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Sam is the guy who fucked his brother. Simple as that. He can get Mensa-worthy grades, build a career to be featured in Forbes, have a family that will win any reality show, but he’ll always be that incestuous freak.
Even if no one ever knows, he will. Dean will.
That, arguably, is the worst part of this.
“You look grumpy,” Jess says, slipping under the covers next to him.
Yes, kind, beautiful Jess. Right here, a few inches away. Not related to him in any way.
“I’m good,” he says, and it stings, because he isn’t, but the only person who’d hear it would be the one person he shouldn’t be talking to.
Jess peers at him with narrowed eyes, only half-serious, before she chuckles and kisses his cheek.
“Early shift tomorrow?” The question is loaded with meaning, which Jess reinforces by putting her hand over Sam’s chest and rubbing little circles into his breastbone.
Sam actually got a day off from the bookstore tomorrow, but he itches to lie, to tell her he needs to sleep, even though he’s got no good reason to.
She loves him. He owes her honesty, if he can’t tell her the truth.
“Nah.” He looks up at her, tries to mirror the licks of fire in her eyes.
“Well, in that case,” she purrs, and leans down to kiss him properly.
He kisses back, hoping she doesn’t read it as perfunctory. It’s been about a year, and she still hasn’t called him out on his bullshit, so he must be a better actor than he thought himself to be. Good quality for a future lawyer.
Good quality for a hunter, too.
His past life flashes before his eyes, like he’s checking out of it all over again, a kind of death that follows him, reiterating itself in his head on a weekly basis. Monsters, weapons, Dad—
Dean.
The final image is always Dean.
It’s also the one that lingers the longest.
When Jess climbs over him to straddle him, he looks up at her face and sees his brother.
If it were the first time that happened, he’d brush it off as a fluke.
It isn’t.
“C’mon, baby,” Jess says, bending down to kiss him again.
She’s so beautiful. She’s so kind.
Sam wraps his arms around her waist and grinds up into her, trying to will his dick into fullness. Jess lets out a little moan and rolls her hips, pressing her lace-covered pussy against Sam’s still bulge. He’s twenty-one, it should be enough to get him going, but it isn’t, because he’s broken, he’s a fucking broken freak who only wants to fuck the person he should’ve never fucked.
Jess slides a little lower and brings her hand to Sam’s listless dick, while she keeps kissing him, lips too soft, skin too smooth. She’s trying to work him up, fingers too light, too tender, and he wants this to work, desperately.
This should work. If there’s anyone benevolent out there, watching them from above, it will work, and Sam will be a normal guy, with a normal girlfriend, living a normal life.
Doesn’t matter if that’s not really what he wants.
Jess keeps rubbing, kneading, stroking, her breaths coming in little huffs against Sam’s mouth. She must be getting frustrated, although she doesn’t show it, is gentle about it, saint-like. Sam wishes she’d yell at him, ask him if there’s someone else, if he’s spending himself somewhere, so he could say yes, Jess, yes, he’s taken, he’s not here, he never was.
She asks him nothing.
Her lips move to his cheek, as her hand slows down, until her palm’s just lying over Sam’s soft dick, careful but not insisting on anything.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, throwing his arm over his forehead. “I’m just—I’m knackered.” It’s a lame excuse, with no discernible reason behind it, but it’s all he can offer.
Jess presses a light kiss to his nose.
“You’re studying too hard.” What hurts the most is that there’s no reproach in it.
The semester has just started, and he hasn’t even opened a single book yet, but he lets Jess believe what is safe for both of them.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and she slaps his chest lightly, lighter than Dean usually does.
“Don’t be,” she tells him with another gentle kiss, and slides off him, flopping onto her back.
Red rises behind Sam’s eyes. He can’t let it go like this, can’t let his freak side win.
If he screws up this relationship, it will be the end of him.
He rolls over, bracketing Jess between his arms, and kisses her with a wild, broken determination of someone who decided to believe in conversion therapy for himself. Her mouth tastes of mint, it’s nothing like Dean’s, but Sam puts all the passion he doesn’t feel into it.
She makes a short sound, like a squeak, possibly trying to tell him he doesn’t have to do anything, except he has to, for his own sake. He glides down her body, pressing kisses as he goes—in the hollow at the bottom of her neck, between her breasts, across the plain of her stomach. She smells nice, citrus shower gel and sweet sweat, and he tries to tell himself he likes it, likes it more than gunpowder and cheap aftershave.
His dick still doesn’t stir.
He drags her panties down, pulls her legs apart, and dives between them. She makes another short sound, surprised this time, her hand reaching down to pat his hair.
“Sam, it’s okay, you—”
He doesn’t let her finish the sentence.
His tongue glides over her pussy, adding his spit to her wetness, mixing them together, the way they should be. He puts his fingers on her folds, spreading them apart, rubbing the tender skin on the inside. She moans, her legs swaying around his head, while he licks long stripes up her softness. He darts his tongue inside her, drags it over her walls as far as he can reach, and she squirms, her fingers tightening in his hair.
She’s sweet like this, open for him, pliable. Sam sucks on her clit, laps at it with rapid strikes of his tongue, dips a couple of fingers inside her. It’s rote, mostly, but it’s also gratitude, as much of it as he can muster for her. He wants to do more, to be more, but she isn’t Dean, and he can only be real for his brother.
Which means he will never be the real him, and maybe that’s for the best.
Jess starts trembling, her moans going higher, more frantic, and he focuses on her clit, tongue fast and precise, until she arches under him, entire body shuddering.
“Oh God,” she sighs, and Sam gives her a few soft licks before pulling away and returning to his side of the bed.
He doesn’t feel pride or satisfaction, nothing but guilt. It scratches at his ribs, reminding him who he is and who he isn’t, it itches under his skin, claws at his brain from the inside.
Jess presses her forehead to his shoulder, her little breaths still hitching. He pets her hair, doesn’t feel it under his fingers.
“Love you,” she tells him, soft and sleepy, and he wants to bang his head on the wall.
“Yeah,” he says, forcing the words into his mouth, no matter how bitter they taste. “Me too.”
Jess sighs happily and settles, pressed up against his side. He stares at the ceiling, as he listens to her drift asleep. In the dim room, the white paint looks a distant, miserable gray.
He’s been shopping for rings, for some time already, but he can’t choose. It’s too much, too important, like everything depends on those rings, their style, their material, their price. If he chooses wrong, his entire relationship will collapse, Jess will see right through him, will realize that this isn’t working, that he doesn’t know her, not like he should.
It’s not Jess’s fault, of course. She probably doesn’t even suspect how bad things are.
Things are so bad, Sam doesn’t know how he still hasn’t called Jess Dean’s name. Or maybe he has, she’s just too polite to point it out.
He’s dreaming, long, hot dreams of his brother. One stupid night, and his brain is fucked.
The memories haven’t faded as he’d hoped, rising stark and vivid inside his mind whenever he lets it roam. Dean’s body moving under him, Dean’s voice whispering against his skin, Dean, Dean, Dean, inside him, around him, everywhere.
He thought he could get over this. Every night, he prayed to get over it, but whoever sits above doesn’t seem to listen.
His dick is half-hard in his boxers, and he knows what he’s going to do, no matter how much he’ll hate himself for it—no matter how much Dean will hate him for it.
He gets out of the bed, careful not to wake Jess, grabs his phone, and locks himself in the bathroom. First, he washes out his mouth, spits out the taste of Jess, as if that can remove her from the equation of his cursed life.
His finger hovers over the call button, as he stands frozen by the sink, not even debating anything in his mind, just letting himself sink deep, deeper, all the way to the bottom.
When he’s settled uncomfortably in the silt, nowhere else to go, he presses the button.
Dean picks up on the first ring, and Sam cannot get out of this conversation now.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, easy like it doesn’t hurt him as much as it does Sam. “Whatcha wearing?”
Your skin, Sam doesn’t say, although he really, really wants to.
“Don’t tell me, I’ll guess.” Dean makes a long, humming sound, as if he has to think hard. They both know he doesn’t. “Old black boxers and a ratty t-shirt with a band I’m not gonna say aloud, or I’ll never wash it out of my mouth.”
Sam almost argues that Green Day isn’t that bad, or that his underwear is of a totally respectable age, except he’ll only be confirming that Dean’s one-hundred-percent right.
Dean doesn’t stop there, because he never does.
“You’re wearing that crap, ‘cause you don’t need to look hot for your girlfriend anymore, am I right, Sammy?” He gives Sam no space for an answer. “And truth is, you want her to dump you, so you can have plausible deniability.” He draws the words out, overpronounces them to mock either Sam or himself. Most probably, both.
Sam can see it: it’s not his sick mind that ruined this; it’s her too neat, too constricting demands. Unfair to her, but maybe not as unfair as what he’s doing now.
His frame of reference is all fucked up.
“Could work,” Dean continues, “unless she actually loves you.” He sounds startled by his own suggestion, but he recovers quickly. “See, Sammy, and take it from someone who knows, you’ll look fucking hot in a garbage bag.”
It’s a compliment that has no business existing, but there it is, stark and proud, smack in the middle of Sam’s world.
His brother thinks he’s hot. Sacramento is the capital of California.
There’s nothing Sam can do about either of those things.
He stares at his reflection over the sink and wishes he could hang up.
“You’re looking in the mirror,” Dean says, “and I know, I know, your bitchy face is a piece of art, but c’mon, Sammy, that’s not why you’re here.”
Here, in the bathroom. Here, in Palo Alto. Here, on this fucking Earth.
Sam doesn’t remember why he’s in any of those places.
He staggers backward from the sink and barely manages to close the toilet lid before he drops onto it, his dick tenting his boxers, anticipating orders like a good little soldier.
“Sitting down now, are you, Sammy?” Dean doesn’t wait for a confirmation. “I’m right there with you. Look between your legs. See me?”
Sam could scream, he wants this to be true so much. He wants Dean here, and it’s the last thing he should be wanting.
“I put my hands on your knees, just hanging out here,” Dean says, casual, “but you’re already on fire, aren’t you? You’re so hard for me, little brother, and I haven’t even really touched you.”
He doesn’t phrase this as a question; doesn’t need to.
Sam presses the phone to his ear, fingers digging into the plastic. If he doesn’t crush it before the end of the night, he’ll consider that an achievement.
“Your legs, so fucking long, when did you grow so long, Sammy?” Dean’s making it sound awed instead of teasing. Sam bites his lip, so he doesn’t whine. “I’m rubbing your thighs, the inside, where you’re all goosebump-y, and you’re biting your lips, you pretty fucking boy.”
Sometimes Sam wonders if Dean has sold his soul for a magical CCTV wired right into Sam’s head.
He wouldn’t need to, of course, the way they grew up, the way he raised Sam, taught Sam everything without even meaning to. All that Sam is, comes from Dean, from listening to him, watching him, bending over backwards to make him smile.
Running away did nothing to that, couldn’t, no matter how much Sam hoped it would.
“I slide my fingers under your boxers, spread them over your hips,” Dean says, and Sam’s dick wets the thin cotton. “You should try panties, you know. Want me to send some to you?”
Sam chokes on his breath and clasps his hand over the phone mic, wishing Dean didn’t hear that.
Dean laughs, gleeful.
“It’s fine, Sammy, it’s fine.” He’s smiling on the other end, but Sam knows there are knives cutting into the corners of his mouth, and he’s the one holding them. “I tug on your hair there, a little too hard, but you like it, you like it when it stings, when you know I’m here for you.”
Sam looks down at himself, his legs open wide, as if Dean’s really sitting there between them, and he dips his hand into his boxers, grips the coarse hairs springing there, and pulls.
It stings. He likes it.
“You want me to touch you,” Dean says, almost an accusation, “touch your dick, get my fingers all over it, give you the full happy ending treatment. But we ain’t in a hurry, Sammy, are we?” His voice turns sly, and Sam wants to strangle him, kiss him, never know him in his life. “We got all night.”
They got lives, both of them. Sam has Jess and college and friends, Dean has Dad and whiskey and family business, but none of that matters.
When Sam calls, all of that stops. When Dean picks up, something else starts.
Sam doesn’t have a name for it, is afraid to name it, make it real.
He swims in the haze of this shared dream and breathes his brother’s voice.
“I roll your boxers down, and there you are, baby boy, there you are, you big fucking bastard, all angry and beautiful, fuck, what a cock,” Dean coos, hits those primal chords in Sam, the ones that make him rabid for his brother’s praise. “Best one I’ve seen, and you know me, I’m a collector.” He is; Sam hates him for it, has no right to hate him. “I dab a finger at your slit, get it nice and wet with your drool, lick it all up. You’re so sweet, Sammy, must be all your fucking salads.”
Sam gets his dick out of his boxers and stares at it before reaching down to collect his precome with his thumb. He doesn’t taste sweet to himself, but that’s not the point.
“Let’s talk about your nipples,” Dean suggests, cheerful. “Are they hard? Are they happy to see me?”
Sam brushes his hand over his chest and nods, defeated.
“I reach under your dumb shirt and pinch the left one, just a little, just to say hello. You can moan, Sammy, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.”
Sam bites his lip harder, mutinous.
“You’re gonna draw blood if you keep that up,” Dean warns him, but he doesn’t sound too worried. “Your sweet, sweet blood. How’s everything about you taste so good?”
Dean’s literally licked Sam’s wounds on multiple occasions, including the split lips he’d given Sam himself. Sometimes it was an apology, sometimes it was foreplay, sometimes a desperate need to get proof of life, and not a single time could Sam deny him. He’d watch his blood stain his brother’s lips, and he’d get hard, his brain confused between the morbid and the erotic.
It’s not a wonder, but it is a wickedness, one of the things Sam’s been trying so hard to eradicate from himself.
Considering his present situation, he hasn’t been trying hard enough.
“I get my hands on both your nipples,” Dean resumes his taunting, “and I twist them, twist them until it hurts, until you arch your back and whimper, because you don’t want me to stop, but you think you should.”
Sam rucks his t-shirt up and twists his left nipple, his fingers not nearly as rough as Dean’s. He still whimpers, a sad, lonely sound.
“There you go,” Dean says, delighted. “You know what I do next? I reach up, and I bite your right nipple, shake my head with it clasped between my teeth, like a dog with a bone. You’re my bone, Sammy, you know? You know.”
Sam does.
“How’s your dick doing?” Dean asks pleasantly. “Does it miss me? I miss it.” His breath hitches, and he pauses, like he’s said more than he intended. “Let’s take care of it, shall we?”
Sam looks down at his erection, the treacherous inevitability of it.
“I drag my hands down, press them to your abs, fuck, your fucking body.” Dean smacks his lips. “Could come just from looking at you, I swear to God.”
They haven’t seen each other in over a year, and it hurts so much, Sam whimpers again. He can hear Dean smile, but it’s not a happy one.
“I bite you, right next to your belly button. It will leave a mark, and you’ll like it.”
Sam pinches his stomach, so his nails leave imprints on the soft skin.
“I kiss down your happy trail, my hands cradling your crotch, and my thumbs brush over your balls. Your dick’s poking at my neck, but you want more, want my mouth, Sammy, don’t you?”
He does, God help him, he does.
“Do you want your girlfriend present?” Dean asks, conversational. Sam freezes, his fingers in midair, where he was reaching for himself. “Nah, just kidding. Don’t want anyone else touching you. You’re mine, Sammy, you know that, right?”
It doesn’t matter what Sam thinks he knows.
“I press my thumb to the spot at the base of your dick, you know the one, and I put my lips to the head. Fuck, you’re hot, gotta be careful, or I’ll get burned.” It’s truer than Dean makes it out to be, hiding the bleeding cracks between them under fake playfulness. “I slide down your dick, stretch my lips around you, God, you’re so big.”
Sam licks his palm and wraps it around the upper half of his dick. It’s woefully not enough.
“I lick you up and down and sideways, leave no patch of skin dry, get you all wet and shiny, what a fucking beauty.” Dean almost howls the last word, drags it out till it embeds itself into Sam’s brain, makes his dick jump in his hand. “I wanna swallow you whole. Can I Sammy? Do you want me to?”
It’s a stupid, stupid question, and Dean, of course, knows it. He snickers into the phone, making Sam want to hurl his into a wall.
Sam presses it closer to his ear and slides his hand down to the base of his dick.
“I will, I am, can you feel it? Your dick, all the way down my throat, oh fuck, I’m choking on you, and I want more, and you give me more, you always have more to give me, Sammy, that’s why I—” Dean stops abruptly, long two seconds before his next sentence. “I swallow you down, and you feel it, this rub of muscle around you, it’s good, isn’t it? It’s so good.”
A fist around his own dick doesn’t even compare to that, to what Sam remembers, and fuck his memories, really, fuck them.
He could be so happy without them. He would be so desolate without them.
That’s Dean’s place in his life now, and the worst thing is, Dean knows it, too.
“You want me to drown in your come, naughty boy, but I’m not done with you.” It sounds dangerous, and it is, this whole conversation is one fucking forest fire. “I pop off, plant one on the head, lick the spot just under it. You know, I love it when you squirm.”
The truly troubling thing is he knows exactly how to make Sam squirm, knew it already when they fell into Sam’s bed, touched Sam in ways Sam never thought about himself.
No one is supposed to know someone else like this. No one is supposed to be known like this.
It must be impossible, for pure safety reasons, but safety has no place in the Winchester world.
“I drag you down to the floor,” Dean says, and Sam almost slides off the toilet to kneel on the cold tiles. “Level with me, Sammy, be with me.” Sam hears the ‘stay with me,’ but Dean doesn’t say it. “I kiss you, because I want to, because you want me to.” No argument from Sam, no matter how much he wishes it wasn’t true. “If I give you an order, will you listen?”
Orders and Sam never mixed well, Dean must know it. He’s seen enough fights between Sam and Dad, has failed to mediate more than he prefers to admit.
His question, however, is not rhetorical.
Fortunately for them or not, Sam doesn’t know the answer.
“Okay, I’ll ask you,” Dean continues, honey-thick, as if he hasn’t just listened to fifteen seconds of Sam being too afraid to breathe. “Will you get on your hands and knees for me, Sammy?”
Yes, Sam wants to yell. Yes, fuck you, you fucking jerk, you tease, you absolute goddamn terror.
Instead, he sucks in a breath, sharp and destitute, and Dean chuckles on the other side, wherever it might be.
“Good boy.”
It hits Sam smack in the face, and he squeezes his dick in his hand, tight enough to hurt, as if pain can outweigh the pleasure spreading over his reddened cheeks.
“I ruck up your shirt and drag my nails down your bare back. You’re so pretty, Sammy, red lines over your skin, do they hurt?” Everything hurts, every fucking cell in Sam’s body. “I lick along them, lap up your pain, take it away.”
Like he’s always done, all their lives. He’ll do anything—and ‘anything’ means a lot in their world of expanded possibilities—to spare Sam, and he’s doing it now, because the pain of this is nothing to the pain of not having at least this.
“I count the ridges of your spine with my teeth, bury my nose in the crack of your ass, lick down right to your little hole. Oh fuck, Sam, you don’t even know.”
He doesn’t say what it is that eludes Sam’s knowledge, but Sam can guess. His ears burn with it, and his dick spurts precome, slicking his fingers frozen over the head.
“Can you feel my tongue, Sammy? It’s inside you now, wet against your walls, stretching you for me. I thrust it in, roll it in circles, you like that, we both know you do.”
Sam shifts to sit at the edge of the toilet, takes his hand off himself, sucks on his finger, and cants his hips, reaching down his boxers, until he can get that finger inside himself. The angle is atrocious, and he can’t do much like this, except imagine his brother doing it better.
“I lick your hole until it shines with my spit, such a pretty sight, wanna kiss it, and you know what’s the best thing?” The best thing would be hanging up and never calling again, but life isn’t that easy on either of them. “I can, and I do.”
Dean makes a smooching sound into the phone, and Sam jolts with how ridiculous it is, how jarring, how Dean.
“You know what I do next? That’s right, I slick my fingers and I put them in you, two at once. You can take it, Sammy, get loose for me, nice and easy.”
Nothing about this is nice or easy, but Sam isn’t going to say it, doesn’t see the point.
“There you go,” Dean coos, “taking three now, wanna make it to four? More? C’mon, we can do whatever you want.”
Except all Sam wants is to not want this at all.
“Fine, you win, let’s move on to the main event.” Something rustles, and Sam hears a zipper being opened. His chest flushes, as he remembers what Dean’s dick looks like, the violent beauty of it. “I press against your shiny hole, don’t worry, baby, I’m dripping lube for you, it’s gonna be okay.”
Sam realizes guiltily that he didn’t even doubt that for a second.
“I’m gonna make you feel so good, Sammy.” Dean’s purring promises he could keep if Sam’d let him, let them both. “Can your girlfriend make you feel this good? Don’t answer that. We both know she can’t.” It’s true, horribly. “Not even with that fancy strap-on you got on your what? Birthday? Anniversary? Halloween?” His first guess was right, and Sam hates him for it, needs him so much. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not my dick, and that’s that. Am I right, Sam?”
It should be humiliating, to be reduced to his floppy constituents, the raw ingredients that compose Sam Winchester, the guy who fucked his brother.
When Dean’s voice slides into Sam’s ear again, humiliation is the last thing Sam feels.
“I push, and you give, you’re greedy for me, sucking me in, my good boy, my baby.” Dean’s breaths shorten, and Sam strains his ears for the sound of skin over skin. “I’m in you, Sam, you can feel it, us, moving together, pressing and pulling and grinding, feeling all of each other—” He makes a sound like he’s trying to hide a moan, and Sam wants, viciously, to grab him and shake him, make him admit that it affects him as much as it does Sam.
Dean, one could argue, is also the guy who fucked his brother, except he wears this badge with a pride Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to understand.
“I hit that sweet spot, I know how to fuck you, little brother, how to make it build in you, build and build and build—” He cuts himself off again, and Sam, frustrated, tries to wiggle his own finger inside himself, but he’s just contorting himself into a dumb, miserable pretzel. “Don’t try this at home, Sammy, not without me.”
Sam gnaws at his lips, returns his hand to his dick, strokes himself with a resigned urgency.
“I thrust into you till you arch and ache and moan, my fingers dig into your ass, I keep you in place, keep you steady.” Dean inhales, sharp, and Sam latches onto it, like Dean’s just confessed something irredeemable. “I take care of you, I always take care of you, you’re my baby brother, I know exactly what you want.” He chuckles, a little ragged. “You want my hand on your dick, but I’m not letting you come, not yet. You know why?”
Sam can make a pretty good guess, even with his head fogging up.
“‘Cause I want you to fuck my ass next,” Dean tells him, and Sam’s stomach bursts into flames.
He looks at his dick, and he wants to ask it why, why it tortures him like this, as if it’s responsible, as if it’s the fault of his body, something purely physical that could be fixed with a pill and a lifestyle change.
Chemical castration doesn’t feel like such a bad thing right now.
“I pull out,” Dean says, brisk, “and I flip you over, lube up my fingers, give you a little show.” Something rustles, and Sam listens to the wet slap of skin over skin for a few seconds. “You hear it, Sammy? My hand on my dick, where it should be yours. Do you? Blink if you do. You blinked, didn’t you? I know. I’m your big brother, ‘course I know.”
Sam feels five years old, which is a pretty fucked-up thing to feel in the midst of phone sex or whatever it is they’re doing.
He’s not sure if sex is the right word for it. Mutually assured destruction, more like.
“Will you fuck me, Sammy?” It’s light, cheerful, confident in the answer that Sam won’t give. “Fill me up? Rearrange my insides?” He drawls the last one, adds a touch of irony, and it still makes Sam’s dick throb.
His fist stutters around him, loses its rhythm, and he kneads furiously at himself, hissing when a gnawed nail scratches over the thin skin.
“It’s okay, baby boy,” Dean tells him, like he did thousands of times in their lives, “you don’t gotta do anything.” His voice is more even, stable, something constant that Sam can latch onto. Sam wishes it weren’t like this. “I straddle you, line us up, and take you in, go all the way down, that’s right, I got you, Sammy. I got you.”
Isn’t this what Sam always wanted? Isn’t this the only thing he’s ever dreamt of?
His big brother, making everything go away.
“Will you grip my hips, so they’ll bruise?” Dean combines velvet with humor so effortlessly, Sam wants to cry. “Will you pump my dick in time with my thrusts? Maybe let out a litany of curses?”
Belatedly, Sam realizes he’s already crying.
His dick is weeping in his hand, too, but Sam feels no sympathy for it.
“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean tells him, his reassuring voice, the voice for Sam’s scraped knees and scarred cheeks. “I fuck myself on you, God, your dick, perfect for my ass, we were made for each other, kiddo.”
Sam gasps, his heart thundering in his ears, but Dean’s words come through loud and clear and lethal.
“I lift my hips, and I drop down, and I clench around you,” Dean’s almost whispering now, soothing and burning, “and it’s all you can do not to lose it, but you know what, little brother?” Sam presses his fingers tighter around himself, his fist sliding up and down in a fast, rabid daze. “It’s okay,” Dean says again, and Sam whimpers into the phone, doesn’t have the bandwidth to be mortified anymore. “You can come, Sammy, it’s okay.”
Sam erupts, come shooting up and landing in whitish splatters over his half-dropped boxers. In his ear, Dean’s breath catches, he makes one short sound of pleasure, and then it’s over.
Sooner or later, it’s always over.
“How you doing, Sammy?” Dean asks, more gentle than teasing. “You good?” He waits for a long moment, even though they both know Sam’s not going to answer. “It’s no problem, kiddo, call me whenever you want. With whatever you want.”
As if Sam ever calls for any other reason.
He wants to tell Dean to come for him, take him away, take him back.
If he does, Dean will, he will drop everything and break every speed limit he encounters, and he’ll be here, as if Sam hadn’t stomped all over him when he left, when he kept calling.
Dean tried to call him first once. Sam didn’t pick up. Dean never tried again.
They breathe into their respective phones, one minute, two, just hanging on, and it’s almost like being in the same room, except it’s not. Sam can hear Dean, Dean can hear him, but the miles still stretch between them—the uncrossable miles that separate the worlds they’ve decided to inhabit and can’t escape.
It’s Dean who delivers the coup de grâce.
“Good night,” he pauses, says the last word with more warmth than Sam deserves, “bitch.”
Sam startles, the phone falling from his hand into his stained lap. He picks it up, sluggish, and disconnects the call, finger smearing a blob of come over the screen.
“Jerk,” he whispers dumbly into the empty air, made bitter with the odor of his atrocities.
He wipes the phone on his t-shirt and swears he’ll stop calling, will stop this torment for both of them.
Two weeks later, he calls again.