, or even thought he had, it’d been like this, nothing but him and them and not enough time in the universe.
Sam doesn’t want to really examine what it means when he discovers he only has one serious issue with this: Sam’s never made the first move. Ever. And even if Dean has the inclination, he doesn’t have the drive any longer thanks to Sam’s greed. Some days, Sam’s just fine with that.
Other days, he’s so fucking sorry he wants to die.
“You gotta be more careful,” Dean says, slicing through yet another one of Sam’s shirts to reach the raw scrapes beneath. “Are we sure it’s just the one wolf? These things don’t mate or anything?” He dabs a swab gently over the wound, ruining his attempts to keep from hurting when he pulls them open by the edges to make certain nothing is lodged in Sam’s flesh. “Maybe I should go back out.”
Sam’s grip tightens on the chair he’s straddling, but all he says is, “I’m sure.”
Dean grunts and checks Sam over for any other injuries. There was a time, over a decade ago, that Sam would bitch but suffer through Dean’s over-protectiveness. Now, he jerks away, not at all willing to face the ache from having Dean’s bare hands on him.
“You should shower first,” Sam says. “I might just crash.”
Shrugging, Dean says, “Sure,” and disappears into the tiny bathroom with a clean change of clothes.
As soon as the lock snicks, Sam strips down to his underwear and crawls into bed, tugging the sheet up to his waist. He closes his eyes and breathes deep and doesn’t stop wondering if Dean is in there trying to jerk off the tension of the hunt like he used to.
Straining to hear the barest sound, Sam startles guiltily when the door swings open ten minutes later.
“Thought you were gonna sleep,” Dean says.
Dean sits on the edge of his own bed and scrubs as his hair with a towel. He’s only wearing jeans, nothing else, and Sam’s gaze catches on his bare toes peeking out from underneath the frayed hem. “Go shower.”
“Later,” Sam says, because if he goes in there now, the air heavy and damp, Dean’s used towel hanging on the back of the door, all he’s going to do is jerk off fast and furious as a horny teenager.
It feels like cheating, like rubbing Dean’s face in the fact that neither of them will be passing on the Winchester genes but at least Sam’s still got all the working parts.
With Dean’s gaze on him so sharp and pointed it feels as if Dean can see right through him, Sam asks, “Did you?”
Dean shakes his head, not really a clear answer, and asks instead, “You eat something?”
Swallowing the irritation he has no right to, Sam says, “Dean.”
If this were any other time, if this were before, Dean would match Sam’s frustration snark by snark and they’d end up in a scrap that’d just be an excuse to let off some steam. But it isn’t, so all Dean does is shrug, palms upturned in his lap, and say, “Haven’t for awhile.”
“Jesus,” Sam breathes.
Dean just shakes his head again, brushes it off with a casual, “It’s nothing,” and Sam doesn’t buy it for a second. Not one. Maybe Dean’s come to grips with it but loss and regret are never nothing.
“Don’t say it, Sam,” Dean says. “I wasn’t sorry then, and I’m not sorry now.”
“But you haven’t-”
“Don’t need to.”
Startled, Dean looks up. His mouth is soft with surprise before it curves into a rueful smile. “Maybe a little, but what’re you gonna do about it.”
It’s not a question and Sam doesn’t have an answer. All he’s got are twisted fantasies, a ton of guilt, and the need to wipe that look off Dean’s face. None of it will do either of them any good.
Sam shocks the hell out of himself when the next words out of his mouth are, “Let me see?”
Dean laughs, too quick and too quiet. “Yeah, sure, Sammy. We’re a little old for ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”
Flicking the thin sheet back, Sam rolls to the edge of the bed and sits, mirroring Dean. He doesn’t have a good reason for this, not even a flimsy excuse. Inside, he’s scraped raw, transparent, and the only thing he can think of to say is please.
The false humour fades from Dean’s face. “Why?”
“Because,” Sam says, swallowing hard when his voice cracks. “Because I did this to you. This is my fault and I’ve got to know.”
“Not gonna change anything.”
“I know,” Sam says. “I know that.”
Sam sees the decision in Dean’s eyes a heartbeat before Dean stands and shucks his pants with about as much ceremony as he ever does. Beneath them, he’s naked, a sparse, thin trail of hair leading from his navel to circle the base of his soft cock.
And that’s it.
“Is there,” Sam begins, stopping to wet his lips nervously and risk a glance up. Dean’s face is an open book, shadows in his eyes and an unfamiliar slant to his mouth. “Did it scar?”
Dean waits long enough that Sam imagines reaching out to find the answer himself. He can’t help the sudden twist and lurch of his stomach, doesn’t know what to do about it, regardless.
“No,” Dean says, voice a careful, steady mask. Then, “What, you want to see that, too?”
Not trusting himself to reply, Sam meets Dean’s gaze head on and lets him make the choice.
Gently, Dean cups his cock and lifts it aside, the shadows too deep and dark for Sam to actually see beyond what isn’t there. But that’s not the point; Sam’s staring at the flesh soft in Dean’s loose grip.
Disappointment is bitter black on the back of Sam’s tongue. He knew it would be like this, he’s known it for weeks, and still he’d hoped. He thinks he should’ve learned by now that his hope is never enough, that it’ll just hurt in the end, but he’s never able to keep it from taking root.
“Before you ask, I can get it up, Sammy, I just can’t get it off.”
“But you’re not-”
“Takes awhile,” Dean says, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Not really worth it without the main event.”
It’s always been Dean’s resigned acceptance that’s pissed Sam off. Following orders without question, self-sacrificing without a second thought. Dean gives up on himself so easily that it drives Sam absolutely insane.
So that’s Sam’s excuse for what he does next. For the way he stands and crowds into Dean’s space, for the hard grip he has on the sharp jut of Dean’s hipbones, for not even thinking to ask if it’s alright before he brings his mouth down on Dean’s.
Dean doesn’t kiss him back or push away, just lets it happen as if he doesn’t have a choice. Sam thinks he might throw up. He jerks back, hands flying up to grab Dean’s arms, and Dean says, “Don’t do that.”
“Why?” Sam snaps. Beneath his fingers, Dean’s flesh goes white, mottled with pressure. “Why not, huh? You give up everything else so easy, why should this be any different?”
Dean’s eyes slip shut, open slowly again when Sam shakes him. In that one moment, Sam would give anything to see that old spark flare in Dean’s gaze.
“Do you even feel anything anymore?” Sam demands, desperate guilt making him bold enough to put his own hand on Dean’s cock, grip it tight and have the breath knocked out of his lungs when it thickens.
“I said, don’t do that,” Dean snarls, the flat of his hands smacking solidly into Sam’s chest, pushing him back a stumbling half-step. “Don’t.”
“Dean,” Sam says. His hand tingles, burns with the memory of Dean’s cock, of warm blood pumping strong under thin, soft skin.
Tiredly, Dean says, “What d’you want, Sam?”
Sam rakes a hand through his hair, knows he should be careful here. He’s not a saint and he’s not strong–he’s proved that time and time again. He’s selfish and greedy and he’s spent a lifetime knowing Dean will always be there.
When he puts his hands back on Dean’s arms, skin soft under his palms, Dean just watches him. He risks a glance at Dean’s face, finds a blank slate there and hurriedly looks away. His heart pounds at his ribs, beats viciously hard in his ears. But he keeps going, moves his hands from wrists to hips, skims upwards until his fingers curl just under Dean’s armpits, thumbs curved along the firm edges of muscle on Dean’s chest.
He drops to his knees before he can rethink it, remembering the thick, cloying smell of Dean’s spilled blood. Pushing it away, he breathes deep, smells nothing but clean, warm skin. He takes Dean’s soft cock into his mouth, all of it, sucking gently at first and then harder, working his tongue desperately at the barest hint of it filling out.
Above him, Dean’s breath hisses, strong fingers clutch at his hair. He opens his mouth wider, pushes his nose into the softness of Dean’s belly, and realises this is good, better than he’d thought, and the noise Dean makes when his teeth press into delicate skin rushes straight to his dick.
He pulls back just to see Dean’s cock hanging thicker, glistening with his spit in the muted overhead light. It softens as he watches, and he isn’t sure if he’s disappointed at that or eager to stuff his mouth full of it again.
“I don’t need your fuckin’ pity, Sam,” Dean’s voice slices into him, cutting deeper than the wolf’s claws.
Sam closes his eyes, wipes the back of a hand across his mouth. “But I want this, I want-” Dean’s sweat coating his tongue, Dean’s hands on him, everything Dean is, all for him. He wants the red-eyed demon’s fucking promise to be true, and if the taste of Dean’s come is going to be the only thing he’s never going to have, that’s good enough for him.
“Does it feel good?” Sam licks at the hollow of Dean’s hip, follows it down until Dean’s cock brushes his cheek. “Tell me it doesn’t and I’ll stop,” he says, and hopes he’s telling the truth.
Dean doesn’t say anything so Sam turns his head, fills his mouth with soft flesh. Automatically, his hand comes up between Dean’s legs while his tongue plays and his fingers touch smooth, hairless skin. He grunts quietly in surprise when Dean’s cock twitches hard between his lips.
Hands on Dean’s hips again, Sam pushes him back to sit on the bed, follows with lips and teeth and tongue and moans shamelessly loud when Dean strains towards him. But he’s not sure if the ragged noises Dean’s making are pleasure or pain, and Dean’s broken, “Sammy, don’t,” stops him cold.
“Oh, god,” Sam groans, scrubbing at his face, his eyes burning, “god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He presses his cheek to Dean’s thigh, apologising again and again for being such a fucking idiot.
“No,” Dean says, and Sam just nods, pulls away to put some distance between them and the sick things he’s done to his brother in the name of love. But Dean says, “No,” again, catches him by the back of the head and pulls him in, presses Sam’s forehead to the crook of his neck.
Sam draws away first, too soon. Dean’s grin doesn’t entirely reach his eyes when he says, “No sense wasting all the effort, right? You just let me,” and he gropes for Sam’s dick through his boxers, gets a hand under the waistband and wrapped tight around it. “Yeah,” he says, as Sam bites back a sharp groan and thrusts into his firm grip.
“Wait.” Sam clutches at Dean’s forearm, feels muscle and tendon flex with the twist of his wrist, and sucks back a sharp breath. “Dean, wait.”
Dean shakes his head, deliberately thumbs Sam’s slit like he’s trying to make Sam’s thoughts fly to pieces. “You need this?” he says, not really asking, like he already knows the answer. “This what you want from me?”
And fuck, it is, it’s exactly what Sam wants; this last little bit of Dean that hardly even exists anymore, that no one else will ever have again, this is what he wants.
Sam hisses, “Yes,” and stumbles to his feet, hooks a thumb in his boxers to shove them down and moans when Dean’s two steps ahead of him.
“Lie down,” Dean says, scooting towards the foot of the bed after kicking his jeans the rest of the way off.
In a daze, Sam leans back against the thin pillows, spreads his legs at Dean’s insistent touch on the inside of his thigh. His heart is in his throat, clogging the way of all the things he thinks he should say, like how Dean doesn’t have to do this for him but please, please would he, and how gorgeous Dean looks crawling between his legs, focused and intent and all for Sam.
The first touch of Dean’s tongue to his dick rocks Sam’s head back; warm, wet heat closing around the tip frees up everything stuck in his throat and it all comes out in a jumbled groan.
Sam tries to keep track of what Dean’s doing, where his hands are, but it’s all a blur of the look in Dean’s eyes, dark and vulnerable, the heaviness of his own breaths and the sounds Dean makes over them when he thrusts too hard. He smoothes his palm over Dean’s hair, draws his knees up and lets them fall wide, touches his fingertips to Dean’s cheek to feel the bulge of his cock through it, the hollow of it when Dean sucks.
He comes hard and fast, the image of Dean’s spit-shiny lips wrapped around his dick burned onto the backs of his eyelids. When he opens his eyes again, rubbing his face against the pillow to move the sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead, it’s to Dean licking the come that had spilled from his mouth from Sam’s belly.
“Fuck, I want to kiss you,” Sam says.
Dean makes a heh noise and leans up, not hesitating but still not fast enough for Sam. Dean’s grin flashes wide and real when Sam grabs him under the arm, hauls him close and nearly covers half his face with one hand, tongue shoved into his mouth without so much as a nod to finesse or style.
It’s one of the best kisses of Sam’s life, wet and maybe a little sloppy, the taste of his come and Dean mixing like a drug on his tongue. Dean leans into it, lets Sam’s hands wander, push and pull at him until they fit so close together there’s not enough space for a spare thought between them.
Sam wraps his arms tight across Dean’s back, ruining Dean’s kiss with a grin right before he rolls them both over, pins Dean beneath him with his weight and a tight grip on both Dean’s wrists.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “This mean you want to go again?”
Lips rasping over the stubble on Dean’s throat, Sam mumbles, “Something like that,” and maps a slow, meandering path from there to the deep curve under Dean’s arm, the taper of his ribs, the shallow dips and hollows of his stomach.
“Sammy,” Dean warns, wrists flexing against Sam’s grip.
Sam doesn’t even have to think about it before he says, “I want you to give me this. If none of it feels good, Dean, I’ll stop, I swear it, but if it does,” and Sam has to pause, lick the taste of Dean’s sweat from his lips and swallow to find his voice again. “If it does, I want you to let me have it.”
Dean’s answer is slow to come, and when it does, it’s an almost slower nod.
This time, Sam pays attention to everything. He doesn’t miss a single hitch of Dean’s breath or the way Dean shifts beneath him, or the harder press of Dean’s cock into his stomach the longer this goes on, the more Sam touches him.
He doesn’t miss the reflexive tension that tightens Dean’s body as his hands stroke up between Dean’s legs, spreading his thighs just like Dean had his.
There’re no shadows to hide anything now. A slow flush creeps down Dean’s chest, stains his skin dark beneath the scatter of freckles. Sam tries for a reassuring smile, knows his upward glance is too short to do much. Dean’s cock isn’t completely full but still thick and heavy in his hand as he lifts it aside, brings his mouth down to suck a kiss into impossibly smooth skin.
Dean jerks like Sam’s bitten him, throat stretched long, corded tight. Curious, Sam uses just the edge of his teeth, drinking down the strained noise Dean muffles by biting his lips.
“Good?” Sam whispers.
“‘S alright,” Dean says, more than a little breathless, running his tongue over the angry red of his bottom lip.
Sam lowers his head again, lays down a line of kisses until his lips touch the hot twitch of Dean’s hole. His eyes squeeze shut as he breathes in the sweet, clean smell just beginning to be overshadowed by the heaviness of Dean’s sweat. He presses one open-mouthed kiss after another to Dean’s skin, his whole mouth tingling when he swallows.
He hadn’t meant to go this far, but it’s too late now. His head’s full of Dean and he knows what he wants. Dean pushes up to watch him as he slides off the bed, pads the few feet away to dig through his pack. He pauses over the half box of condoms stuffed in the bottom, fingers poised on the ripped edge, then deliberately lets his clothes fall back into place.
When he turns back to Dean, the first thing he notices is Dean’s fingers playing lightly along the length of his cock. Still hard, leaking tiny droplets of clear fluid from the tip.
He drops onto the bed beside Dean, says, “I want you on top,” and half-urges, half-manhandles Dean into a lazy, pliant sprawl over him.
Dean already looks a little out of it, and his mouth goes slack on a soundless moan as Sam clutches the backs of his thighs, hauls his legs up and spreads them wide. Sam ends up spilling more lube onto the small of Dean’s back than he actually manages to get on his fingers. He slicks a wet, cool trail between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, fingers rubbing over his hole, circling slow, pushing in slower still.
Mouth pressed to Dean’s shoulder, Sam says, “Move up a little. Wanna feel your dick digging into me,” and Dean lets out an explosive breath, inches up on his elbows and grinds hard against Sam’s belly.
“You like that?”
Sam bites the inside of his cheek, the rough, gravelly sound of Dean’s voice doing almost as much for him as the tight heat closing slowly around his finger. He takes it easy, drives himself crazy waiting for the right moment to add another, to really feel Dean stretch.
“Up,” Sam gasps, shoving his dick down when Dean shifts and feeling it smack against the wet mess spread between Dean’s legs. Fingers still pressed deep, he fucks up into the air, the drag of his cock over Dean’s skin so close to bringing him off.
“Want to fuck you,” Sam breathes, and he should feel guilty for saying it, for even thinking it when he knows it’s not going to be good for Dean. He doesn’t even know for sure if Dean’s ever taken it up the ass, either–suspected, sure, but never outright asked if Dean liked cock as much as he did cunt. But Dean hasn’t made noises about anything like that yet, and if there’s a tiny, shrill voice in Sam’s head screaming at him that of course Dean hasn’t said anything, there’s no way Dean’s going to cry virgin when Sam’s practically browbeat him into this, Sam tells it to shut the fuck up.
Something darkens the glazed look in Dean’s eyes, something that looks too much like a reason why not. Sam braces himself for it, stills his fingers and feels his shoulders automatically hunch against the rejection before Dean says, “As long as you don’t go bitching about how you’re a shitty lay when I don’t get off.”
A startled laugh escapes Sam’s lips. “Okay,” he says, swallowing back another. “No bitching.”
“That’ll be the day,” Dean mutters. Hands braced on Sam’s chest, he pushes himself up, rises to his knees and fumbles for the slick length of Sam’s dick. Sam waits until the last moment to pull his fingers free, feeling the head of his cock press firm against the slippery heat of Dean’s hole. The breath he didn’t realise he was holding squeezes out of him on a low, ragged noise as Dean starts to push.
He clutches at Dean’s hips, moans stupid things like god, oh god and Dean, fuck again and again. Dean sinks down slowly, eyes clenched tight and teeth bared, mouth dropping open when finally all his weight settles onto Sam.
Sam holds as still as he can, trembling with the effort, fingers flexing rhythmically on Dean’s sides.
“I’m not doing all the work here, Sammy,” Dean says.
That’s all it takes for Sam to start thrusting, the first one too hard and fast and sending Dean toppling forward, barely catching himself on one hand right beside Sam’s head. Sam can’t do anything but grin at the wide-eyed look on Dean’s face, can’t think beyond the need to do it again, over and over until Dean’s breaths go short and clipped, become tiny explosions of come-scented air against Sam’s face.
Between them, Dean’s cock is almost fully soft, rubbing leftover sticky-wet trails into Sam’s stomach. Sam rolls his hips, trying to make it better, to hit something inside of Dean that will send a thickening rush of blood to his dick, and when Dean remains soft, Sam slows.
Instantly, Dean’s eyes snap open. “What’re you doing?”
“Not good enough? Jesus, Sammy, told you I couldn’t. You need a moneyshot to get off on, sorry, you’re fucking up the wrong ass,” Dean says, words spilling free almost too quickly for Sam to keep up with. “You don’t like it you can just fuck off.”
“No,” Sam says, packing down all the angry things he wants to spit back at Dean, things he’ll never forgive himself for even if Dean will, “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”
Dean’s expression turns raw, exposed. It hits Sam all at once how fucked up their lives are, both of them cursed, Dean’s soul condemned, the two of them tangled up so tightly with one another that Sam isn’t sure anymore where he ends and Dean begins.
He’s smack in the middle of fucking his brother when it finally slaps him in the face that Dean doesn’t care about getting off anymore, as long as Sam does.
Sam wraps an arm tight around Dean’s back to get him close and get a handful of his ass to hold him there, Sam’s hips lifting up off the ratty covers to fuck him harder, deeper, drive every breath-stealing noise he can straight up out of the pit of Dean’s stomach. Dean huddles close and takes it, moans dirty, broken words into Sam’s ear but all Sam really hears though the mess of it is that Dean is his.
Hand to Dean’s shoulder, Sam pushes gently and says, “Up, fuck, Dean, stretch out, I wanna see you,” and between one breath and the next, Dean heaves himself up, bends back with one hand braced on Sam’s thigh and the fingers of the other tangled with Sam’s.
Sam drags his gaze down to Dean’s dick, lets himself stare as it smacks against his skin while Dean rides him. There should be the heavy weight of Dean’s balls rubbing against him too but there isn’t. There never will be because Sam’s taken that like he’s taken everything else, Dean’s life and Dean’s future and Dean’s love, and not once has Dean ever been unwilling.
Orgasm hits Sam like one of Dean’s sucker punches, quick and dirty and out of nowhere. He feels Dean tighten up around him, grind down and hiss filthy encouragement, saying how he wants to feel it, wants Sam to shoot him full of it so there’s a real mess inside him.
Moments later, Sam’s barely with it enough to realise that Dean’s still fucking himself desperately on Sam’s softening cock, making this low whine deep in his throat between pleading with Sam not to stop.
It’s no good though, Sam’s done, wrung out and exhausted no matter how hot Dean looks like that. He pulls Dean forward, replaces his spent cock with the thick knot of his fingers and tells Dean to keep going, fuck himself like this.
Dean catches his bottom lip between his teeth and nods, blunt nails digging into the centre of Sam’s chest as he jerks at his dick, twists and writhes until Sam’s arm aches and his fingers cramp.
When Dean comes, shuddering and moaning and spilling a tiny bit of clear, glistening fluid over Sam’s skin, Sam’s whole body echoes with it, rippling pleasure coursing straight down his spine to force one last answering smear of come from his slit.
Dean collapses in a sweaty, panting heap on top of him, still shaking. Sam strokes long, soothing lines down his back and presses sore, bitten lips to his temple. They stay like that for only a few minutes, but to Sam, it seems like forever while he tries to think of something to say.
Dean partially solves the problem by blowing out a gusty, “Whew.”
“Yeah?” Sam shifts, settling Dean more securely against him, enjoying the soft, slippery press of Dean’s cock to his hip. “So much for couldn’t.”
Dean chuckles, the sound slurred and more than a bit sleepy. “Sounding a little smug there, Sammy.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I think I’m gonna.”
Warily, Dean lifts his head. “Sam, seriously-”
“C’mon, it’s not the middle ages, Dean,” Sam says. “You’re not the only guy out there without any balls,” and after he says it, he winces but ploughs on, wondering why the filter between his brain and his mouth works so well around everyone except Dean, “we’ll figure something out.”
Dean gives him one long, quiet look. Sam can’t fool himself into thinking it’s hope shadowed in Dean’s eyes. It’s too dark and jaded for that. Dean’s own brand of faith, maybe, the kind that has nothing to do with God and angels and happy endings, and too much to do with Sam.
Saying nothing at all, Dean settles down while Sam’s still muddling his way through possibilities, making and discarding endless lists of what to do and say and where to look for the answers they need next.
He doesn’t notice time passing until Dean huffs softly and kicks at the blankets. Sam tucks his chin down so his mouth touches the spiky points of Dean’s damp hair, feeling a little stupid for the surge of warmth in his chest when Dean relaxes into a deeper sleep.
Sam tries not to think about how he could lose this, how he shouldn’t have ever had it in the first place. He wants his brother back, all Dean used to be, but all Dean is now, too. He knows that’s the easiest way to lose everything but he wants it just the same.
He’s got one more chance to save Dean. He’s not going to fuck it up the second time around.