Fic: Always (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, drunk!boys, frottage
Notes: General spoilers of season 2-3
Summary - Dean's POV on the events of " These Things Happen" - because sdwinfreak asked, and I loves-es her!
Sammy's a fucking furnace, always, even as a baby, and Dean's never been able to keep his hands off. Not like this, not back then anyway. Not even now, except for these times; these nights when he can get away with it. Because of the liquor; because he has an excuse, and that's all he's ever really been looking for.
Dean knows it's gonna happen hours, days, before it does. It builds up slow in his system like white noise feedback until the buzzing sets his nerves on fire - the bubbling black tar of 'need it' coating his insides so that every move, every breath when he's not touching Sam is another stint back in the pit. So he goes and buys a bottle of some cheap courage and starts doing himself in.
Sometimes Sam joins, more often now than before, and Dean wonders if that's because his little brother's got more he wants to forget now, or because he needs it to get through what he knows Dean's going to do. He hopes it's the first, even though the fucking sick selfishness of it rides his tongue like bile, but Jesus fucking Christ he hopes.
Either way he can't stop himself because as soon as the alcohol sloshes into his stomach, way the hell before it could have any effect, he's moving in. It always starts little; a hand on Sam's leg, letting the fiery heat of his brother's body melt into his skin like a balm, filling up all of the rusted out cracks of who he is. Then that's not enough and he needs skin, would sell his soul all over again for the searing brand of his brother's butter-soft skin against his fingertips, sell his soul not to want it.
He goes for the long expanse of the neck, palm stretched wide over the top of Sammy's spine. Lets a couple of fingers slip into the mop of hair, thumb finding the machine gun pulse under the thin skin behind Sam's ear. Sometimes it feels like that beat under his thumb is the only thing keeping his own heart in rhythm and the second that hits, the bottom drops out of his stomach with the urge to measure the throb against his tongue too. But not yet, can't just go for it like that; not even here, alone in the motel with both of them knowing how it's gonna go down. Because no matter how bad he needs it, he has to at least pretend it's good for Sam, pretend he has permission and not just a little brother who'd do anything for him.
So he leans in slow, tongue sliding at the last second over lips already prickling and oversensitized from the thought of being on Sam's. There's a moment where it all hangs, time gummed up in the viscous thrill of his breath mingling with Sam's in the swelter between their bodies. Then he's there, touching, kissing; a couple of hours of teasing foreplay in the wet slip-glide of silken lips against his and Dean makes himself go slow even when every molecule in his being is gnashing for more because one day Sam's going to say 'no' and every time could be the last.
Sammy makes fucking beautiful noises when he kisses, sweet little moans and breathy whimpers that melt right onto Dean's tongue like molten honey as he licks his way into his little brother's mouth. The sound, the feel, lights him up until every fiber and synapse is vibrating so fast he feels like he'll shimmer out of existence. He knows he makes noises too, doesn't even try to hold them behind the wall of all the things he can't say that he's built up in his chest, because there's something in those sounds that always gets Sam touching him.
Sam's hand, the strength of a lifetime packed into rough inches, cups Dean's jaw and the safety right there - always - under Sam's touch, claws through his veins. He wants to crawl inside Sammy like a parasite and keep his baby brother all for himself even though he knows he can't; knows one day his brother will leave again, because that's how it's supposed to be. Sam should have one of those apple pie lives, something besides a car and a motel key to call home and perfect, beautiful, smart kids and just thinking about Sam walking away has his throat closing up so tight he's not even sure he remembers what air is so he'll inhale more of Sammy instead.
He's pawing at Sam's clothes for the naked skin underneath, with Sam halfway in his lap and not close enough by miles. The shirt comes off, hits the floor and can burn in hell for all he cares because he's got Sammy's bare chest pressed into him now and if it was up to him, his brother would never wear a single stitch of clothing again, so Dean could touch him anytime he wanted. And God he always wants, wants this, wants more, but he can have this, make this depravity enough so that sinking deep into the tight, slick heat of Sam's body can be a sin that only lives in his mind.
Laying Sam out is so much better, so much closer, and he can finally feel his great big little brother sparking off heavy hits of bliss in every part of his body. Sam's touching him, all unsteady eagerness, with fingers digging and pressing at every warm exposed spot they can, like he's just as starved for this as Dean is, needs it just as much. Right now, with the liquor still sweet on his breath, hot in veins, Dean lets himself believe that.
His fingers are wound up in Sammy's baby-fine strands, always end up there because it's the one thing he can never find in all the other bodies substitutes. The height, the muscles, the hot, smooth skin - he can get close enough with others to shut his eyes and imagine it's where he wants to be, but missing the shag of soft curls always feels wrong against his fingers and his lips, always pulls him out of it and shoves him into autopilot: just finish and get gone.
But not now. Now it's real, now it's Sammy underneath him, spread out for him, even if it's not exactly the way he would want. Still its orders of magnitude better than anything else and finally he can get his angry, dripping cock synced up with the long line of steel heat straining Sam's jeans and grind.
He can feel the roll of hot, hard flesh in every inch of his body, in things that have nothing to do with his cock, and he presses down harder, as hard as he can, to get closer, get more, of what he knows will never be enough but it's the closest he's ever going to get. He's got his face pressed into the crook of Sam's neck, the heat of his brother's body simmering in the air, baking into Dean's pores so that all he feels, all he breathes, all he is, is Sam's.
Sammy's wide hands slide luscious and wicked down his body, grip his ass, and Dean could come from just that, from so much less than that, but holds it back until the weight of it is backing up into his spine. Can't keep from talking though, not with Sam's hands on him just how he needs; has to distract himself, prove to himself how sick he really is, how twisted and cheap. So he says it all, every demented fantasy he has in the middle of the night when the memories from hell won't let him sleep and the only salvation is two and half feet and a lifetime away. He spews the words out into the space between their bodies, so thick with them it's not even air anymore.
He's pistoning faster, jittery and unreal with Sammy bucking up underneath and egging him on and this is worse than hell, better than heaven and he's so so sorry, so fucking weak, fucking scared. Tears pour like acid out of his eyes, burning everything they touch because Dean's nothing but sin, made of it and the only good thing about him was always Sammy. Sammy, his Sammy.
Dying for his brother was nothing, it's living that's torture and Dean would slog through every miserable second of eternity for these moments, this heat, the sweet, shivering words Sam whispers like absolution into Dean's ear. He can feel it in the twitch of Sam's body, the desperation of his thrusts, the hitch of breath that his little brother is getting close because tonight, this time, Dean's good enough to deserve it.
'Yours, I'm yours, always yours' spills past Sam's lips and Dean sinks under the weight of it, lets the promise of everything he's ever wanted, can never have, drag him into oblivion. Sammy's hands gentle him through the breath-stealing shocks and Dean wants to die right here, like this, in the space between the abysses of guilt and hunger, but he won't. Sam needs him, and for however long that's true, he'll live. For Sam.
Just like that, it hits him, with the vicious heat of his brother's unrelieved dick still digging into him and his nerves firing off leftover bursts of scrap pleasure. It slices through his flesh like a hunting knife until he’s sobbing with it; that after all of the pressure and the ecstasy and the heat is gone, Dean has always been made of pure need, hollowed out by it and the only thing that will ever sate the emptiness is Sam.
Molten copper tang floods his mouth as teeth dig into the tender expanse of Sam's shoulder. He drinks down the flavor as his brother's body shoots taut from the flash of pain and the welcome warmth of Sammy's come spreads out under him. The mark will stay for days, open back up over and over when his brother turns his head and it's all Dean's, all him and Sam.
Sam holds him tight, nuzzles in close enough that Dean can almost forget that he's nothing but an aching shell. His eyes fall half-lidded as he greedily laps up the raw taste of Sammy and lets it soothe the sore places in his soul.