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It’s been four months since Sam came back; four months since they’ve been back on the road together, Dean’s life with Lisa left long behind them.
Dean doesn’t think about it much; having a home, a job, a family, a warm, caring body next to him in bed at night. But occasionally there are times—like now, when he’s bruised, bloodied and half-paralyzed with Illithid face-tentacles clogging his sinuses and coating his throat—that he thinks maybe it was kind of nice. Comparatively.
*
“Did you have to blow it up while it was still inside me?” Dean manages to ask.
“I didn’t want it sucking out your brain.” Sam pauses and glances over at Dean across the arm that’s steering the car. “Your hypothetical brain,” he adds.
Dean responds by pitching over and retching in his brother’s lap.
*
Sam gets him back to the motel room and holds him up while he heaves Illithid bits into the toilet. He’s weak and delirious and possibly hallucinating by the time Sam strips him out of his soiled clothing and loads him into the bathtub.
“It’s a side-effect of ingesting the blood,” Sam explains, voice warbling across a great distance. “We just have to let it pass through.”
He doesn’t remember a whole lot between that and realizing that he’s in bed, dressed in pajama pants and tucked under the covers, his brother’s presence warm and solid, settling at the edge of the mattress.
That’s when it all clicks inside Dean’s feverish, delirious mind; home, family, job, warm, caring body—all right here. It makes so much sense that he opens his mouth to say so.
Instead, he coughs up some more Illithid blood-goo and passes out cold.
*
So, if you asked Dean when, exactly, he’d started thinking about having a relationship with his little brother, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. Not just because he was delirious at the time and he doesn’t remember. But because, A, he’s never been much on thinking too hard about things, and B, he isn’t thinking about it (he might have a little thing going with denial, too).
And that’s that.
*
(Except…)
Two days later, they’re sitting next to each other in the movie theater, watching the latest Denzel Washington flick playing out on the screen. Dean’s got what he likes to call a “heavy bag” of popcorn (so full of canola oil that it’s leaking a slow puddle) on the floor between his feet, and a box of Junior Mints in one hand, and he’s just about as happy and content as he ever gets when Sam leans over to whisper something to him about the train.
Dean frowns, thinking, and then nods along, agreeing with Sam’s line of reasoning. He’s at a loss when, a few seconds later, Sam turns toward him in time with a bright flash from the movie screen, his brother’s eyebrows raised in surprised question. Dean starts to lift his hand to silently ask ‘what?’—and that’s when he realizes it’s resting across the back of Sam’s chair. It’s pressed against his brother’s shoulders all the way to the fingertips, which are—Dean realizes with slowly dawning horror—brushing absently at Sam’s arm.
He jerks his arm back to his side, and when that isn’t enough to get Sam to stop staring at him, he reaches into the bag between his feet and pulls out a fistful of greasy popcorn, practically shoving his whole hand into his mouth.
Sam makes a low noise like he might be gagging, and goes back to watching the movie.
*
(And Apart From…)
Later that night, Dean’s lying in another motel room bed, stripped naked with the covers pulled haphazardly across his hips. Next to him, the Illithid is making cooing sounds, its skin a smooth purple, head large and round, four large tentacles waving where its mouth should be. Its humanoid body is lying pushed up against Dean’s, and in one of its hands, it’s holding a pie tin. As Dean watches, it scoops another bit of pie from the tin with one of its tentacles. Its eyes are huge and bulbous, almost black as they fix on Dean, and the cool, smooth skin of the tentacle pushes past his lips with the sweet taste of key lime.
Dean groans and suckles the taste, licking away the last of the meringue, and the creature coos more loudly, tentacle twitching, sliding deeper until it’s tickling with the tip at the back of his throat. Another tentacle glides around his wrists, binding them together and pinning them against the bed over his head. He hears the pie tin fall away, and then its hands are spreading his legs apart. He can feel another tentacle slither up between his thighs, tip tasting the head of his cock as it dips, pushing inside the slit. The sensation sends shivers radiating out from the base of his spine, smooth skin trailing down the length.
The tentacle in his mouth slides away, and then he can feel it exploring alongside the one stroking his cock, wet tip nudging deeper between his legs. It teases at the hole there, circling it—and then it pushes inside him. He gasps, whole body going stiff as it wriggles inside him, tip twisting and writhing, stretching and curling as it fills him, stretching him wider, and wider, other tentacle curling lazily around his cock and tugging.
His hips buck helplessly into the combined sensations, and his eyes flutter shut. He can feel it moving restlessly, seeking out and touching every place inside him, and he feels like he’s going explode with the way it feels, sliding in and out if him with hard, steady rhythm, so slender at the tip and then impossibly wide as it rushes to fill him, twisting and pumping, smooth and slick with his own spit. The grip around his cock tightens, squeezing, muscles flexing and fluttering along the shaft, tip flicking against slit, and then it does the same thing inside him—tightening down and then expanding--and he comes with a bitten off scream, thrashing in the thing’s grip.
His eyes fly open, cock pulsing come all over his belly, and he sees—
It’s Sam on top of him, one hand holding Dean’s hands over his head, other hand jerking Dean’s cock as he fucks into him. Dean’s cock twitches and shoots out another burst, intense, jagged pleasure ripping through him, and he feels like he’s going to break apart with it—
Dean wakes, gasping in a shuddering breath as he sits up in bed. The sheets are fantastic mess, wet with come and sticking to his softening cock.
Jesus fucking Christ what the motherfucking fuckity fuck?
Tentacle porn theater wasn’t bad enough? His subconscious had to go and throw Sam in there, too?
What the everloving fucking hell?
It’s got to be some kind of residual, Illithid-blood-induced hallucination.
*
(And Omitting…)
The next day in the car, Sam starts complaining about the cock rock therapy session Dean’s been pulling all day long to drown out his dream from last night.
Dean turns up the volume, and Sam reaches for the eject button on the cassette player. Dean grabs his brother’s hand and snatches it away, pushing it back down against the seat next to Sam’s thigh.
David Coverdale keeps singing about taking him down ‘slow and easy’ at ear-splitting volume.
“DEAN!” Sam yells, loud enough that Dean knows Sam’s said his name at least twice before and Dean didn’t hear him.
Dean turns his head, looking at Sam questioningly. Sam’s brows have risen so high that they’re lost somewhere in his hair, and Dean doesn’t have the slightest idea of why until he feels Sam’s fingers flex around his, turning their hands over.
Their fingers are interlaced, held palm to palm right next to Sam’s thigh where he’d put Sam’s hand a few moments ago. His first thought is that Sam is fucking with him. But… he doesn’t remember feeling Sam grab his hand… so that means…
He’d laced his fingers through his brother’s and then forgotten to let go?
God. Was he holding his brother’s hand?
He can’t—
This has to—
Fortunately for Dean, at that point, self-preservation and general CYA procedure kicks in.
Dean lets go as he throws Sam’s hand back at him. “Don’t get so excited, sweetheart,” he yells over the guitar solo. He blows Sam an exaggerated kiss and then pulls a smirk, and Sam shakes his head, turning to look out the passenger side window.
He puts both hands on the steering wheel again, and it’s all he can do to keep them from shaking.
*
(And Leaving Out…)
Later that night, Dean wakes from a particularly good dream involving a naked Zoe Saldana rubbing up against him. He isn’t sure what woke him up, but he’s more than a little pissed off about it. Disgruntled, he blinks against the shafts of neon light poking in around the edges of the curtain, trying to figure out if there’s anything that requires his immediate attention besides the growing hard-on he’s got going on.
It occurs to him then, that he can still feel Zoe Saldana pressed up against him. Except… she feels a lot larger, and sounds distinctly Sam-like when she shifts and mutters.
Oh. Oh, Jesus Christ. Fucking seriously?
Dean freezes, going instantly still the way he does when he’s on a hunt and he doesn’t want something sensing him. Sam shifts, stirring, and Dean’s lower lip trembles as he sucks in a mostly silent breath, eyes glued to Sam’s. Sam’s eyelashes flutter, but his eyes don’t open, and after a second, he shifts his hips back and forth, snuggling back against Dean. Sam mumbles something unintelligible—or maybe it does make sense, Dean isn’t sure; he can’t focus on anything besides his half-hard cock pressed up against his brother’s ass.
Sam wriggles a little bit more, like he’s settling in for the night, and Dean bites down against his lower lip, trying not to moan, begging his cock to relent and go soft.
It gets even harder.
He needs to get the fuck out of here so very badly. He peels away slowly, one slow move at a time, until every single part of him is separate from Sam, and then slides gently off the bed, wincing at every creak of the mattress.
When he’s finally free and standing on his feet, clad in pajama pants nothing else, he heaves a silent breath of relief.
“Dean?” Sam mumbles sleepily, and Dean’s heart skips inside his chest, goes skittering sideways and then starts pounding like a herd of wild horses.
--Shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck--
He dives onto his own bed, tearing the covers off one side and yanking them over himself as he lands, almost sliding off the other side of the mattress. “Yeah, Sam?” he whispers, heart beating in his throat.
“Thought I...” Sam drawls out the words drowsily. “Heard something.” Sam shifts and then Dean can hear him snoring softly, sound asleep again already.
Dean goes limp against the bed (well, most of him does), and he rolls his eyes, shoving a hand against his face.
He’s graduated from tentacle porn that features surprise(!) special appearances by Sam to molesting his brother in his sleep? What the fuck is going on?
Dean’s subconscious is officially on notice.
*
(And Then There Was…)
That incident with the case of beer and the shaving cream and the oak tree that Dean is never going to talk about. Ever. If stopping the next apocalypse is dependent on Dean having to own up to that? He’ll crown Lucifer himself and buy the first round of drinks.
*
So he’s not really thinking about having a relationship with his little brother. He’s just thinking about fucking his little brother.
There’s a difference.
The realization is still a lot like watching Lucifer kill Santa Claus and then burn down Disneyland and the Playboy Mansion while guzzling the last beer in existence.
The really sad part is; Dean thinks he could live with all of that as long as there was still rum.
This isn’t helping.
Okay. So. Let’s review.
Arm wrapped around Sam in the movie theater like it was their first date. Dream-sex with tentacle creature who turned into Sam. Forgetting to let go of Sam’s hand. Waking up pressed against Sam with a raging hard-on. That other thing.
Most of that is about… okay, yeah, sex, and it has been a while since he’s had any. That could explain most of this. Except… there are the other things. Before Lisa, the most time Dean had ever spent with the same person was Cassie, and that was only a couple of weeks. But he’s spent the majority of his life with Sam, and so… even if he could chalk this up to just sex, you throw sex into a relationship like theirs… and well, that’s a relationship. There’s no such thing as casual sex here. So if he’s thinking about having sex with Sam…
Okay. Maybe he is thinking about having a relationship with his little brother.
Fuck. This is going to require a lot more beer.
*
(And Then…)
They burn Jill Parker’s spirit back into the grave, her hands dissolving around Dean’s throat as she vanishes, screaming out her vengeance.
“So,” Dean coughs, backing away from the smoke. “Check that off the list.”
He takes another step backward and feels Sam’s chest hit his back, warm and strong. Dean lingers there for just a second, soaking up the feel, and then he turns, spinning to look at Sam eye to eye.
He wants… he wants more than he ever should, leaning closer to Sam… closer, until he’s staring into those eyes fixed on his. That mouth, so close to his and he wants to kiss it.
Jesus.
“We good here?” Dean asks as he pulls back, clearing his throat.
Sam saw it. Sam’s not buying it. Shit.
“Dean.” Sam is shaking his head, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck is going on?”
Dean doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a fucking clue. He wishes like fuck someone would buy him one. All he knows is, since squid-ligula got all up close and personal with his sinuses, he can’t think about much else besides—
“Nothing,” Dean grates out, starting to turn away.
“No.” Sam grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. “You don’t get to walk away. Not this time.”
Dean yanks his arm, expecting to tug free, but he doesn’t, pulled up short by Sam’s grip on him. He looks at his brother in surprise, and Sam closes the distance between them with one long stride.
“Are you telling me…?” Sam’s voice is a low, dangerous growl as he pushes Dean backwards against the mausoleum. Dean’s shoulders hit the stone, and Sam’s knee pushes between Dean’s thighs, forearm shoved against Dean’s chest, all Sam’s weight right behind it. “That you want this?” Sam accentuates the word “this” with a roll of his hips, thigh rubbing against Dean’s dick, mouth so close to Dean’s that Dean can feel the heat of his breath.
Pinned against the stone, Sam rubbing up against him, talking to him in that low, dirty tone of voice, looking Dean straight in the eye… Dean can’t even swallow, much less speak.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam breathes, grinding into Dean—and fuck, Dean can feel his brother’s cock pushing against his, just as hard and hot as his own. “Tell me what you want.”
Okay, he thinks, trying hard to breathe. Maybe he does want to have a relationship with his little brother. That doesn’t mean they have to talk about it, does it?
“Tell me,” Sam demands, voice a low rumble against Dean’s mouth. It’s not fair—it’s so not fair—and fuck it; he thinks he’d tell Sam anything right now, even the truth about why he was out back of the motel with that oak tree the other night.
“You,” Dean growls in a guttural whisper. “You. Okay, Sam? Can we—”
Dean means to ask if they can drop this confession shit and get on with it, but then he forgets he was talking—forgets how to talk—because Sam is way ahead of him, mouth crashing into Dean’s. Tongue pushing past his lips, hot, wet and demanding, and it only takes Dean a split second to get with the program, deep, low groan rising from his chest as he swirls his tongue around his brother’s.
“You have no idea…” Sam whispers, pulling back, teeth closing over Dean’s lower lip briefly. “How long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”
Dean’s just beginning to absorb the implications of that when Sam grabs him by the shoulders and spins both of them around. Freefall, the span of a second suspended in the air, and then Dean hits the ground with a thud, air pushing from his lungs in a rush. Sam’s weight crushes into him a fraction of a second later, hands closing around Dean’s face, thumbing his jaw open as Sam slides his tongue inside and kisses Dean thoroughly. Everything about him is rough and intense, and if Dean had had to guess what Sam was like when he was like this… it wouldn’t have been like this at all.
And then Sam’s teeth close around Dean’s throat, hips rolling into Dean’s, driving out any lingering remnants of rational thought.
“Waited so long,” Sam whispers, mouth trailing wet and messy. “Fuck…” hands sliding down Dean’s throat, thumbs curling possessively at the base. Sam licks the hollow between his thumbs, and then his hands glide lower, closing in the collar of Dean’s shirt and pulling. Thin rip and tear of material, and Dean can feel the cool night air against his chest, nipples hardening to points.
“Watched you fuck everything… everyone else…” tongue swirling lower, circling his nipple, and there’s nothing left in Dean anymore except this hunger, this overwhelming need. He moans, shuddering as Sam’s teeth close around his nipple, sharp twist and slow, smooth curl of tongue. “But you,” Sam breathes, tearing away Dean’s shirt completely, rising to look at Dean with those steady, burning eyes. “Were always mine.”
Dean doesn’t have words; he just has yes running through him in waves, nerves sparking and short-circuiting, hips driving up from the grassy earth, breath cut short with the feeling of so much Sam all over him. His hands move underneath Sam’s shirt, tracing the muscles of his back, fingernails etching trails into his brother’s body. There are still too many clothes happening here. He needs to feel all of this, and he needs to feel it Right. The fuck. Now.
“Don’t be greedy,” Sam warns him in low, dangerous tones, tongue trailing down his stomach. His hands leave Dean’s throat, fingers slipping away down the length and gliding outward, catching each nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezing, twisting, sliding away. “I’m…” fingers working the button on his jeans, flicking it open and apart, “going to…” hands dragging his jeans down over his hips, thumbs hooked into his boxers, and then Dean can feel Sam’s breath hot against his dick, “take my time,” he breathes, tongue flickering out over wet slit of Dean’s cock.
Okay. So they’re establishing some rules here. Dean’s pretty much okay with that—pretty much okay with anything—as long as Sam doesn’t stop.
Sam grabs him by both hips, shoving and holding Dean against the ground, and then his mouth closes around the head of Dean’s cock, mouth yanking his cock away from his belly, sliding all the way to the base, sealed molten hot and wet. He sucks hard to the crown, tip of his tongue circling the slit of Dean’s dick and then flicking lower, right into the bundle of nerves under the head. Dean jolts up from the ground into the sensation, hands closing on the back of Sam’s head, fingers threading into Sam’s hair as he holds on for the ride.
It’s one hell of a ride; long, slow tugs and pulls at his cock, sucking sweet to the base, tongue swirling up the vein on the underside, tonguing under the head until Dean’s right on the edge of coming, fingers clenching in Sam’s hair.
“No,” Sam whispers, breathing out hot against the head of Dean’s cock, lips pressing a kiss against the slit. “Not until I’m inside you.” Sam’s voice is filthy, gravelly and dirty, heavy with want, and the sound hits Dean right between his legs, cock twitching helplessly. Sam chuckles against his skin, and fuck, even his breath is teasing. He can hear Sam sucking his own fingers into his mouth with a hungry sound, can imagine the way he opens his mouth and smiles around them, spit dripping down the length.
“Fuck’s sake, Sam. Please.”
“Ask me again.” Sam’s tongue catches against the head of his dick, sliding down smooth, almost weightless, and he can feel Sam’s fingers, slick and wet, pushing against his hole.
“Fuck me, you goddamned motherfucking tease,” Dean hisses, thrusting his hips against that maddening pressure.
He can feel Sam’s smile against his cock, hear the hum of Sam’s approval, and oh, shit, he’s not ready for what that does to him, the way it breaks him apart and puts him back together all over again. Fingers thrusting inside him, so wet, and fuck, it stings, stretching him wide, fingertips just teasing inside.
Sam’s other hand comes up, grabbing Dean by the jaw and shoving him back against the ground. “Take it,” Sam commands, tongue licking a stripe up the center of Dean’s cock. “You can take it.” Sam pushes his fingers into Dean’s mouth and Dean sucks them in, tongue laving down the center line between. “You were made for taking it, Dean. God, your hot fucking body—” Sam’s guttural voice breaks off on the sound of his name, lips closing around his cock again, and then there are fingers deep inside him, twisting and stretching, straining and twitching until they hit a spot that makes Dean fly up off the ground, sparks exploding behind his eyes.
He doesn’t even care anymore that he’s begging, and Sam doesn’t seem to care either, rising up on his knees and stripping Dean’s pants away. Another few heartbeats and Sam’s naked too, leaning into him, Dean’s back pressed against the wet, sharp blades of grass. They sting a little, but not any more than anything else.
Sam nudges his hip against Dean’s, one hand sliding up behind his knee and spreading him open.
Slow, sleek spread of Sam pushing inside, and Dean can feel the bare, hard, hot spit-slicked length as it fills him, skin dragging against the rim until Sam stills, as deep inside Dean as anything he’s ever felt.
Dean didn’t know. He really didn’t know what this could be like, just knew the fear of what it might turn out not to be. Or… maybe he always did know. Maybe he always knew it could be like this; too much, overwhelming, and for the rest of his life.
“Shhh,” Sam whispers, kissing the edge of Dean’s mouth. “Let me give this to you.”
Long, slow strokes, hips pumping into him, and his head tilts backward, falling under the slowly speeding assault.
“Love you like this.” Strong hands holding his face, pulling him up into a kiss. “When you trust me like this. God, Dean, so hot.”
Dean pushes into the thrust of Sam, cock grinding against Sam’s stomach. He’s… Fuck, he’s going to come with his brother’s cock inside him, that worshipping mouth kissing his, and it’s so motherfucking wrong on so many levels.
“Our definition… of right and wrong,” Sam whispers, fingertips pressing into Dean’s cheeks, “has always been different than everyone else’s.”
Shit… Sam can hear him--read his mind. The thought echoes hollowly down the corridors of his mind, separate from their bodies. And that means… Sam knows. He’s known for a long time now. Dean’s dreams, his thoughts—
“I’ve always known,” Sam’s mouth barely moves against his, hips twisting, plunging deep. “You’ve…” Sam drives into him, rough and deep, “always wanted…” long, rough fingers closing around his cock, “this…” hand sliding the length of his cock and then fisting it, dragging to the head, “just as much as I have.”
Dean arches into the thrust, whole body convulsing as he spills across Sam’s fist. It’s never been like this, white-hot, jagged spurts bordering on agony it feels so good, and Sam grunts into his mouth, shoving into Dean, hands slipping, grabbing for purchase.
He can feel Sam pulse inside him, wet, hot, slick filling him even as he comes, and he throws his head back, nails tearing away skin.
*
(And Finally…)
The grass is cool and damp against his cheek, short blades tickling against the inside of his mouth. Dean lifts his head from the ground, spitting. He expects Sam to be right there for his sarcastic retort, but the words die on his lips, unspoken as he sits up.
Sam’s not far from him, just standing next to the mausoleum, jeans pulled up to his waist, chest bare.
Dean takes a moment, gathering his thoughts. Getting fucked unconscious is generally a good sign, where he usually comes from. But this is his brother. This is Sam, and no matter how much he wanted this, he shouldn’t have done it.
He pushes up from the ground, body feeling heavier than it usually does. “Sam?” His voice cracks across the sound of Sam’s name; he tries to stop it, but he can’t.
Sam extends an arm towards him across the distance, and Dean walks towards it.
“So?” Sam asks, tilting his head to look at Dean. He doesn't look upset.
“So… this,” Dean answers, cocking his head to the side as he stares back.
*
So, if you asked Dean now, when, exactly, he’d started thinking about having a relationship with his little brother, he’d probably be able to tell you something. But he wouldn’t. Not just because it’s something that’s always been part of him. But because, A, he’s never been much on explaining himself, and B, it’s none of your business.
That's just how it is.
And that’s that.