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The grip on his wrist was iron tight. Sam’s arm was held above his head on the bed, or rather near-nailed down. Dean’s nails were digging into Sam’s wrist so tight Sam was surprised he could feel no blood.
Above him, Dean moved. He plowed into Sam’s ass, a brutal, near-painful, pace set by the thrust of his hips.
Sam looked up at his brother, his back aching a bit from the odd distribution of pressure coupled with the lumpy mattress, but Dean wasn’t looking at him. No, he was staring ahead, just above where his hand pinned Sam’s right wrist, like he wasn’t even there at all, like it might’ve been some blonde bimbo Dean was fucking and Dean wouldn’t have cared either way. Not that Sam blamed him. To be quite frank, he was just grateful that Dean had agreed to hunt with him again given that he’d started the apocalypse.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I trusted Ruby. I was so desperate. I just wanted you back, and after that it was too late, I was hooked. I’m sorry I escaped the panic room and killed Lilith- I don’t even know how that one happened.
One of Dean’s harsher thrusts accidentally brushed against his prostate and Sam let out an involuntary gasp. Immediately Dean’s free hand wrapped its way around his throat. This wasn’t love, after all it’d be pretty fucked up to be in love with your brother or something Sam would know. This was stress-relief. This was being locked up in a motel to hide from angels. This was getting out all that pent up rage about the apocalypse, about Michael and Lucifer, about how they’d been played by angels and demons alike, about how their entire lives they’d just been puppets... this was burning out all that rage on someone who could take it. And Sam could take it. Say what you wanted about him, he’d always been strong. Whether it was taking on a werewolf barehanded in Omaha because he’d run out of bullets and Dean was busy with its cousin, or standing up to their alcoholic father when he was berating Dean for losing their money in a poker game when Dean himself was only seventeen.
Sam felt the urge to let out tiny gasps of air and his consciousness began to wane ever so slightly from the right grip Dean had around his windpipe, but he didn’t want to agitate his brother anymore than he already had: no noises from Sam. Not today.
I know I’m a bloodsucking freak and you want to kill me, and I’m sorry you have to put up with me, but I’ve changed, I have ‘gone back.’ Please, just give me a second chance?
The room was devoid of sound save for the rhythmic slap of skin against skin, even the mattress springs were too scared to creak. Dean’s pace picked up, impossibly. Sam’s own dick stood at half mast, confused as to whether or not it should be aroused by the fucking given the person doing it, or put off by the tension in the room and the lack of prostate action.
Dean let out a grunt, his first noise of the night. He came inside of Sam before getting up off the bed and heading to the shower to rid himself of sweat and any other unwanted filth on his skin. Sam breathed in a large gulp of air, feeling beyond sleepy. He didn’t need to examine himself to know there’d be a lot of bruises on him.
The first from when he was slammed against the table would be along his waist. Then when he was picked up and tossed on the bed (ankles and meat of his left arm). Then his right wrist from where Dean’d pinned it above his head. His shoulder from where Dean’s other hand had originally been. His neck from where Dean’d near-suffocated him using the moved hand from his shoulder. He didn’t even want to think about the state his hole would be in. Dean was pretty big and not exactly gentle. There likely wouldn’t be any blood though, because even while mad at him Dean’d cared about him enough to use lube.
And the sick thing? Sam wanted. Even now, he wanted to reach down and feel Dean’s cum in him- would likely do that once his breathing evened and he regained control of his muscles. He wanted Dean: yelling at him, punching him, interacting with him. He’d take the pain if it gave him Dean.
Dean stepped out of the shower, fully dressed in stark contrast to Sam’s under body laid out on the bed they’d just done it in. An unreadably expression on his face, he asked “You okay?”
”Yeah.” His voice was hoarse.
”Good.” And his expression shifted back to apathy as his head turned, likely hoping Sam wouldn’t see it as if he even cared. Dean walked to the door and left.
And that was it, the worst part of the night. Sam sighed, not letting himself think about it too much. Instead he just turned on his side and moved his least bruised arm under his pillow as he tried to fall asleep in the too-silent room with angels somewhere outside hunting for him and Dean’s heads.
End.