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The car is parked at the top of a hill just beyond the cemetery gates, a gleaming shadow in the chill, matte-black dark. Sam stumbles under Dean's weight on the way up, their feet tangling together. They almost go down, but Dean wedges a shovel in the ground like a piton and drags himself up, giving Sam time to get his balance back. He hauls Dean's arm tighter across his shoulders and half walks, half carries him the rest of the way to the car.
He props Dean up against the passenger side, and the grip of the shovel clangs off the paint job on its way to the ground. Sam flinches; Dean doesn't, which says everything Sam needs to know about Dean's energy reserves. He holds Dean in place with one hand to keep him from going the way of the shovel, braces himself against the hood of the car, and lets his head drop down toward his chest, taking just a second to gather himself. His breath fans out in a grey fog around his face, then vanishes in the crisp night air.
"Just leave me here," Dean says. His voice is raw with exhaustion. "Any open grave will do."
Sam's too tired to laugh, but he gives Dean's shoulder a pat before he goes back to hanging on. At this point he's not really sure who's supporting who. "Five of them," Sam mutters, his arms aching with five plots' worth of grave dirt. He's got ash in his hair and bone dust in his teeth. "We're too old for this."
"That's crazy talk," Dean wheezes. He closes his eyes and drops his head back; his throat is a long silvered line under nothing but starlight, shifting as he speaks. "Give me a minute, I can do another five."
Sam laughs weakly and gives in, lets himself slump against the car next to Dean. He wants his bed -- not just a motel bed, not a creaky antique at Bobby's -- his bed, with an extra-long mattress and clean white sheets, a blanket that doesn't reek of Tide and motor oil. It doesn't exist in the world, but God, he wants it. He takes a deep breath, smells smoke on the wind from the fires they lit, smells his own sweat and Dean's under the oily residue of kerosene. The muscles in his legs shake and spasm, and his fingers clench and relax, over and over. He's worn down, sleep-starved. And he's wired, adrenaline sparking through him like sheet lightning.
Beside him, Dean's a rumpled mess, sodden with exhaustion. His closed eyes are hollowed and dark, his forehead and cheeks gleaming with a chilled sweat. He's so open like this, the sudden shift from danger to safety knocking his defenses down like dominoes. A coil of heat winds through Sam, and it's exactly the wrong time, so very much the wrong place, but it's not like he'd ever want that bed if he had to sleep in it alone.
He shifts, turns his body against the cold glass and steel of the car, angles himself closer to his brother. He slides his hands under Dean's jacket, and Dean sighs out a long white breath. "Hands like ice, dude," he says, but he doesn't pull away; Dean never, ever pulls away. Sam bites his lip, and slips his hands further in, burrowing under flannel and cotton until he's got warm, smooth skin under his fingers. The unhappy grunt Dean makes in the back of his throat hits Sam like a hand on his dick, and that seals it; Sam has to have him.
"Dean." Sam's voice is a low whisper, barely louder than the rush of the wind above them through the last of the autumn leaves.
"I'm too tired, Sam." Dean fumbles at Sam's hands, holds them still against his body. "C'mon, dude, let's just go back to the room." The words slur and stutter, held together by the thread of a whine.
"No, you're not." Sam shifts, brings his body against Dean's, and presses a smile into the curve of Dean's shoulder. "You're not too tired, you're just right, just like this." His hands slide up, light, barely there, until his thumbs find the hard nubs of Dean's nipples and dig in, a rough, deep slide.
"Sam, don't..." Dean shudders, his head falling back, and a low moan rises in his throat. "I can barely move, let's sleep first, okay?"
"Just stay still," Sam says softly. "I've got you." He arches against Dean's body; he's throbbing in his jeans already, hard and hot. "Let me touch you."
"Bastard," Dean says, and finally, finally his hands come up and curl around the back of Sam's neck, ice-cold. Sam groans, pushes his dick against Dean's, a long, sweet stroke even through their jeans. He opens his mouth against Dean's throat and sucks, salt and smoke under his tongue.
"So warm," he mutters into Dean's skin, jerking his hips against Dean's again. He presses his thumbs against the corners of Dean's mouth and says, "Open up, Dean, come on."
Dean lets Sam into him like it's nothing, trust so deep and unthinking it takes Sam's breath away. He gives it up like he gives Sam everything. Sam's never been able to touch anyone else like this, so easy; with Dean he can reach in and take, anything he wants, any time. He can have Dean anywhere, because Dean's his, always, the one good thing life gave him while it was taking everything else away.
Dean's tongue against his is slick and soft, wet, warm, and Sam sucks at it with a kind of greed that scares him, shaking with how bad he wants, how much he needs. He moves against Dean again, rough, hard, and it's both better and worse when Dean tears his mouth away to let out a long, hoarse groan. It's loud, and Sam's name is in it somewhere under the grit and want, hot as the fires still burning back among the gravestones.
"Love that," Sam says into the curve of Dean's ear before he bites, and Dean's dick jerks against him, hard and hot. "Say my name again."
"Sam." Dean's hands slide down Sam's back, settle on the curve of his ass, fingers splayed wide; he yanks Sam up against him, bites at his lip and lets out a sweet, angry whine. "Sam, fuck, come on--"
It's past what Sam can take. His fingers are clumsy, shaking as he reaches between them; Dean's legs fall open as he shifts his feet, bracing himself against Sam and the car. Sam thumbs open the button of Dean's jeans and draws down the zipper, shoves fabric down and away until he can get right in there. He closes his fingers around the shaft of Dean's dick and they've got to be too cold, but Dean doesn't even flinch. He pushes into Sam's hand, still a little soft, but he's working for it; he's trying so damn hard. A thrill of pride rises up in Sam's chest and heats his face, steals his breath. Dean's trying so hard for him.
Sam cups his hand around him, gets his thumb into its favorite spot. He curves his body around Dean like a wall, keeping the cold wind off, locking in the rising heat between them. He squeezes and strokes till Dean's body catches up with them, till his hips start moving, fucking hot and sweet into Sam's hand.
"Jesus," Sam hisses, "Yeah, just like that." Dean's breath is a hot stutter against his throat, his fingers pressing into Sam's ass hard enough to bruise. Sam wants everything -- wants to turn Dean over and fuck him; wants Dean inside him as far as he can go. He wants Dean's mouth and he wants his tongue on Dean, and it's that last thing that takes hold in him, makes his dick ache and his mouth water.
"Want my mouth?" Sam presses a sucking kiss under the curve of Dean's jaw and doesn't wait; he knows what the answer is, what the answer always is. He slides down his brother's body, hooks his fingers in the belt loops of Dean's jeans and drags them down; Dean lets out an annoyed hiss as his bare skin backs up against cold steel, but it dissolves into a moan when Sam opens up and slides Dean's dick deep into his mouth.
He loves this; has always loved this. The hard slide of Dean's dick across his tongue, the bitter slickness at the head and the hard heat along the shaft. He's the only one who can take Dean apart like this, piece by piece, down to the desperate core of him; the only one who gets to see this, the only one Dean lets in. He can do anything here, touch Dean any way he wants, take anything; but all he wants is to give every bit of this back, let Dean have every piece of him there is.
Sam pulls back, gets his hand around Dean's balls and cups them in his palm, tight and hot and fragile. He makes it messy -- licks at Dean with the flat of his tongue, gets him wet. Gets his lips slick and sloppy, and sucks Dean in again. He can take it all, so he does, and Dean's hips jerk forward hard enough to make Sam gag.
"Fuck, Sam, yeah," Dean says above him, "suck me, come on," and it's not like Sam's been waiting for an invitation, but he knows what Dean wants; he opens up, gets his hands around Dean's hips and yanks him in. He rocks Dean against him, push and pull, until Dean stops even trying to be nice and lets go. He shoves his dick in good, hard, just the way Sam wants it. Dean's voice curls around him, nonsense words, grunts, reckless things he'd never say anywhere else, any other time; Dean's hands cradle his head in a grip like iron, holding him still and safe.
Sam's eyes water, his mouth drips with spit. Dean's unraveling under him, around him, every breath a sob, and Sam wraps one arm around Dean's ass to keep them stable while he reaches down and rips at his own jeans, frantic to get his hand inside. He's already wet and slick in there, and he squeezes the head of his dick, slides his fingers down and jerks himself, fucking his own hand while Dean fucks into his mouth.
"Sam," Dean grinds out above him, "Sam, oh, Christ," and he buries himself deep in Sam's mouth one more time, holds Sam close to his body and goes still, so deadly still. Sam waits, waits, because he knows this so well, knows Dean so well; waits, and then groans around his brother's dick, sucks and slides off and sucks him down again. Dean gives it up with a ragged, helpless shout and pulses into Sam, his dick spasming and twitching in Sam's mouth, and Sam lets him come, eases Dean through it with a soft tongue until it's too much.
Dean's hands flex in Sam's hair, a gentle scratch across his scalp. Sam pulls off, wipes some of the wetness off his mouth, and looks up. Dean's watches him, just a silhouette against the car and the stars, but Sam can feel the weight of his gaze and it's like a direct line to his dick, like being touched in the open air.
The ground is hard under his knees, and he uses Dean as a brace to pull himself to his feet. He's too big to settle in like he wants, but he tucks himself against his brother as best he can. He's raw and tired, every nerve exposed, every muscle trembling.
"God, Sam, you're about to come apart." Dean leans in, ducks his head under Sam's jaw and runs his tongue along Sam's skin. Sam shudders, and tilts his head back for more; Dean gives it to him, a rough bite at the side of his neck, a sucking kiss at the hollow of his throat. "Come on," Dean whispers, rubbing his mouth against the curve of Sam's jaw. "Your turn now."
"Please," Sam groans, "Dean," and Dean doesn't need anything more than that; he reaches into Sam's pants and wraps rough, callused fingers around his dick, so familiar, so smart about every kind of touch Sam needs. He goes slow; he pulls back to look into Sam's eyes, holds the back of Sam's head in one hand while he eases Sam out of his mind with the other.
"So fucking beautiful," Dean says, and his fingers are never still, "so close, aren't you, look at you." He tugs at Sam fast and sure now, with the same hand that stitches Sam up when he bleeds, that can handle a gun or a car or his brother better than anybody Sam's ever known. Dean understands Sam, knows his every twitch and gasp, knows how and when to touch and twist and give. It's that bone-deep knowledge in his eyes as much as the hot, slick glide of his hand that pushes Sam up and over the edge, makes him fall against Dean and lose his rhythm, lose his control, lose his strength.
"That's right, Sammy, almost there," Dean whispers, low and cocky, so sure of him. Sam's already dying with it: the hot buzz of pleasure under his skin, the rasp of Dean's fingers suddenly too much and not enough. He ruts into Dean's fist, gasping, choking on Dean's name, and when he comes it's like a shock running through him, over and over, spilling in a wet, hot mess over Dean's hand. Dean takes him through to the end, eases him down, muttering things under his breath that Sam's not supposed to hear. Sam lets himself rest against Dean as he comes out of it, hollowed out and broken down and shaking.
After a long, quiet while, Sam shifts, lets Dean have a little air of his own to breathe. He gets his clothes back in order, armor against the chill air, then takes care of Dean, tucking him in with a last, soft squeeze before buttoning him up again. He puts his back against the car, near enough to feel Dean warm against his side, and closes his eyes. Sam's more tired than he was before, and more awake, and better off; so close to Dean in every way that counts, it's like he's wearing Dean under his skin.
"Well," Dean says, "thanks. Now nobody in this cemetery has any bones. I hope you're happy, Sam." He yawns, and nudges his shoulder up against Sam's -- no real reason, just to show he's there.
Sam grins into the dark. "Oh, I am."
"I hope you know you're carrying my ass from the car to the room. My legs weren't working right even before you wrecked me."
"Five fucking ghosts," Sam says, shaking his head. A bucket of salt, a river of kerosene, more rock salt shells than Sam even knew they had. Dean was a monster in there, twenty places at once, keeping them off Sam's back while he shoveled and salted and burned. "You earned it. I'll carry you right across the threshold if that's what you want."
Dean straightens up -- wobbling a little around the knees -- and looks up at Sam. "It's not even a start on what I want," he says in a voice that makes Sam shiver; makes him want everything he just had all over again, right here and now. Dean grins, because he knows exactly what he just did; he always knows. Then he gives Sam a shove toward the driver's side of the car.
Sam holds his ground. "You could tell me," he says -- quiet, serious. "Tell me everything you want. Anything." He doesn't think there's any part of him Dean doesn't already own, but if there is he'll dig it out and hand it over. Dean can have it all.
Dean shakes his head, eyes shining in the bare light from the stars overhead. He raises his fingers to stroke across Sam's cheek, his mouth; they dip inside and come out wet, slick across Sam's lips. "Sam," he says, wonder and want twisted together in his voice; and that's his answer.
"Yeah," Sam says, "okay, yeah. Good." He drops his head back and laughs. "That's good, Dean. That I can do."
~
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