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Sam's back hits the mattress hard, teeth clicking together, but luckily he doesn't bite his tongue.
Boots and socks are the first to come out.
He doesn't react. Cannot. Neither wants to.
A knife and it starts ripping his clothes, jeans first. The blade touches his skin in some places, which remains intact, however.
Familiar green eyes show hunger, anger, and something dark. Something that is directed at monsters when they are hunting. But Sam is the only monster here, the freak that Dean should've killed many years ago.
And maybe his passivity has something to do with the need for purification that never left his thoughts.
The Cage was not enough.
A feeling of impurity has always been there, inside him, in his soul. He's a failure in a family of hunters and heroes. He's a hunter, but not a hero, and perhaps the righteous man can purify him once and for all.
Dean's blade cuts through his shirt and then his undershirt, precise, destroying the false security his clothes bring to him. Hands throw the useless pieces on the floor, and his underwear is the only thing preventing his nakedness.
He can hear his own heartbeat under the scrutiny of hungry eyes.
"Less muscle. I think I like that."
The first touch on his groin is gentle, just massaging, stimulating, and his body starts to react. It's inevitable. But then Sam remembers he wants it. And this is better than the contempt and anger that became the rule after Dean's return from Purgatory.
"How long?"
The question surprises him. Why does Dean want to know this?
Two broken souls that were trying to survive. Sam was dead inside anyway.
Clenching his fists, he tries to answer, "I-"
Fingers squeeze his balls, but the pain is welcome too. Anything that makes him feel alive again.
"It doesn't matter, Sam. No longer."
The pressure is gone.
That voice has always done things for him, but the barely contained rage he hears now has never been this bad.
Dean's knife cuts again, and this time the blade touches with purpose, navel, waist, groin, and finally, the erect cock against his belly.
"It would be so easy."
Sam prepares himself for pain.
He watches the knife move towards his balls. Sensitive skin wrinkles with the unwanted touch and tension makes his skin sweat.
"But then I would have to bring you back again."
Dean seems to give up on the idea and pull the knife away. So, he pushes Sam's right leg up, planting the sole of his foot on the bed. A touch of the knife handle on his inner thigh is enough for him to know he's to do the same with his left leg. And he's never felt so exposed before, not even at those times Dean wanted to tie him to a bed.
He holds his breath for a moment when feels the tip of the knife on his perineum, so gentle, barely there at all.
Noticing a stain on the ceiling, Sam fixes his gaze on the small imperfection. Like him.
"So perfect, Sammy."
The paradox of the century.
Cold fingers touch his skin and pull an asscheek apart, leaving him even more open. Dean's blade goes down, and clenching is an automatic reaction.
"Shh, I suggest that you relax as much as you can," Dean instructs, sounding calm and controlled.
But talking is much easier than doing when there's the tip of a fucking knife against his hole.
The stain on the ceiling has uneven edges, Sam notices. The knife does not observe any regularity, following the wishes of its owner.
Not knowing what his brother wants is perhaps the most unnerving part. The Dean who returned from Purgatory is not the same man who disappeared in that damn lab as if by magic. There are sharp edges, violence, and pleasure in killing that weren't in him before. Not on a scary frequency, anyway.
The contact stops, and his skin doesn't seem to fit him anymore. Something hard is against his lips then. Sam opens his eyes—which closed at some point without him even noticing—to find the knife handle asking for entrance and Dean looking at him.
"You better get this wet."
Sam does, knowing what comes next. But his traitor cock twitches against his belly in perspective anyway.
"Good boy."
A few more inches inside him and Sam sucks, the odd shape fucking his mouth.
"It reminds me of how much I like to see you choking on my dick, Sam."
With what he sees on his brother's face, choking on Dean's dick is the only thing that would happen during a blow job right now.
"Another day, though, because my plans for today are more interesting."
Interesting wouldn't be the right word for the events of the night.
It doesn't take long for Dean to look satisfied and return to his previous position between Sam's legs.
The finger, although familiar, is unexpected.
"Did anyone touch you here?"
The gentleness on the sensitive skin is so different from the anger he hears in Dean's voice.
Sam covers his eyes with a forearm while enjoying the pleasure that Dean's touch still causes in his body. Small circles that caress but don't penetrate him.
He means to say yes to the question, wants to tell Dean about the times when he held a delicate wrist and pressed too thin fingers where only Dean had been before just to be able to remember what he'd missed. Nights that ended up with him drunk and crying for something he would never have again.
"No, Dean." The lie comes out easy and convincing to his own ears.
"I don't know what I'd do if I found out that someone touched what they shouldn't have."
Promises of pain are what Sam hears. And he sighs relieved that he hasn't put her in danger.
Sam groans his frustration when the finger disappears, and Dean's laugh gets him out of his hiding place. And how Sam missed that mischievous look, even when it meant pranks, most of the time, in the past that seems so distant.
"Still the same little slut as always, don't you, Sammy?"
Sam tries to show neutrality he doesn't feel, not when his cock is still rock hard and his hands grab the sheets.
He's transparent, and Dean can see every detail.
"I'll give you what you need, little brother, like I always do."
Like all those times when you dumped me in a Plucky Pennywhistle to go fuck girls? Or how did you side with Dad when I got the letter saying I'd been accepted into Stanford? Or then when you didn't trust me and in my ability as a hunter?
His thoughts are interrupted by the hardness of something against his hole, and it's nothing like the finger from before or even the silicone toys that Dean liked to play with.
An image of the knife forms in Sam's mind; he knows precisely what part of the handle is going through his entrance. In principle, it's just pressure until the entire end of the handle enters. Sam grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, trying to relax. The image of the stain now is blurred by the tears that form in his eyes.
"There were only monsters there, Sammy. I missed something as perfect as this."
Perfection. The same word. But there is nothing perfect about having the handle of a knife stuck in his hole by his own brother.
A tear runs down the corner of Sam's right eye even when his vision clears, and he knows that that will be the only one tonight.
He'll make sure of this.
"Somehow…"
Dean pushes the handle further, but Sam's body begins to accept the intrusion, pain turning into a slow burn. His erection is gone, though.
"It was bloody. Messy. Thirty-one flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties. Hell, most days felt like 360-degree combat. But there was something about being there."
Sam's chest aches with what Dean says even as the movements inside him make his mind aware of the pleasure beginning to surround him again.
"It felt pure, Sammy."
Sam feels like he can't breathe. Purity. What he always wanted. But he was tainted at six months of age, and sometimes the phantom taste of demon blood is still there, impregnated in his tongue.
"I wouldn't have minded staying there longer. Killed as many sons of bitches as possible."
Dean moves the knife like a damn dildo, forcing his body to accept the strange shape. At some point, though, it's more pleasure than strangeness, insufficient to make him come, but good enough to keep him on edge.
"But I couldn't be without you anymore."
Some abrupt movement and it hurts.
Sam also can't live without Dean and the more he thinks about it, the more he's sure that neither of them can live without the other. What he'd after Dean's vanishing was not life. It was more like going through the days, an automaton in a world that no longer made sense.
"And I need you now." The wanting Sam hears in that deep voice is almost too much for him.
The handle is pulled out, still odd, but it's easier than the entrance was.
Wild eyes stare at him. "It's always you, Sammy. It all starts and ends with you."
It's more than a promise, mutual now, Sam is sure.
"On all fours."
He doesn't have much choice here, a fight—which he'll probably lose—or being mounted like a bitch in heat. The second option is the only one that makes sense, though, even when humiliation and shame burn his cheeks and his hole clenches like it gets a mind of its own.
So much time in the same uncomfortable position has an effect on Sam's legs, and they tremble as he moves into the new position, equally exposed and vulnerable.
The sound of a zipper, warmth of callused hands on his asscheeks, massaging and exposing him again, and finally, the heat and hardness that he missed so much, as difficult as it's for him to admit it. The large head touches sensitive skin, there is no waiting for permission, just taking, invading, and settling in as if that had always belonged there, but it's more like coming home, actually.
He lets out a sharp cry, and his chest falls against the sheets, too weak to fight his body coming alive after more than a fucking year of separation.
Hands find their place on his hips, though now they burn like a brand on his skin, appropriating him again. And this is when Sam allows himself to recognize he needs this as much as his brother does.
Sam can't stifle the little pathetic moan that pours out of his mouth when the stimulation on his prostate starts feeling good. Dean's cock is so present that he doesn't want to feel anything inside him other than this.
At some point, weakness turns to lust and he manages to lean on his hands again, fucking against Dean's impulses with the same ferocity. And sex has never been so savage and primal between them before. Still, he craves it with all his strength, desperate to feel something again, to feel alive again.
"It's been so long since we'd this. Fuck. Missed it, little brother."
"Me too, Dean," he admits in a wrecked voice, his orgasm building within him. "I need you…Always."
Strong arms wrap around his chest and haul him up, his back against Dean's chest, the softness of the shirt brushing against his sweaty skin. And his big brother is so solid against him, so real.
A hand wraps around his cock, sharp pain from teeth biting on his shoulder, and a groan rips through him with his climax, which is so intense that it consumes his force. Only Dean's arms keep him on his knees on the bed. Hips that barely move at all, the soft tongue that licks the bite, and Sam throws his head back on his brother's shoulder.
His eyes turn to the stain on the ceiling again, which watches them regardless of its own imperfection.
Liquid heat spreads inside him. And only now does he realize how he missed this and as well as that old feeling of belonging, one that he was able to experience just with his brother.
Sam still feels like that damn stain, however. But now he is no longer alone in his imperfection and impurity because Dean is like him. There is no life for any of them without the other. And Sam can accept who he is once and for all.