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There is a way they do things.
Sam asks, and Dean says yes.
Ten, Georgia, Sam argues day and night to go to a sleepover hosted by one of the kids at his school. “I’ve never had friends before,” he tells Dean. Dean says, “Hey now, you got me,” and Sam pouts at him furiously and sulks by the TV for an hour. So Dean talks to Dad and swings it. Dean gets a slug on the chin and a tooth that wiggles in his gums, and Sam gets the sleepover.
Fourteen, Michigan, Sam ignores Dad for about two days before Dad finally asks him what’s wrong. He wants to stay somewhere, anywhere, for more than a couple months. It’s not fair, Sammy says. Like Dean hasn’t been in the same boat and just got on with it anyway. The lecture from Dad is the same: hunting, responsibility, Mom, evil, evil, evil. Sam rolls his eyes all the way round, and asks Dean later why Dad expects Sam to sacrifice his childhood for the sake of a demon. Dean’s pissed off, angry, hurt by Sam’s insolence—but he trawls the papers for any reason to stay in the area for a little while longer. There’s a vamp nest, it looks like, barely a zipcode away. They’re there for another couple weeks.
Seventeen, Oregon, Sam walks in on Dean in the shower and doesn’t leave. Not for the first time either, but Dean’s a bit drunk this time, probably shouldn’t be showering at all, and doesn’t really have the right head on him to be able to spin any of this into a joke. What ends up happening is Sam settles against the wall and watches Dean wash, and Dean washes. It might last a minute; it might last twenty. Dean says, “Pass me a towel,” afterwards, and Sam goes above and beyond, takes the towel and wraps it around Dean’s legs, belly, arms, dries him slowly, thoughtfully, looking at him all the while. Reverent, you know, the way he does. Dean breathes heavy, and lets him. If he gets a little hard, then it’s just the drink. No big deal. The room spins but Sam doesn’t. Sam takes him to bed, brings him water, and Dean makes a half-assed joke about Sam not perving on him while he sleeps, and Sam sighs angrily and says something along the lines of, “You’re so fucking oblivious sometimes,” and goes to watch TV. Dean falls asleep to the noise of bad infomercials, saturated in the staticky fall of imaginary shower water. He sleeps easy—he’s already soundly decided to forget any complicated feelings in the morning.
Eighteen, San Antonio, Sam says he’s applied to a few colleges, and Dean says bullshit you have , and Sam says I’d go, and Dean says bullshit you would, and Sam says would you come with me , and Dean says it doesn’t work like that, and Sam comes close and crowds Dean up against the wall and says let me , and Dean realises Sam’s actually gonna leave. They spend a couple hours between sweat-sticky, muggy sheets, before Dean sees the time and jolts back to reality in a cold rush of air that damn near stops his heart. He says wait, stop, Dad could be home any minute, and Sam says who cares, and Dean says no, stop that, and hey, you know what, how about you stop all of this. Sam doesn’t, of course. He always gets what he wants. Six weeks later, he’s out the door within an hour of the acceptance letter arriving. That was a quiet and ugly summer.
Twenty two, Iowa, Sam tells Dean he wants to talk about Jess, and her family, and her life. Forty five minutes later, he’s fucking Dean into the mattress with savouring, unforgiving pulls of his hips. Ten minutes after that, they’re drinking and not talking about Jess or anything else, watching TV and pretending not to freak out, because if they don’t talk about it then they can pretend it was a mistake and not entirely deliberate on both of their parts.
Twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, the whole freakin’ continent of North America, and they haven’t stopped doing this dumb thing they do. Sammy hasn’t stopped asking, and Dean always says yes, and what does that make them? Dean’s staring down the barrel of denial.
Now it’s twenty-five, cheap motel, Nevada, and Sam’s a grown-ass man. And Dean’s a grown-ass man too, and he can’t say no to him. Worse than that, though, better: he wouldn’t ever want to.
This is the way they do things.
But Dean’s got a good couple months left, and he doesn’t see why Sam’s getting so goddamn dramatic lately. There’s been something urgent in Sam’s movements, and his words. Something telling in the way he puts his arm around the back of Dean’s seat in the Impala and leaves it there, his fingers curled in the collar of Dean’s jacket. Something unsettling in his fierce objection to some things, from speeding on the highway to turning off certain songs when they come on the radio (anything by Asia, really). “Month of Tuesdays, I know,” Dean says, a bit flippant, a bit solemn, and Sam takes in a breath like he wants to say something but then says nothing at all.
The problem, as Dean sees it, is that when you know it’s gonna be a rough ride ahead, then you’ve gotta enjoy the time you have now, right? Hell, he probably wouldn’t feel quite so guilty about them upping the ante, sex-wise, if Sam wasn’t taking all of it so seriously.
The problem, as Sam must see it, is that the rough ride isn’t gonna happen at all, even though it is, and that the best way to deal with the situation is to just be super stressed all of the goddamned time. Because Sam’s super clever and not at all an asshole, lately. And, naturally, the other great way Sam’s dealing with the situation is by fucking Dean. A lot.
Dean minds this one less, funnily enough.
And Dean can deal with hissy fits, and tantrums, and silent treatment; he’s spent over twenty years staring down the whole Armada that is Sam When He Feels Something Is Unfair. But it’s been like this for a few days now, and more and more, Sam is an overwhelming force of nature.
In the mornings, they fuck, and in the evenings, they do it again. Dean complains about Sam’s intensity with gentle little jibes beforehand (which is probably the most they’ve ever discussed it), like, “Which is it today? Normal Sam or Captain Sadface?” and every time Sam rolls his eyes and goes one way or the other.
The thing about it that makes it so easy to sustain—because how do you have something that is so objectively terrible, that you do so frequently—is how they don’t talk about it. The sex is untouchable in Dean’s head, and he doesn’t have any idea how Sam deals with it in his own. It’s a shamefully delicate and horribly tender thing that cringes from any thought that exists even vaguely in its vicinity, as though touching it at all, handling it and examining it close-up, would somehow destroy it entirely. Certainly, it would destroy Dean.
That’s another thing they do too, Dean figures. Avoid talking about anything. The sex, the deal, Dad, so many things. They just don’t acknowledge it, because, if they did, it would mean shattering.
Dean’s fine with this.
His relationship with his brother is a solid, heavy and inarguable weight, built so inextricably into his body that he doesn’t even think about it. And the whole thing teeters on the Jenga tower that is Dean’s head this past year. Cognitive dissonance is one helluva trick.
“I’ll fix it,” Sam says quietly one night, between one glass of whiskey and another. They’re fresh from the motel, unwashed and probably still smelling like sex, but Sam needed a drink, and Dean said yes. Sam doesn’t look at Dean after he says it; he sniffs and shakes his head a little, stares down at the pale pool of drink in his glass.
So Dean says, “Can we have a few of those shots over here? Thanks. Four of—six of them? Thanks.”
And they drink, and Dean hopes to god that the rum will somehow wash all those dumb thoughts of “fixing” Dean’s deal right out of Sam’s head and make him see sense.
*
Sam’s sobered up fairly decently by the time they stumble through the motel door, though he’s still drunk, and still touchy-feely in a way that makes it obvious where his head’s at. All he wants to do lately is touch Dean.
There are two beds in the room but, like every place they’ve been since Dean kissed that crossroads demon, it’s a given that they’ll end up sharing anyway. Tonight, their chosen bed is already a tangled mess of sweaty sheets - Sam got preoccupied with kissing Dean’s neck when they checked in earlier, and Dean got distracted by the noises Sam made as he was doing it.
“Is this okay?” Sam asks, his hands diving for the buttons on Dean’s jeans.
“Yeah,” Dean pants, grinding against Sam’s palms. He wishes he wasn’t so greedy for it every single time the opportunity arises. Sam makes him feel like a teenager when he touches him - in an instant, Dean can go from normal to desperately craving it. Sam knows it, too.
They’re naked and on the bed within seconds; it’s a tried and tested thing, a honed skill, and they’re years into this. Sam makes no secret about what he wants to do, his cock hard and pushing urgently against Dean’s thighs. Dean moans, settling into it, when suddenly Sam disappears down to the bottom of the bed, leaving Dean chilly and confused. Sam’s kneeling there on the floor, but then he rapidly pulls Dean down the bed, making Dean laugh and protest.
He hoists Dean’s thighs up onto his shoulders, granting himself free and undeniable access, and starts littering Dean’s thighs with kisses, alternating between soft and wet, and hard and bruising. He touches Dean like he can’t get enough of it, as though proximity to Dean is oxygen to him.
It occurs to him then that it’ll never be close enough for Sam, not while Dean’s got an express ticket to Hell stapled to his forehead. If Sam could crack Dean open at the ribs and crawl inside, guts to guts, bone to bone, that wouldn’t be enough. All Dean can do is spread open for him, legs and arms and mouth, and hope that this is okay for now.
It’s not, though. Nothing’s gonna tide Sam over forever, and the kid’s gonna go crazy after Dean closes up shop, if Dean knows him at all, and Dean does. He just needs Sam to know not to push at it when he’s gone. No need to irritate the wound; eventually, it’s gonna be time to say yep, okay, thanks for all your help, bye-bye now, you have a good day. There’s the tiniest chance in hell (poor choice of words, he thinks darkly) that if he can give Sam what he needs now, Sam might finally get his fill. Might actually leave Dean where he’s buried. Might finally use that big clever brain of his for once this whole freakin’ year.
But this is a game of give and take - Dean gives, everything he has, and Sam can’t ever seem to take enough - and Sam is taking so much of him right now.
This is way, way, way more romantic than Dean is used to. Dean’s heart seems to skip beats as it picks up pace. Sam touches Dean’s body as easily as though it’s his own, as though it’s his right, and Dean shocks himself with how eagerly he gives it up. Sam’s definitely used his mouth and fingers on him before, many times, but there’s something inexplicable about how romantic and sensual and intense this feels. It feels—exposing, somehow. It isn’t rushed.
No, Sam takes his time instead. He spends ages slowly opening Dean up with his stupid big fingers, gliding unstoppably into him. Every push in and out is slow, methodical, making sure Dean’s open enough for him. He uses his tongue too, which, you know, Dean’s no prude, but hey, warn a guy, right? Otherwise a guy risks making a noise that could be misconstrued as girly and embarrassing.
Sam’s tongue flicks eagerly and patiently over Dean’s hole, and Dean gasps and clamps his mouth shut. His cheeks are flushing because he just knows Sam heard that. Smug bastard. And then Sam changes pace, now coaxing Dean’s hole to relax with insistent, firm kisses.
It’s sublime. Dean arcs the crown of his head back into the pillow, lifting his hips to allow Sam better access, starting to ache for Sam to fill him up. Sam touches him intuitively, like he just knows exactly how to make Dean feel good. And Dean glows .
He whines a little louder, feels his walls finally, fully relax under Sam’s hungry mouth, and Sam immediately fills that vacuum, prodding three fingers into him and working his way towards Dean’s prostate. He’s merciless, and Dean bucks his hips up, eyes squeezed shut. It’s electric, addictive, each press of Sammy’s fingers going right through him like lightning.
And then he ruins it. Because he says, “I’ve always wanted you.”
“Don’t—say that,” Dean grunts out brokenly, undermined by the way his voice pitches upwards at the end in a moan. Sam’s kissing it now. Tonguing him open, letting it get wet and sloppy. Christ.
“You have no idea,” Sam says. The words come out thick and sodden between breaths and kisses. “Jesus Christ, Dean, you have no idea.” One of his hands disappears from Dean’s thighs, down to palm urgently at his own cock. “Wanted you so badly.”
They don’t talk about this. It’s their only rule.
“Sam,” Dean says again, a warning. Big brother voice, kind of, which startles him into a cringe for a second before Sam takes one of those stupid massive hands of his and splays it across Dean’s belly. Not doing anything, just there. Because he can do this unquestioned, because Dean is so inarguably his. God, everything he does makes Dean’s dick throb.
Sam does not stop talking. “Wanted you so badly,” he reiterates in a breathy whine, and sucks at the hard ring of muscle of Dean’s hole, hard enough to bruise. Breaks off to say, “The nights I spent thinking of this,” and licks broadly across Dean’s hole, which flinches and relaxes in surprise. “Wrapping your legs round my head, my face, right here, just... having you. All the time, man. God, and all those girls you were with—”
“Sam,” Dean warns again. Who knew Sam was such a talker? Yeah, he’ll talk dirty occasionally, they both do, but never to this extent. Reminder not to let Sam near rum before a fuck.
It does something to a guy’s head, hearing shit like that. To his heart, hearing some of that. Dean can’t handle any of that.
“Saw you with them and it fucking sucked. And then I realised it was ’cause of you . ’Cause you’re so stupidly gorgeous.” Sam kinda chuckles.
Gorgeous. The word makes Dean flinch. That’s the last thing he is.
He shakes his head, eyes closed, and tries to shut John’s frown out of his head. This is the kind of shit they will use on Dean in Hell. They’ll replay this to remind him what a terrible brother he’s been to Sam. What kind of warped values he’s given him. He can’t hear this right now.
“And,” Sam says, after pulling his tongue out of Dean and making Dean throw his head back just to catch his breath, chest pounding, “how badly you needed a good fucking. And never got one.”
Dean steals an inhale, and shakes his head again. “Wanna slow down on the dirty talk there?”
It’s too much. Feels like Sam’s cutting him wide open and peering deep down inside. What’s worse is he wants Sam to keep going.
And goddamn if Sam isn’t Sam, because his eyes snap up immediately, glittering. The view of him down there, smirking up at Dean, punches the breath clean out of Dean’s lungs. Dean’s legs are hanging in the air, and between the tanned towers of his thighs, there’s Sammy’s face. Sammy - all grown-up, and masculine, and dark-eyed. His hair sticks to his face, sweaty and drink-flushed, and his gaze cuts right into Dean. Dean doesn’t wanna know what he sees there. And Sam lowers his head to lick patiently over Dean’s balls, where they lie rosy and rounded and framing his dick, which is fat and hard, slung back onto his belly and aching.
“Wanted to fuck you forever.”
Dean’s breath hitches embarrassedly; he tries to blame it on Sam’s tongue, now on his balls, now on the base of his dick, now lapping patiently up towards the head of his cock.
“N—c’mon, man, don’t, don’t say that.” Guilt twists in Dean’s gut, guilty son, at hearing Sam turn this unspoken thing into something loudly, dreadfully real. He can’t hear this; he can’t know how much Sam wants him, or how long. He can’t think about how long he’s wanted Sam. And yet, Sam says it, and Dean’s cock jerks up of its own accord, aching. Traitorous fucker.
And Sam’s eyes are wet now, his cheeks flushed darkly and stained with crawling tears, and he keeps going, replacing his mouth with his hand. If his voice cracks, gets too thick with breath, he doesn’t seem to notice. This isn’t dirty talk; it’s a confession. “I never let myself want it. Not even when we started. I do, though. Always did.”
Sam rises up and kneels on the bed, shifting forward slowly, giving Dean time to slink back and get comfy under the looming vision of Sam, tearful and sleepy and hard. In Hell, they will pull this monologue to pieces, and make Dean chew and swallow every last part of it. And if it’s not demons who make him do it, then he’ll do it himself.
He sounds near-delirious this time. “Ever since I was, like, fourteen, man. I wanted to… Like this. However I can have you. And I still do. Christ, Dean, I want you more than I can think.”
And there it is: the untouchable thing. All of it, actually: the sex and the deal and Sam’s feelings and maybe Dean’s feelings too and Dean’s going to die and Dean’s going to die soon , warped by heat into one ugly thing that’ll come to shreds with barely a look.
Sam still wants this, Dean wants this, but he isn’t going to get it, because Dean’s going to die.
No—distinct difference. Dean’s going to burn in Hell.
He can’t give Sam anything.
“I want every part of you,” Sam is saying, like they’re in some kind of romantic chick movie, and he can’t . “Want to keep you here, just like this. All the time.” With every word, he breaks Dean’s heart and makes Dean feel more loved than he’s ever felt, all in one fell swoop. It’s dirty, and perfect, and so tangled up itself Dean can’t make sense of where Sam’s feelings end and his feelings begin. Maybe that’s the point, he thinks, heart flipping in his chest.
Sam presses him down into the bed anyway, shushing him, stroking down his sides, like Dean’s a nervous horse, ’bout to jump the fence any moment, when that’s the last thing he wants to do. It’s not that he wants to go—it’s just… a lot. Hearing it all aloud like this. All the unsaid shit Sam’s bottled up over the years. All the shit Dean’s never even let himself think about.
He realises he’s clinging onto Sam, hard, palms jammed up against his arms, matched by the cinch of his fingers on the other side. Sam’s a big boy, he can take it.
And when Sam lines his cock up against Dean’s hole and starts pushing in, with nothing but a rushed palmful of lube to ease the way, it’s as searing and sharp and bruising as it feels every single time. Everything about Sam is stupidly big, and it hurts, and god, Dean is hungry for more. Oh, god, but this is familiar. This is easy, and beautiful, and, bizarrely, safe territory. Dean can do this. He can give Sam love like this. He can take Sam’s love like this.
He parts his thighs even wider, giving Sam more room, and his cock twitches all over again when he hears Sam chuckle like that.
Sam always goes so deep inside him - pushes in all the way to the hilt of his cock when he first enters Dean, like he does every time, like he’s trying to prove something. “ God ,” Sam whispers, the word torn from his throat, and starts to pound into Dean. Shallow at first, as gentle as he can manage right now. And Dean moans and flings his head back and starts jerking his dick, lost in the noises they make together, the rocking of the bed, the sliding of their skin, the way Sam grunts a little higher at certain angles because he can’t help himself.
No condom, because they’ve never done that. They should, Dean knows; it’s stupid and irresponsible of them to not be careful. But Dean’s body is Sam’s body is Dean’s body is Sam’s body, and none of it would feel complete without knowing he was gonna feel Sam come inside him, every day, filling him up.
When he tries to open his eyes and rock his head forward, Sam is watching him - every time, without fail, that greedy, earnest look in his eyes. He’s a little drunk, sure, but his eyes are big and focused, making up for it. Devouring as much of Dean as he can, however he can.
“Good?” Sam asks, by way of checking.
“Yeah,” Dean pants, screwing up his eyes again. He feels lit up everywhere Sam is touching him, and now Sam’s hand is on his cock. It’s addictive, being touched by Sam. More than he can stand to admit.
Sam’s control starts to lapse; Dean can feel it. Steady, slow thrusts begin to stutter, falling off-rhythm, and Sam tenses up and closes his eyes with every attempt to correct it. He’s murmuring too, whispering things like, “Beautiful,” and “perfect,” and “just like that, good boy, just like that,” as Dean spreads his legs wider, and Dean ends up having to kiss him to shut him up.
Eventually the kiss falls apart as Sam gets even faster, even deeper, using Dean for all he’s worth and making him feel exactly all that light and perfection Sam’s been going on about. He’s close himself, urgently squeezing the base of his cock to hold off, feeling precum dribble down onto his belly. Sam uses his finger to wipe it up, sucks it from his finger without breaking eye contact.
The bed’s rocking at this point, violent and noisy, and Dean can’t even think about the neighbours; every bit of his brain and body is taken up by Sam.
He can hear babbling and—shit, is that his voice? He’s shaking, fuck, and keening up towards Sam, and his voice is this high, needy whine. He alternates seamlessly from, “Sam, Sam, Sammy, slow down, too fast, too fast,” to, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”
And above him, warm and panting muggy air on Dean’s skin, Sam’s saying, “Dean, Dean, Dean,” like Dean’s name is the only thing he knows, pouring everything he has into that word, and he keeps fucking Dean, inexorably pressing into him, back and forth, until something clicks and he hears Dean, finally, and realises he’s being asked to slow down.
“Can’t,” he says, “please,” barely making the words out, so needy, needing to take from Dean whatever he can, and yeah, okay, maybe Dean gets it. His ass is killing him and his muscles are strained and tense and knotted and all he wants to do is come and there’s no release in sight, but he gets it. Sam needs something from him and Dean has to be able to give it. Because if not now, then when?
Dean digs his fingers into Sam’s arms and buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, and Sam smells dirty and sweaty and hot and beautiful, and all he can think about is this smell , and all the times he’s smelled this smell, and who’s gonna get to smell it after Dean’s gone. Is he gonna remember this smell? How long will it take him to forget?
He just says, “Yeah,” giving permission, his voice broken, letting Sam take everything Dean has to give.
Sammy’s close now, desperately so, fucking into Dean with these jagged, offbeat thrusts, not letting up at all as he swiftly takes Dean’s cock in his hands and jerks him hard between their bellies. And Sam’s asking him something, what is he saying, whispering so needily. All Dean wants is to give him what he wants, but god, he can hardly think right now.
“Say my name,” Sam’s begging, “please, please, say it.”
Dean does, letting go, tilting his head back and gasping, “Sam, Sam, Sam ,” but Sam’s eyes are hungry, unsated, as he keeps babbling, “Say my name, Dean, say it, please, say it,” and finally Dean gets it.
“Oh god, Sammy ,” Dean says, his voice a hoarse, broken mess, and somehow that pushes Sam into overdrive. He ups the ante, gripping Dean tight by the ass and riding his body, and holy shit, Dean didn’t realise it could get harder and faster and better and worse and amazing and terrifying all at once. Sam fucks perfectly into that spot and it seems to light up inside him, electric, shooting through his body, and he lets go, spilling his come between their bellies in thick, fast spurts.
Sam rocks into him hard, as deep as he can go, as he empties his come into Dean, right where it belongs. He’s beautiful, towering above Dean, eyes squeezed shut, his hair starting to curl where it’s all wet and sweaty. He makes those low, familiar, satisfied noises that Dean knows so well, and Dean clings onto him, guiding him down as Sam collapses.
Perfect, Dean thinks, closing his eyes and nosing against Sam’s neck.
He could shower, Dean thinks idly, but fuck it. They’re both exhausted and tipsy and sweaty; they may as well just share a quick shower in the morning. Curled up with Sam, he lets his eyelids go heavy, and breathes as the tide of tiredness wash over his body, sending little shockwaves of aches and pains through his used muscles.
Sam, though, cradled as he is, head resting on Dean’s chest, doesn’t make a move to go to sleep. His fingers are unstoppable - his fingertips run circles over Dean’s abused asshole, thoughtfully, tenderly, rubbing come around it and dipping in and out at leisure, just because he can, because Dean will take it for him. Dean’s breathing is tired but ragged, his hole flinching and relaxing over and over, alternately hurting and being soothed under Sam’s touch. His entire sensory world narrows down like a funnel to the exposed, adored sensation of his hole. It’s an intense, beautiful, awful feeling, and it makes his spent cock throb.
Like everything Sam does, he picks something that feels amazing and he does it until it hurts. And Dean lets him. Enjoys it all the same.
It’s only when Sam finally speaks again, his words having suddenly dropped away when they lay down, that Dean realises Sam’s not okay. His voice is thick with tears, too high and throaty, as he goes, “What am I gonna do when you die?”
His big stupid paws suddenly feel small and worried. And Dean’s jaw clenches and unclenches in quiet, unseen shock at Sam’s use of the word when .
There’s a stab of fear in his stomach, so he takes a deep breath, and subsequently realises that there’s nothing he could possibly say to make this better.
Shit, he thinks, watching the silence go on and on. The motel light burrs above them. He thinks about Dad’s awful silences when Dean was a kid, and asked questions Dad didn’t want to answer. It all hurts. It’s all so stupid.
They lie in the silence for a few moments. Sam’s question has been packed up and sent home, dismissed by Dean’s complete absence of an answer, by the unforgiving quiet of the room. Sam’s face is too terrible to look at - eyes wet and closed, his cheeks screwed up and his lips turned out, shoulders shaking - but Dean rests his forehead against Sam’s all the same, stroking his face with his thumb. He kisses Sam’s cheek. It’s not much, he thinks. It’s something.
Sam’s voice is sore and gravelly now. “I hate this,” he whispers. “I need you. I hate this.” And before Dean can even think to formulate a response, Sam says, “Fuck, just—just stay. Please.”
All of a sudden, Dean can smell the alcohol on Sam’s breath again. Hits him like a train. Dean blinks his eyes open, and Sam’s eyes are open too, directed down at where their legs lock together, just watching. Sam’s bottom lip is drawn into his mouth, nervously pinned down by his front teeth.
Again, it’s the silence that answers Sam. Dean swallows and snuggles into him, resting his head on him, the air damp and boiling between the skin of Sam’s chest and Dean’s mouth. Sam’s chest rises fast and shallow, but Dean’s patient; he’ll hold Sam no matter what. He closes his eyes and just rests in the dark, quiet space between Sam and himself.
Just stay, echoes in Dean’s head. Sammy’s broken, begging voice. Please.
There’s no more answers. He can’t say yes to this. He’s given Sam all he has tonight.