Supernatural: Kicks Like a Sleep Twitch [Part 2/3]
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PART TWO
They lie low for a couple of weeks after the shit hits the fan in Colorado. They're dead again, technically, Henriksen managed to get that much down in writing before Lilith crashed the party, but their faces were all over the news, and Sam doesn't want to risk walking in somewhere and being recognized.
They shouldn't be hunting in their current states, anyway. Bela and the Colt have gone off the map again, Ruby's pissed, Dean is all torn up and guilty about the deaths in Monument-as if he fucking planned them-and Sam just plain doesn't like the idea of parading his brother around when he can still so clearly picture the charred remains of the police station they'd seen on the news. That's who Lilith is, what she's capable of, and she's looking for him and Dean.
Sam just wants to hide his brother for the next few months, until the deal is due, and make sure whatever comes for Dean has to go through him first.
How they end up on some beach in Massachusetts, Sam will never know. Their dad worked a case there eight years back, but that's just the excuse Dean uses to get them there. Free housing from a grateful widow. One of those summer homes that stays empty nine months of the year, stocked kitchen and all, a better situation than they'd have found anywhere else, Sam knows that. But he doesn't think that's why Dean chose to make this their hideout.
Dean's always liked the beach. Now he goes out every morning and sits on the shore, cold breezes blowing past him as he stares at waves crashing on sand. He looks thoughtful, not like himself, but then he doesn't bother with the mask out here. Sam pretends he doesn’t see. But he watches from the kitchen window, traces the moment his brother's expression gets far off and every bit as terrified as it should be.
He stays in usually. Washes the dishes or pretends he's sleeping, as if he can ever actually rest these days when Dean's not dreaming for him. But today there's something different, and Sam feels an ache to go distract his brother, so he shuffles past the wooden table on the wooden floor and lets the wooden door slam shut behind him.
"Coffee," Sam says, handing Dean a cup and lowering himself carefully to sit in the sand without spilling it.
Dean blinks his way back into the present and smiles at Sam thankfully.
"It's getting warmer," Sam says after a minute or so of silence. "Bet the water's swimmable by now."
Dean nods absently. Mid-April in Massachusetts, the water's likely to freeze like knives, but Dean's got worse coming and they both know it. Spring coming on and chasing the winter away isn't the comfort it usually is this year. It was warm when Sam died.
They sit for another five minutes of dead air, and Sam's trying to figure out what to say that won't just upset them both further. He almost wants to run out into the sea and drown himself just for a conversation starter.
As he's musing on whether the cold would be worth it, Dean suddenly says, "You remember sandcastles, Sam?"
Sam laughs, caught off guard. "Are you asking me if I remember what sandcastles are, or-?"
"You must've been six or something. Dad took us to some beach and let us run off and play, and we made these sandcastles." He shakes his head. "Really crappy excuses for sandcastles in retrospect, but man, you loved them. Thought it was the best damn thing you'd ever done. Dad kept trying to take us back to the motel or to dinner or something, but you kept begging to stay, so I did too. We stayed out so long me and Dad got these sunburns." Dean turns to Sam and makes a circle about the size of a quarter with his fingers. "Boils this big."
"Yeesh," Sam says.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but he's smiling. "You were a little red and peeling, but nothing like me and Dad. I think you wanted to go back the next day. Fucking stupidly happy over the sand, I'll never forget it."
Sam looks over at his brother and doesn't bother asking if that has anything to do with how much he loves beaches. He moves his hand closer to Dean's, hesitating before touching it, and realizes he wants to kiss him. Without an excuse, not because Dean wants it, but just because he's Dean and Sam pushed him away when he had the chance, and he's going to have so few chances. He's not even dreaming, not clinging to that comfort Dean finds in hiding it away in his head.
He wants to kiss Dean, and, instead of thinking of all the ways that's wrong, Sam finds himself wondering if in some other, better world, where they're not brothers and they're not dying, do they get to roll around in the tide and smile into each other's mouths, saltwater making the kiss taste like brine and their eyes sting? Do they get to stumble back to the washed out wooden house, fighting over whose fault it is that they have sand in their trunks and not really caring about the itch?
"I know you want me to be sorry," Dean says. It's almost a whisper, but Sam knows that has more to do with how close to cracking his words are than with trying to hide them from Sam. "I know I should be. But I'm not."
It's the most honest he's been with Sam, awake at least, since he made that deal. It still makes Sam feel sick.
"I'm going in," Sam says. "You coming with?"
Dean shakes his head, a smile so small it's not really there at the corner of his mouth. "I think I'm gonna test out my sandcastle skills," he says playfully.
He does, points it out to Sam through the kitchen window after lunch. Sam catches himself pushing curtains aside to peek at it throughout the day, but of course it gets washed away as the tide rolls in, and all that's left by night is a lumpy carcass that used to be special.
He's at the table with Lisa. Sam never went into her house, but he's sure this is what it looked like from the inside. White walls and hardwood floors, and pictures of her and Ben smiling from every flat surface. Of course, Dean's in them, and that's a change, but not one that doesn't fit seamlessly into the surroundings.
Sam leans in close and peers at one, gets a shiver of ugly jealousy from the way Dean's got his arm around Lisa, and turns away.
"Come sit," he hears Dean say from the dining room. "It's almost dinnertime."
Sam does as he's told, though he throws a few uncomfortable looks Dean's way as he does so. Lisa is directly across from him, but when Sam settles down he looks over and finds Dean is watching him instead of her. Dean reaches out, resting his hand lightly over Sam's, and Sam knows it's rude, but he doesn't pull away.
"What about-?" he starts before he turns to see that Lisa's disappeared. Dean is still looking at him, and the kid who runs in, yelling something out excitedly, looks more like Sam than the copy of Dean Ben had turned out to be.
"Hide-and-go-seek," a Sam that must by about five says to Dean. He tugs on the bottom of Dean's jeans and Dean laughs.
"All right, all right. Go hide, I'll come for you." Dean reaches out to ruffle Sam's hair and grins, shaking his head as he watches the child run off. "I swear, that kid's gonna make me old before my time."
If only, Sam thinks, but he doesn't get a chance to say anything.
The child version of him stomps back into the dining room. He's aged a couple of years and puts his hands on his hips, his expression cross. "You're not counting," he accuses Dean. "You have to count and then come looking."
"I'll come for you," Dean promises. "I'm on 68."
Seven-year-old Sam watches Dean suspiciously for a long moment, then sighs. "Okay. But you have to count out loud or I won't know when you're coming and that's cheating."
"67," Dean announces loudly, and the kid smiles brightly and flees into the kitchen.
Dean looks back to Sam. "I fucking hate hide-and-go-seek," he confesses.
Sam smirks. "Your secret's safe with me," says Sam, even though technically he's the same person Dean is trying to keep the secret from.
"Good," he says, smiling.
"Ready or not," a voice calls from the kitchen doorway, and Dean's expression freezes up from the happy, relaxed one a minute ago. He doesn't look up, keeps his eyes meticulously trained on the dining room table, but Sam can't help looking.
Sam has reappeared from the room he ran into, but he's not seven anymore. He's probably somewhere between 15 and 16, the year he had more growth spurts than meals and realized he was going to outgrow his brother soon, outgrow hunting and Dad's orders and their whole claustrophobic life if he didn't get out. He's not wearing a shirt, just holding himself up against the frame of the door, his fingers on his chest and a dark look on his face. Sam almost wants to laugh at himself, the awkward stretch of too much bone covered by not enough muscle and skin, but there's something terribly ugly about the way he's looking at Dean.
"Go away," says Dean. "Please go away."
"What's wrong, you don't want to play with me?" he asks.
Dean looks up, then away immediately as if what he saw wounded him. And the teenaged version of Sam steps closer. He's teasing Dean, Sam realizes. It's torture, and the really sad thing about it is it's Dean's brain doing it to himself. Sam nearly questions why Dean would ever think of him this way, then wonders if this is what it had really been like for Dean. All those times Sam's slept half-naked or changed in front of him, thinking it was just the necessity of living in close quarters. God, but he was tormenting Dean all along, and Dean just took it.
Sam knows if Dean had said something earlier, it wouldn't have gone well. It would have been too much at once, and Sam would have been disgusted or afraid. He wouldn't have understood, just like he didn't understand weeks ago, but he understands now. He understands and he wants to go back in time and shake himself, tell his younger self to grab Dean and never run away to school and take everything he can get from him, because one day he would want it and it would be too late. Dean would be lost.
"Don't look at me," the other Sam says. "Is that the game now? You're bad at that game."
"Can you believe how stupid they are?" Dean says to Sam, ignoring the other one.
Sam feels his eyebrows drawing together, confused that Dean is talking to him at all and not really knowing what he's talking about. "Who?"
"The demons. They let me have you back. They let me have you back for free." He smiles to himself miserably. "I was going to Hell either way. Sold my soul a long time ago."
Sam feels his hands curl into fists and stands up, turning to face the other Sam. The nasty smile on his teenage face clouds over when he gets a look at Sam's expression, and good. Sam wants him scared. He's inches shorter and much thinner, and Sam uses that to his advantage, marches up to himself until they're so close he can't take another step. He towers over the teenager.
Sam doesn't have to share Dean, not even with himself, and he sure as fuck won't share Dean with this.
"You leave," he says. "Leave right now."
The other Sam dissipates in front of his eyes and Sam turns to the table, sitting right back where he'd been before. He reaches out and grabs Dean's hand and pulls it toward himself.
"Where were we?" he asks Dean.
Dean gives him a grateful look and they have their dinner.
"Fucking idiots," Dean mutters, his eyes searching Sam's as he holds his face up for inspection. "Next time, I swear. They'll think the rotting fish was a Christmas present."
"They're just kids, Dean," Sam replies, fidgeting.
"Sit still, would you?" Dean sighs. "They're kids, yeah, but they keep getting into shit they don't belong in. Ghostfacers, my ass. They're all gonna end up dead at this rate. All for some crappy TV show? How's your head feeling?"
"I don’t have a concussion, Dean," Sam snaps, shoving his hands away. "I told you, the ghost didn't rough me up that bad. Would you quit prodding me?"
"No," Dean gets up and goes digging through his bag for the first aid kit. "Anyway, you okay about the other stuff? Don't wanna talk about it?"
He sits back down in front of Sam, still looking overcritical, like Sam's head is going to crack in half any minute.
"Dude, after Broward I'm kind of desensitized to watching people die."
Dean pauses, stops right in the middle of wetting a hand towel with alcohol so it begins to drip through the cloth and onto his jeans. Sam realizes what he said a moment too late and can't do anything but look away. He's sorry the kid died, but he can't get torn up about it. He has less than a month before that's Dean again. There's no room to care about anything else.
He shakes his head, trying to look contrite. "No, I don't need to talk about it. I'm fine. And since when do you wanna talk?"
"It's not the same," Dean says, wiping blood and grime away from the cut under Sam's eye. "Anyway, I was just offering."
It stings a little, but Dean is gentle after Sam flinches, and Sam can't help thinking of the way his fingers had moved so slow and careful down his spine the first night he walked into one of Dean's dreams. And now that light touch on his cheek makes him swallow and will away all the thoughts popping up, but it makes him feel something, too. Something the dreams couldn't make him feel. A low, hot something curling in his belly, and he flushes, ashamed by how good he's suddenly realized this could be.
Dean clears his throat, and Sam shakes his head, focusing back on his brother. Dean is smiling out of one side of his mouth. "You need to get out more, Sammy."
Sam blanches when he realizes he's half hard and Dean's noticed. He tries to readjust himself, but of course it's too late for that. Dean only barks out a laugh at him, and Sam marvels at how cool he plays it. No one could ever know from the mocking look on his brother's face that this was his idea to begin with, that he dreams about this and made Sam dream about it, too. Sam never would have thought of it on his own, and yet Dean is playing this off like a big brother is supposed to and Sam is the one left feeling like there's something wrong with him.
He shoves Dean away. "Look, I'm not hurt. I just need a shower."
"Yeah, make it a cold one," Dean yells to his back as Sam hurries out of the room.
By the time he gets out, Dean is dozing with the television set turned almost all the way up. Sam picks up the remote and turns it off and wonders if maybe this has gone far enough. If he should stop before he intrudes on Dean again and can't stop himself from doing something he won't be able to take back.
But as soon as he falls asleep, of course, the choice seems obvious. Dean said it himself. It's just dreams; it doesn't matter if it's just dreams. It won't count if it's just dreams.
It isn't usually a bed in these dreams, that's what Sam's learned. More nights than not, he watches Dean do something to him, touch or kiss or hold or fuck, but not since that first night has it been on a mattress. Now Dean is hovering over Sam on a huge, four-poster bed. The sheets are the same shade of dark red as the walls and floors and curtains around it, making Dean stand out against all the burgundy.
The dream version of Sam is sitting up just enough to reach Dean's zipper. His eyes are locked on Dean's as he slowly pulls it down. Dean licks his lips, smiling wickedly, and Sam hates that he's looking at anyone like that, even if it is just another version of him.
He steps forward, clearing his throat. Dean looks over, but under him the other Sam pays him no attention. He only has eyes for Dean, so he presses his palm flat against Dean's stomach and traces a line up his chest.
Dean doesn't look away from Sam, though, which makes Sam feel smug in the stupidest way possible. His hand reaches down, catching the other Sam's wrist and holding it away from himself.
"God, that's hot," he says, voice all breathy. The leg that was straddling the dream Sam eases away, and he falls onto his side, but even now his eyes are on Sam's. "Can't fucking think through how hot that is."
Sam takes another step toward them, almost against his own will, and feels a chill run all the way down his body, sparking in his toes. The Sam on the bed is completely naked, and Dean is leaning down to whisper something into his ear. The dream nods, reaching out once Sam is close enough to the bed, and beginning to undo Sam's jeans as eagerly as he'd been working on Dean's.
"What-?" Sam begins to ask, but he's cut off by the surprise of feeling a mouth press against the jut of his hip and moans instead of finishing.
"Two of you. I get two of you. Almost don't know what to do with all that." Dean licks his lips again and smiles as his voice grows darker. "But I bet you do."
Dean reaches out, pressing his hand to the small of the other Sam's back, and the dream stops sucking at Sam's skin, pulling away like he understands the command. Sam thinks he could understand his brother's touches just as easily. Better. He could be better, this is just some dream.
Sam pulls his shirt off over his head and lets the hands pulling on his hips tug him forward into bed. It's not until the dream Sam grips his shoulder and shoves him down into the mattress that he realizes how much bigger Sam is in Dean's head. Larger than life. Sam can't fight the hold the other man is exerting over him and it scares him until he sees the way Dean is watching them.
Sam can't kiss his brother. Can't touch Dean. Isn't supposed to want to. But there's no reason he shouldn't let himself do whatever Dean wants him to. Not when Dean is watching them like he's never seen anything better than too much Sam.
Sam stops struggling, lays back and lets the weight of himself push down on top of him. It's heavy, so heavy it's stifling, but god, the other Sam starts moving inside of him-no preparation needed in the dream-and it's better than anything Sam's ever felt. Sam wonders if this is what Dean always feels like. This impossible crushing sensation of too much, and if it is, Sam can't blame his brother for wanting him.
His head falls back and he lets out a cry, and then he looks over at Dean. Dean's got his hands shoved into his half-open jeans, his fist working quickly. His lip is caught between teeth, but he's looking at Sam with all this want and pride and Sam doesn't know what's happening until he realizes he's awake.
His boxers are soaked through with come. He's shaking. Dean is still asleep in the bed next to him, but Sam can see his hips working against the blankets, and Sam's not even ashamed anymore. He wants Dean to approve of him the way he just did in that dream. He wants to see that gleam in Dean's eyes for real and satisfy his brother for once instead of Dean sacrificing everything for him. He wants Dean to get one thing he wants, just this one thing, and maybe then he'll learn better than to give up the rest.
"I think you're pretty," Sam says. "Am I allowed to think that?"
"Absolutely not," Dean replies. He pokes at Sam with a plastic sword and Sam wobbles in his canoe. Why Dean has a plastic sword in his canoe, or why they are in canoes at all, Sam will never know. Dreams are fucking weird, he decides.
Sam is holding a wizard's staff. He doesn't even know what the hell he's supposed to do with that, but it extends farther than Dean's sword, so he's got one advantage. He reaches out and starts nudging at Dean's canoe, and Dean tries to block him, which is what sends him tumbling over the side. The boat capsizes, making Sam the winner.
He stands in his canoe, holding his hands above his head with the wizard staff and crying out in victory. Dean emerges from the water and watches his display for half a second before growling, tackling up onto Sam's boat and causing Sam to fall back, head and ass first into the murky green water.
"Fuck you," Sam says, spraying Dean with the water that got into his mouth when he reaches the surface. He swims forward and jumps up, lying on top of his overturned canoe. Dean does the same on the other side. "You're just jealous I won."
Dean smiles and leans forward to kiss Sam. Sam turns his face away, not because he doesn't want it but because he wants it so much it scares him and none of that makes it acceptable.
"Sam," Dean says, quiet and imploring, and Sam turns back to look at him. His face makes Sam's chest tight. "Kiss me."
Ah, what the hell. He asked nicely. Sam closes his eyes and leans over the canoe and takes Dean's mouth with his own. Dean is ready for him, lips open and tongue sliding just right on Sam's. It's not the first time for Dean, but it's the first for Sam, and he gets carried away, so lost he doesn't know when they shift scenes. When he opens his eyes, they're sitting on a white couch instead of in a lake, though they're still drenched.
"Let's do that again some time," Sam murmurs as he pulls away.
"Like I know how to stop." Dean laughs. "I wish I knew how to quit you," he says, doing his best gay cowboy accent, which would be most people's worst. Still, it makes Sam crack up.
"Do you?" Sam asks once he's recovered himself.
Dean's laughter dims to a smile, but it's still a real one, so bright and playful and goddamn happy it hurts. He closes his mouth and shakes his head, reaching out to press a hand to Sam's cheek as he kisses him again.
When they break the kiss, Dean slides his palm onto Sam's thigh and moves it slowly up. "Hey, want me to suck your dick?"
Sam snorts. "You're so sentimental," he says. "I thought we were having a moment."
"Did you want the blowjob or not?"
Dean's fingers work open the top button of Sam's jeans and he hesitates, looking at Sam eagerly for his response. Sam shifts, letting the bulge of his cock get a little more friction against the pressure Dean is supplying. "I mean, if you're just handing them out."
"That would be a handjob," Dean replies, smartass that he is, but before Sam can respond he's got Sam's cock free and is wrapping his hand around it and diving down into Sam's lap on that couch as if this is old hat for him.
"Fuck," Sam curses as Dean takes him-all of him-in one greedy slide. His brother looks smug when he pulls up the first time, lips all wet with drool and already swelling from taking so much. Sam can't help it, he pushes Dean back down and fucks his mouth.
When he finishes, Dean comes up with jizz on his bottom lip and a triumphant expression, and Sam kisses him, curious what it'll taste like. Of course it's a dream, so he can't really taste it, but he still sucks just a bit harder on Dean's tongue just in case.
"Wanna return the favor?" Dean murmurs against Sam's neck, and Sam groans.
He does, he really does, but as soon as Dean gets his dick out, Sam realizes with horror that he has no idea what to do. Dean is hard for him, a drop of precome crowning the dark head of his cock, and Sam knows the basic premise, but he also knows it takes practice to do what Dean just did to him. Sam's never given a blowjob before, never even dreamed of it. He's going to be bad at it, he's going to disappoint Dean, and then Dean will realize just how cheap he sold his soul. How undeserving Sam is of every little thing he's ever given.
It's a lot of pressure Sam's putting on this blowjob, but in the moment all of his concerns seem valid. He takes Dean's hand instead, slowly bringing it to his lips, and sucks three of his brother's fingers in. He imitates the bobbing motion Dean had been so perfect at, and Dean watches him through heavy-lidded eyes. It's a dream, so Sam's sorry excuse for stimulation is enough. Dean moans and writhes and Sam keeps sucking until he comes untouched.
Sam wakes up still hungry for Dean. It's really kind of awkward. Apart from the obvious problem of it being his brother's dick Sam can't stop thinking about, the case they've been working has Dean all kinds of moody and depressed-with good reason-and the only way to cheer him up that Sam can think of is hey, I know we're really not supposed to do this, but if you don't mind that I'll be bad at it, I'd really like to try blowing you. Which is probably just not the way to chase away the daddy issues this crocotta hunt brought up.
"This show sucks," Dean says, his voice sulky and his lips pouting in a way that's way more attractive than it should be right now. He reaches over, right above Sam's lap, leaning in, and it's just like the dream. Sam freezes, terrified that one wrong move will alert Dean to the fact that they are awake and this is not allowed and make him stop. His blood is all rushing to his dick, but then Dean sits back up, the remote in his hand, and Sam realizes he was just reaching for it. Not about to make the dream come true after all. Dean switches off the television. "Let's go out."
Sam's ready for bed. He's still pissed, and a part of him wants to gloat. This is what Dean gets for his distractions. They worked a case they shouldn't have been working, and Dean got hurt. Anyone else would take the hint and turn his attention onto breaking the deal, like Sam's been telling Dean to do for months, but instead Dean wants to go out and drown his problems-ignore them as if they have any fucking time for that-and there's no way Sam's letting him go to a bar alone in his current state.
They get hammered, and that's putting it mildly. After a couple of hours and way too many close calls, Sam is tired of swaying too close to his brother, catching Dean's scent and finding the words on the tip of his tongue. Fuck me. Let me fuck you. I want to suck you. I want to kiss you. I want to die so you don't have to.
"I wanted it to be dad," Dean says, his voice starting to slur. Sam knows he's sloshed, Dean's been pretty wasted for an hour and a half now, but he didn't realize it had gotten to the point where words start rushing together.
"I know you did, Dean," Sam replies, turning away so Dean can't see his eyes roll as he takes another shot of whiskey. "Of course you did, but it wasn't."
"I wanted him to tell me." Dean wipes his mouth with his hand and then keeps going, "He said the wrong thing, anyway. I should have known it wasn't him. He didn't tell me what I wanted."
Sam pauses, listening a bit harder, but Dean doesn't add anything. "Wanted him to tell you what? How to get out of Hell?"
About Hell, probably. That's what Sam would want to ask Dad if he could right now. What's it like? Is there any way it could be worse than being topside, being topside and alone? Who won this round, was it Sam or Dean? Because Sam's not really sure.
"Good job," Dean says, laughing quietly. "Good job, son. I'm proud."
If Sam weren't fresh out of eye rolls, that would get one. Dean is too damn old for this. "He saw you kill the demon," Sam points out. "He was proud of you then."
Dean shakes his head. "Not that."
"What then?"
"I saved you. That was my job and I did, I saved you." Dean smoothes his hand out on the bar surface and glowers down at it. "I fucking did it and you just want to find a way to take it back. You want to make me fuck it up again, but Dad would know. I just wanted someone to acknowledge that I did the right thing."
Sam stares at his brother, incredulous, and gets the urge to choke him until he can't say anything stupid like that ever again. It's amazingly complex, wanting so bad to kill someone Sam knows he can't live without, but then, he's drunk and belligerent and maybe needs to get away from Dean instead of trying to think the impulse through.
"You didn't do the right thing," Sam replies. He doesn’t care anymore that this is Dean's last year (last month) and it should be as good for Dean as possible. He's not indulging that, not now. "You did the worst thing you could have, and I hate you for it."
"I know you're mad-" Dean reaches out and grabs Sam's arm, looking up. His face is practically liquid, eyes watery and mouth wet and everything drooping like raindrops tracking their way down a window. Sam wants to put his mouth against Dean's and swallow him and keep him locked inside forever. "Don't say you hate me, Sam. I know you don't mean it, but I can't stand hearing it."
Sam empties his cup and slams it on the counter, shoving Dean's hand away. "I'm getting another drink."
Dean nods and shrugs and goes back to staring at the liquid in front of him as Sam stomps across the room to get the bartender's attention. He pushes past a crowd of people trying to get drinks, not really in the mood to be polite, and leans forward with his money extended. He sees Dean in the mirror behind the bar and watches him as he waits for the bartender to make her way to him. A girl has taken the spot Sam vacated next to him and Dean is talking to her now, as if Sam doesn't even fucking exist.
"Not that you need another one," Sam hears someone say beside him. "But can I buy you a drink?"
Sam looks away from Dean and finds some douche with long black hair and skeevy facial hair smiling at him. He attempts to wave the guy away, but the man is holding his elbow. Helping him stay vertical, maybe.
Sam wonders if Dean can see. This is the fourth girl Dean's talked to tonight, and even if he hasn't actually made a move on any of them, the fact that he's paying them any attention at all has been making Sam's cheeks burn with embarrassment and jealousy and anger and so many months of this pent up lust that's all Dean's fault but which Dean is going to do nothing about.
Sam doesn't bother being gracious. "I'm good."
The man doesn't let go. "I'm Jason," he says.
"I'm not into-" Sam starts, but before he can say dick, he thinks of the dream last night, of how badly he had wanted it. A slow smile curls his lips. He doesn't care if he's bad at it for this guy. This guy can be practice, and then Sam can be good, and then he can fill up on Dean until he isn't breathing anything but his brother. "Outside."
Jason looks taken aback by the sudden change, but he nods, allowing Sam to grab his jacket and tug him toward the bar's back entrance. As soon as they get to the alley outside, Sam shoves the stranger up against the brick wall and falls to his knees.
Sam fights with the man's pants, then lets go in exasperation when they prove too complicated. "Too drunk to-"
Jason reaches down, freeing his cock and stroking himself a few times until he's fully hard. Sam stares, hoping it'll be like a puzzle and the solution will present itself if he thinks hard enough. That doesn't happen, so Sam leans forward tentatively, licking at the head, then slowly taking the guy into his mouth.
He goes inch by inch, doesn't get much before the guy thrusts and Sam pulls away, gagging.
"You new at this or something?" Jason asks, chuckling at Sam.
Sam's not drunk enough to not want to punch him, but he is drunk enough to ignore the question and move forward and try again. He gets a little further this time, and Jason holds himself still, not thrusting now that he knows Sam can't take it. Sam moves up and down, and after a bit he can feel and hear Jason starting to get into it, but it's not enough. Anyone's mouth can feel good, Sam has to actually be good. He has to be good for Dean, or he won't deserve him.
He drags his mouth up the shaft, letting the man's cock fall away and rub against his chin. "Show me what's good," he says, not looking up so he doesn't see that this is the wrong person. "Make it good."
Sam feels Jason's body moving as the man nods, and then there's a hand in his hair, gripping the back of his head and pulling him in. He finds that he kind of likes the pain of being led like that, and even though it's hard to breathe and messy, Sam closes his eyes and pretends it's Dean and he loves every second of it, right until the man comes and his voice is wrong. Sam stumbles to his feet, his head spinning, and remembers that the person he was looking for is still inside the bar.
He wipes his mouth and heads back in, though Jason catches his arm as he begins to open the door. "You don't want to leave before I return the favor, do you?"
Sam laughs at him, shaking the arm away.
As soon as he's inside, Sam catches Dean watching the door. Dean's face goes dark, and Sam tracks his gaze as it moves from him to the man coming in behind him. Dean's hand is curled into a tight fist next to his bourbon, but he shakes his head a little, forcing an engaged expression as he looks down at the girl chatting away beside him and pretends he's listening to her. Sam knows within an hour Dean will fuck her in the back of their car and he'll smell her cheap perfume tomorrow morning.
It doesn't matter. He also knows who Dean will really be thinking of while he does it, and now Sam knows what that's like, too. She'll hardly be there at all as far as Dean is concerned, and that's how Sam wants it.
"I'm going back to the room," he tells Dean when he makes it across the bar.
Dean pretends not to be interested, nodding as if the black-haired woman in front of him is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, but Sam throws a look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Dean is glaring at the guy Sam just blew instead of her and smiling with relief as Sam leaves the other man behind.
Dean dies that night.
Sam thinks he went into the wrong dream. He must have stayed in his own head instead of Dean's.
He leaves and tries to find another. There's only one, and that's his own, and Dean dies there, only it's different.
The next night, Dean dies.
And then the night after that.
Dean dies over and over again.
Every damn dream he goes into, all Sam sees is Dean and all of the insides that make up Dean when he's in one piece, which he isn't ever these days, except when he's awake, and even then, it depends what definition you're using.
Sam's good at dreamwalking, but even Sam can’t will this away.
He wakes up shaking and screaming. Dean does him the kindness of pretending not to hear or see it, and Sam returns the favor when it's Dean waking him with a shout.
There is one week left before Dean's deal comes due, and for the last four days, every time either of them goes to sleep, all Dean does is die and die and die and die.
If Sam has gone slightly crazy, no one has the right to criticize him. Dean certainly doesn't, and there's no one else to notice. Soon, there won't even be Dean.
37 hours, 23 minutes, there's no use counting the seconds.
Sam is aware of every molecule of his brother's body. The smell of him and the whiskey they had for dinner, the heat that rolls off him after a long day, the way his skin folds under his t shirt as he gets into the wrong bed. It's a cruel, overwhelming feeling of fullness, a consciousness of a hole that isn't there but which will be in 37 hours, 22 minutes, and fewer seconds by the second. Sam doesn't want to feel it, or anything, but there it is.
Dean is pushing back his covers, as if he is just going to crawl up on the mattress and sleep. They won't be sleeping tomorrow night, they'll be running, and the day after that Dean will be sleeping and Sam will be trying very hard not to throw his brother's sacrifice away by putting a bullet through the back of his head.
37 hours and 21 minutes.
Sam sits up, reaching out. He catches the back of Dean's elbow, and his brother turns to look at him, caught off guard.
"What's up?" Dean asks, all cool and collected.
Nothing much, Sam wants to say. Just the end of the world.
Drama queen, Dean would call him. He'd laugh, and Sam would like the laugh very much until he remembers he only has so many hours left to hear it.
So Sam stays silent. He tugs, tugs on Dean's sleeve like a needy kid, because that's all he's ever been but it's not going to be all he gets to be before the end of this.
"What, Sam? What do you want? I'm tired."
"My bed," Sam says. He moves back enough to give Dean room to slide in, and Dean doesn't do it. He stands there and raises an eyebrow for half a minute, and Sam wants to know if he missed the memo or something. He's wasting time. They don't have half a minute. They have 37 hours and 19 minutes and where did the last two minutes go, anyway?
"Get in," Sam demands.
"Sam, I get that you're torn up about-" He stops himself, as if not mentioning the deal is going to make it go away, which is exactly the kind of stupid shit a guy who would sell his soul without stopping to think would buy into.
"Dean." Sam's hand is shaking now, still hanging onto Dean's sleeve by a few stubborn fingers. "Dean, you have to. I'm not asking."
"I can't," he replies, yanking his sleeve free. "If you knew why, I promise you-"
"Don't start," Sam says. "Don't you dare feed me your bullshit. I know what you're scared of and I'm telling you to get in. Get in, Dean, or I swear to fucking God, I'll-"
Sam can't even finish that. He cuts himself off with a sob, a pathetic dull sort of sound, and what the hell is he good for if he can't even make empty threats at his big brother?
Dean moves forward, unable to keep his distance in the face of Sam's grief. "Sammy."
Sam practically springs on him. He knows he has to catch Dean off guard because if he sees it coming, he'll stop Sam, and if Sam doesn't at least get a kiss before Dean leaves him, he'll-well. Not like things can get worse either way, but that's not the point right now.
Dean pulls away, of course. Good little soldier that he is. Sam chases his mouth, but he gets pushed back. "Sam, what are you-?"
"Please, please, please," Sam mutters. "Know you want it. I want it, too. Please."
"You don't want this, Sam. You're just confused because…" Dean wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and then looks at the wet line of Sam's spit being scrubbed off his skin. He laughs darkly. "No, you don't want it. You'll regret it in a day or two, and I can't let that happen."
"I've wanted it since I was a kid," Sam lies, because it's the lie Dean needs to hear, and he's not about to feel sorry. "I've always wanted you."
Deep down, Sam thinks it might not even be a lie. Even if he didn't get it before. Sam's always wanted Dean allover and inside and maybe he didn't realize it was possible, but that doesn't mean he didn't want it.
"Do you-?" Dean reaches out, putting his hand on Sam's cheek. "Sam, do you mean that?"
Sam nods and holds his breath until Dean's mouth is against his, stealing it out of him. Dean's fingers dig into Sam's shoulder as he kisses, pulls him closer and tighter and it hurts, it hurts, Dean is bruising him. Sam just wishes it hurt more.
He lies back, pulling Dean down on top of him, and now Dean follows. Now Dean crawls into bed beside him, his lips never leaving Sam's.
"Please," Sam murmurs, not even sure Dean can give him what he's really asking for. He pulls back so he can kiss more of Dean, and Dean turns his face away from Sam so Sam can have all the bare skin he could wish for.
"Tell me what you want," Dean says. "Tell me, Sammy, I'll do anything."
"You, Dean," Sam answers, shaking Dean a little by the fabric of the shirt he's holding so tight he might rip right through it. "And you took that from me. How could you do that? How could you, Dean?"
Dean's hands slip down, over Sam's chest. He holds his palm flat against Sam's heart and with his other hand he takes one of Sam's, forcing Sam to relinquish his hold on the shirt. Dean brings the fingers he's holding up to his lips and presses a kiss to them.
"I saved this," he whispers. "How can I be sorry when I saved this?"
His mouth moves, down to Sam's palm, and he kisses that too and says the same thing. Wrist. Forearm. The crease of Sam's elbow. Dean kisses Sam's bicep and shoulder and collarbone, every goddamn thing his mouth can land on is accounted for, and every step of the way, he whispers that he saved it. Saved it from what, Sam wants to ask, because he feels more damned than Dean seems to at the moment.
When he's done covering Sam in kisses, Dean comes up for air and looks down at Sam. Sam is crying, even though he knows that's against the rules, and Dean leans forward, kissing the salt right from Sam's cheeks, wiping tears away with the pads of his thumbs, like Sam's not even allowed to have that, and what gives him the goddamn right to take everything from Sam?
"Don't. Don't cry, Sammy." His voice is not bossy, just warm and tender, like he can ask nicely and Sam will stop feeling. "I'm not upset, so you shouldn't be. I was," he says, swallowing a lump. "I was upset. Not sorry, but I didn't wanna die. I was scared, it wasn't fair. But you kissed me. Sam, I don't care about dying anymore, okay? I got what I was living for."
Once. Just this once. But if he would stay, Sam would make sure Dean got it as often as he fucking wanted.
"What about what I'm living for?" Sam says. He's not even supposed to be living, but making him do it for no reason is just plain mean.
Dean ignores the question. He kisses Sam's neck, sucking at Sam's skin like he can just distract everything away and the most upsetting thing about it is that he can. Sam could close his eyes and focus on the feel of that and forget everything he wants to forget. But that's just going to waste time-Sam knows what Dean's up to.
Sam takes Dean's hand and pushes it low down his body, making his request without the awkwardness of trying to ask for it. There are no words for what Sam needs Dean to do to him, fuck is too crass and Dean would laugh at the alternative.
Dean shoves his hand right down Sam's boxers, his fingers press against Sam's hole. Sam shivers, spreading his legs.
"That what you want?" Dean asks, the words vibrating against his neck. Sam nods. Dean won’t see him nod, but Sam knows he'll get it.
One finger pushes past the ring of muscles, and Sam gasps. Dean's finger is dry, the intrusion feels weird and new, but it's Dean, Dean feeling him out and mapping him.
"I've got lube," Dean says, his finger wiggling experimentally inside of Sam. "And condoms."
"Bring the lube," Sam says, putting a hand on Dean's cheek and kissing Dean as he pulls his hand free. Suddenly the empty space feels like more of an invasion than the finger had. "No condom."
Sam needs to feel Dean's skin return to his. If Dean gets deep enough, maybe they'll have to take Sam, too. They came from the same place, there's no real separation between them. If Dean melts back into him, Sam can make the demons see that.
While Dean is getting the lube, Sam takes the chance to push off his boxers. Dean returns, dropping the bottle by Sam's face on the pillow and stripping his own shirt off over his head before disposing of his shorts.
"Sam," Dean says as he stands at the side of the bed looking down. He takes a few seconds just to appreciate the view, and Sam would rush him if he weren't doing the same.
He starts with two fingers once he's gotten them slicked up. Sam's a little more relaxed now that he has at least the faintest idea of what it's going to feel like. For a few seconds there's resistance, but then Dean is knuckle deep inside of him, his fingers coming apart and then back together.
Sam tries to stifle his groan in his pillow, but Dean reaches up with the hand he isn't using to fuck Sam and pushes the barrier away. "Let me hear it, Sammy."
As if Sam could hold back. Dean has just touched something that makes him yell out so loud he feels cheap. "Dean, Dean!"
"Yeah," Dean grunts. Sam hears a slapping sound and manages to open his eyes once the pleasure has ebbed away enough. Dean's face is hovering above him, and Sam can see his other hand working away. Jerking himself off, slow and controlled so he doesn't come. Getting himself all wet with lube so he can fit into Sam and, if they're lucky, never find a way out.
"Gonna give you three," Dean says, leaning in. "Then I'm gonna give you everything."
"Skip," Sam pants. "Skip to the end."
"Might hurt, Sammy." Sam almost laughs in his face. As if Dean could hurt Sam any worse than he already has.
"Dean," he says, drawing the name out long enough to express all his annoyance and frustration and want. Dean decodes the message, pulls his hand back before the name has died on Sam's lips, and then the head of his dick is resting just outside of Sam.
Sam reaches down, wanting to be the one to steer Dean into him. He needs Dean to feel how much he wants to make this happen. Dean lets Sam do the work, closing his eyes once the head of his cock is inside and working his way forward slowly. Too slowly. Oh, there's a drag and an ache, just like Dean feared there would be, but Sam welcomes it, hopes it'll rend him in two.
This should not be how they say goodbye. This should not be the only time Sam ever gets Dean like this. Sam has known for months now, how could he wait this long?
Dean doesn't take it easy because it's Sam's first time. He's selfish, maybe for the first time in his life he can't stop himself from thrusting away exactly the way he wants to, and it's too little too late, but it's nice to see nonetheless. His brother's dick is thicker than Sam would have thought he could swallow, so he bites down on his hand to stop himself from whimpering. It's Dean, this is Dean, Sam can't make those sounds with Dean. He'll never hear the end of it, only he will, and much too soon.
"More," Sam begs. "More."
Dean fucks forward hard, grabs Sam's dick and starts to work his hand with no skill, because he can't focus on skill, because he feels too good and that's all thanks to Sam. But he twists at the head of Sam's dick, he lets his cock cram all the way into that place inside of Sam that makes him feel like he'll explode. Sam is a goner so much sooner than he wants to be.
Dean waits for Sam to finish coming, milks every last bit of him and then brings his filthy hand up, tangling it in Sam's hair for a devouring kiss. His other arm wraps around Sam, and his thrusts become less frantic. Shallow as his body sinks down so he can hold Sam close as he fucks him.
When Dean comes, he shouts Sam's name, and it echoes through the room for so long Sam thinks he's imagining it after a while. Or that Dean is repeating it, over and over. It's the last thing said between them that night. Dean pulls out and Sam rolls onto his side, and he is about to go to the bathroom to clean himself, but then he sees glowing numbers on the nightstand clock, bright red like hellfire.
36 hours and 33 minutes.
He's staying right here in bed with his brother shoved against his back.
ON TO PART THREE
or
BACK TO MASTERPOST
PART TWO
They lie low for a couple of weeks after the shit hits the fan in Colorado. They're dead again, technically, Henriksen managed to get that much down in writing before Lilith crashed the party, but their faces were all over the news, and Sam doesn't want to risk walking in somewhere and being recognized.
They shouldn't be hunting in their current states, anyway. Bela and the Colt have gone off the map again, Ruby's pissed, Dean is all torn up and guilty about the deaths in Monument-as if he fucking planned them-and Sam just plain doesn't like the idea of parading his brother around when he can still so clearly picture the charred remains of the police station they'd seen on the news. That's who Lilith is, what she's capable of, and she's looking for him and Dean.
Sam just wants to hide his brother for the next few months, until the deal is due, and make sure whatever comes for Dean has to go through him first.
How they end up on some beach in Massachusetts, Sam will never know. Their dad worked a case there eight years back, but that's just the excuse Dean uses to get them there. Free housing from a grateful widow. One of those summer homes that stays empty nine months of the year, stocked kitchen and all, a better situation than they'd have found anywhere else, Sam knows that. But he doesn't think that's why Dean chose to make this their hideout.
Dean's always liked the beach. Now he goes out every morning and sits on the shore, cold breezes blowing past him as he stares at waves crashing on sand. He looks thoughtful, not like himself, but then he doesn't bother with the mask out here. Sam pretends he doesn’t see. But he watches from the kitchen window, traces the moment his brother's expression gets far off and every bit as terrified as it should be.
He stays in usually. Washes the dishes or pretends he's sleeping, as if he can ever actually rest these days when Dean's not dreaming for him. But today there's something different, and Sam feels an ache to go distract his brother, so he shuffles past the wooden table on the wooden floor and lets the wooden door slam shut behind him.
"Coffee," Sam says, handing Dean a cup and lowering himself carefully to sit in the sand without spilling it.
Dean blinks his way back into the present and smiles at Sam thankfully.
"It's getting warmer," Sam says after a minute or so of silence. "Bet the water's swimmable by now."
Dean nods absently. Mid-April in Massachusetts, the water's likely to freeze like knives, but Dean's got worse coming and they both know it. Spring coming on and chasing the winter away isn't the comfort it usually is this year. It was warm when Sam died.
They sit for another five minutes of dead air, and Sam's trying to figure out what to say that won't just upset them both further. He almost wants to run out into the sea and drown himself just for a conversation starter.
As he's musing on whether the cold would be worth it, Dean suddenly says, "You remember sandcastles, Sam?"
Sam laughs, caught off guard. "Are you asking me if I remember what sandcastles are, or-?"
"You must've been six or something. Dad took us to some beach and let us run off and play, and we made these sandcastles." He shakes his head. "Really crappy excuses for sandcastles in retrospect, but man, you loved them. Thought it was the best damn thing you'd ever done. Dad kept trying to take us back to the motel or to dinner or something, but you kept begging to stay, so I did too. We stayed out so long me and Dad got these sunburns." Dean turns to Sam and makes a circle about the size of a quarter with his fingers. "Boils this big."
"Yeesh," Sam says.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but he's smiling. "You were a little red and peeling, but nothing like me and Dad. I think you wanted to go back the next day. Fucking stupidly happy over the sand, I'll never forget it."
Sam looks over at his brother and doesn't bother asking if that has anything to do with how much he loves beaches. He moves his hand closer to Dean's, hesitating before touching it, and realizes he wants to kiss him. Without an excuse, not because Dean wants it, but just because he's Dean and Sam pushed him away when he had the chance, and he's going to have so few chances. He's not even dreaming, not clinging to that comfort Dean finds in hiding it away in his head.
He wants to kiss Dean, and, instead of thinking of all the ways that's wrong, Sam finds himself wondering if in some other, better world, where they're not brothers and they're not dying, do they get to roll around in the tide and smile into each other's mouths, saltwater making the kiss taste like brine and their eyes sting? Do they get to stumble back to the washed out wooden house, fighting over whose fault it is that they have sand in their trunks and not really caring about the itch?
"I know you want me to be sorry," Dean says. It's almost a whisper, but Sam knows that has more to do with how close to cracking his words are than with trying to hide them from Sam. "I know I should be. But I'm not."
It's the most honest he's been with Sam, awake at least, since he made that deal. It still makes Sam feel sick.
"I'm going in," Sam says. "You coming with?"
Dean shakes his head, a smile so small it's not really there at the corner of his mouth. "I think I'm gonna test out my sandcastle skills," he says playfully.
He does, points it out to Sam through the kitchen window after lunch. Sam catches himself pushing curtains aside to peek at it throughout the day, but of course it gets washed away as the tide rolls in, and all that's left by night is a lumpy carcass that used to be special.
He's at the table with Lisa. Sam never went into her house, but he's sure this is what it looked like from the inside. White walls and hardwood floors, and pictures of her and Ben smiling from every flat surface. Of course, Dean's in them, and that's a change, but not one that doesn't fit seamlessly into the surroundings.
Sam leans in close and peers at one, gets a shiver of ugly jealousy from the way Dean's got his arm around Lisa, and turns away.
"Come sit," he hears Dean say from the dining room. "It's almost dinnertime."
Sam does as he's told, though he throws a few uncomfortable looks Dean's way as he does so. Lisa is directly across from him, but when Sam settles down he looks over and finds Dean is watching him instead of her. Dean reaches out, resting his hand lightly over Sam's, and Sam knows it's rude, but he doesn't pull away.
"What about-?" he starts before he turns to see that Lisa's disappeared. Dean is still looking at him, and the kid who runs in, yelling something out excitedly, looks more like Sam than the copy of Dean Ben had turned out to be.
"Hide-and-go-seek," a Sam that must by about five says to Dean. He tugs on the bottom of Dean's jeans and Dean laughs.
"All right, all right. Go hide, I'll come for you." Dean reaches out to ruffle Sam's hair and grins, shaking his head as he watches the child run off. "I swear, that kid's gonna make me old before my time."
If only, Sam thinks, but he doesn't get a chance to say anything.
The child version of him stomps back into the dining room. He's aged a couple of years and puts his hands on his hips, his expression cross. "You're not counting," he accuses Dean. "You have to count and then come looking."
"I'll come for you," Dean promises. "I'm on 68."
Seven-year-old Sam watches Dean suspiciously for a long moment, then sighs. "Okay. But you have to count out loud or I won't know when you're coming and that's cheating."
"67," Dean announces loudly, and the kid smiles brightly and flees into the kitchen.
Dean looks back to Sam. "I fucking hate hide-and-go-seek," he confesses.
Sam smirks. "Your secret's safe with me," says Sam, even though technically he's the same person Dean is trying to keep the secret from.
"Good," he says, smiling.
"Ready or not," a voice calls from the kitchen doorway, and Dean's expression freezes up from the happy, relaxed one a minute ago. He doesn't look up, keeps his eyes meticulously trained on the dining room table, but Sam can't help looking.
Sam has reappeared from the room he ran into, but he's not seven anymore. He's probably somewhere between 15 and 16, the year he had more growth spurts than meals and realized he was going to outgrow his brother soon, outgrow hunting and Dad's orders and their whole claustrophobic life if he didn't get out. He's not wearing a shirt, just holding himself up against the frame of the door, his fingers on his chest and a dark look on his face. Sam almost wants to laugh at himself, the awkward stretch of too much bone covered by not enough muscle and skin, but there's something terribly ugly about the way he's looking at Dean.
"Go away," says Dean. "Please go away."
"What's wrong, you don't want to play with me?" he asks.
Dean looks up, then away immediately as if what he saw wounded him. And the teenaged version of Sam steps closer. He's teasing Dean, Sam realizes. It's torture, and the really sad thing about it is it's Dean's brain doing it to himself. Sam nearly questions why Dean would ever think of him this way, then wonders if this is what it had really been like for Dean. All those times Sam's slept half-naked or changed in front of him, thinking it was just the necessity of living in close quarters. God, but he was tormenting Dean all along, and Dean just took it.
Sam knows if Dean had said something earlier, it wouldn't have gone well. It would have been too much at once, and Sam would have been disgusted or afraid. He wouldn't have understood, just like he didn't understand weeks ago, but he understands now. He understands and he wants to go back in time and shake himself, tell his younger self to grab Dean and never run away to school and take everything he can get from him, because one day he would want it and it would be too late. Dean would be lost.
"Don't look at me," the other Sam says. "Is that the game now? You're bad at that game."
"Can you believe how stupid they are?" Dean says to Sam, ignoring the other one.
Sam feels his eyebrows drawing together, confused that Dean is talking to him at all and not really knowing what he's talking about. "Who?"
"The demons. They let me have you back. They let me have you back for free." He smiles to himself miserably. "I was going to Hell either way. Sold my soul a long time ago."
Sam feels his hands curl into fists and stands up, turning to face the other Sam. The nasty smile on his teenage face clouds over when he gets a look at Sam's expression, and good. Sam wants him scared. He's inches shorter and much thinner, and Sam uses that to his advantage, marches up to himself until they're so close he can't take another step. He towers over the teenager.
Sam doesn't have to share Dean, not even with himself, and he sure as fuck won't share Dean with this.
"You leave," he says. "Leave right now."
The other Sam dissipates in front of his eyes and Sam turns to the table, sitting right back where he'd been before. He reaches out and grabs Dean's hand and pulls it toward himself.
"Where were we?" he asks Dean.
Dean gives him a grateful look and they have their dinner.
"Fucking idiots," Dean mutters, his eyes searching Sam's as he holds his face up for inspection. "Next time, I swear. They'll think the rotting fish was a Christmas present."
"They're just kids, Dean," Sam replies, fidgeting.
"Sit still, would you?" Dean sighs. "They're kids, yeah, but they keep getting into shit they don't belong in. Ghostfacers, my ass. They're all gonna end up dead at this rate. All for some crappy TV show? How's your head feeling?"
"I don’t have a concussion, Dean," Sam snaps, shoving his hands away. "I told you, the ghost didn't rough me up that bad. Would you quit prodding me?"
"No," Dean gets up and goes digging through his bag for the first aid kit. "Anyway, you okay about the other stuff? Don't wanna talk about it?"
He sits back down in front of Sam, still looking overcritical, like Sam's head is going to crack in half any minute.
"Dude, after Broward I'm kind of desensitized to watching people die."
Dean pauses, stops right in the middle of wetting a hand towel with alcohol so it begins to drip through the cloth and onto his jeans. Sam realizes what he said a moment too late and can't do anything but look away. He's sorry the kid died, but he can't get torn up about it. He has less than a month before that's Dean again. There's no room to care about anything else.
He shakes his head, trying to look contrite. "No, I don't need to talk about it. I'm fine. And since when do you wanna talk?"
"It's not the same," Dean says, wiping blood and grime away from the cut under Sam's eye. "Anyway, I was just offering."
It stings a little, but Dean is gentle after Sam flinches, and Sam can't help thinking of the way his fingers had moved so slow and careful down his spine the first night he walked into one of Dean's dreams. And now that light touch on his cheek makes him swallow and will away all the thoughts popping up, but it makes him feel something, too. Something the dreams couldn't make him feel. A low, hot something curling in his belly, and he flushes, ashamed by how good he's suddenly realized this could be.
Dean clears his throat, and Sam shakes his head, focusing back on his brother. Dean is smiling out of one side of his mouth. "You need to get out more, Sammy."
Sam blanches when he realizes he's half hard and Dean's noticed. He tries to readjust himself, but of course it's too late for that. Dean only barks out a laugh at him, and Sam marvels at how cool he plays it. No one could ever know from the mocking look on his brother's face that this was his idea to begin with, that he dreams about this and made Sam dream about it, too. Sam never would have thought of it on his own, and yet Dean is playing this off like a big brother is supposed to and Sam is the one left feeling like there's something wrong with him.
He shoves Dean away. "Look, I'm not hurt. I just need a shower."
"Yeah, make it a cold one," Dean yells to his back as Sam hurries out of the room.
By the time he gets out, Dean is dozing with the television set turned almost all the way up. Sam picks up the remote and turns it off and wonders if maybe this has gone far enough. If he should stop before he intrudes on Dean again and can't stop himself from doing something he won't be able to take back.
But as soon as he falls asleep, of course, the choice seems obvious. Dean said it himself. It's just dreams; it doesn't matter if it's just dreams. It won't count if it's just dreams.
It isn't usually a bed in these dreams, that's what Sam's learned. More nights than not, he watches Dean do something to him, touch or kiss or hold or fuck, but not since that first night has it been on a mattress. Now Dean is hovering over Sam on a huge, four-poster bed. The sheets are the same shade of dark red as the walls and floors and curtains around it, making Dean stand out against all the burgundy.
The dream version of Sam is sitting up just enough to reach Dean's zipper. His eyes are locked on Dean's as he slowly pulls it down. Dean licks his lips, smiling wickedly, and Sam hates that he's looking at anyone like that, even if it is just another version of him.
He steps forward, clearing his throat. Dean looks over, but under him the other Sam pays him no attention. He only has eyes for Dean, so he presses his palm flat against Dean's stomach and traces a line up his chest.
Dean doesn't look away from Sam, though, which makes Sam feel smug in the stupidest way possible. His hand reaches down, catching the other Sam's wrist and holding it away from himself.
"God, that's hot," he says, voice all breathy. The leg that was straddling the dream Sam eases away, and he falls onto his side, but even now his eyes are on Sam's. "Can't fucking think through how hot that is."
Sam takes another step toward them, almost against his own will, and feels a chill run all the way down his body, sparking in his toes. The Sam on the bed is completely naked, and Dean is leaning down to whisper something into his ear. The dream nods, reaching out once Sam is close enough to the bed, and beginning to undo Sam's jeans as eagerly as he'd been working on Dean's.
"What-?" Sam begins to ask, but he's cut off by the surprise of feeling a mouth press against the jut of his hip and moans instead of finishing.
"Two of you. I get two of you. Almost don't know what to do with all that." Dean licks his lips again and smiles as his voice grows darker. "But I bet you do."
Dean reaches out, pressing his hand to the small of the other Sam's back, and the dream stops sucking at Sam's skin, pulling away like he understands the command. Sam thinks he could understand his brother's touches just as easily. Better. He could be better, this is just some dream.
Sam pulls his shirt off over his head and lets the hands pulling on his hips tug him forward into bed. It's not until the dream Sam grips his shoulder and shoves him down into the mattress that he realizes how much bigger Sam is in Dean's head. Larger than life. Sam can't fight the hold the other man is exerting over him and it scares him until he sees the way Dean is watching them.
Sam can't kiss his brother. Can't touch Dean. Isn't supposed to want to. But there's no reason he shouldn't let himself do whatever Dean wants him to. Not when Dean is watching them like he's never seen anything better than too much Sam.
Sam stops struggling, lays back and lets the weight of himself push down on top of him. It's heavy, so heavy it's stifling, but god, the other Sam starts moving inside of him-no preparation needed in the dream-and it's better than anything Sam's ever felt. Sam wonders if this is what Dean always feels like. This impossible crushing sensation of too much, and if it is, Sam can't blame his brother for wanting him.
His head falls back and he lets out a cry, and then he looks over at Dean. Dean's got his hands shoved into his half-open jeans, his fist working quickly. His lip is caught between teeth, but he's looking at Sam with all this want and pride and Sam doesn't know what's happening until he realizes he's awake.
His boxers are soaked through with come. He's shaking. Dean is still asleep in the bed next to him, but Sam can see his hips working against the blankets, and Sam's not even ashamed anymore. He wants Dean to approve of him the way he just did in that dream. He wants to see that gleam in Dean's eyes for real and satisfy his brother for once instead of Dean sacrificing everything for him. He wants Dean to get one thing he wants, just this one thing, and maybe then he'll learn better than to give up the rest.
"I think you're pretty," Sam says. "Am I allowed to think that?"
"Absolutely not," Dean replies. He pokes at Sam with a plastic sword and Sam wobbles in his canoe. Why Dean has a plastic sword in his canoe, or why they are in canoes at all, Sam will never know. Dreams are fucking weird, he decides.
Sam is holding a wizard's staff. He doesn't even know what the hell he's supposed to do with that, but it extends farther than Dean's sword, so he's got one advantage. He reaches out and starts nudging at Dean's canoe, and Dean tries to block him, which is what sends him tumbling over the side. The boat capsizes, making Sam the winner.
He stands in his canoe, holding his hands above his head with the wizard staff and crying out in victory. Dean emerges from the water and watches his display for half a second before growling, tackling up onto Sam's boat and causing Sam to fall back, head and ass first into the murky green water.
"Fuck you," Sam says, spraying Dean with the water that got into his mouth when he reaches the surface. He swims forward and jumps up, lying on top of his overturned canoe. Dean does the same on the other side. "You're just jealous I won."
Dean smiles and leans forward to kiss Sam. Sam turns his face away, not because he doesn't want it but because he wants it so much it scares him and none of that makes it acceptable.
"Sam," Dean says, quiet and imploring, and Sam turns back to look at him. His face makes Sam's chest tight. "Kiss me."
Ah, what the hell. He asked nicely. Sam closes his eyes and leans over the canoe and takes Dean's mouth with his own. Dean is ready for him, lips open and tongue sliding just right on Sam's. It's not the first time for Dean, but it's the first for Sam, and he gets carried away, so lost he doesn't know when they shift scenes. When he opens his eyes, they're sitting on a white couch instead of in a lake, though they're still drenched.
"Let's do that again some time," Sam murmurs as he pulls away.
"Like I know how to stop." Dean laughs. "I wish I knew how to quit you," he says, doing his best gay cowboy accent, which would be most people's worst. Still, it makes Sam crack up.
"Do you?" Sam asks once he's recovered himself.
Dean's laughter dims to a smile, but it's still a real one, so bright and playful and goddamn happy it hurts. He closes his mouth and shakes his head, reaching out to press a hand to Sam's cheek as he kisses him again.
When they break the kiss, Dean slides his palm onto Sam's thigh and moves it slowly up. "Hey, want me to suck your dick?"
Sam snorts. "You're so sentimental," he says. "I thought we were having a moment."
"Did you want the blowjob or not?"
Dean's fingers work open the top button of Sam's jeans and he hesitates, looking at Sam eagerly for his response. Sam shifts, letting the bulge of his cock get a little more friction against the pressure Dean is supplying. "I mean, if you're just handing them out."
"That would be a handjob," Dean replies, smartass that he is, but before Sam can respond he's got Sam's cock free and is wrapping his hand around it and diving down into Sam's lap on that couch as if this is old hat for him.
"Fuck," Sam curses as Dean takes him-all of him-in one greedy slide. His brother looks smug when he pulls up the first time, lips all wet with drool and already swelling from taking so much. Sam can't help it, he pushes Dean back down and fucks his mouth.
When he finishes, Dean comes up with jizz on his bottom lip and a triumphant expression, and Sam kisses him, curious what it'll taste like. Of course it's a dream, so he can't really taste it, but he still sucks just a bit harder on Dean's tongue just in case.
"Wanna return the favor?" Dean murmurs against Sam's neck, and Sam groans.
He does, he really does, but as soon as Dean gets his dick out, Sam realizes with horror that he has no idea what to do. Dean is hard for him, a drop of precome crowning the dark head of his cock, and Sam knows the basic premise, but he also knows it takes practice to do what Dean just did to him. Sam's never given a blowjob before, never even dreamed of it. He's going to be bad at it, he's going to disappoint Dean, and then Dean will realize just how cheap he sold his soul. How undeserving Sam is of every little thing he's ever given.
It's a lot of pressure Sam's putting on this blowjob, but in the moment all of his concerns seem valid. He takes Dean's hand instead, slowly bringing it to his lips, and sucks three of his brother's fingers in. He imitates the bobbing motion Dean had been so perfect at, and Dean watches him through heavy-lidded eyes. It's a dream, so Sam's sorry excuse for stimulation is enough. Dean moans and writhes and Sam keeps sucking until he comes untouched.
Sam wakes up still hungry for Dean. It's really kind of awkward. Apart from the obvious problem of it being his brother's dick Sam can't stop thinking about, the case they've been working has Dean all kinds of moody and depressed-with good reason-and the only way to cheer him up that Sam can think of is hey, I know we're really not supposed to do this, but if you don't mind that I'll be bad at it, I'd really like to try blowing you. Which is probably just not the way to chase away the daddy issues this crocotta hunt brought up.
"This show sucks," Dean says, his voice sulky and his lips pouting in a way that's way more attractive than it should be right now. He reaches over, right above Sam's lap, leaning in, and it's just like the dream. Sam freezes, terrified that one wrong move will alert Dean to the fact that they are awake and this is not allowed and make him stop. His blood is all rushing to his dick, but then Dean sits back up, the remote in his hand, and Sam realizes he was just reaching for it. Not about to make the dream come true after all. Dean switches off the television. "Let's go out."
Sam's ready for bed. He's still pissed, and a part of him wants to gloat. This is what Dean gets for his distractions. They worked a case they shouldn't have been working, and Dean got hurt. Anyone else would take the hint and turn his attention onto breaking the deal, like Sam's been telling Dean to do for months, but instead Dean wants to go out and drown his problems-ignore them as if they have any fucking time for that-and there's no way Sam's letting him go to a bar alone in his current state.
They get hammered, and that's putting it mildly. After a couple of hours and way too many close calls, Sam is tired of swaying too close to his brother, catching Dean's scent and finding the words on the tip of his tongue. Fuck me. Let me fuck you. I want to suck you. I want to kiss you. I want to die so you don't have to.
"I wanted it to be dad," Dean says, his voice starting to slur. Sam knows he's sloshed, Dean's been pretty wasted for an hour and a half now, but he didn't realize it had gotten to the point where words start rushing together.
"I know you did, Dean," Sam replies, turning away so Dean can't see his eyes roll as he takes another shot of whiskey. "Of course you did, but it wasn't."
"I wanted him to tell me." Dean wipes his mouth with his hand and then keeps going, "He said the wrong thing, anyway. I should have known it wasn't him. He didn't tell me what I wanted."
Sam pauses, listening a bit harder, but Dean doesn't add anything. "Wanted him to tell you what? How to get out of Hell?"
About Hell, probably. That's what Sam would want to ask Dad if he could right now. What's it like? Is there any way it could be worse than being topside, being topside and alone? Who won this round, was it Sam or Dean? Because Sam's not really sure.
"Good job," Dean says, laughing quietly. "Good job, son. I'm proud."
If Sam weren't fresh out of eye rolls, that would get one. Dean is too damn old for this. "He saw you kill the demon," Sam points out. "He was proud of you then."
Dean shakes his head. "Not that."
"What then?"
"I saved you. That was my job and I did, I saved you." Dean smoothes his hand out on the bar surface and glowers down at it. "I fucking did it and you just want to find a way to take it back. You want to make me fuck it up again, but Dad would know. I just wanted someone to acknowledge that I did the right thing."
Sam stares at his brother, incredulous, and gets the urge to choke him until he can't say anything stupid like that ever again. It's amazingly complex, wanting so bad to kill someone Sam knows he can't live without, but then, he's drunk and belligerent and maybe needs to get away from Dean instead of trying to think the impulse through.
"You didn't do the right thing," Sam replies. He doesn’t care anymore that this is Dean's last year (last month) and it should be as good for Dean as possible. He's not indulging that, not now. "You did the worst thing you could have, and I hate you for it."
"I know you're mad-" Dean reaches out and grabs Sam's arm, looking up. His face is practically liquid, eyes watery and mouth wet and everything drooping like raindrops tracking their way down a window. Sam wants to put his mouth against Dean's and swallow him and keep him locked inside forever. "Don't say you hate me, Sam. I know you don't mean it, but I can't stand hearing it."
Sam empties his cup and slams it on the counter, shoving Dean's hand away. "I'm getting another drink."
Dean nods and shrugs and goes back to staring at the liquid in front of him as Sam stomps across the room to get the bartender's attention. He pushes past a crowd of people trying to get drinks, not really in the mood to be polite, and leans forward with his money extended. He sees Dean in the mirror behind the bar and watches him as he waits for the bartender to make her way to him. A girl has taken the spot Sam vacated next to him and Dean is talking to her now, as if Sam doesn't even fucking exist.
"Not that you need another one," Sam hears someone say beside him. "But can I buy you a drink?"
Sam looks away from Dean and finds some douche with long black hair and skeevy facial hair smiling at him. He attempts to wave the guy away, but the man is holding his elbow. Helping him stay vertical, maybe.
Sam wonders if Dean can see. This is the fourth girl Dean's talked to tonight, and even if he hasn't actually made a move on any of them, the fact that he's paying them any attention at all has been making Sam's cheeks burn with embarrassment and jealousy and anger and so many months of this pent up lust that's all Dean's fault but which Dean is going to do nothing about.
Sam doesn't bother being gracious. "I'm good."
The man doesn't let go. "I'm Jason," he says.
"I'm not into-" Sam starts, but before he can say dick, he thinks of the dream last night, of how badly he had wanted it. A slow smile curls his lips. He doesn't care if he's bad at it for this guy. This guy can be practice, and then Sam can be good, and then he can fill up on Dean until he isn't breathing anything but his brother. "Outside."
Jason looks taken aback by the sudden change, but he nods, allowing Sam to grab his jacket and tug him toward the bar's back entrance. As soon as they get to the alley outside, Sam shoves the stranger up against the brick wall and falls to his knees.
Sam fights with the man's pants, then lets go in exasperation when they prove too complicated. "Too drunk to-"
Jason reaches down, freeing his cock and stroking himself a few times until he's fully hard. Sam stares, hoping it'll be like a puzzle and the solution will present itself if he thinks hard enough. That doesn't happen, so Sam leans forward tentatively, licking at the head, then slowly taking the guy into his mouth.
He goes inch by inch, doesn't get much before the guy thrusts and Sam pulls away, gagging.
"You new at this or something?" Jason asks, chuckling at Sam.
Sam's not drunk enough to not want to punch him, but he is drunk enough to ignore the question and move forward and try again. He gets a little further this time, and Jason holds himself still, not thrusting now that he knows Sam can't take it. Sam moves up and down, and after a bit he can feel and hear Jason starting to get into it, but it's not enough. Anyone's mouth can feel good, Sam has to actually be good. He has to be good for Dean, or he won't deserve him.
He drags his mouth up the shaft, letting the man's cock fall away and rub against his chin. "Show me what's good," he says, not looking up so he doesn't see that this is the wrong person. "Make it good."
Sam feels Jason's body moving as the man nods, and then there's a hand in his hair, gripping the back of his head and pulling him in. He finds that he kind of likes the pain of being led like that, and even though it's hard to breathe and messy, Sam closes his eyes and pretends it's Dean and he loves every second of it, right until the man comes and his voice is wrong. Sam stumbles to his feet, his head spinning, and remembers that the person he was looking for is still inside the bar.
He wipes his mouth and heads back in, though Jason catches his arm as he begins to open the door. "You don't want to leave before I return the favor, do you?"
Sam laughs at him, shaking the arm away.
As soon as he's inside, Sam catches Dean watching the door. Dean's face goes dark, and Sam tracks his gaze as it moves from him to the man coming in behind him. Dean's hand is curled into a tight fist next to his bourbon, but he shakes his head a little, forcing an engaged expression as he looks down at the girl chatting away beside him and pretends he's listening to her. Sam knows within an hour Dean will fuck her in the back of their car and he'll smell her cheap perfume tomorrow morning.
It doesn't matter. He also knows who Dean will really be thinking of while he does it, and now Sam knows what that's like, too. She'll hardly be there at all as far as Dean is concerned, and that's how Sam wants it.
"I'm going back to the room," he tells Dean when he makes it across the bar.
Dean pretends not to be interested, nodding as if the black-haired woman in front of him is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, but Sam throws a look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Dean is glaring at the guy Sam just blew instead of her and smiling with relief as Sam leaves the other man behind.
Dean dies that night.
Sam thinks he went into the wrong dream. He must have stayed in his own head instead of Dean's.
He leaves and tries to find another. There's only one, and that's his own, and Dean dies there, only it's different.
The next night, Dean dies.
And then the night after that.
Dean dies over and over again.
Every damn dream he goes into, all Sam sees is Dean and all of the insides that make up Dean when he's in one piece, which he isn't ever these days, except when he's awake, and even then, it depends what definition you're using.
Sam's good at dreamwalking, but even Sam can’t will this away.
He wakes up shaking and screaming. Dean does him the kindness of pretending not to hear or see it, and Sam returns the favor when it's Dean waking him with a shout.
There is one week left before Dean's deal comes due, and for the last four days, every time either of them goes to sleep, all Dean does is die and die and die and die.
If Sam has gone slightly crazy, no one has the right to criticize him. Dean certainly doesn't, and there's no one else to notice. Soon, there won't even be Dean.
37 hours, 23 minutes, there's no use counting the seconds.
Sam is aware of every molecule of his brother's body. The smell of him and the whiskey they had for dinner, the heat that rolls off him after a long day, the way his skin folds under his t shirt as he gets into the wrong bed. It's a cruel, overwhelming feeling of fullness, a consciousness of a hole that isn't there but which will be in 37 hours, 22 minutes, and fewer seconds by the second. Sam doesn't want to feel it, or anything, but there it is.
Dean is pushing back his covers, as if he is just going to crawl up on the mattress and sleep. They won't be sleeping tomorrow night, they'll be running, and the day after that Dean will be sleeping and Sam will be trying very hard not to throw his brother's sacrifice away by putting a bullet through the back of his head.
37 hours and 21 minutes.
Sam sits up, reaching out. He catches the back of Dean's elbow, and his brother turns to look at him, caught off guard.
"What's up?" Dean asks, all cool and collected.
Nothing much, Sam wants to say. Just the end of the world.
Drama queen, Dean would call him. He'd laugh, and Sam would like the laugh very much until he remembers he only has so many hours left to hear it.
So Sam stays silent. He tugs, tugs on Dean's sleeve like a needy kid, because that's all he's ever been but it's not going to be all he gets to be before the end of this.
"What, Sam? What do you want? I'm tired."
"My bed," Sam says. He moves back enough to give Dean room to slide in, and Dean doesn't do it. He stands there and raises an eyebrow for half a minute, and Sam wants to know if he missed the memo or something. He's wasting time. They don't have half a minute. They have 37 hours and 19 minutes and where did the last two minutes go, anyway?
"Get in," Sam demands.
"Sam, I get that you're torn up about-" He stops himself, as if not mentioning the deal is going to make it go away, which is exactly the kind of stupid shit a guy who would sell his soul without stopping to think would buy into.
"Dean." Sam's hand is shaking now, still hanging onto Dean's sleeve by a few stubborn fingers. "Dean, you have to. I'm not asking."
"I can't," he replies, yanking his sleeve free. "If you knew why, I promise you-"
"Don't start," Sam says. "Don't you dare feed me your bullshit. I know what you're scared of and I'm telling you to get in. Get in, Dean, or I swear to fucking God, I'll-"
Sam can't even finish that. He cuts himself off with a sob, a pathetic dull sort of sound, and what the hell is he good for if he can't even make empty threats at his big brother?
Dean moves forward, unable to keep his distance in the face of Sam's grief. "Sammy."
Sam practically springs on him. He knows he has to catch Dean off guard because if he sees it coming, he'll stop Sam, and if Sam doesn't at least get a kiss before Dean leaves him, he'll-well. Not like things can get worse either way, but that's not the point right now.
Dean pulls away, of course. Good little soldier that he is. Sam chases his mouth, but he gets pushed back. "Sam, what are you-?"
"Please, please, please," Sam mutters. "Know you want it. I want it, too. Please."
"You don't want this, Sam. You're just confused because…" Dean wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and then looks at the wet line of Sam's spit being scrubbed off his skin. He laughs darkly. "No, you don't want it. You'll regret it in a day or two, and I can't let that happen."
"I've wanted it since I was a kid," Sam lies, because it's the lie Dean needs to hear, and he's not about to feel sorry. "I've always wanted you."
Deep down, Sam thinks it might not even be a lie. Even if he didn't get it before. Sam's always wanted Dean allover and inside and maybe he didn't realize it was possible, but that doesn't mean he didn't want it.
"Do you-?" Dean reaches out, putting his hand on Sam's cheek. "Sam, do you mean that?"
Sam nods and holds his breath until Dean's mouth is against his, stealing it out of him. Dean's fingers dig into Sam's shoulder as he kisses, pulls him closer and tighter and it hurts, it hurts, Dean is bruising him. Sam just wishes it hurt more.
He lies back, pulling Dean down on top of him, and now Dean follows. Now Dean crawls into bed beside him, his lips never leaving Sam's.
"Please," Sam murmurs, not even sure Dean can give him what he's really asking for. He pulls back so he can kiss more of Dean, and Dean turns his face away from Sam so Sam can have all the bare skin he could wish for.
"Tell me what you want," Dean says. "Tell me, Sammy, I'll do anything."
"You, Dean," Sam answers, shaking Dean a little by the fabric of the shirt he's holding so tight he might rip right through it. "And you took that from me. How could you do that? How could you, Dean?"
Dean's hands slip down, over Sam's chest. He holds his palm flat against Sam's heart and with his other hand he takes one of Sam's, forcing Sam to relinquish his hold on the shirt. Dean brings the fingers he's holding up to his lips and presses a kiss to them.
"I saved this," he whispers. "How can I be sorry when I saved this?"
His mouth moves, down to Sam's palm, and he kisses that too and says the same thing. Wrist. Forearm. The crease of Sam's elbow. Dean kisses Sam's bicep and shoulder and collarbone, every goddamn thing his mouth can land on is accounted for, and every step of the way, he whispers that he saved it. Saved it from what, Sam wants to ask, because he feels more damned than Dean seems to at the moment.
When he's done covering Sam in kisses, Dean comes up for air and looks down at Sam. Sam is crying, even though he knows that's against the rules, and Dean leans forward, kissing the salt right from Sam's cheeks, wiping tears away with the pads of his thumbs, like Sam's not even allowed to have that, and what gives him the goddamn right to take everything from Sam?
"Don't. Don't cry, Sammy." His voice is not bossy, just warm and tender, like he can ask nicely and Sam will stop feeling. "I'm not upset, so you shouldn't be. I was," he says, swallowing a lump. "I was upset. Not sorry, but I didn't wanna die. I was scared, it wasn't fair. But you kissed me. Sam, I don't care about dying anymore, okay? I got what I was living for."
Once. Just this once. But if he would stay, Sam would make sure Dean got it as often as he fucking wanted.
"What about what I'm living for?" Sam says. He's not even supposed to be living, but making him do it for no reason is just plain mean.
Dean ignores the question. He kisses Sam's neck, sucking at Sam's skin like he can just distract everything away and the most upsetting thing about it is that he can. Sam could close his eyes and focus on the feel of that and forget everything he wants to forget. But that's just going to waste time-Sam knows what Dean's up to.
Sam takes Dean's hand and pushes it low down his body, making his request without the awkwardness of trying to ask for it. There are no words for what Sam needs Dean to do to him, fuck is too crass and Dean would laugh at the alternative.
Dean shoves his hand right down Sam's boxers, his fingers press against Sam's hole. Sam shivers, spreading his legs.
"That what you want?" Dean asks, the words vibrating against his neck. Sam nods. Dean won’t see him nod, but Sam knows he'll get it.
One finger pushes past the ring of muscles, and Sam gasps. Dean's finger is dry, the intrusion feels weird and new, but it's Dean, Dean feeling him out and mapping him.
"I've got lube," Dean says, his finger wiggling experimentally inside of Sam. "And condoms."
"Bring the lube," Sam says, putting a hand on Dean's cheek and kissing Dean as he pulls his hand free. Suddenly the empty space feels like more of an invasion than the finger had. "No condom."
Sam needs to feel Dean's skin return to his. If Dean gets deep enough, maybe they'll have to take Sam, too. They came from the same place, there's no real separation between them. If Dean melts back into him, Sam can make the demons see that.
While Dean is getting the lube, Sam takes the chance to push off his boxers. Dean returns, dropping the bottle by Sam's face on the pillow and stripping his own shirt off over his head before disposing of his shorts.
"Sam," Dean says as he stands at the side of the bed looking down. He takes a few seconds just to appreciate the view, and Sam would rush him if he weren't doing the same.
He starts with two fingers once he's gotten them slicked up. Sam's a little more relaxed now that he has at least the faintest idea of what it's going to feel like. For a few seconds there's resistance, but then Dean is knuckle deep inside of him, his fingers coming apart and then back together.
Sam tries to stifle his groan in his pillow, but Dean reaches up with the hand he isn't using to fuck Sam and pushes the barrier away. "Let me hear it, Sammy."
As if Sam could hold back. Dean has just touched something that makes him yell out so loud he feels cheap. "Dean, Dean!"
"Yeah," Dean grunts. Sam hears a slapping sound and manages to open his eyes once the pleasure has ebbed away enough. Dean's face is hovering above him, and Sam can see his other hand working away. Jerking himself off, slow and controlled so he doesn't come. Getting himself all wet with lube so he can fit into Sam and, if they're lucky, never find a way out.
"Gonna give you three," Dean says, leaning in. "Then I'm gonna give you everything."
"Skip," Sam pants. "Skip to the end."
"Might hurt, Sammy." Sam almost laughs in his face. As if Dean could hurt Sam any worse than he already has.
"Dean," he says, drawing the name out long enough to express all his annoyance and frustration and want. Dean decodes the message, pulls his hand back before the name has died on Sam's lips, and then the head of his dick is resting just outside of Sam.
Sam reaches down, wanting to be the one to steer Dean into him. He needs Dean to feel how much he wants to make this happen. Dean lets Sam do the work, closing his eyes once the head of his cock is inside and working his way forward slowly. Too slowly. Oh, there's a drag and an ache, just like Dean feared there would be, but Sam welcomes it, hopes it'll rend him in two.
This should not be how they say goodbye. This should not be the only time Sam ever gets Dean like this. Sam has known for months now, how could he wait this long?
Dean doesn't take it easy because it's Sam's first time. He's selfish, maybe for the first time in his life he can't stop himself from thrusting away exactly the way he wants to, and it's too little too late, but it's nice to see nonetheless. His brother's dick is thicker than Sam would have thought he could swallow, so he bites down on his hand to stop himself from whimpering. It's Dean, this is Dean, Sam can't make those sounds with Dean. He'll never hear the end of it, only he will, and much too soon.
"More," Sam begs. "More."
Dean fucks forward hard, grabs Sam's dick and starts to work his hand with no skill, because he can't focus on skill, because he feels too good and that's all thanks to Sam. But he twists at the head of Sam's dick, he lets his cock cram all the way into that place inside of Sam that makes him feel like he'll explode. Sam is a goner so much sooner than he wants to be.
Dean waits for Sam to finish coming, milks every last bit of him and then brings his filthy hand up, tangling it in Sam's hair for a devouring kiss. His other arm wraps around Sam, and his thrusts become less frantic. Shallow as his body sinks down so he can hold Sam close as he fucks him.
When Dean comes, he shouts Sam's name, and it echoes through the room for so long Sam thinks he's imagining it after a while. Or that Dean is repeating it, over and over. It's the last thing said between them that night. Dean pulls out and Sam rolls onto his side, and he is about to go to the bathroom to clean himself, but then he sees glowing numbers on the nightstand clock, bright red like hellfire.
36 hours and 33 minutes.
He's staying right here in bed with his brother shoved against his back.
ON TO PART THREE
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