Fic: The Second Time Around (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 6,300
Warnings: rough sex, dirty talk,bondage, rimming, comeplay, spanking, angst, schmoop and maybe some dub-con (depending on how you look at it) and a major fandom cliche - the curse made them do it.
Notes: Written as a special thank you for stillastranger for betaing In The Flesh and for being made of pure, industrial-grade awesome. Love you, bb! This was going to just be some fluffy porn... and then something else happened. IDEK. Anyway, I tried to hit all of your kinks, babe, so hopefully you like dispite the unnecessary level of angst that happened there in the middle.
Summary - Sam's back from Stanford, but that doesn't mean everything's ok. The boys still have a lot of issues to work out and when a curse finally makes them confront their problems, Sam finally gets the punishment he 'deserves'.
"I told you therapy was evil."
Sam sighs and barely refrains from banging his head against the keyboard of his laptop repeatedly.
"Therapy is helpful to millions of people all over the world," he replies instead, unable to ignore the strain of frustration in his own voice.
"I'm sure the Bellman's will be real comforted by that, Sammy," Dean grumbles back, flipping up a page in the manila file folder even though Sam's convinced his brother is just pretending to read the autopsy file - he's been at it for over an hour.
Sam sighs, knows he's going to snap out his answer even before he says, "One therapist, Dean. One evil, curse-wielding therapist - it does not make the whole profession evil. And my name is Sam." Half-heartedly he tosses the cheap motel pen next to his hand at his brother's bed and cradles his head in his hand. "I used to have normal conversations," he mutters and peers through his bangs at the laptop screen.
There's nothing there about Dr. Martin Gambil that he hadn't found in the first couple of hours of research. Degree from the University of Pennsylvania, specializing in couples therapy; married and divorced once; restraining order filed by his ex-wife; painted his office walls with his own grey matter with a Colt .45 while on the phone with the former Mrs. Dr. Gambil five months ago. Since then, three different couples - all in couples therapy though not all former patients of Gambil's - none with a history of domestic violence, had injured or killed one another. The survivors all claimed that nothing out of the ordinary had happened prior to the event, that they had simply been overwhelmed by their feelings of hurt/betrayal/mistrust/anger and suddenly snapped. A little further digging found that all three couples had recently begun or returned to therapy in the same clinic that Gambil had operated out of.
The lack of other phenomena like flickering lights or cold spots had suggested that it wasn't a ghost they were dealing with, and it didn't take more than a cursory investigation of Gambil's office with a black light to find the curse symbols inscribed under a coat of fresh paint on the walls - just waiting to be put into effect by Gambil's life-energy. It was totally beyond Sam why the guy would want to curse his patients seeing as it seemed like it was his ex that he was really pissed at, but at this point it didn't really matter.
They'd broken the curse circle via the fast and dirty method - Dean's pick, of course - and shoved an iron hammer through the drywall with the inscription on it along with a quick cleansing ritual. It wasn't fool proof, but Gambil obviously hadn't had much training in what he was doing; probably just found something on the internet and happened to get lucky. Still, with the circle broken, the curse shouldn't affect anyone who it hadn't already latched onto - that was the part that worried Sam.
The runes weren't specific and Sam hadn't been able to make out how the curse was targeting victims. Obviously the couple part was important and it seemed like the kind of issues the couple was having also mattered - of the pairs who had fallen victim, one had sited infidelity on the wife's part as the reason for their sessions, the husband in the second couple had felt neglected by his wife's work schedule and in the third the husband had stated that his wife frequently made him feel ‘inadequate’. So, obviously Gambil's curse was some kind of husband crusader, though Sam doubted any of the affected men would see it that way; especially Mr. Bellman, the husband from the first couple, who was set to be tried next month for beating his wife to death with a rolling pin.
Sam shivers at the thought despite himself and shuts the laptop. His eyes burn like he has sandpaper scraping across his corneas every time he blinks and there's a niggling pain behind his eyebrows that he knows from too many late night cram sessions means he's been focused on reading for too long.
He flops down on his own bed with a groan, blocking out the dim light of the bedside lamp with the heel of his hands resting against either eye.
"Tired, Sammy?" Dean asks and it's hard to tell what emotion is lingering behind the words. There was a time when Sam could read that man like a book just from the sound of his breath or the way he held a fork; it's been disconcerting to come back and figure out that he can't do it anymore - that the Dean sitting across from him in a roadside greasy-spoon or next to him in the Impala isn't the brother he left behind almost five years ago. Worse to know that at least part of that change is his own doing.
Sam resigns himself and forces his eyes open, the muscles in them twinge as they fight to adjust to the sudden influx of light. Dean's still just sitting on his bed, back braced against the headboard with his legs spread out in front of him. Once that would have been irresistible to Sam; he would have had to crawl up between Dean's thighs and rub himself against the warm press of his brother's groin until they were both so hard and needy that tearing each other's clothes off and crashing their mouths together until they both came from the sweet friction would have been a foregone conclusion. But that wasn't an option anymore, like so much else that had made Sam's life before Stanford worth living - because he gave it up for a chance at something he thought would be better.
For just one phantom second, he'd swear he sees it there behind Dean's eyes too; the longing for sweat-soaked nights in the Impala and rushed, breathless handjobs in a roadstop bathroom and big, solid arms wrapped around him in the mornings. To have his brother back; for real this time.
Just as quick, the look's gone, so fast Sam's not even sure it was ever more than his own pathetic hope to begin with. All over again, that deep, cold something settles in the pit of Sam's gut, full of all the things Dean will never let him make right because maybe he doesn't deserve to. He wonder's when that'll stop being a disappointment.
Sam just nods and Dean tosses aside the file he probably hasn't been reading. It's still a challenge every damn time for Sam not to stare when his brother shucks out of his jeans and t-shirt, leaving only dark, close fitting boxer-briefs for him to sleep in.
Back ‘Before’, Dean had always worn boxers - collected stupid souvenir ones with 'Everything's Bigger In Texas' written on them or patterns of tiny roosters or smiling pumpkins; random shit that made Sam grin even when they were both too bruised and exhausted to do more than to fall into bed and try not to cuddle so obviously that Dad would notice - and it always surprises Sam to rediscover they're not there. Just one more thing that's not quite right anymore.
Dean's body was perfect back then and that at least hasn't changed. He's still all rolling, labor-won muscle and pale, pink-tinted skin. There are scars there that Sam doesn't know the stories behind and he doesn't have the right to ask anymore. Most of them are messy, poorly stitched because Sam was always the best at first aid and Sam wasn't there to do it. His throat threatens to close like the guilt is sending him into anaphylaxis but at least that makes it easier to look away before Dean turns around and notices him watching.
Dean's hair catches the light of the 30 watt bulb as he leans over to flick off the light, glittering gold and amber and Sam ignores it the way he does everything else about his brother that makes his mouth water and his fingers itch - which is to say, not at all.
Sam doesn't bother to take off his clothes to go to bed much anymore, even though sleeping in jeans categorically sucks. Sometimes he thinks it's all just some fucked up little way of punishing himself because Dean's still pretending that everything's fine and dandy between them now - worse, like they're just normal brothers - and that's no one's fault but his own. Then he thinks that idea’s too fucked up to even think about and he tells his brain to shut up. Amazing how that never works.
He turns over on his side, striving for a comfortable position that just doesn't exist on the body-sprung mattress. With a sigh, he gives in and pulls the extra pillow up against his side, looping his arm over it. It's pathetic, but it always makes him feel slightly less alone.
His mouth opens, voice crackling on something that never quite turns into "Goodnight, Dean," the way it wants to. Dean rustles around in his own bed and doesn't say anything either. It feels like a couple of years before Sam's worn out eyes finally close.
***
Sam wakes with a jolt as a shirt hits him square in the face.
"Get the fuck up," is growled from impossibly far away, Dean's voice husky and thick in a way that Sam hasn't heard in years; not since the last time he and Dean...
Sam's eyes shoot open, adjusting quickly to the brightness of the lamplight. Dean's backed up in the corner by the door, as far away from Sam as he can physically get and still be in the room. He's breathing hard; puffy lips parted around heavy gasps of air, chest heaving and flushed all the way down to the prominent bulge fighting to escape the confines of his underwear. Sam doesn't mean to whimper needily the way he does, but it still makes Dean's half-lidded eyes slam shut, fingers scrabbling at the faded wallpaper behind him like he intends to claw his way right through to the room next door.
"Something's wrong," his brother manages to croak out, looking like every word is dragged out of him tooth and nail. Yeah, Sam could have pretty much figured that much out on his own. The way his big brother trembles every time Sam so much as exhales would have been a clue.
He ends up agreeing pointlessly, shaking his head, "Yeah," because it's actually really hard to focus on talking with his brain whirring into overdrive like a jet engine. The timing's too convenient to be anything but some of Gambil's leftovers, but is it the curse or some kind of booby trap the good doctor left just in case? Sam hadn't found any evidence that Gambil had any kind of active training or long term knowledge of witchcraft, and considering he was desperate enough to use his own life to charge the original curse, he probably wouldn't have had the savvy to throw a secondary protection spell into the mix.
Ok, so, it's just the curse then. Just the curse that made one man kill his wife and two others bind and/or abuse theirs. Fan-freakin'-tastic.
There weren't any other cases in the surrounding area to suggest that Gambil had been targeting anyone other than married couples - the main reason Sam had felt comfortable entering the clinic unprotected in the first place. Damnit! Why hadn't he just planned ahead? Why hadn't he-
Dean sucks in a wet breath, "Sammy, you have to get out of here. I can't- I wanna- Sam, go!"
Fuck, alright, not the time for self-deprecation, he needs to focus on helping Dean.
"Dean, tell me what's happening. I need to know what you’re feeling." Huh, who'd have thought that one day he might actually be able to say those words and get something other than an eye roll out of his brother.
"I'm feeling like you need to get the fuck away from me!" Dean snaps, quivering like a junkie in withdrawal. He's slowly sinking toward the floor, still pressed up against the wall hard enough that the edges of his fingers are white and bloodless.
Maybe the curse wasn't specifically targeted at the institution of marriage; maybe it was more about the bond? Except for the last couple of years he and Dean had spent practically every day of their entire lives together, depended on each other, loved each other in way more than a brotherly sense. Maybe that had been enough for the curse to attach to?
"Sammy," Dean whispers and Sam can't tell if that's desperation or fury in his voice.
Clearly Dean's been pegged for the husband part - and Sam really doesn't have time to be annoyed that even a curse thinks he's the girl in their relationship, but still, come on - which means what? Bellman was pissed at his wife, so he vented his rage with a rolling pin; the guy who felt neglected tied his wife to the bed for four days so she couldn't leave him and almost starved her to death; the third guy felt inferior, so he'd trussed his wife up in the basement and beat the crap out of her. Aside from the fact that Gambil's curse was sorely lacking in creativity, it's also pretty easy to guess why Dean's so freaked out. Sam wonders if it's that Dean knew what was happening that's let him resist attacking or that psychological imperative of his that refuses to let him hurt Sam.
Once again, not the time.
"What do want to do, Dean? Specifics."
"Sam, what the hell is wrong with you? Get out of here!"
"No," Sam shakes his head, tentatively getting up off of the bed and taking a step in his brother's direction. Dean hisses like he's been burned. "It's a curse. Get out of the way or ride it out, right? We've got no choice here."
Dean looks up, fire in his eyes. "Yeah? Well why don't you go ride it out in the fucking car, huh?"
Sam tries really hard not to sigh in frustration - Dean's probably pissed enough at him as it is. "Doesn't work that way. It's not going to let you go until you work through whatever it is you need to with me."
"Thank you, Dr. Freud!" Dean sneers.
Sam just shrugs, hoping it comes across as unconcerned as he wishes he was. "Hey, if the curse fits."
His brother barks out something that looks like a laugh and sounds like a sob, clawing at the carpet.
"Sam, please. I don't want to hurt you."
"Yeah, you do."
Dean's head thunks back against the wall and Sam takes a moment to be thankful that they've got the last room on the row. If this is going to go as rough as he thinks it will, there's a good chance somebody'll be able to hear them from the main office - they really need all the time they can get. Something curls in the pit of his gut that's a lot more like anticipation than he'd care to consider.
"Come on," he urges when Dean makes no sign of doing anything but trying to coil in on himself until he ceases to exist. "Tell me what you need, we'll figure out a way to make it work. You want to hit me? Beat me up? Cut me, shoot me, kill me? C'mon, Dean, give me something here! We've got to talk about this!"
"You wanna know?" Dean's words are nearly unintelligible over the heat in his voice and the way he's mumbling them right into his own drawn up knees. "You seriously wanna fuckin' know, Sammy?"
"Have to." It's not a even lie.
Dean's hands clamp around his own legs and Sam can see his breathing pick up even before he starts to speak. "Wanna fuck you up, baby boy," he snarls, fingernails rasping against his own skin, leaving little red lines like absolution on his pale flesh.
Sam's belly quivers at the term of endearment; too many memories of hands on sweat-slick skin, bodies pushing together, frantic stolen moments, love and filth whispered against the shell of his ear in equal measure. He swallows down the heat threatening to engulf him and tries to listen hard enough to hear the things that even the magic can't make Dean say.
The blood's pounding hard in his ears, a steady base drum boom that he can feel over every last inch of his skin. This is a stupid idea; if they're going to do this, they need to go in with fail safes, ways for Sam to make sure they can both walk away from this whole once it's over. But they don't know what kind of timeframe they're working on or what the curse could do to Dean if he doesn't follow through. And if Sam's paying attention to that honest little whisper in the back of his head, he knows there's a whole other reason to do things the hard way; because he wants to.
"Do it."
It's more like a heavy breath than a sentence, but Dean hears it, head snapping up to stare at Sam with nothing but sheer, unadulterated terror. He's shaking his head, "no, no, no" falling from his lips like he doesn't even know he's talking, and whatever right-minded hesitation Sam may have had rips apart under the refusal.
"Yes," he says firmly, reaching blindly for the hem of his shirt and tearing it over his head. Dean's eyes track the motion hungrily, sweeping over exposed skin like a physical weight. There's want mixed in with the fear now, and no little bit of anger. Sam pulls at it like a puppet-master, the same way he's always been able to do with Dean.
"C'mon. Do it. I want you to." His fingers fumble numbly with the fly of his jeans, metal gnashing as he jerks the zipper down. He kicks the denim off to the side, skin pebbling in the cool night air.
Dean's jaw is clenched hard enough to grind stone into powder and he's shaking again. It's written all across his face how close he is to coming apart.
Sam goes in for the kill, shucking his boxers as he taunts, "What, are you scared? Come on, man up, boy."
The 'boy' sits wrong on Sam's tongue and maybe if Dean wasn't so strung out on magic, pushing the Dad button wouldn't work, but he is and it does and Sam doesn't have time to do more than blink before his big brother's body is slamming into him with a feral snarl.
If he'd had time to expect anything, he would have expected to end up on the bed with Dean's weight bearing him down, forcing him to take whatever he’s given. That's not how it goes. Instead Sam ends up slammed face-first over the table in the kitchenette. It's solid, sturdy, probably second-hand, and it holds up just fine under their combined weight.
Sam doesn't have a chance to worry about his laptop hitting the floor along with the scattered remains of the case-files, he's too busy worrying about dragging a breath into his shell-shocked lungs. Cursed or not, Dean's a hunter - not to mention a big brother with years of noogie-giving experience - and he doesn't waste the opportunity of Sam's distraction. Quick and rough, Sam's hands are caught up, tied to the leg of the table with the chafing fabric of his own fucking denim overshirt.
Dean's pressed tight up against his back, skin sticking together as his brother's body rolls with his heavy, fast draws of air. There's only the thin layer of Dean's underwear separating them and Sam is acutely aware of how hard Dean is against the curve of his ass, the little cool spot as his precome-damp briefs drag against the skin.
"Just can't leave anything alone, can you, Sammy?” Dean threatens right against Sam’s ear, “Just gotta push. Push and push until somebody breaks. Did it with Dad, did it with me - well now it's your fucking turn, baby boy. Gonna watch you break real pretty for me."
"What're you stalling for?" Sam pants back, voice coming out a little threadier than he'd wanted.
The heat and weight of Dean's body is gone and Sam can't reign in the instinct to arch up and chase it fast enough. There's rustling behind him; crinkles as papers get crushed underfoot, the whump of heavy cloth being moved around, metallic jangle that makes Sam's heart skitter sideways in his chest.
For a minute that's all that happens, Sam just laying over the table, waiting for whatever Dean's going to haul out. It's never been like this, this syrup-thick, expectation creeping between them. Even when it was rough back then, it was always fast; gasped breaths and punishing thrusts, both of them too far gone on exhaustion and 'I could have lost you' to be anything but brutal. Dean never had the patience for drawing it out to make Sam crazy, could never hold back on his own wants and needs long enough to plan something.
Sam hisses in surprise at the first cool touch of leather to his skin. It's light, like a caress up the back of his thigh, but Sam can work out what it is easy enough - hell, he's the one who bought that belt for Dean in the first place. His stomach does a fancy little twist even as his whole body shudders from the slight stimulation and the instantaneous understanding of what's going to come next.
His hands tighten around the denim keeping him in place, body tingling in anticipation of the sting as the belt disappears from his skin. Sam knows his muscles are locked tight, bracing all over for the kind of power he knows Dean can put behind his arm and the fact that right now his brother has no incentive to hold back.
It shocks the hell out of him when, instead of the sharp slap of leather on skin, he gets the soft pressure of Dean's palm cupping his ass. His brother chuckles at Sam's flinch, the sound dark and sweet as sin.
"You still wanna know what I want, Sammy?" he purrs, nothing but a tease in the gentle tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the muscle of Sam's backside, and Sam's head nods against the table of its own volition.
The sound of it hits him before the pain; the whip-crack snap of the belt meeting flesh ringing in his ears as the sizzle of blood rising under the skin swells. He hears himself gasp, body instinctively trying to pull away so that his hips dig hard against the edge of the table.
"I want," Dean starts casually, the smack of the belt's next hit breaking through his words, "to bend you over just like this and tan your hide cherry red for me." Another blow makes good on the claim, burning another hot stripe against Sam's skin. Dean follows it up with two more in fast succession - no less hard - cutting right along the bottom curve where butt meets thigh.
"Get it so hot it burns to touch," Dean carries on, blithely punctuating his thoughts with a steady rain of hits with the belt; the touch stilted and irregular enough that Sam jolts with every single one. "Get you screaming ‘til you voice is wrecked. Make you ache," crack; the heat of it melting across his nerves into a constant throb of pain punctuated by each new strike, "So that when I fuck you raw you feel every," -slam- "fucking," -smack- "inch of me," -snap- "inside and out."
Sam's cock is jumping in time, pressed firmly against the edge of the table with just enough friction from each blow to add to the exquisite torture. He would never in a million years have thought he'd get off on this, but every wicked thought that slides off of Dean's tongue is just feeding this hot little ember lodged in Sam's chest, glowing to match the radiating pummel of heat that's taken over his lower body.
Something inside of Sam knocks loose when Dean unexpectedly molds his body to Sam's, his brain shutting down every function beyond sensation. At some point Dean got naked and the wiry nest of hair around his dripping cock is like steel wool on Sam's abused skin. He hasn't got a clue why that gets him pushing back into Dean’s rutting thrusts, but it does; every white-hot grind making his eyelids flutter.
Without so much as a warning groan Dean seizes up, wet heat bursting from where the head of his cock is nestled temptingly against the furl of Sam's opening. He can't keep down the whine of disappointment that eels out of him anymore than he can keep his hips from rocking back with every sticky pulse of come searing into his skin. It's not until Dean laughs, dirty and breathless, against his ear that Sam realizes the jagged breaths he's letting out are actually pleas; "Don't stop, don't stop, please, Dean, don't stop," on an endless loop in his own shot-to-hell voice.
"Were never this kinky before, Sammy," Dean murmurs, laying hard little nips all around Sam's ear, down his neck, as a broad, callused hand snakes between them. "That what they teach you at Stanford?" The tip of one of Dean's thick fingers finds his hole and punches in just to the first knuckle, wet with nothing but Dean's come. If Sam had been standing, his knees would have buckled.
"Fuck," Dean sounds almost awed; out of it for the first time since he folded Sam over. "Forgot how tight you are, baby boy," his fingertip rubs at the tender flesh inside of Sam, tugs and plays with the rim in a way that makes Sam feel like he's got ragged little shards of sharp-edged pleasure rattling around inside of him, hitting home at random intervals. "Gonna feel so fucking good. Not even gonna open you up, just get you good and slippery, make you take it all."
Sam moans at the image, so far past knowing whether this is about him or Dean or the curse that he doesn't even give a damn anymore. He arches his back, tries to wiggle further onto Dean's finger but he's good and pinned; thrill zinging along his nerves anyway at the reminder of how very much he's not in control of this.
He's muttering little swears and encouragements, not functioning enough to goad his brother with anything more coherent than "need it". At this point, he doesn't even know if it matters to Dean what he needs, but it's true anyway, so he repeats it, keeps right on until he's coaxed Dean's fingers to stop slicking little release-tacky patterns over his red-hot flesh and gotten them stuffed in his mouth instead.
He sucks greedily at the bitter, musky taste - God, he'd almost forgotten how much he loves this - moaning and licking down to the webbing until there's nothing left but the mild flavor of Dean's skin. His brother's fingers pull free of his mouth with a pop, drag back down into the cooling mess between them. Little white spots dance in front of Sam's eyes when Dean's fingernails catch on the skin as he gathers more of the come on his fingers before transporting them back up just out of reach of Sam's seeking mouth. He ends up with more of it painted on his lips and cheeks than on his tongue while Dean toys with him, but then his brother repeats the process again - this time dragging the nails right over his fluttering hole - and he finally gets a satisfying mouthful.
He still hasn't gotten enough of it, never did, probably never really will - his own private little Dean addiction to add to the collection - but at least it's enough to sate him into non-complaint when he gets Dean's mutter of “Slut” before his body’s dragging over the tormented skin of Sam’s ass like an electric charge as his big brother goes to his knees behind Sam.
It's not a complete shock to feel Dean's breath, hot and muggy, against his hole, the skin all around it flaring back to life with the fire from Dean's belt. It is a shock, though, when instead of the slick push of tongue or the come-sticky pull of fingers, what he gets is those same fingers slapping just hard enough to sting, dead-the-fuck-on his opening. Every muscle Sam's got jolts with it, a startled cry ripping from his throat when Dean does it again and again until Sam has to be florescent pink from it.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, bitch," Dean says smugly, not even giving Sam a second to react before the sear is magnified by Dean's burning-hot mouth envelopes the spot.
Dean eats at him like he's ravenous, like he'll die if he doesn't bury his tongue all the way inside of Sam’s ass right this second. He's not being delicate of careful, sucks and slurps like audible filth filling the air along with plenty of rough scrapes of teeth and little bites that make Sam's gut clench and his cock drool.
He's tugging at the fabric around his hands, every pull chafing but he can't help it, needs to funnel the wild-fire need pulsing through him into something.
There's spit trickling down Sam's crease, over onto his balls where it gets rubbed in by the grating push of Dean's chin. He's going to have stubble burn there in the morning plus a hell of a lot of other bruises and scrapes to match and he already adores every single one like the missing parts of himself.
Dean's mouth leaves him too soon, so fast he's left clenching around the emptiness as his brother's tongue licks a long, flat stripe through the sheen of sweat gathered in the valley of his spine.
He gets distracted after that, splintered attention hanging on the bright surge of pain as Dean's teeth sink into the tensed muscle between Sam's neck and shoulder and the fuzzy-edged ache as the blunt head of Dean's cock forces its way mercilessly past his unprepared opening.
His brother holds him right there, nothing to do but take it as Dean pushes deeper and deeper, both of them gasping and groaning through every hard-won inch. Tears are stinging in Sam's eyes by the time Dean's fully sheathed, feeling like he's being split in two, forced impossibly wide by the perfect length of his big brother's dick.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean's voice cracks around his name, rabbit-fast breaths huffed against the back of Sam's neck, "So fucking tight. Been too long."
Sam has no actual intention of replying, would have sworn he couldn’t even form words, but they slip out anyway, nothing resembling a working brain synapse to keep them from it, "Four years, seven months, twelve days."
For one crisp, clear second he feels Dean still, not so much as breathing though his lungs have to be aching for it the same way Sam's are. He knows Dean knows what the count means; wonders if his brother kept it too with the same helpless, manic need that Sam did even when he tried so hard not to. Then it all goes juddery and surreal again like Sam's mind can't hang onto that much control when everything else in him is falling to pieces.
Dean starts moving inside of him, that sweet little roll to his hips that Sam's never been able to master no matter how hard he's tried. Like the floodgates opened, it all bubbles to the surface, every thought and feeling Sam's spent four years pretending he didn't have.
Every night that he lay awake in his dorm trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to sleep alone when his heartbeat was still attuned to something thousands of miles away. Every time he ever ached for big, rough hands on him and the weight of a cock on his tongue, inside of him. Every time he almost went home with some guy and didn't because he knew it would never be good enough, never be Dean, and he may have betrayed every bit of his brother's trust by leaving him, but that was still one line he could never cross. Every time he looked at Jess and relished all of the ways she wasn't like Dean because it meant that he could love her without ever needing her to measure up to the immeasurable. And the one thought that's haunted him more than any of the others since the night she burned - more than the thoughts about his dreams or how he could/should/would have saved her; the thought that hovers there at the back of his mind every time his eyes settle on his brother.
If he hadn't left, if he hadn't run away and turned his life upside down and ruined every wonderful thing between them for the thing he thought he wanted most, it would have been Dean on the ceiling instead of Jess. And God help him, he's so fucking grateful it wasn't.
Sam screams when he comes, doesn't even know how the fuck he got there because he never felt the pleasure build. It breaks over him like an ocean of broken glass and Novocain, flaying him open for Dean to fill with his warm skin, and his smooth, shushing kisses and the hot throb of come bursting inside of him.
Sam sobs for what might be a minute or a year, grounded only by his brother's weight against his back and Dean's fingers carding slowly through his hair. His body is trembling unchecked by the time his breathing finally even out and Dean seems to take that as a sign that it's ok to move.
It burns like fire when his brother carefully pulls out, come leaking down over his sac and thighs as Dean scrambles around the table to release Sam's hands. His wrists are bright red, a few thin pinpricks of blood in places where the first few layers of skin were rubbed off by Sam's thrashing. He barely feels it beyond the steady, dull pain that covers him all over.
Dean manages to unstick Sam from the table, his sweaty skin clinging to the smooth surface and unsteadily carries him to one of the beds. A dim part of Sam recognizes that they must have fulfilled whatever it was the curse was looking for and finds that he doesn't really care as long as Dean's ok.
His brother is shaking too by the time he manages to flop them both into bed, but that doesn't stop him from immediately moving to get up - probably going for the first aid kit or a wet cloth or something else stupid that Sam doesn't need nearly as much as he needs Dean. Sam just clings to him with whatever watery vestige of strength he has left and Dean folds like always, tentatively wrapping his arms around Sam.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into Sam's hair, words thick like his mouth's too dry to make them. His hands are slowly rubbing over the unmarked parts of Sam, skimming over his back and chest and arms like Dean can't help but check him for injuries even when he knows exactly where they all are.
He's carefully avoiding Sam's wrists, the welts that have to be blood-dark on his ass, fingers skirting away whenever they get near. With an effort, Sam manages to coordinate himself enough to capture one of Dean's hands and gently press it to the tender curve of his backside. The skin is still hot under his own fingertips, shocky little bursts of pleasure-pain erupting from the barely there touch. Dean gasps softly but doesn't move away.
"I'm not," Sam promises, meeting Dean's eyes for the first time since this all started - for what feels like the first time in years.
Dean's still flushed, hair all over the place and the drying white stains of come on his cheeks from when he'd eaten Sam out through the mess of his own release. He looks like 50 miles of really good road and maybe if Sam wasn't bone tired, he'd want to go another round. As it is, he can't seem to look away from the clear, bottle green looking worriedly back at him; a little too wet, but open and unguarded in way Sam had forgotten he knew.
They kiss. He isn't sure who moves first, or who does the kissing, but their lips are on one another, soft and almost chaste; a first kiss, for the second time.
Sam doesn't know what's going to happen from here; how much he said out loud before and how much he only thought. He doesn't know if it's better to tell Dean everything or let the wounds close and he doesn't know what any of it means for the two of them from here on in. But for now, in this moment, with Dean holding onto him like he's something precious and breakable and essential, all of that's alright.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 6,300
Warnings: rough sex, dirty talk,bondage, rimming, comeplay, spanking, angst, schmoop and maybe some dub-con (depending on how you look at it) and a major fandom cliche - the curse made them do it.
Notes: Written as a special thank you for stillastranger for betaing In The Flesh and for being made of pure, industrial-grade awesome. Love you, bb! This was going to just be some fluffy porn... and then something else happened. IDEK. Anyway, I tried to hit all of your kinks, babe, so hopefully you like dispite the unnecessary level of angst that happened there in the middle.
Summary - Sam's back from Stanford, but that doesn't mean everything's ok. The boys still have a lot of issues to work out and when a curse finally makes them confront their problems, Sam finally gets the punishment he 'deserves'.
"I told you therapy was evil."
Sam sighs and barely refrains from banging his head against the keyboard of his laptop repeatedly.
"Therapy is helpful to millions of people all over the world," he replies instead, unable to ignore the strain of frustration in his own voice.
"I'm sure the Bellman's will be real comforted by that, Sammy," Dean grumbles back, flipping up a page in the manila file folder even though Sam's convinced his brother is just pretending to read the autopsy file - he's been at it for over an hour.
Sam sighs, knows he's going to snap out his answer even before he says, "One therapist, Dean. One evil, curse-wielding therapist - it does not make the whole profession evil. And my name is Sam." Half-heartedly he tosses the cheap motel pen next to his hand at his brother's bed and cradles his head in his hand. "I used to have normal conversations," he mutters and peers through his bangs at the laptop screen.
There's nothing there about Dr. Martin Gambil that he hadn't found in the first couple of hours of research. Degree from the University of Pennsylvania, specializing in couples therapy; married and divorced once; restraining order filed by his ex-wife; painted his office walls with his own grey matter with a Colt .45 while on the phone with the former Mrs. Dr. Gambil five months ago. Since then, three different couples - all in couples therapy though not all former patients of Gambil's - none with a history of domestic violence, had injured or killed one another. The survivors all claimed that nothing out of the ordinary had happened prior to the event, that they had simply been overwhelmed by their feelings of hurt/betrayal/mistrust/anger and suddenly snapped. A little further digging found that all three couples had recently begun or returned to therapy in the same clinic that Gambil had operated out of.
The lack of other phenomena like flickering lights or cold spots had suggested that it wasn't a ghost they were dealing with, and it didn't take more than a cursory investigation of Gambil's office with a black light to find the curse symbols inscribed under a coat of fresh paint on the walls - just waiting to be put into effect by Gambil's life-energy. It was totally beyond Sam why the guy would want to curse his patients seeing as it seemed like it was his ex that he was really pissed at, but at this point it didn't really matter.
They'd broken the curse circle via the fast and dirty method - Dean's pick, of course - and shoved an iron hammer through the drywall with the inscription on it along with a quick cleansing ritual. It wasn't fool proof, but Gambil obviously hadn't had much training in what he was doing; probably just found something on the internet and happened to get lucky. Still, with the circle broken, the curse shouldn't affect anyone who it hadn't already latched onto - that was the part that worried Sam.
The runes weren't specific and Sam hadn't been able to make out how the curse was targeting victims. Obviously the couple part was important and it seemed like the kind of issues the couple was having also mattered - of the pairs who had fallen victim, one had sited infidelity on the wife's part as the reason for their sessions, the husband in the second couple had felt neglected by his wife's work schedule and in the third the husband had stated that his wife frequently made him feel ‘inadequate’. So, obviously Gambil's curse was some kind of husband crusader, though Sam doubted any of the affected men would see it that way; especially Mr. Bellman, the husband from the first couple, who was set to be tried next month for beating his wife to death with a rolling pin.
Sam shivers at the thought despite himself and shuts the laptop. His eyes burn like he has sandpaper scraping across his corneas every time he blinks and there's a niggling pain behind his eyebrows that he knows from too many late night cram sessions means he's been focused on reading for too long.
He flops down on his own bed with a groan, blocking out the dim light of the bedside lamp with the heel of his hands resting against either eye.
"Tired, Sammy?" Dean asks and it's hard to tell what emotion is lingering behind the words. There was a time when Sam could read that man like a book just from the sound of his breath or the way he held a fork; it's been disconcerting to come back and figure out that he can't do it anymore - that the Dean sitting across from him in a roadside greasy-spoon or next to him in the Impala isn't the brother he left behind almost five years ago. Worse to know that at least part of that change is his own doing.
Sam resigns himself and forces his eyes open, the muscles in them twinge as they fight to adjust to the sudden influx of light. Dean's still just sitting on his bed, back braced against the headboard with his legs spread out in front of him. Once that would have been irresistible to Sam; he would have had to crawl up between Dean's thighs and rub himself against the warm press of his brother's groin until they were both so hard and needy that tearing each other's clothes off and crashing their mouths together until they both came from the sweet friction would have been a foregone conclusion. But that wasn't an option anymore, like so much else that had made Sam's life before Stanford worth living - because he gave it up for a chance at something he thought would be better.
For just one phantom second, he'd swear he sees it there behind Dean's eyes too; the longing for sweat-soaked nights in the Impala and rushed, breathless handjobs in a roadstop bathroom and big, solid arms wrapped around him in the mornings. To have his brother back; for real this time.
Just as quick, the look's gone, so fast Sam's not even sure it was ever more than his own pathetic hope to begin with. All over again, that deep, cold something settles in the pit of Sam's gut, full of all the things Dean will never let him make right because maybe he doesn't deserve to. He wonder's when that'll stop being a disappointment.
Sam just nods and Dean tosses aside the file he probably hasn't been reading. It's still a challenge every damn time for Sam not to stare when his brother shucks out of his jeans and t-shirt, leaving only dark, close fitting boxer-briefs for him to sleep in.
Back ‘Before’, Dean had always worn boxers - collected stupid souvenir ones with 'Everything's Bigger In Texas' written on them or patterns of tiny roosters or smiling pumpkins; random shit that made Sam grin even when they were both too bruised and exhausted to do more than to fall into bed and try not to cuddle so obviously that Dad would notice - and it always surprises Sam to rediscover they're not there. Just one more thing that's not quite right anymore.
Dean's body was perfect back then and that at least hasn't changed. He's still all rolling, labor-won muscle and pale, pink-tinted skin. There are scars there that Sam doesn't know the stories behind and he doesn't have the right to ask anymore. Most of them are messy, poorly stitched because Sam was always the best at first aid and Sam wasn't there to do it. His throat threatens to close like the guilt is sending him into anaphylaxis but at least that makes it easier to look away before Dean turns around and notices him watching.
Dean's hair catches the light of the 30 watt bulb as he leans over to flick off the light, glittering gold and amber and Sam ignores it the way he does everything else about his brother that makes his mouth water and his fingers itch - which is to say, not at all.
Sam doesn't bother to take off his clothes to go to bed much anymore, even though sleeping in jeans categorically sucks. Sometimes he thinks it's all just some fucked up little way of punishing himself because Dean's still pretending that everything's fine and dandy between them now - worse, like they're just normal brothers - and that's no one's fault but his own. Then he thinks that idea’s too fucked up to even think about and he tells his brain to shut up. Amazing how that never works.
He turns over on his side, striving for a comfortable position that just doesn't exist on the body-sprung mattress. With a sigh, he gives in and pulls the extra pillow up against his side, looping his arm over it. It's pathetic, but it always makes him feel slightly less alone.
His mouth opens, voice crackling on something that never quite turns into "Goodnight, Dean," the way it wants to. Dean rustles around in his own bed and doesn't say anything either. It feels like a couple of years before Sam's worn out eyes finally close.
***
Sam wakes with a jolt as a shirt hits him square in the face.
"Get the fuck up," is growled from impossibly far away, Dean's voice husky and thick in a way that Sam hasn't heard in years; not since the last time he and Dean...
Sam's eyes shoot open, adjusting quickly to the brightness of the lamplight. Dean's backed up in the corner by the door, as far away from Sam as he can physically get and still be in the room. He's breathing hard; puffy lips parted around heavy gasps of air, chest heaving and flushed all the way down to the prominent bulge fighting to escape the confines of his underwear. Sam doesn't mean to whimper needily the way he does, but it still makes Dean's half-lidded eyes slam shut, fingers scrabbling at the faded wallpaper behind him like he intends to claw his way right through to the room next door.
"Something's wrong," his brother manages to croak out, looking like every word is dragged out of him tooth and nail. Yeah, Sam could have pretty much figured that much out on his own. The way his big brother trembles every time Sam so much as exhales would have been a clue.
He ends up agreeing pointlessly, shaking his head, "Yeah," because it's actually really hard to focus on talking with his brain whirring into overdrive like a jet engine. The timing's too convenient to be anything but some of Gambil's leftovers, but is it the curse or some kind of booby trap the good doctor left just in case? Sam hadn't found any evidence that Gambil had any kind of active training or long term knowledge of witchcraft, and considering he was desperate enough to use his own life to charge the original curse, he probably wouldn't have had the savvy to throw a secondary protection spell into the mix.
Ok, so, it's just the curse then. Just the curse that made one man kill his wife and two others bind and/or abuse theirs. Fan-freakin'-tastic.
There weren't any other cases in the surrounding area to suggest that Gambil had been targeting anyone other than married couples - the main reason Sam had felt comfortable entering the clinic unprotected in the first place. Damnit! Why hadn't he just planned ahead? Why hadn't he-
Dean sucks in a wet breath, "Sammy, you have to get out of here. I can't- I wanna- Sam, go!"
Fuck, alright, not the time for self-deprecation, he needs to focus on helping Dean.
"Dean, tell me what's happening. I need to know what you’re feeling." Huh, who'd have thought that one day he might actually be able to say those words and get something other than an eye roll out of his brother.
"I'm feeling like you need to get the fuck away from me!" Dean snaps, quivering like a junkie in withdrawal. He's slowly sinking toward the floor, still pressed up against the wall hard enough that the edges of his fingers are white and bloodless.
Maybe the curse wasn't specifically targeted at the institution of marriage; maybe it was more about the bond? Except for the last couple of years he and Dean had spent practically every day of their entire lives together, depended on each other, loved each other in way more than a brotherly sense. Maybe that had been enough for the curse to attach to?
"Sammy," Dean whispers and Sam can't tell if that's desperation or fury in his voice.
Clearly Dean's been pegged for the husband part - and Sam really doesn't have time to be annoyed that even a curse thinks he's the girl in their relationship, but still, come on - which means what? Bellman was pissed at his wife, so he vented his rage with a rolling pin; the guy who felt neglected tied his wife to the bed for four days so she couldn't leave him and almost starved her to death; the third guy felt inferior, so he'd trussed his wife up in the basement and beat the crap out of her. Aside from the fact that Gambil's curse was sorely lacking in creativity, it's also pretty easy to guess why Dean's so freaked out. Sam wonders if it's that Dean knew what was happening that's let him resist attacking or that psychological imperative of his that refuses to let him hurt Sam.
Once again, not the time.
"What do want to do, Dean? Specifics."
"Sam, what the hell is wrong with you? Get out of here!"
"No," Sam shakes his head, tentatively getting up off of the bed and taking a step in his brother's direction. Dean hisses like he's been burned. "It's a curse. Get out of the way or ride it out, right? We've got no choice here."
Dean looks up, fire in his eyes. "Yeah? Well why don't you go ride it out in the fucking car, huh?"
Sam tries really hard not to sigh in frustration - Dean's probably pissed enough at him as it is. "Doesn't work that way. It's not going to let you go until you work through whatever it is you need to with me."
"Thank you, Dr. Freud!" Dean sneers.
Sam just shrugs, hoping it comes across as unconcerned as he wishes he was. "Hey, if the curse fits."
His brother barks out something that looks like a laugh and sounds like a sob, clawing at the carpet.
"Sam, please. I don't want to hurt you."
"Yeah, you do."
Dean's head thunks back against the wall and Sam takes a moment to be thankful that they've got the last room on the row. If this is going to go as rough as he thinks it will, there's a good chance somebody'll be able to hear them from the main office - they really need all the time they can get. Something curls in the pit of his gut that's a lot more like anticipation than he'd care to consider.
"Come on," he urges when Dean makes no sign of doing anything but trying to coil in on himself until he ceases to exist. "Tell me what you need, we'll figure out a way to make it work. You want to hit me? Beat me up? Cut me, shoot me, kill me? C'mon, Dean, give me something here! We've got to talk about this!"
"You wanna know?" Dean's words are nearly unintelligible over the heat in his voice and the way he's mumbling them right into his own drawn up knees. "You seriously wanna fuckin' know, Sammy?"
"Have to." It's not a even lie.
Dean's hands clamp around his own legs and Sam can see his breathing pick up even before he starts to speak. "Wanna fuck you up, baby boy," he snarls, fingernails rasping against his own skin, leaving little red lines like absolution on his pale flesh.
Sam's belly quivers at the term of endearment; too many memories of hands on sweat-slick skin, bodies pushing together, frantic stolen moments, love and filth whispered against the shell of his ear in equal measure. He swallows down the heat threatening to engulf him and tries to listen hard enough to hear the things that even the magic can't make Dean say.
The blood's pounding hard in his ears, a steady base drum boom that he can feel over every last inch of his skin. This is a stupid idea; if they're going to do this, they need to go in with fail safes, ways for Sam to make sure they can both walk away from this whole once it's over. But they don't know what kind of timeframe they're working on or what the curse could do to Dean if he doesn't follow through. And if Sam's paying attention to that honest little whisper in the back of his head, he knows there's a whole other reason to do things the hard way; because he wants to.
"Do it."
It's more like a heavy breath than a sentence, but Dean hears it, head snapping up to stare at Sam with nothing but sheer, unadulterated terror. He's shaking his head, "no, no, no" falling from his lips like he doesn't even know he's talking, and whatever right-minded hesitation Sam may have had rips apart under the refusal.
"Yes," he says firmly, reaching blindly for the hem of his shirt and tearing it over his head. Dean's eyes track the motion hungrily, sweeping over exposed skin like a physical weight. There's want mixed in with the fear now, and no little bit of anger. Sam pulls at it like a puppet-master, the same way he's always been able to do with Dean.
"C'mon. Do it. I want you to." His fingers fumble numbly with the fly of his jeans, metal gnashing as he jerks the zipper down. He kicks the denim off to the side, skin pebbling in the cool night air.
Dean's jaw is clenched hard enough to grind stone into powder and he's shaking again. It's written all across his face how close he is to coming apart.
Sam goes in for the kill, shucking his boxers as he taunts, "What, are you scared? Come on, man up, boy."
The 'boy' sits wrong on Sam's tongue and maybe if Dean wasn't so strung out on magic, pushing the Dad button wouldn't work, but he is and it does and Sam doesn't have time to do more than blink before his big brother's body is slamming into him with a feral snarl.
If he'd had time to expect anything, he would have expected to end up on the bed with Dean's weight bearing him down, forcing him to take whatever he’s given. That's not how it goes. Instead Sam ends up slammed face-first over the table in the kitchenette. It's solid, sturdy, probably second-hand, and it holds up just fine under their combined weight.
Sam doesn't have a chance to worry about his laptop hitting the floor along with the scattered remains of the case-files, he's too busy worrying about dragging a breath into his shell-shocked lungs. Cursed or not, Dean's a hunter - not to mention a big brother with years of noogie-giving experience - and he doesn't waste the opportunity of Sam's distraction. Quick and rough, Sam's hands are caught up, tied to the leg of the table with the chafing fabric of his own fucking denim overshirt.
Dean's pressed tight up against his back, skin sticking together as his brother's body rolls with his heavy, fast draws of air. There's only the thin layer of Dean's underwear separating them and Sam is acutely aware of how hard Dean is against the curve of his ass, the little cool spot as his precome-damp briefs drag against the skin.
"Just can't leave anything alone, can you, Sammy?” Dean threatens right against Sam’s ear, “Just gotta push. Push and push until somebody breaks. Did it with Dad, did it with me - well now it's your fucking turn, baby boy. Gonna watch you break real pretty for me."
"What're you stalling for?" Sam pants back, voice coming out a little threadier than he'd wanted.
The heat and weight of Dean's body is gone and Sam can't reign in the instinct to arch up and chase it fast enough. There's rustling behind him; crinkles as papers get crushed underfoot, the whump of heavy cloth being moved around, metallic jangle that makes Sam's heart skitter sideways in his chest.
For a minute that's all that happens, Sam just laying over the table, waiting for whatever Dean's going to haul out. It's never been like this, this syrup-thick, expectation creeping between them. Even when it was rough back then, it was always fast; gasped breaths and punishing thrusts, both of them too far gone on exhaustion and 'I could have lost you' to be anything but brutal. Dean never had the patience for drawing it out to make Sam crazy, could never hold back on his own wants and needs long enough to plan something.
Sam hisses in surprise at the first cool touch of leather to his skin. It's light, like a caress up the back of his thigh, but Sam can work out what it is easy enough - hell, he's the one who bought that belt for Dean in the first place. His stomach does a fancy little twist even as his whole body shudders from the slight stimulation and the instantaneous understanding of what's going to come next.
His hands tighten around the denim keeping him in place, body tingling in anticipation of the sting as the belt disappears from his skin. Sam knows his muscles are locked tight, bracing all over for the kind of power he knows Dean can put behind his arm and the fact that right now his brother has no incentive to hold back.
It shocks the hell out of him when, instead of the sharp slap of leather on skin, he gets the soft pressure of Dean's palm cupping his ass. His brother chuckles at Sam's flinch, the sound dark and sweet as sin.
"You still wanna know what I want, Sammy?" he purrs, nothing but a tease in the gentle tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the muscle of Sam's backside, and Sam's head nods against the table of its own volition.
The sound of it hits him before the pain; the whip-crack snap of the belt meeting flesh ringing in his ears as the sizzle of blood rising under the skin swells. He hears himself gasp, body instinctively trying to pull away so that his hips dig hard against the edge of the table.
"I want," Dean starts casually, the smack of the belt's next hit breaking through his words, "to bend you over just like this and tan your hide cherry red for me." Another blow makes good on the claim, burning another hot stripe against Sam's skin. Dean follows it up with two more in fast succession - no less hard - cutting right along the bottom curve where butt meets thigh.
"Get it so hot it burns to touch," Dean carries on, blithely punctuating his thoughts with a steady rain of hits with the belt; the touch stilted and irregular enough that Sam jolts with every single one. "Get you screaming ‘til you voice is wrecked. Make you ache," crack; the heat of it melting across his nerves into a constant throb of pain punctuated by each new strike, "So that when I fuck you raw you feel every," -slam- "fucking," -smack- "inch of me," -snap- "inside and out."
Sam's cock is jumping in time, pressed firmly against the edge of the table with just enough friction from each blow to add to the exquisite torture. He would never in a million years have thought he'd get off on this, but every wicked thought that slides off of Dean's tongue is just feeding this hot little ember lodged in Sam's chest, glowing to match the radiating pummel of heat that's taken over his lower body.
Something inside of Sam knocks loose when Dean unexpectedly molds his body to Sam's, his brain shutting down every function beyond sensation. At some point Dean got naked and the wiry nest of hair around his dripping cock is like steel wool on Sam's abused skin. He hasn't got a clue why that gets him pushing back into Dean’s rutting thrusts, but it does; every white-hot grind making his eyelids flutter.
Without so much as a warning groan Dean seizes up, wet heat bursting from where the head of his cock is nestled temptingly against the furl of Sam's opening. He can't keep down the whine of disappointment that eels out of him anymore than he can keep his hips from rocking back with every sticky pulse of come searing into his skin. It's not until Dean laughs, dirty and breathless, against his ear that Sam realizes the jagged breaths he's letting out are actually pleas; "Don't stop, don't stop, please, Dean, don't stop," on an endless loop in his own shot-to-hell voice.
"Were never this kinky before, Sammy," Dean murmurs, laying hard little nips all around Sam's ear, down his neck, as a broad, callused hand snakes between them. "That what they teach you at Stanford?" The tip of one of Dean's thick fingers finds his hole and punches in just to the first knuckle, wet with nothing but Dean's come. If Sam had been standing, his knees would have buckled.
"Fuck," Dean sounds almost awed; out of it for the first time since he folded Sam over. "Forgot how tight you are, baby boy," his fingertip rubs at the tender flesh inside of Sam, tugs and plays with the rim in a way that makes Sam feel like he's got ragged little shards of sharp-edged pleasure rattling around inside of him, hitting home at random intervals. "Gonna feel so fucking good. Not even gonna open you up, just get you good and slippery, make you take it all."
Sam moans at the image, so far past knowing whether this is about him or Dean or the curse that he doesn't even give a damn anymore. He arches his back, tries to wiggle further onto Dean's finger but he's good and pinned; thrill zinging along his nerves anyway at the reminder of how very much he's not in control of this.
He's muttering little swears and encouragements, not functioning enough to goad his brother with anything more coherent than "need it". At this point, he doesn't even know if it matters to Dean what he needs, but it's true anyway, so he repeats it, keeps right on until he's coaxed Dean's fingers to stop slicking little release-tacky patterns over his red-hot flesh and gotten them stuffed in his mouth instead.
He sucks greedily at the bitter, musky taste - God, he'd almost forgotten how much he loves this - moaning and licking down to the webbing until there's nothing left but the mild flavor of Dean's skin. His brother's fingers pull free of his mouth with a pop, drag back down into the cooling mess between them. Little white spots dance in front of Sam's eyes when Dean's fingernails catch on the skin as he gathers more of the come on his fingers before transporting them back up just out of reach of Sam's seeking mouth. He ends up with more of it painted on his lips and cheeks than on his tongue while Dean toys with him, but then his brother repeats the process again - this time dragging the nails right over his fluttering hole - and he finally gets a satisfying mouthful.
He still hasn't gotten enough of it, never did, probably never really will - his own private little Dean addiction to add to the collection - but at least it's enough to sate him into non-complaint when he gets Dean's mutter of “Slut” before his body’s dragging over the tormented skin of Sam’s ass like an electric charge as his big brother goes to his knees behind Sam.
It's not a complete shock to feel Dean's breath, hot and muggy, against his hole, the skin all around it flaring back to life with the fire from Dean's belt. It is a shock, though, when instead of the slick push of tongue or the come-sticky pull of fingers, what he gets is those same fingers slapping just hard enough to sting, dead-the-fuck-on his opening. Every muscle Sam's got jolts with it, a startled cry ripping from his throat when Dean does it again and again until Sam has to be florescent pink from it.
"Yeah, that's what I thought, bitch," Dean says smugly, not even giving Sam a second to react before the sear is magnified by Dean's burning-hot mouth envelopes the spot.
Dean eats at him like he's ravenous, like he'll die if he doesn't bury his tongue all the way inside of Sam’s ass right this second. He's not being delicate of careful, sucks and slurps like audible filth filling the air along with plenty of rough scrapes of teeth and little bites that make Sam's gut clench and his cock drool.
He's tugging at the fabric around his hands, every pull chafing but he can't help it, needs to funnel the wild-fire need pulsing through him into something.
There's spit trickling down Sam's crease, over onto his balls where it gets rubbed in by the grating push of Dean's chin. He's going to have stubble burn there in the morning plus a hell of a lot of other bruises and scrapes to match and he already adores every single one like the missing parts of himself.
Dean's mouth leaves him too soon, so fast he's left clenching around the emptiness as his brother's tongue licks a long, flat stripe through the sheen of sweat gathered in the valley of his spine.
He gets distracted after that, splintered attention hanging on the bright surge of pain as Dean's teeth sink into the tensed muscle between Sam's neck and shoulder and the fuzzy-edged ache as the blunt head of Dean's cock forces its way mercilessly past his unprepared opening.
His brother holds him right there, nothing to do but take it as Dean pushes deeper and deeper, both of them gasping and groaning through every hard-won inch. Tears are stinging in Sam's eyes by the time Dean's fully sheathed, feeling like he's being split in two, forced impossibly wide by the perfect length of his big brother's dick.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean's voice cracks around his name, rabbit-fast breaths huffed against the back of Sam's neck, "So fucking tight. Been too long."
Sam has no actual intention of replying, would have sworn he couldn’t even form words, but they slip out anyway, nothing resembling a working brain synapse to keep them from it, "Four years, seven months, twelve days."
For one crisp, clear second he feels Dean still, not so much as breathing though his lungs have to be aching for it the same way Sam's are. He knows Dean knows what the count means; wonders if his brother kept it too with the same helpless, manic need that Sam did even when he tried so hard not to. Then it all goes juddery and surreal again like Sam's mind can't hang onto that much control when everything else in him is falling to pieces.
Dean starts moving inside of him, that sweet little roll to his hips that Sam's never been able to master no matter how hard he's tried. Like the floodgates opened, it all bubbles to the surface, every thought and feeling Sam's spent four years pretending he didn't have.
Every night that he lay awake in his dorm trying to figure out how the hell he was supposed to sleep alone when his heartbeat was still attuned to something thousands of miles away. Every time he ever ached for big, rough hands on him and the weight of a cock on his tongue, inside of him. Every time he almost went home with some guy and didn't because he knew it would never be good enough, never be Dean, and he may have betrayed every bit of his brother's trust by leaving him, but that was still one line he could never cross. Every time he looked at Jess and relished all of the ways she wasn't like Dean because it meant that he could love her without ever needing her to measure up to the immeasurable. And the one thought that's haunted him more than any of the others since the night she burned - more than the thoughts about his dreams or how he could/should/would have saved her; the thought that hovers there at the back of his mind every time his eyes settle on his brother.
If he hadn't left, if he hadn't run away and turned his life upside down and ruined every wonderful thing between them for the thing he thought he wanted most, it would have been Dean on the ceiling instead of Jess. And God help him, he's so fucking grateful it wasn't.
Sam screams when he comes, doesn't even know how the fuck he got there because he never felt the pleasure build. It breaks over him like an ocean of broken glass and Novocain, flaying him open for Dean to fill with his warm skin, and his smooth, shushing kisses and the hot throb of come bursting inside of him.
Sam sobs for what might be a minute or a year, grounded only by his brother's weight against his back and Dean's fingers carding slowly through his hair. His body is trembling unchecked by the time his breathing finally even out and Dean seems to take that as a sign that it's ok to move.
It burns like fire when his brother carefully pulls out, come leaking down over his sac and thighs as Dean scrambles around the table to release Sam's hands. His wrists are bright red, a few thin pinpricks of blood in places where the first few layers of skin were rubbed off by Sam's thrashing. He barely feels it beyond the steady, dull pain that covers him all over.
Dean manages to unstick Sam from the table, his sweaty skin clinging to the smooth surface and unsteadily carries him to one of the beds. A dim part of Sam recognizes that they must have fulfilled whatever it was the curse was looking for and finds that he doesn't really care as long as Dean's ok.
His brother is shaking too by the time he manages to flop them both into bed, but that doesn't stop him from immediately moving to get up - probably going for the first aid kit or a wet cloth or something else stupid that Sam doesn't need nearly as much as he needs Dean. Sam just clings to him with whatever watery vestige of strength he has left and Dean folds like always, tentatively wrapping his arms around Sam.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into Sam's hair, words thick like his mouth's too dry to make them. His hands are slowly rubbing over the unmarked parts of Sam, skimming over his back and chest and arms like Dean can't help but check him for injuries even when he knows exactly where they all are.
He's carefully avoiding Sam's wrists, the welts that have to be blood-dark on his ass, fingers skirting away whenever they get near. With an effort, Sam manages to coordinate himself enough to capture one of Dean's hands and gently press it to the tender curve of his backside. The skin is still hot under his own fingertips, shocky little bursts of pleasure-pain erupting from the barely there touch. Dean gasps softly but doesn't move away.
"I'm not," Sam promises, meeting Dean's eyes for the first time since this all started - for what feels like the first time in years.
Dean's still flushed, hair all over the place and the drying white stains of come on his cheeks from when he'd eaten Sam out through the mess of his own release. He looks like 50 miles of really good road and maybe if Sam wasn't bone tired, he'd want to go another round. As it is, he can't seem to look away from the clear, bottle green looking worriedly back at him; a little too wet, but open and unguarded in way Sam had forgotten he knew.
They kiss. He isn't sure who moves first, or who does the kissing, but their lips are on one another, soft and almost chaste; a first kiss, for the second time.
Sam doesn't know what's going to happen from here; how much he said out loud before and how much he only thought. He doesn't know if it's better to tell Dean everything or let the wounds close and he doesn't know what any of it means for the two of them from here on in. But for now, in this moment, with Dean holding onto him like he's something precious and breakable and essential, all of that's alright.