Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~2200 words. Wishful thinking for a missing scene in 4.04.
When Sam hesitates, he says, “Again,” because he’s going to fucking well make this body remember what it means to be Sam’s brother.
By the time Sam’s finished the call with Travis, Dean has himself under control again. Demons, angels, everything’s just so fucked he doesn’t know what to do anymore.
“What is it?” Dean asks, voice thankfully steady.
“Don’t know, could be a hunt.” Sam blows out a breath. His eyes are shiny when they lift. “Dean.”
That look is Dean’s fault. Guilt skulks in, twists in slimy coils around the righteous anger that’d propelled Dean into that warehouse and straight up in Sam’s face. He tries to tell himself it’s not his fucking fault, Sam’s the one playing with hellfire, but it rings hollow.
Castiel’s warning is poison in his blood. It’s up to him to stop his brother now, but he’d really like to fucking know where the angels were when Dean whored out his soul. Where was God’s army when John bought his one-way ticket, when Mary sold her unborn son to a yellow-eyed son of a bitch.
All Dean knows for certain is that Sam’s done what he has because of his family’s choices.
Dean sucks in a sharp breath. He pulls the angry knot of his shirts from his duffel and starts rerolling them. “Where?”
“What is it?”
Up to now, Sam’s kept his distance. Wary of another fist to the face though he didn’t do a thing to stop the first two. “I don’t know. Look, Dean, we can’t-”
“Yes, we can, Sam, and we’re gonna.” When Dean looks up, his gaze catches on the angry red split on Sam’s lip. “I’ve said my piece.”
The first spark of real rebellion flares in Sam’s eyes, quickly extinguished. His face is wide open, vulnerable in a way that makes Dean’s guts churn. He just wants Dean to understand but doesn’t get that understanding isn’t the problem. Dean knows exactly where Sam’s coming from and it’s no place he’s got any business going.
“I’ve done this twice now,” Sam says, too softly. “And d’you-” Sam’s voice wavers, edge of breaking, “-d’you know the worst part?”
Furiously, Dean flings whatever’s in his hand onto the bed. “No, Sam. I don’t. Why don’t you tell me, huh?”
“You never remember any of it.”
The detached way Sam says that hauls Dean up so short he almost chokes. He remembers Sam’s frantic desperation back in a Broward County diner, the Trickster’s smarmy grin, the cautious, horrible hope that grew in Sam’s eyes just a few weeks ago in that skanky motel.
“You don’t think I’ve been where you are?” Dean snarls, up in Sam’s face again all of a sudden with a white-knuckled fist at his side. “That I honestly don’t get it?”
Sam says, “You think what’s good enough for you isn’t for me,” in a voice that’s nothing but quiet, utter certainty.
Dean hears what Sam’s saying, it rails against him like sleet, but he doesn’t let it in. “Then that’s my issue, isn’t it? Just back the fuck off, Sam.”
Still so calmly, fucking eerily disconnected that it makes Dean’s skin crawl, Sam says, “No.”
This is not Dean’s Sam. Sam is vibrant, fervent, emotion spilling out all over the place for those around him to slip up and drown in. Stubborn fury or coaxing tenderness, every flavour of feeling between. Somewhere there’s a switch that’s been flipped and what’s staring out at him from Sam’s eyes now is the thing that’s left when it hurts too much to feel anymore.
The guilt gnawing on his insides grins toothily.
“I don’t want to do this now, Sam.”
“That’s just too bad,” Sam says.
Dean’s heard those exact same words from him before with enough layers of sarcasm to dig a tunnel through. This time they fall flat. Face value only, what you hear is what you get and that’s just too bad.
Sam advances, Dean holds his ground. He can feel the heat of Sam’s skin like he hasn’t for days and days and days. In his memory it’s only been a handful of weeks since the last time, but the ache in his body knows the difference. His skin prickles in anticipation of that first touch while his stomach is torn apart with the strength of twin hopes that it does and doesn’t come.
Sam’s breath is soft, warm on his cheek. Their lips come close to touching; it would be so, so easy to cross that small distance.
“Did your angel warn you against this, too?” Sam asks.
Dean jerks back, the words a cruel slap in the face. “No,” he snaps, because Castiel hasn’t had the time to rub Dean’s face in all his sins yet.
Beneath the tips of Sam’s fingers, Dean’s stomach trembles. They slide under his thin cotton tee, drag along the worn waistband of his jeans, push up, press in a little, just enough for Dean to really feel. His heart is trying to bash its way out through his ribs.
“We haven’t, since you got back,” Sam mumbles. His touch lingers above the sharp cut of Dean’s hip, where the thick scar that a terrified ghost-child gave him used to be. “And I don’t know if it’s because, if when they put you back together, they figured there were some things you wouldn’t miss.”
“Still me, Sammy.”
Sam’s hand skates up his side, bringing his breath in a quick huff. “Wiped clean.”
This isn’t what should be happening, Dean knows that. He can feel the shadow looming just beyond the edge of his vision, warning him that he’s here to pull Sam up, not be dragged down. But Sam’s hands are on his skin, Sam’s voice is in his ear, and there was never anything in the world he believed in more than he believes in how right that feels.
“It’s like,” Sam says, thumb sweeping over where Dean’s skin was once pocked by rocksalt at near point-blank range, “none of it ever happened. Any of it.”
Dean grabs the side of Sam’s face, jerks his head up. There’s only so much he can take and Sam can keep going until both their guts are spilled in bloody heaps on the floor.
“That’s crap,” he says. “That’s a big stinking load of bullshit and you know it, Sam. Nobody’s ever gonna be able to make me what I’m not, freakin’ ten-foot wings or not.”
And then, because it shouldn’t need to be said but it is, “Same goes for you.”
When Dean’s back hits the low dresser, he can honestly say he didn’t see it coming. Sam’s as inexorable and changeable as the fucking ocean on his better days.
Sam goes down on one knee with his hands tangling in Dean’s belt. It’s reflex for Dean to try to shove him off; Sam’s got that look on his face like this is the only way he’s got left to apologise.
“Don’t,” Sam snaps, hitting Dean’s hands away, his own slapped hard to Dean’s hips to shove back. “I need this, Dean, I want to see you.”
“No, Sam,” Dean says, harsh and raw.
Sam’s face crumples with unexpected hurt, so much like the night a knife jabbed through his spine, except this time Dean’s the one with stained hands. His eyes first go sad then blank. One word and Dean’s stomped out whatever he’s been using to keep moving forward.
Slowly, Sam stands, dead eyes downcast. He steps back, the distance between them screaming rudely with all the things they’re not saying.
Dean catches him by two desperate handfuls of his shirt before he shuts down completely, just up and walks out all over again. There’s a lot that Dean needs to say, so much his back is bowing under the strain. All he can do right now is sink down to fill the space left behind, balanced on the balls of his feet and back to the dresser, knees spread wide to let Sam in.
He doesn’t care that he’s proving Sam right, that it’s okay for him to use his body like this but won’t let Sam do the same.
Like he said, it’s his fucking issue.
One of Sam’s hands comes round to palm the back of Dean’s skull as he yanks Sam’s jeans open, get his hands all over Sam’s thick cock. His stomach clenches on a hard knot of want. A pure clear feeling that doesn’t have any of the strings that fuck up the rest of their lives attached.
It should be hard to believe something so wrong in the eyes of the world could be so simple, but Dean’s had a long time to reconcile the difference between moral and right.
Sense memory wells up slowly, like blood from a pinprick, at the smell of Sam’s skin. The heft of him in Dean’s hand brings up memories of how Sam tastes warm and throbbing on his tongue, how it feels to have Sam’s body spread out over his, holding him down and pushing up inside him. The ache grows sharper, jagged-edged. He wants Sam’s marks on him again. Visible proof of how deep his brother’s rooted in him, clear to the marrow in his bones.
“Hard,” he hears himself say, fisting Sam’s dick to watch precome spread glistening over their skin. “Sammy, good and hard, y’hear me?”
Jerkily, Sam nods. His other hand comes up to brace against the edge of the dresser.
Dean runs his tongue over the head first, because he wants that sweet, sweat-salty taste coating the inside of his mouth as much as he wants the rough push of Sam’s dick down his throat.
Sam’s wound so tightly the threat of bones cracking under the strain seems real. He lets Dean lick for a moment and then he’s pulling Dean onto his cock, the strict hand on Dean’s head holding him down.
Each breath Dean takes comes reluctantly, unlike the tears that well up in his eyes. His lungs begin to burn and his throat to ache; it feels as if he hasn’t done this before at all, but he knows he wants it even if his body doesn’t. He fights off the urge to choke until Sam hauls him crudely free, thick string of his spit clinging wetly between his lips and Sam’s cock.
“Again,” Dean rasps. When Sam hesitates, he says, “Again,” because he’s going to fucking well make this body remember what it means to be Sam’s brother.
His fingers curl claw-like in the open fly of Sam’s jeans as first his mouth then his throat are filled. He tries to swallow and can’t without gagging, a quick stab of panic welling up in his chest when Sam draws back.
Back, but not away. Sam lets him breathe freely for a heartbeat before pushing in again, fucking his mouth with sharp, shallow thrusts. Inside his jeans, his own cock’s aching, sticky damp cotton clinging to his skin. The catch and drag of his underwear against the head stir up the moans caught in his throat, ones that get cut off abruptly by the deep plunge of Sam’s cock.
Dean rocks back against the dresser, would’ve fallen flat on his ass except Sam’s got him pinned. His ribs feel like they’re about to snap, too much pressure building up in his chest for them to take, and all he can really do is tighten his grip on Sam’s clothes hoping this is enough to say he’s sorry.
He slumps back when Sam releases him, sucking down air that sears his throat. Hellfire. Oblivion. Redemption. Their eyes meet, Sam’s wild and wide, and Dean feels the corner of his mouth quirk.
“Gonna feed it to me one more time?” he asks.
Sam’s cock bumps his lips and Dean opens wide, more than willing to let Sam trace them wet with spit and precome as much as he wants as long as there’s something other than that nothing in Sam’s gaze. He never wants to see that again, will do anything to stop it. He’s already sold his soul once though and he’s not sure there’s more that he can do. If he had to, he’d find it.
Wordlessly, Sam fucks into Dean’s mouth again. His breathing is loud, ragged, broken up by scrappy bits of moans that manage to slip free. Once he’s committed, Dean’s never known his brother to hold back like this, and then Dean knows why.
All the noise Dean’s been afraid to let loose rise up, flow freely to fill the gaping wounds between them. Between one breath and another, Sam hisses something like praise and Dean comes, spilling hot and thick inside his clothes.
Both of Sam’s hands tighten on his head the moment before he goes slack, pliant and accepting of Sam’s harder, faster thrusts. His lips are close to numb, his throat fucked so raw the spill of Sam’s come brings a hurt whine he can’t hold back. His fingers are cramped so tightly it would take more effort to let Sam go, so he holds on, keeps his mouth stretched wide.
“Dean,” Sam says, “Dean, breathe.”
Sluggishly, Dean lets Sam’s cock slip free, leaning forward to press his face to the sweaty hollow just above Sam’s thigh. Deep breaths hurt but he drags them down regardless, filling his lungs with the warm smell of his brother.
“God might’ve pulled me out,” Dean says, only a little stronger than a sandpaper-scored whisper. “And I know it’s all fucked up, Sammy, but. All that means is he gave me back to you.”
“Breathe,” Sam tells him.