Fic: Some Other Beginning's End (Sam/Dean)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 --Wordcount: 6,100
Warnings: AU - boys not related, UST, lots of angst, first time, non-explicit mentions of violence and gore, not-exactly-happy ending (not death fic or anything like that, but this world ended up too gritty to ever be a ‘ride off into the sunset’ situation)
Notes: This was originally a fill for ”ladytiferet”’s prompt to me - “An AU where Sam and Dean are soldiers in the same unit and are un-fuckin'-separable to the point where they creep other people out” - before it went off the rails. Title from the song "Closing Time" by Semisonic.
Summary - Dean doesn’t care more than he has to, doesn’t let anyone get in and make him feel. For some reason he can’t even begin to guess at, Sam Campbell fucks that all to hell just by showing up.
The front is a hideous, beautiful thing. A wall of cinder blocks and cement mixed with salt; crooked grey teeth in the maw of what is left of the western United States. There’s fighting in the east too, up through what used to be New England and, if rumor is to be believed, in random pockets through Texas and Missouri; a few cornered, cowering humans fighting the inevitable moment when the dark swallows them whole. That doesn’t really matter out here though, an ocean full of saltwater a few thousand miles away at their backs, a bleak border of man-made stone bracing against the chaos that is the south and the Midwest as if walls have ever really kept anything out. Nothing but flat plains of shivering, fallow grass as far as the eye can see.
This is Kansas. Dean Winchester was born here.
He doesn’t remember a time before the demons came and the stuff of nightmares starting crawling out from every nook and cranny. Neither would his father or his father’s father, if either of them were still kicking. There are other options out there, better ones maybe; soft lives with soft worries, curling into the heat of someone who isn’t a map of battle scars in the night and pretending like there aren’t things out to get them. But this is life and Dean has never questioned it. He’s had the Key of Solomon inked into his skin since before he could walk.
Sam Campbell might as well be a whole different species.
He ships in in the middle of February, clouds hanging so low it seems like they ought to paint the top of the kid’s head wet when he loads off the bus with the other newbies, all of them gaunt and grimy, smelling like cattle after a couple of unbroken days crowded in together. The skin over his heart is still raised with thrice-blessed ink and blood; Dean would know because he’s up close and personal along with all of the other squad leaders when the new meat gets stripped down, hosed off with holy water and handed a set of fatigues. Sam is Dean’s first pick.
These are the advantages of seniority, getting to cherry-pick your team, though the truth is, Dean’s never cared all that much. You learn fast out here not to make those kind of attachments, to treat all of the other soldiers as your family but place none above the rest. People are fragile as glass figurines in an earthquake and the odds on keeping someone, anyone, are slim. Dean doesn’t care more than he has to, doesn’t let anyone get in and make him feel. For some reason he can’t even begin to guess at, Sam Campbell fucks that all to hell just by showing up.
The kid is quiet, not so much shy as some bullshit word like reserved. Different as night and day from Dean, who’s loud and brash, the guy everybody looks to, everybody laughs with, a leader among this rag-tag pack of the suicidally reckless and the self-importantly naive.
The obsession comes fast and easy, so much so Dean’s not even sure how long it’s been swimming around in his blood by the time he realizes that Sam is the first thing his eyes search out when they open in the morning, the last thing they look for before they fall closed at night.
Sam doesn’t seem a bit inclined to put a stop to it either, though it can’t have made the transition from civie life any easier. He has to have noticed the way people have started to stare at the two of them when the sit off by themselves at mess or walk silently side by side, has to have picked up on the berth the others give him like feral dogs scenting something alien in their midst, deciding if it’s foe or food.
It isn’t exactly that Sam welcomes his company as that he doesn’t complain or try to escape when Dean’s always in his space. And he is always in his space, hurtling wildly around Sam's orbit to an almost embarrassing degree. It takes forever, but eventually Sam starts to talk, little things that might as well be said to the wind but they're made for Dean's ears; thoughts and stories, stupid jokes, all spilled out like so much detritus when they have the night watch shift - always scheduled together, again the perks of seniority- or on their way back from practice at the gun range, or over something cruelly masquerading as food. Dean feels warmed from the inside out by it, a little pilot light sparking fitfully to life inside his body
They’re showering off the stench of a salt and burn for some group of demons who thought they could go cowboy and make it past the line, sulfur and soot coated so far up the inside of Dean’s nostrils he can taste it when he finally finds out what Sam’s deal is.
Everybody has a reason for being out here; it’s a break on a prison sentence, or retribution against the darkness; some family-fucking-tradition like this shit’s an honor, or just an easy out on second-hand suicide. It’s usually private, almost always twisted, and it takes a while for crap like that to come out into the open. Why standing under the spray of lukewarm water with tracks of atomized meat-suit sluicing off of his skin is that moment for Sam he hasn’t got a sweet clue, but Dean will take it.
Most of others have already finished their clean up, headed back to the barracks, and Dean’s not thinking about what it means that they all put a rush on it when he and Sam dragged in last. He thinking about nothing but the simple, quiet words Sam speaks directly to the drain about a girl named Jessica who’s never going to take another breath. It’s a kick to the nuts how bad Dean wants to kiss him just then, but he doesn’t and he won’t, not yet at least. There’s still a raw place in Sam’s heart that Dean’s been seeing for a while, even if he didn’t know the exact shape of the wound, and he’s not going to let anybody stick a finger in there and get it infected, not even himself.
Rough trade is part of the game, the package, the way of life; not so much a matter of preference as it availability. There are women among the troops, but there’s no pretending the odds are level. There’s more men, lots of them, and needs eventually get involved. It’s not about romance or even want, it’s a biological drive and it’s one they can only fill for each other, so they do. Dean’s never thought much about it, honestly. He likes women, when he’s alone with his own hand, it’s women he thinks about most of the time, but he’s had a hell of a lot more sex with men when it all comes down to numbers. That’s never really been a factor for Dean before now, but now there’s Sam and there’s no way to stop stacking up the odds.
Sam’s beautiful, strong and sleek; filling out the longer he’s out here, turning wiry muscle into ripples and bulk and power. No matter which way you swing, it’s impossible not to notice that, to not want to shove inside and split it open and claim it for a moment. The pull of it is like a rabid animal inside of Dean, and while he may be a little more susceptible to Sam than anyone else - not even going to try and guess about the reasons for that one - he can’t expect the others to keep their hands to themselves forever.
Sam can’t not know; it’s not a secret at all. He’d have to be deaf to miss the moans and grunts after lights-out, blind not to notice when it happens in the showers. He hasn’t said a word though, and has never made a move, even though there are at least a couple of options on the table that have all but tied a bow around themselves. Maybe he’s still hanging on to some prejudices from civie life or maybe he just hasn’t figured out the way it works yet. There’s a way things are done, and if Sam’s going to be a part of them, he has to play by pack rules. Doesn’t mean Dean isn’t going to have his say in it.
It's not exactly a surprise that Idom's the one to make the first go at it. He's got the bunk directly underneath Sam, which doesn't actually mean anything except for how some guys seem to think it does. Dean would have taken the spot for himself a while back, but he doesn't have any good excuse for switching and the guys already grumble enough about Sam getting special treatment. When Idom hitches an arm up on Sam's bunk and sets a hand high on the powerful muscle of Sam's thigh through his sweats, Dean can't really remember why he gives a fuck if anybody grumbles.
Dean's already on his feet by the time Sam catches the other man's wrist, halting that hand before it can snake any higher. He's giving Idom this confused, insulted kind of look and hell, maybe the kid really doesn't know the score if he's fucking surprised by this. That's a fair enough reason for Dean to shove Idom out of the way - sure as hell not going to let anybody in his regiment take advantage of the not-so-new guy just because - though it doesn't quite account for him putting so much force behind it that the punk-ass little shit ends up slamming into the wall with a hollow, iron thud.
He only gets a flash of Sam's shocked expression because then Idom is back up and in Dean's face, trying to fucking push him around like Dean couldn't own his ass six ways from Sunday. And has, on more than one occasion.
"Fuck off, Winchester, he's not yours!" he's shouting, a couple of choice insults about Dean's mother thrown in for good measure.
And, alright, he's got a point there. Dean hasn't got any kind of claim on Sam that doesn't exist solely inside of his head. There's a limited number of places around the base of fuck and exactly one that qualifies as even semi-private. People know who fucks who - and how and when - and they're bound to know that Dean hasn't ever gotten a hand on Sam, let alone set up something exclusive with him, so it's not like Idom is stepping over some real legitimate line. On the other hand...
Dean's fist makes a satisfying crack when it hits Idom's jaw, enough force behind it that he's going to be paying with a constant throb in his knuckles for the next couple of weeks. Idom goes down, toppling over Whitt's bunk to do it. The little shit is only out here for a break on some drug beef, not anywhere close to Dean's equal in a fight and his buddies at least have the good sense to keep him from getting back up and having his balls handed to him.
Sam's standing next to him when he breaks eye contact with Idom - didn't even hear him move but he's right there, close enough that Dean can feel the heat radiating off of his body, feel himself start to get hard off of it with the dump of adrenalin still flooding his system. Fuck, he needs to get the hell away from Sam.
But he doesn't. He stands there and watches the kid think; think really fucking hard the way only Sam can, hard enough that Dean can almost see the thoughts skitter by like a flipbook behind hazel eyes.
Everybody's looking at them, and Dean can feel that too. A fight's not the biggest deal in the world - this much testosterone packed into a sardine can without an outlet, shit's bound to happen - but Dean doesn't get tangled up in it often. Supposed to be a fucking leader, not some dipshit being led around by his dick. He still can't look at anything but Sam.
Not until the lights go out, their daily power allotment used up, pitching them all into shadow. Around him, he hears the sound of people shuffling off to bed, the mumble of gossip and the not-a-whisper of Idom bitching about his jaw and how bad he's going to kick Dean's ass. Sam's still standing there right in front of him, slowly resolving as his eyes adjust to the dark and all of a sudden he just knows this is it, he's going to make a go at the kid.
He turns away instead.
Turns away and all but throws himself back across the room, past his own bunk and over to Mackey's, metal squealing on the concrete floor half an inch with how hard Dean flings himself onto the mattress.
Mackey's a good guy, a little bit pretty with his slight build and auburn hair swept over one long-lashed eye. In the real world they'd probably call him a twink, which he's never really come out and said, but has heavily implied is how he ended up out here in the first place - disinherited by his big shot family. This isn't the real world, though, and out here he's just Mackey, one of the crew, everybody's favorite. He's one of the few guys around here who'll crawl into bed with a guy at night just as happy to be getting fucked as to be the one getting his dick wet, to be kissed and touched and held onto, to make it more than just some quick-and-dirty when they all know that the craving is so much deeper than that.
He and Dean have had an arrangement for a while now, but Dean's never come to him like this, never bent out of shape and fucked up over somebody else. It's not like they're involved or anything - Idom might be pissed off over him being protective of Sam, but trying to keep Mackey all for himself would probably get Dean shanked by any of half a dozen guys - but he still wouldn't blame the dude for being insulted. Mackey just smiles though, a hell of a lot like pity, and kisses him slow and sweet, a hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean's so damn hungry for it he can't even feel bad for pretending it's somebody else pressed up against him, warm and willing, somebody else gasping against his ear when he pushes in deep, slick with sweat and need. He doesn't try to keep it quiet because there's no point hiding it anymore, not when everyone already knows.
He does, at least, manage to bite back the sound of Sam's name when he comes.
Sam stands next to him in the showers in the morning like nothing's different. Eats breakfast with him, runs drills, does patrol, all the same, like last night never happened. He does, however, manage not to be within five feet of Idom and the massive purple bruise swelling one side of his face, so Dean's fairly certain he didn't just hallucinate the whole thing.
That's just how it goes, that's just how they are. Sam doesn't mention it and neither does Dean, though the likelihood keeps increasing that he's going to burst out of his skin from the emotional crapfest building in on itself day after day. Like his bones turning to powder under the strain isn’t just a possibility but an inevitability. He doesn't make a move, because Sam knows, has to know, and if he wanted it, he’d have said. He doesn’t make a move because he's Sam's friend, even if he would sell his immortal soul to be able to call the kid his own. And he doesn't have a fucking clue how that happened.
It’s a foggy morning, last day of May, clammy air sticking to Dean’s skin like the breath of death as the two of them trail out of the mess hall behind a small knot of their regiment. Out of the blue - because Sam’s like that, sudden and changeable as the currents of a flood and just as likely to wear you down - Sam asks, “So how does it work?”
Dean feels his jaw go slack and snaps it back together with a sharp click. Excitement brushes through his veins, warm bleeding into cold and back, harder and faster than a hunt has revved him up in a long damn time. Still, the fact that Dean’s got a one track mind doesn’t mean the same goes for Sam, he could be asking about anything.
“What?”
One quirk of Sam’s eyebrow tells him he’s a stalling idiot. One of these days Dean’s got to get the kid to teach him how to do that.
His throat feels too tight for air to get into, burning like the knot in his gut, the throb in his balls, and it takes him a minute to choke out, “What, they didn’t put you through sex ed, college boy?”
Maybe a quarter of a laugh huffs out of Sam, nerves not covered much by the hand his sinks into his hair. There’s a little bit of color high on his cheeks that Dean’s going to pretend isn’t a blush - for Sam’s sake and because he’s not sure he could point it out without sounding stupidly giddy about it. Jesus, this feel-your-feelings shit is embarrassing.
“I mean are you…” Sam pauses, almost rendering the conversation a moot point when he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and fries Dean’s brain. “Are any of you, you know, together?”
Dean kicks a nearby rock across the yard, watches with way too much intensity as it skitters over the grass and clanks into the side of one of the storage buildings. “It happens I guess, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just a thing. It’s a bad idea to get close to people out here.” He’s not sure if he’s telling Sam or reminding himself. Not like it’s going to make a difference either way. Humans are herd-beasts and Sam was raised to be one of them, to connect; even standing by himself, he wouldn’t be alone. Just doesn’t have it in him. And if Dean ever could have put the brakes on his own feelings, he passed that stop on the line without even noticing.
“But it happens,” Sam pushes.
Dean can only hope that his shrug of, “Sure,” doesn't look as awkward and stilted - goddamn fucking hopeful - as it feels.
“To you?”
Knife to the gut, salt in the wound, the question nails him. Damned if that isn't Sam for you, digging right down to the squishy insides of the matter.
“… It happens.”
If he’d been expecting this at all, he’d have been expecting more, that curiosity of Sam’s tearing into him and picking him apart, but the kid lets it go at that. Just leads the way back into the barracks like he doesn’t know the air has gone to soup in Dean’s lungs, skin prickling with awareness like a storm on the horizon.
The waiting is miserable because he can watch Sam mulling it over, sussing it out day after day and there’s no way for Dean to honestly help him, not when his own opinion on the matter is so painfully biased. Sam talks to Mackey though, and Dean would give at least a couple of appendages to listen in on that conversation. All he gets is a couple of furtive glances from the two of them and a hell of a lot more of that lip chewing thing Sam does than anyone’s sanity could reasonably be expected to handle.
Eight days later, there’s a werewolf attack in Olatha and if Dean ever gets his hands on whoever let that girl cross the border there’ll be more than one body in need of a salt and burn. No way anybody with eyes missed that bite mark on her neck, not unless they were too busy looking a few inches south, and tits aren’t nearly scarce enough to account for that kind of mistake.
It’s not a big operation - even covering all of the contingencies, six of them was overkill. Still an assignment inland from the wall doesn’t come along all too often and Dean likes to cut his guys some slack when he can. A bar with some non-ration beer and some women who aren’t thinking up seven different ways to kill you where you stand is good for everybody’s spirits. Nobody bothers to feign surprise when he rattles off Sam’s name first.
For whatever little it’s worth, that part isn’t even all about the fact that he wants to fuck Sam until they both pass out from exhaustion and then wake up and do it all over again. Sam is good, for all that he came in not knowing the business end of a gun, and the way the two of them sync up in the field is a thing of beauty. It’s not the kind of gift you turn down when there’s claws and fangs aiming for your heart.
It’s not the kind of gift you turn down when the time comes to divide up motel rooms and it follows along to yours like it’s a forgone conclusion.
Dean fights to shut down the war-drum beat of yes, this, tonight, now because it doesn’t mean anything. Of course Sam would pick sharing a room with Dean over bunking with the other guys. There’s no reason to think it’s some sort of declaration of his burning need to have Dean buried deep inside of him.
He manages not to stare, or swallow his tongue or anything really obvious when he pushes the door shut behind them, flips the lock. The front of his shirt does a pretty good job covering his boner.
Dean tells himself this all the way through laying down salt lines in front of the door and windows, all the way through sitting on the end of his bed, listening to the water patter down as Sam takes his shower, all the way through watching Sam walk back into the room in nothing but a tiny - evil - towel, all the way through scrubbing werewolf blood off of his skin under the blessedly hot spray, all the way through a fast, dirty jerk-off where he doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s thinking about anything but Sam, all the way through slipping into some boxers and sweats and with one last deep, anxious breath opening the bathroom door.
To find Sam laying in his bed, both of their duffels pointedly taking up the other mattress.
The yellow light from the shitty cut-rate bulb in the bedside lamp looks ridiculously good on his skin. Dean’s seen him naked a hundred times by now, yet the sight of his bare chest peeking out above white sheets still feels brand new and thrilling. There’s color darkening Sam’s chest, high on his cheeks, like maybe he’s not quite as relaxed about all of this as he’s letting on, but at the same time his nipples are already hard little peaks and there’s a mound between his thighs where the cheap, thin comforter can’t hide that he’s a little excited about the proceedings.
About three minutes ago, Dean was standing in the shower, biting his own lip to keep quiet as he came and his dick is already fighting to fill up again. He’s way too old for that to actually happen, but his body doesn’t seem to remember that.
“Sam,” comes out as a rasp, already miles down the road to fucked-out and there’s still half a room between them. He means to say something like ‘you don’t have to do this’ or ‘are you sure’, but the one syllable is as far as he ever gets.
Sam leans over and pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed, more of an invitation than Dean’s ever needed before. He’s stumbling over there, legs barely working because he can’t actually remember how to move, but he makes it, fumbles onto the mattress on his knees. There’s barely enough air getting into his lungs to satisfy a housefly, heart thundering in his chest. Sam reaches out and clicks off the lamp.
Nervous is not something Dean gets about sex. Even his first time, rough and uncoordinated, halfway hidden behind a store-room rack of industrial-sized cans of spring peas, he hadn’t been this nervous. Now his hands are shaking as he reaches out through the dark and touches Sam’s hot skin, feels hard resisting muscle beneath. It’s not even fair that Sam can do this to him, twist him up for no good reason at all, but the way the kid flinches under Dean’s fingertips for just a moment says maybe Dean’s not alone on that count.
Dean’s move to lie down against Sam is more of a graceless crash, elbows colliding with ribs, Sam’s shoulder catching him on the chin. He gets to the “Shit, sorr-“ of his apology before he can’t talk anymore because Sam’s lips are in the way.
Sam kisses him sweet, nothing close to gentle - sweet like rock candy crunching between his teeth, cutting up the inside of his mouth, sticking on the molars for Dean to chase the phantom taste of later. His huge hands are all over the place, instantly obvious that he’s never felt up anybody without tits before since that’s the first place he goes, not particularly deterred by the fact that it’s Dean’s pec he’s got a handful of instead of some soft flesh. Dean’s not about to complain either when those long fingers find a nipple to tug and play with, sending webs of red heat crackling under his skin. He’s going crazy from it, Sam’s mouth and Sam’s hands and Sam’s body pressed in close and still not close enough, too busy trying to grab at everything to really get a feel of anything.
Sam’s hand slides down the back of Dean’s sweats - oh why the fuck had he put on pants! - tentatively gripping until Dean arches back into it for encouragement. He gets his own fingers sliding down Sam’s taut, shivering belly to finally cop a feel of his naked cock and Sam gasps harshly against his mouth, sucking the air right out of Dean’s lungs.
He hears himself shushing and muttering things like, “I’ve got you,” and, “s’ok,” and “make it so good for you,” but mostly succeeds in shutting himself the hell up by mouthing his way along Sam’s neck. Sam feels good in his hand, long and thick, fever-hot, just starting to get wet at the tip. The kid loses a high, tight noise when Dean smears the slick around the head, takes a moment to mourn the fact that he doesn’t have any fucking lube but forgets it again when Sam paws at him like he wants to crawl inside of Dean’s skin and never come back out.
This is not the kind of shit Dean does, this touching, tasting, foreplay thing. He grew up on a steady diet of suck and fuck; get in, get yours and forget about it. Everybody knows how it goes, how it’s not about the person or the body, it’s just enough wet tight heat to take care of what you both need, a little mutual consideration but nothing more. This isn’t that, couldn’t be even if Dean tried to make it. He wants Sam, every inch and breath and moment. He wants that scent all around him and that dimpled smile that he can shock out on occasion and the sound of that voice in his ear saying things he’s never needed to hear before. He wants that look that Sam gets every time he says the name Jess, minus the heartache; wants it all for himself. He wants, he just wants like that’s all he’s made up of, every other function shut down to devote more energy to it.
“I want you in me,” he breathes, biting at Sam’s shoulder because he doesn’t know how to stop.
Sam jerks in his fist, whines, says “I’ve never…” even as he’s nodding his head and wetting Dean’s fingers with thin oozes of precome. Again all Dean’s got for a reply is, “Sam.”
This is going to be quick and messy, he can feel it. More than that, needs it, to feel Sam forcing his body open with too little prep, too little slick, to carry that ache around like the thousand other tangible marks already on his skin for proof that it really happened. That for just this one second in his whole messed-up fucking life, Dean Winchester really lived.
He sinks down between Sam’s legs in a rush, struggling to push down his own clothes at the same time. With a gulping breath and zero hesitation he pops the head of Sam’s dick into his mouth, soaks it with spit. Good isn’t a word Dean generally associates with the taste of someone else’s cock, but Sam’s making him reevaluate his position on that. Fuck, the things he wants to do to Sam, to taste him and take him, split him open on fingers and tongue and dick and have it all done back to him. Every filthy thing he’s ever heard of or half-imagined bombards him at the same time, all trying to fight their way into the schedule of the dozen or so hours they’ve got before they have to head back to base.
Strong fingers rake through his hair, not forcing him down, just encouraging, just enough to feel, and Dean nearly gags himself with the overwhelming need to give more. Sam makes a noise for it, almost but not quite a whimper that Dean’s instantly hooked on, can’t get enough. The heavy pressure of Sam’s cockhead pushes at the back of his throat, tears welling at the corners of Dean’s eyes as he makes his body swallow around it, used air stinging in his chest where it can’t get out, can’t get any new in. His own dick leaps at the aborted hitch of Sam’s hips like he’s just dying to give it to Dean hard, dry cotton drag across his wet slit mindblowing.
The urge is there as he bobs his head to just keep going, make Sam fuck up into his throat and spill, but the clawing need to have Sam inside of him is stronger and after not nearly enough time to enjoy it, Dean’s pulling off, wet and sloppy. Sam tugs at his neck to get them back on eye level and licks the wet sheen off of Dean’s swelling lips, sucks at them until they feel flayed raw.
It’s been a while since he’s bottomed, a hell of a while, actually, but it’s still a lot more recently than Sam, so it’s a good enough trade off. With one last irritated kick, he manages to free himself from the boxers and sweats so that when he straddles Sam’s hips, it’s nothing but bare skin on bare skin. He gets a couple of spit-slick fingers shoved up into his hole too fast, already anticipating how the friction is going to nail him when it’s something much bigger. Sam sucks at his earlobe, mouths over his cheek, humps up against Dean’s cock so that they’re both moaning and shaking too hard to really do this right.
By the time Dean gives up on the prep idea, welcomes the edge of pain, he’s pretty sure he’s going to shake apart if this doesn’t happen right this second. He doesn’t have to find out because as soon as he makes room Sam obliges, settles the leaking tip against Dean and pushes past the resistance. Once again it’s obvious that this is a first, Sam used to being swallowed by something much more wet and open for this, but Dean bears down when he starts to hesitate, lets the searing throb burn through him like cleansing, trial by fire.
Sam's fingers press into the meager meat of his hip, every ounce of the desperation Dean's surviving on mirrored in the bruises he knows will be left on him tomorrow. Slowly Dean lifts up just an inch or two, the clutching slide of it almost as surreal as the intimacy pressing at his skin like a hot wool blanket. Stilted, he hears Sam suck in a gasp, realizes then that he's closed his eyes and aches from it. He opens them to find Sam laid out under him too pretty to be allowed, the only thing Dean's ever going to know how to need from now until the day he goes down bloody. Or the day he loses Sam. Same difference.
The pace stutter-skips from testing to punishing in the space of a breath that neither of them can draw, broken halfway attempts huffed into the space between them, leaving Dean high on it, electrifying his blood. Harsh, rough pleasure that isn't rubs like steel wool in his veins, carving up his insides like a rabid cat sidhe and with mercy to match. Sam pumps his hips up, pushes, and Dean moves with it as Sam rolls him under; surrounded utterly by heat and the scent of sweat bleeding through cheap soap, gore so deep in both of their pores they'll never really come clean of it. The only home Dean has ever wanted.
He licks at the bulge of Sam's shoulder, savoring the salt of him, the reality that it's Sam's skin against his tongue. Loud isn't really in Dean's repertoire - certain levels of decency have to be adhered to even when you're fucking in a room full of other people - but dimly he's aware of the noises he's making as Sam fucks them out of him, coordination of his thrusts shot to hell; choppy moans and whines that solidify like a bubble around them trapping this single moment in time.
"Dean," Sam groans, pushing deep and it hits like a spinal tap from a .44 magnum, recoil kicking Dean in the skull and slamming right through his body until it's all bursting out the end of his cock like a spray of molten lead.
He feels Sam pick up the pace, but is helpless to do anything but take it, limp and pliant, letting himself be used. It doesn't last much longer, a dozen or so brutal thrusts before Sam is crushing Dean's mouth against his once more, pushing steamy used air into him when he can't actually kiss around the slack-jawed swell of fulfillment.
The twitch of Sam pulsing inside of him is all he gets, both of them so hot and overworked that there's no difference in the heat of Sam's body flooding into his own, no way to tell where they end and begin.
Dean kisses him lazily, licking and sucking at Sam's mouth until the kid remembers how it's done and responds. There are things here that should be said; need to be, would be if they were real people in the real world and not toy soldiers made of flesh, human sacrifices on the installment plan. So instead they kiss and they touch and they make believe by hours and inches that this story can have a happy ending.
When the sun slices its way through the indigo sky and brings the world to life again, they’re a bigger mess than they were when they walked in last night, soaked through with sweat and come, covered in marks that have nothing to do with anything outside of this room. As close to sated as either of them is ever likely to get.
Sluggishly, Sam goes loose against him, a nothing little blurt of sticky heat smeared against Dean’s thigh as Sam’s already wrung-out balls try to give just a little more. Dean cradles Sam against his chest, slick of sweat making them slippery, inhales the sharp, rank scent of his taxed body and breathes out, voice scored raw, illicit as a curse word whispered in church, "Sammy."
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 --Wordcount: 6,100
Warnings: AU - boys not related, UST, lots of angst, first time, non-explicit mentions of violence and gore, not-exactly-happy ending (not death fic or anything like that, but this world ended up too gritty to ever be a ‘ride off into the sunset’ situation)
Notes: This was originally a fill for ”ladytiferet”’s prompt to me - “An AU where Sam and Dean are soldiers in the same unit and are un-fuckin'-separable to the point where they creep other people out” - before it went off the rails. Title from the song "Closing Time" by Semisonic.
Summary - Dean doesn’t care more than he has to, doesn’t let anyone get in and make him feel. For some reason he can’t even begin to guess at, Sam Campbell fucks that all to hell just by showing up.
The front is a hideous, beautiful thing. A wall of cinder blocks and cement mixed with salt; crooked grey teeth in the maw of what is left of the western United States. There’s fighting in the east too, up through what used to be New England and, if rumor is to be believed, in random pockets through Texas and Missouri; a few cornered, cowering humans fighting the inevitable moment when the dark swallows them whole. That doesn’t really matter out here though, an ocean full of saltwater a few thousand miles away at their backs, a bleak border of man-made stone bracing against the chaos that is the south and the Midwest as if walls have ever really kept anything out. Nothing but flat plains of shivering, fallow grass as far as the eye can see.
This is Kansas. Dean Winchester was born here.
He doesn’t remember a time before the demons came and the stuff of nightmares starting crawling out from every nook and cranny. Neither would his father or his father’s father, if either of them were still kicking. There are other options out there, better ones maybe; soft lives with soft worries, curling into the heat of someone who isn’t a map of battle scars in the night and pretending like there aren’t things out to get them. But this is life and Dean has never questioned it. He’s had the Key of Solomon inked into his skin since before he could walk.
Sam Campbell might as well be a whole different species.
He ships in in the middle of February, clouds hanging so low it seems like they ought to paint the top of the kid’s head wet when he loads off the bus with the other newbies, all of them gaunt and grimy, smelling like cattle after a couple of unbroken days crowded in together. The skin over his heart is still raised with thrice-blessed ink and blood; Dean would know because he’s up close and personal along with all of the other squad leaders when the new meat gets stripped down, hosed off with holy water and handed a set of fatigues. Sam is Dean’s first pick.
These are the advantages of seniority, getting to cherry-pick your team, though the truth is, Dean’s never cared all that much. You learn fast out here not to make those kind of attachments, to treat all of the other soldiers as your family but place none above the rest. People are fragile as glass figurines in an earthquake and the odds on keeping someone, anyone, are slim. Dean doesn’t care more than he has to, doesn’t let anyone get in and make him feel. For some reason he can’t even begin to guess at, Sam Campbell fucks that all to hell just by showing up.
The kid is quiet, not so much shy as some bullshit word like reserved. Different as night and day from Dean, who’s loud and brash, the guy everybody looks to, everybody laughs with, a leader among this rag-tag pack of the suicidally reckless and the self-importantly naive.
The obsession comes fast and easy, so much so Dean’s not even sure how long it’s been swimming around in his blood by the time he realizes that Sam is the first thing his eyes search out when they open in the morning, the last thing they look for before they fall closed at night.
Sam doesn’t seem a bit inclined to put a stop to it either, though it can’t have made the transition from civie life any easier. He has to have noticed the way people have started to stare at the two of them when the sit off by themselves at mess or walk silently side by side, has to have picked up on the berth the others give him like feral dogs scenting something alien in their midst, deciding if it’s foe or food.
It isn’t exactly that Sam welcomes his company as that he doesn’t complain or try to escape when Dean’s always in his space. And he is always in his space, hurtling wildly around Sam's orbit to an almost embarrassing degree. It takes forever, but eventually Sam starts to talk, little things that might as well be said to the wind but they're made for Dean's ears; thoughts and stories, stupid jokes, all spilled out like so much detritus when they have the night watch shift - always scheduled together, again the perks of seniority- or on their way back from practice at the gun range, or over something cruelly masquerading as food. Dean feels warmed from the inside out by it, a little pilot light sparking fitfully to life inside his body
They’re showering off the stench of a salt and burn for some group of demons who thought they could go cowboy and make it past the line, sulfur and soot coated so far up the inside of Dean’s nostrils he can taste it when he finally finds out what Sam’s deal is.
Everybody has a reason for being out here; it’s a break on a prison sentence, or retribution against the darkness; some family-fucking-tradition like this shit’s an honor, or just an easy out on second-hand suicide. It’s usually private, almost always twisted, and it takes a while for crap like that to come out into the open. Why standing under the spray of lukewarm water with tracks of atomized meat-suit sluicing off of his skin is that moment for Sam he hasn’t got a sweet clue, but Dean will take it.
Most of others have already finished their clean up, headed back to the barracks, and Dean’s not thinking about what it means that they all put a rush on it when he and Sam dragged in last. He thinking about nothing but the simple, quiet words Sam speaks directly to the drain about a girl named Jessica who’s never going to take another breath. It’s a kick to the nuts how bad Dean wants to kiss him just then, but he doesn’t and he won’t, not yet at least. There’s still a raw place in Sam’s heart that Dean’s been seeing for a while, even if he didn’t know the exact shape of the wound, and he’s not going to let anybody stick a finger in there and get it infected, not even himself.
Rough trade is part of the game, the package, the way of life; not so much a matter of preference as it availability. There are women among the troops, but there’s no pretending the odds are level. There’s more men, lots of them, and needs eventually get involved. It’s not about romance or even want, it’s a biological drive and it’s one they can only fill for each other, so they do. Dean’s never thought much about it, honestly. He likes women, when he’s alone with his own hand, it’s women he thinks about most of the time, but he’s had a hell of a lot more sex with men when it all comes down to numbers. That’s never really been a factor for Dean before now, but now there’s Sam and there’s no way to stop stacking up the odds.
Sam’s beautiful, strong and sleek; filling out the longer he’s out here, turning wiry muscle into ripples and bulk and power. No matter which way you swing, it’s impossible not to notice that, to not want to shove inside and split it open and claim it for a moment. The pull of it is like a rabid animal inside of Dean, and while he may be a little more susceptible to Sam than anyone else - not even going to try and guess about the reasons for that one - he can’t expect the others to keep their hands to themselves forever.
Sam can’t not know; it’s not a secret at all. He’d have to be deaf to miss the moans and grunts after lights-out, blind not to notice when it happens in the showers. He hasn’t said a word though, and has never made a move, even though there are at least a couple of options on the table that have all but tied a bow around themselves. Maybe he’s still hanging on to some prejudices from civie life or maybe he just hasn’t figured out the way it works yet. There’s a way things are done, and if Sam’s going to be a part of them, he has to play by pack rules. Doesn’t mean Dean isn’t going to have his say in it.
It's not exactly a surprise that Idom's the one to make the first go at it. He's got the bunk directly underneath Sam, which doesn't actually mean anything except for how some guys seem to think it does. Dean would have taken the spot for himself a while back, but he doesn't have any good excuse for switching and the guys already grumble enough about Sam getting special treatment. When Idom hitches an arm up on Sam's bunk and sets a hand high on the powerful muscle of Sam's thigh through his sweats, Dean can't really remember why he gives a fuck if anybody grumbles.
Dean's already on his feet by the time Sam catches the other man's wrist, halting that hand before it can snake any higher. He's giving Idom this confused, insulted kind of look and hell, maybe the kid really doesn't know the score if he's fucking surprised by this. That's a fair enough reason for Dean to shove Idom out of the way - sure as hell not going to let anybody in his regiment take advantage of the not-so-new guy just because - though it doesn't quite account for him putting so much force behind it that the punk-ass little shit ends up slamming into the wall with a hollow, iron thud.
He only gets a flash of Sam's shocked expression because then Idom is back up and in Dean's face, trying to fucking push him around like Dean couldn't own his ass six ways from Sunday. And has, on more than one occasion.
"Fuck off, Winchester, he's not yours!" he's shouting, a couple of choice insults about Dean's mother thrown in for good measure.
And, alright, he's got a point there. Dean hasn't got any kind of claim on Sam that doesn't exist solely inside of his head. There's a limited number of places around the base of fuck and exactly one that qualifies as even semi-private. People know who fucks who - and how and when - and they're bound to know that Dean hasn't ever gotten a hand on Sam, let alone set up something exclusive with him, so it's not like Idom is stepping over some real legitimate line. On the other hand...
Dean's fist makes a satisfying crack when it hits Idom's jaw, enough force behind it that he's going to be paying with a constant throb in his knuckles for the next couple of weeks. Idom goes down, toppling over Whitt's bunk to do it. The little shit is only out here for a break on some drug beef, not anywhere close to Dean's equal in a fight and his buddies at least have the good sense to keep him from getting back up and having his balls handed to him.
Sam's standing next to him when he breaks eye contact with Idom - didn't even hear him move but he's right there, close enough that Dean can feel the heat radiating off of his body, feel himself start to get hard off of it with the dump of adrenalin still flooding his system. Fuck, he needs to get the hell away from Sam.
But he doesn't. He stands there and watches the kid think; think really fucking hard the way only Sam can, hard enough that Dean can almost see the thoughts skitter by like a flipbook behind hazel eyes.
Everybody's looking at them, and Dean can feel that too. A fight's not the biggest deal in the world - this much testosterone packed into a sardine can without an outlet, shit's bound to happen - but Dean doesn't get tangled up in it often. Supposed to be a fucking leader, not some dipshit being led around by his dick. He still can't look at anything but Sam.
Not until the lights go out, their daily power allotment used up, pitching them all into shadow. Around him, he hears the sound of people shuffling off to bed, the mumble of gossip and the not-a-whisper of Idom bitching about his jaw and how bad he's going to kick Dean's ass. Sam's still standing there right in front of him, slowly resolving as his eyes adjust to the dark and all of a sudden he just knows this is it, he's going to make a go at the kid.
He turns away instead.
Turns away and all but throws himself back across the room, past his own bunk and over to Mackey's, metal squealing on the concrete floor half an inch with how hard Dean flings himself onto the mattress.
Mackey's a good guy, a little bit pretty with his slight build and auburn hair swept over one long-lashed eye. In the real world they'd probably call him a twink, which he's never really come out and said, but has heavily implied is how he ended up out here in the first place - disinherited by his big shot family. This isn't the real world, though, and out here he's just Mackey, one of the crew, everybody's favorite. He's one of the few guys around here who'll crawl into bed with a guy at night just as happy to be getting fucked as to be the one getting his dick wet, to be kissed and touched and held onto, to make it more than just some quick-and-dirty when they all know that the craving is so much deeper than that.
He and Dean have had an arrangement for a while now, but Dean's never come to him like this, never bent out of shape and fucked up over somebody else. It's not like they're involved or anything - Idom might be pissed off over him being protective of Sam, but trying to keep Mackey all for himself would probably get Dean shanked by any of half a dozen guys - but he still wouldn't blame the dude for being insulted. Mackey just smiles though, a hell of a lot like pity, and kisses him slow and sweet, a hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean's so damn hungry for it he can't even feel bad for pretending it's somebody else pressed up against him, warm and willing, somebody else gasping against his ear when he pushes in deep, slick with sweat and need. He doesn't try to keep it quiet because there's no point hiding it anymore, not when everyone already knows.
He does, at least, manage to bite back the sound of Sam's name when he comes.
Sam stands next to him in the showers in the morning like nothing's different. Eats breakfast with him, runs drills, does patrol, all the same, like last night never happened. He does, however, manage not to be within five feet of Idom and the massive purple bruise swelling one side of his face, so Dean's fairly certain he didn't just hallucinate the whole thing.
That's just how it goes, that's just how they are. Sam doesn't mention it and neither does Dean, though the likelihood keeps increasing that he's going to burst out of his skin from the emotional crapfest building in on itself day after day. Like his bones turning to powder under the strain isn’t just a possibility but an inevitability. He doesn't make a move, because Sam knows, has to know, and if he wanted it, he’d have said. He doesn’t make a move because he's Sam's friend, even if he would sell his immortal soul to be able to call the kid his own. And he doesn't have a fucking clue how that happened.
It’s a foggy morning, last day of May, clammy air sticking to Dean’s skin like the breath of death as the two of them trail out of the mess hall behind a small knot of their regiment. Out of the blue - because Sam’s like that, sudden and changeable as the currents of a flood and just as likely to wear you down - Sam asks, “So how does it work?”
Dean feels his jaw go slack and snaps it back together with a sharp click. Excitement brushes through his veins, warm bleeding into cold and back, harder and faster than a hunt has revved him up in a long damn time. Still, the fact that Dean’s got a one track mind doesn’t mean the same goes for Sam, he could be asking about anything.
“What?”
One quirk of Sam’s eyebrow tells him he’s a stalling idiot. One of these days Dean’s got to get the kid to teach him how to do that.
His throat feels too tight for air to get into, burning like the knot in his gut, the throb in his balls, and it takes him a minute to choke out, “What, they didn’t put you through sex ed, college boy?”
Maybe a quarter of a laugh huffs out of Sam, nerves not covered much by the hand his sinks into his hair. There’s a little bit of color high on his cheeks that Dean’s going to pretend isn’t a blush - for Sam’s sake and because he’s not sure he could point it out without sounding stupidly giddy about it. Jesus, this feel-your-feelings shit is embarrassing.
“I mean are you…” Sam pauses, almost rendering the conversation a moot point when he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and fries Dean’s brain. “Are any of you, you know, together?”
Dean kicks a nearby rock across the yard, watches with way too much intensity as it skitters over the grass and clanks into the side of one of the storage buildings. “It happens I guess, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just a thing. It’s a bad idea to get close to people out here.” He’s not sure if he’s telling Sam or reminding himself. Not like it’s going to make a difference either way. Humans are herd-beasts and Sam was raised to be one of them, to connect; even standing by himself, he wouldn’t be alone. Just doesn’t have it in him. And if Dean ever could have put the brakes on his own feelings, he passed that stop on the line without even noticing.
“But it happens,” Sam pushes.
Dean can only hope that his shrug of, “Sure,” doesn't look as awkward and stilted - goddamn fucking hopeful - as it feels.
“To you?”
Knife to the gut, salt in the wound, the question nails him. Damned if that isn't Sam for you, digging right down to the squishy insides of the matter.
“… It happens.”
If he’d been expecting this at all, he’d have been expecting more, that curiosity of Sam’s tearing into him and picking him apart, but the kid lets it go at that. Just leads the way back into the barracks like he doesn’t know the air has gone to soup in Dean’s lungs, skin prickling with awareness like a storm on the horizon.
The waiting is miserable because he can watch Sam mulling it over, sussing it out day after day and there’s no way for Dean to honestly help him, not when his own opinion on the matter is so painfully biased. Sam talks to Mackey though, and Dean would give at least a couple of appendages to listen in on that conversation. All he gets is a couple of furtive glances from the two of them and a hell of a lot more of that lip chewing thing Sam does than anyone’s sanity could reasonably be expected to handle.
Eight days later, there’s a werewolf attack in Olatha and if Dean ever gets his hands on whoever let that girl cross the border there’ll be more than one body in need of a salt and burn. No way anybody with eyes missed that bite mark on her neck, not unless they were too busy looking a few inches south, and tits aren’t nearly scarce enough to account for that kind of mistake.
It’s not a big operation - even covering all of the contingencies, six of them was overkill. Still an assignment inland from the wall doesn’t come along all too often and Dean likes to cut his guys some slack when he can. A bar with some non-ration beer and some women who aren’t thinking up seven different ways to kill you where you stand is good for everybody’s spirits. Nobody bothers to feign surprise when he rattles off Sam’s name first.
For whatever little it’s worth, that part isn’t even all about the fact that he wants to fuck Sam until they both pass out from exhaustion and then wake up and do it all over again. Sam is good, for all that he came in not knowing the business end of a gun, and the way the two of them sync up in the field is a thing of beauty. It’s not the kind of gift you turn down when there’s claws and fangs aiming for your heart.
It’s not the kind of gift you turn down when the time comes to divide up motel rooms and it follows along to yours like it’s a forgone conclusion.
Dean fights to shut down the war-drum beat of yes, this, tonight, now because it doesn’t mean anything. Of course Sam would pick sharing a room with Dean over bunking with the other guys. There’s no reason to think it’s some sort of declaration of his burning need to have Dean buried deep inside of him.
He manages not to stare, or swallow his tongue or anything really obvious when he pushes the door shut behind them, flips the lock. The front of his shirt does a pretty good job covering his boner.
Dean tells himself this all the way through laying down salt lines in front of the door and windows, all the way through sitting on the end of his bed, listening to the water patter down as Sam takes his shower, all the way through watching Sam walk back into the room in nothing but a tiny - evil - towel, all the way through scrubbing werewolf blood off of his skin under the blessedly hot spray, all the way through a fast, dirty jerk-off where he doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s thinking about anything but Sam, all the way through slipping into some boxers and sweats and with one last deep, anxious breath opening the bathroom door.
To find Sam laying in his bed, both of their duffels pointedly taking up the other mattress.
The yellow light from the shitty cut-rate bulb in the bedside lamp looks ridiculously good on his skin. Dean’s seen him naked a hundred times by now, yet the sight of his bare chest peeking out above white sheets still feels brand new and thrilling. There’s color darkening Sam’s chest, high on his cheeks, like maybe he’s not quite as relaxed about all of this as he’s letting on, but at the same time his nipples are already hard little peaks and there’s a mound between his thighs where the cheap, thin comforter can’t hide that he’s a little excited about the proceedings.
About three minutes ago, Dean was standing in the shower, biting his own lip to keep quiet as he came and his dick is already fighting to fill up again. He’s way too old for that to actually happen, but his body doesn’t seem to remember that.
“Sam,” comes out as a rasp, already miles down the road to fucked-out and there’s still half a room between them. He means to say something like ‘you don’t have to do this’ or ‘are you sure’, but the one syllable is as far as he ever gets.
Sam leans over and pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed, more of an invitation than Dean’s ever needed before. He’s stumbling over there, legs barely working because he can’t actually remember how to move, but he makes it, fumbles onto the mattress on his knees. There’s barely enough air getting into his lungs to satisfy a housefly, heart thundering in his chest. Sam reaches out and clicks off the lamp.
Nervous is not something Dean gets about sex. Even his first time, rough and uncoordinated, halfway hidden behind a store-room rack of industrial-sized cans of spring peas, he hadn’t been this nervous. Now his hands are shaking as he reaches out through the dark and touches Sam’s hot skin, feels hard resisting muscle beneath. It’s not even fair that Sam can do this to him, twist him up for no good reason at all, but the way the kid flinches under Dean’s fingertips for just a moment says maybe Dean’s not alone on that count.
Dean’s move to lie down against Sam is more of a graceless crash, elbows colliding with ribs, Sam’s shoulder catching him on the chin. He gets to the “Shit, sorr-“ of his apology before he can’t talk anymore because Sam’s lips are in the way.
Sam kisses him sweet, nothing close to gentle - sweet like rock candy crunching between his teeth, cutting up the inside of his mouth, sticking on the molars for Dean to chase the phantom taste of later. His huge hands are all over the place, instantly obvious that he’s never felt up anybody without tits before since that’s the first place he goes, not particularly deterred by the fact that it’s Dean’s pec he’s got a handful of instead of some soft flesh. Dean’s not about to complain either when those long fingers find a nipple to tug and play with, sending webs of red heat crackling under his skin. He’s going crazy from it, Sam’s mouth and Sam’s hands and Sam’s body pressed in close and still not close enough, too busy trying to grab at everything to really get a feel of anything.
Sam’s hand slides down the back of Dean’s sweats - oh why the fuck had he put on pants! - tentatively gripping until Dean arches back into it for encouragement. He gets his own fingers sliding down Sam’s taut, shivering belly to finally cop a feel of his naked cock and Sam gasps harshly against his mouth, sucking the air right out of Dean’s lungs.
He hears himself shushing and muttering things like, “I’ve got you,” and, “s’ok,” and “make it so good for you,” but mostly succeeds in shutting himself the hell up by mouthing his way along Sam’s neck. Sam feels good in his hand, long and thick, fever-hot, just starting to get wet at the tip. The kid loses a high, tight noise when Dean smears the slick around the head, takes a moment to mourn the fact that he doesn’t have any fucking lube but forgets it again when Sam paws at him like he wants to crawl inside of Dean’s skin and never come back out.
This is not the kind of shit Dean does, this touching, tasting, foreplay thing. He grew up on a steady diet of suck and fuck; get in, get yours and forget about it. Everybody knows how it goes, how it’s not about the person or the body, it’s just enough wet tight heat to take care of what you both need, a little mutual consideration but nothing more. This isn’t that, couldn’t be even if Dean tried to make it. He wants Sam, every inch and breath and moment. He wants that scent all around him and that dimpled smile that he can shock out on occasion and the sound of that voice in his ear saying things he’s never needed to hear before. He wants that look that Sam gets every time he says the name Jess, minus the heartache; wants it all for himself. He wants, he just wants like that’s all he’s made up of, every other function shut down to devote more energy to it.
“I want you in me,” he breathes, biting at Sam’s shoulder because he doesn’t know how to stop.
Sam jerks in his fist, whines, says “I’ve never…” even as he’s nodding his head and wetting Dean’s fingers with thin oozes of precome. Again all Dean’s got for a reply is, “Sam.”
This is going to be quick and messy, he can feel it. More than that, needs it, to feel Sam forcing his body open with too little prep, too little slick, to carry that ache around like the thousand other tangible marks already on his skin for proof that it really happened. That for just this one second in his whole messed-up fucking life, Dean Winchester really lived.
He sinks down between Sam’s legs in a rush, struggling to push down his own clothes at the same time. With a gulping breath and zero hesitation he pops the head of Sam’s dick into his mouth, soaks it with spit. Good isn’t a word Dean generally associates with the taste of someone else’s cock, but Sam’s making him reevaluate his position on that. Fuck, the things he wants to do to Sam, to taste him and take him, split him open on fingers and tongue and dick and have it all done back to him. Every filthy thing he’s ever heard of or half-imagined bombards him at the same time, all trying to fight their way into the schedule of the dozen or so hours they’ve got before they have to head back to base.
Strong fingers rake through his hair, not forcing him down, just encouraging, just enough to feel, and Dean nearly gags himself with the overwhelming need to give more. Sam makes a noise for it, almost but not quite a whimper that Dean’s instantly hooked on, can’t get enough. The heavy pressure of Sam’s cockhead pushes at the back of his throat, tears welling at the corners of Dean’s eyes as he makes his body swallow around it, used air stinging in his chest where it can’t get out, can’t get any new in. His own dick leaps at the aborted hitch of Sam’s hips like he’s just dying to give it to Dean hard, dry cotton drag across his wet slit mindblowing.
The urge is there as he bobs his head to just keep going, make Sam fuck up into his throat and spill, but the clawing need to have Sam inside of him is stronger and after not nearly enough time to enjoy it, Dean’s pulling off, wet and sloppy. Sam tugs at his neck to get them back on eye level and licks the wet sheen off of Dean’s swelling lips, sucks at them until they feel flayed raw.
It’s been a while since he’s bottomed, a hell of a while, actually, but it’s still a lot more recently than Sam, so it’s a good enough trade off. With one last irritated kick, he manages to free himself from the boxers and sweats so that when he straddles Sam’s hips, it’s nothing but bare skin on bare skin. He gets a couple of spit-slick fingers shoved up into his hole too fast, already anticipating how the friction is going to nail him when it’s something much bigger. Sam sucks at his earlobe, mouths over his cheek, humps up against Dean’s cock so that they’re both moaning and shaking too hard to really do this right.
By the time Dean gives up on the prep idea, welcomes the edge of pain, he’s pretty sure he’s going to shake apart if this doesn’t happen right this second. He doesn’t have to find out because as soon as he makes room Sam obliges, settles the leaking tip against Dean and pushes past the resistance. Once again it’s obvious that this is a first, Sam used to being swallowed by something much more wet and open for this, but Dean bears down when he starts to hesitate, lets the searing throb burn through him like cleansing, trial by fire.
Sam's fingers press into the meager meat of his hip, every ounce of the desperation Dean's surviving on mirrored in the bruises he knows will be left on him tomorrow. Slowly Dean lifts up just an inch or two, the clutching slide of it almost as surreal as the intimacy pressing at his skin like a hot wool blanket. Stilted, he hears Sam suck in a gasp, realizes then that he's closed his eyes and aches from it. He opens them to find Sam laid out under him too pretty to be allowed, the only thing Dean's ever going to know how to need from now until the day he goes down bloody. Or the day he loses Sam. Same difference.
The pace stutter-skips from testing to punishing in the space of a breath that neither of them can draw, broken halfway attempts huffed into the space between them, leaving Dean high on it, electrifying his blood. Harsh, rough pleasure that isn't rubs like steel wool in his veins, carving up his insides like a rabid cat sidhe and with mercy to match. Sam pumps his hips up, pushes, and Dean moves with it as Sam rolls him under; surrounded utterly by heat and the scent of sweat bleeding through cheap soap, gore so deep in both of their pores they'll never really come clean of it. The only home Dean has ever wanted.
He licks at the bulge of Sam's shoulder, savoring the salt of him, the reality that it's Sam's skin against his tongue. Loud isn't really in Dean's repertoire - certain levels of decency have to be adhered to even when you're fucking in a room full of other people - but dimly he's aware of the noises he's making as Sam fucks them out of him, coordination of his thrusts shot to hell; choppy moans and whines that solidify like a bubble around them trapping this single moment in time.
"Dean," Sam groans, pushing deep and it hits like a spinal tap from a .44 magnum, recoil kicking Dean in the skull and slamming right through his body until it's all bursting out the end of his cock like a spray of molten lead.
He feels Sam pick up the pace, but is helpless to do anything but take it, limp and pliant, letting himself be used. It doesn't last much longer, a dozen or so brutal thrusts before Sam is crushing Dean's mouth against his once more, pushing steamy used air into him when he can't actually kiss around the slack-jawed swell of fulfillment.
The twitch of Sam pulsing inside of him is all he gets, both of them so hot and overworked that there's no difference in the heat of Sam's body flooding into his own, no way to tell where they end and begin.
Dean kisses him lazily, licking and sucking at Sam's mouth until the kid remembers how it's done and responds. There are things here that should be said; need to be, would be if they were real people in the real world and not toy soldiers made of flesh, human sacrifices on the installment plan. So instead they kiss and they touch and they make believe by hours and inches that this story can have a happy ending.
When the sun slices its way through the indigo sky and brings the world to life again, they’re a bigger mess than they were when they walked in last night, soaked through with sweat and come, covered in marks that have nothing to do with anything outside of this room. As close to sated as either of them is ever likely to get.
Sluggishly, Sam goes loose against him, a nothing little blurt of sticky heat smeared against Dean’s thigh as Sam’s already wrung-out balls try to give just a little more. Dean cradles Sam against his chest, slick of sweat making them slippery, inhales the sharp, rank scent of his taxed body and breathes out, voice scored raw, illicit as a curse word whispered in church, "Sammy."