Two-Headed Boy: Twenty
Sam’s waiting at the little table in their room, obedient as a dog, for Dean to wake up. He hadn’t been able to sleep, not without the nightmares, not without being able to smell burning and so he’s awake now, watching as Dean frowns and turns in his sleep, staying where he is all through it. He’s showered, changed out of his disgusting pants. Dean’s still in his, still curled up in the bed they’d basically fucked in, and now he’s whimpering. Afraid, small sounds, and Sam just can’t sit through those.
He closes his laptop and makes his way over to the bed, leaning down to card a hand through Dean’s hair.
“Hey. Dean. C’mon, get up,” he whispers, fingertips stroking over his whiskery cheek. Dean tenses, eyebrows drawing together before he gasps awake, his eyes immediately focusing on Sam, hand clamping down hard on Sam’s forearm, ready to throw off his attacker.
“Sammy,” Dean grits out, relaxing after he processes what’s happening, where he is. Sam smiles, can’t help it, leans down and presses a lingering, licking kiss to Dean’s sleep-sour mouth. Dean hums, loosens his grip on Sam’s arm to stroke over the tender skin inside his elbow. “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” Sam mumbles against his mouth, absolutely unable to keep the dorky grin off his face. “We, uh. We should get down to the house. Don’t you think?”
Dean sighs, his other arm coming up to wrap around Sam’s waist, trying to tug him back down into bed. “Can’t we just stay here? Just for today?”
“Dean,” Sam sighs, the whine soaked through the entire word. He presses another kiss to Dean’s mouth, one to his nose, one to his forehead. “C’mon, get in the shower. I already have coffee made.”
“My good boy,” Dean gruffs, a self-satisfied little smile taking over his face as he sits up but it disappears almost immediately, replaced with disgust. “Oh, Christ. My pubes are like, fuckin’ glued together.”
Sam snorts and stands up straight again, striding across the room and grabbing a clean coffee mug and filling it with hot, cheap coffee from the motel room’s sad little set-up.
“Like I said: shower.” He turns just in time to come face to face with Dean, and his smile softens as he hands him his coffee. Dean takes it with a grateful sigh, eyes closing as he takes a careful sip.
“Perfect. Thanks, Sammy.” Dean takes another step toward him and gives him another kiss, this one coffee-flavored, strong and warm-mouthed. Their lips smile together, noses nudging and then Dean’s slipping past him, toward the bathroom.
Sam turns to watch him go, to get a good view of his ass in his tight underwear.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean flicks the bathroom light on as he takes another drink of coffee, glancing back at Sam as he swallows, eyebrows raised but his eyes soft.
“Does this, uh. Does this feel weird to you?” He glances away from Dean’s gaze, eyes finding his own naked toes. Doesn’t know why he asks, isn’t sure he’s going to like the answer. But he just needs to know. Needs to know where he stands, how much to protect himself.
“No.”
Sam looks back up then, eyes widening in surprise. Dean’s still watching him, leaning against the doorframe, coffee in his hand.
“Really?” He can’t help but smile, just a tiny bit.
Dean shrugs, coffee to his lips again, He takes a long drink, swallows. “It feels, uh. It feels good. Like, amazing. But not weird. You know?”
Sam’s hand circles his own wrist, thumb rubbing fretfully at the scar.
“So, I don’t, like. Gross you out?”
Dean snorts, rolls his eyes like Sam’s the biggest idiot in the world. Which, well. He probably is. He ducks his head, smile pulling at his lips before he glances back up at Dean through his lashes. Dean’s eyes are following the long line of Sam’s body, a slow trail down before going back up, taking his time. Their eyes meet again and Dean licks his lips.
“Definitely, definitely don’t gross me out, Sammy. Promise.”
Sam grins, cheeks pinking.
“‘Kay.”
Dean shakes his head, fond smile ghosting his lips as he closes the bathroom door. Sam smiles to himself as he refills his own coffee, listening to the sounds of Dean getting naked, Dean getting wet.
So, so good.
He picks up his phone, his smile disappearing. Calls Dad.
This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean at 866-907-3235. He can help.
Sam’s fuming, chest rising and falling quickly. He hurries to the front door, opening it up and stepping outside just as the voicemail beeps to prompt him to speak.
“Dad, it’s Sam.” He walks the few feet to the car so he can touch it, lean against it, comforted somehow by the cold metal. “I don’t know where you are or what you think you’re doing by ignoring us, but it has to stop. Now. Me and Dean, we’re in Lawrence. We’re home. Something bad’s about to happen, and. And we’re in over our heads. I don’t know what’s going on, or what’s going to happen, but. But we need your help. Dean needs you. I don’t care if you don’t consider me your son anymore, if you’ve written me off, but don’t you dare ignore Dean. He’s always been there for you. And he needs you now. Don’t fuck this up.”
He slams his phone closed and presses it to his mouth, the unrelenting plastic cutting into his lip. He wants to call back, to apologize. To beg instead of threaten. To tell his Dad that he misses him because what if something bad did happen to him? What if it’s only a matter of time before the phone gets cut off, and they’re left with nothing, not even a voicemail to call?
“Sam, what the hell are you doing?”
Dean’s standing in the crack of the door in a pair of jeans, still mostly soaking wet, his eyes brimming with concern as he stares out at Sam leaning against the Impala.
“I just.” Sam licks his lips, attempting a smile to lighten the mood. “Just checking my voicemail. Couldn’t get reception in there.”
Dean relaxes visibly, but his frown stays. “Well. Get in here. It’s cold out there, man.”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam replies, pushing away from the car. “Just. Give me a minute, okay?”
Dean stares at him for another few seconds before shaking his head to himself and closing the door back, leaving Sam outside alone again.
Sam closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he sends up a quick prayer to please look out for Dad, please look out for Dean.
He’ll worry about himself later.
It’s well after midnight, and they’re parked outside of their old house, eyes warily trained on it, like they’re waiting for it to pounce. Jenny’s back home with her two kids, Missouri has left, and Sam can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more, that they aren’t done here.
And Dean trusts him enough to camp out in the car in the middle of December, staring up at the house that contains most of his very best memories, ones that Sam was too young to share.
They’re unusually quiet, caught up in their own thoughts. Sam swallows as gentle as he can, his throat bruised pretty bad inside and out from the cord that just kept tightening and tightening, would have kept air out until he wasn’t breathing, but Dean had come. Dean had found him. Saved him.
He rubs at the bruises on the outside of his throat and cuts his gaze over to Dean who’s staring up at the house, his eyes far-off, mouth drawn down in what can only be sadness. Sam reaches over, fingers curling to run his knuckles over Dean’s clenched hand resting on his thigh. Dean looks over at him after a beat, his eyes so big, so haunting in the darkened car.
“I just,” Sam starts, swallowing again through the pain, through his nervousness. “Just wanted to say thank you. For finding me when you did.”
Dean just watches him, stares at him, eyes flickering down to his mouth every few seconds before he leans over and presses his lips to Sam’s, slow, wet skin catching on dry.
Sam’s eyes slip closed, breath leaving in a tremble when Dean pulls back. He licks his lips, tastes Dean there.
“Still can’t believe this isn’t just a dream.” He feels Dean’s hand push up into the back of his hair, short nails dragging over his scalp.
“If this was a dream, I’d have you in a much different place than my car on the side of a street in Kansas, Sammy.”
Sam grins for that, head tipping down, forehead brushing over Dean’s cheek.
“Thanks for trustin’ me on this.”
Dean shrugs, and Sam can feel it more than see it. They separate and turn to look back up at the house at the same time, searching each window for any movement or light. Nothing.
“Don’t think Missouri likes me very much.” Dean’s still looking at the house and his voice is muffled by the glass but Sam can hear him. Hears the little bit of hurt in his voice. He wants to reach over for him again, to push in closer but he doesn’t, for a bunch of reasons. Number one being the fact that they’re on a job.
“Think I know why,” Sam replies softly, fingers tangling with the bracelet on his left hand instead of fucking with his scar again. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, feels the questions before they’re asked.
“You do? Why? I mean. I mean, I know I’m not the most likeable guy in the world, but damn. She ain’t very sentimental, is she? She knew me when I was little. Think that would count for something.” He’s dangerously close to pouting now and Sam turns to look at him, grinning at the frown on his face.
“She knows what we did last night.”
Dean’s eyes are huge, like he just got caught, color draining from his cheeks. “How the fuck does she know that?!”
Sam shrugs, studying Dean’s face carefully, looking for any regret.
“She read it in me, I guess.”
Dean’s eyes narrow.
“Read it in you? Why’d you let her?”
Sam snorts. “Seriously? You think I sorted through my thoughts and let her pick which ones to see? I’m just lucky she didn’t see more.”
Dean pauses, tongue slipping out to wet his bottom lip. “Like what?”
Sam looks back up at the house, avoiding Dean’s seeing eyes now. “She could’ve seen any of the horrible thoughts I’ve had about you half my life, and any of them would’ve been a lot worse.”
Dean’s tapping on the steering wheel now, like he’s considering, like he wants to know each of those thoughts but isn’t brave enough to ask. “So. So why does she not like me when you’re the one thinkin’ everything?”
Sam smirks, reaching up to stroke across Dean’s tapping knuckles, at the tiny blond hairs there. “Because I’m the little brother. You’re the big bad brother, corrupting me.”
Dean scoffs at that, head jerking to the side to meet Sam’s eyes, indignance pouring out of him. “What?! That’s bullshit! That’s--”
“Yeah,” Sam interrupts, voice soft, mouth pulled into a devious little smile. “Believe me, if she knew what I’ve been thinking about you since I was thirteen, she wouldn’t even talk to me.”
Dean’s expression changes in a single second, dropping from confused anger into curious lust in a blink. He shifts closer to Sam, hand falling from the steering wheel to push up over Sam’s knee, pulling him closer. “Yeah, Sammy? What’ve you been thinkin’?”
“Dean,” Sam sighs as Dean nudges his face closer, their noses sliding together. “Dean, we gotta be good. We’re on a job, remember?”
“Fuckin’ boy scout,” Dean groans, their lips just barely touching before Dean’s sighing, leaning back to rest his head on the window. Sam stays where he is, doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to not be able to taste his mouth. He kisses at Dean’s chin, eyes up to scan over the house one more time before he closes them, tipping his head to the side to kiss down Dean’s throat.
“Love how you taste,” he whispers into Dean’s skin before his tongue licks out, sliding wet and hungry over his throat, tasting sweat and dirt and leather. Dean’s throat rumbles in a low growl right against his tongue, and the feel and sound of it makes Sam’s dick throb. “Used to watch you sweat and jerk off thinking about you dripping it all over me while you fucked me.”
“Oh, fuck, Sammy. Jesus Christ.” A strong arm comes up to wrap around Sam, hand pressing in hard to the back of his head, keeping him where he is. “Why you gotta do this now? While we’re workin’? C’mon, let’s just go back to the room. I’m sure--”
Sam pulls back then, pushes against Dean’s grip on him. He licks his lips as he slides back over to his own side of the car, mouth swollen and wet from kissing. He shakes his head as he tries to calm his breathing down again. “No, Dean, we. We gotta stay here. Just. Trust me on this.”
“Goddamnit,” Dean rasps, pushing a hand up through his hair before letting out a frustrated sigh. “Alright, so tell me again, what’re we still doin’ here?”
It’s only a few moments later, a few more words, and they see Jenny at the window, desperate palms slapping against the glass, blonde hair lit up in the moonlight.
Sam can’t help it, pictures his mom, can imagine acutely her fear in those last few moments, that same butterfly-in-a-jar franticness he sees in Jenny’s eyes as they charge toward the house, his hands already shaking, heart in his throat.
He catches Dean’s eyes just before they separate at the top of the stairs, a shared moment of feeling lost, of feeling young, of wishing there was someone who could maybe save them this time.
Sam.
His name in her voice is still ringing in his ears as he sits on the front steps of his once-home, a voice that he couldn’t have imagined but will now never forget. Pictures can capture a lot, can show him that her eyes were the same color as Dean’s, that Sam got her dimples, that she smiled with her entire face. But no one could have told him what she sounded like, exactly how beautiful and painful it would be to hear her say his name.
Missouri is talking and he’s talking back, but he can’t hear her. Can only hear SamI’msorrySamI’msorrySamI’msorrySam--
“Sam? Did you hear what I said?”
He glances over, blinking out of the cradle of his mom’s voice to focus on Missouri who is watching him, who surely knows what he’s thinking, who has nothing but pity on her face.
“Sorry, what?”
She reaches over and touches his hand, her warm palm over his bruised knuckles, and he knows she’s reading him, reading him right now. Sensing all of his hesitation.
“I just asked what you boys were gonna do now. Where you’re going to go?”
Sam shrugs, his eyes finding Dean who is talking to Jenny at the car, who has his hands in his pockets and circles under his eyes and rain streaking his cheeks. He feels Missouri’s hand tighten around his own.
“Dunno. Wherever Dean takes us. Gonna go look for Dad, I think.” He can’t take his eyes off of Dean, can’t look away, even when he hears Missouri draw in a deep breath beside him, even when he can practically feel her thoughts, her disapproval through her fingertips.
“Do you boys really know what you’re doing? Do you understand what this means?”
The words are vague but it’s all spelled out to Sam, bright and bolded. He finally tears his eyes away from his brother and looks over at her, meeting her gaze head-on.
“You mean am I sure this is what I want with him?”
She searches his eyes, stays quiet for a long moment. Sam can feel her in his mind like feather-light touches just inside of his ears, sliding across his thoughts, knowing him. He shivers.
“Yeah, Sam. Are you sure this is what you want? You can have so much more. Be so much more. You know that, don’t you?”
Sam tugs his hand from underneath hers, eyes widening a little in disbelief. He scoots back from her but turns to face her more, not backing down from her questions.
“You can read my thoughts, right? You can read me really easily, because of whatever this is that I have. Right?”
She blinks a few times in quick flutters, like she wants to break the gaze, like she wants to say something, but she just nods.
Dean and Jenny are quiet now, maybe speaking softly, maybe not speaking at all. He drops his voice to barely a whisper.
“Then you know what he means to me. What he’s always meant to me. You know how I feel when I’m not around him. You know that panic-feeling I get whenever he’s not around, when he’s even in the next room. When he’s just over there, but he’s still not here. Not where I can touch him, if I want. Here. Feel.” He reaches out for her with both hands, completely covering hers with his own, long fingers curling around to touch her palms.
Tears well in her eyes, her lashes jumping again as she draws in a quick, shuddering breath.
“Sam,” she whispers, her hands trembling under his like wings.
“You feel it? Do you?” He has tears in his own eyes now, that ache in him rising up to the surface, clutching at him, trying to pull him under, the ghost of the emptiness he’d felt back at Stanford, when Dean was so far away. “Now imagine how I feel when he’s closer. When. When he’s touching me and it’s just us and he’s as close as I can have him. It isn’t wrong. It isn’t. Isn’t bad. We aren’t gross. It’s who we are. Can’t you see it? Can’t you feel that?”
He’s squeezing her hands now, probably too tight, and her eyes are completely brimming in tears but she’s nodding, hands turning over under his to clasp them together.
“I do,” she says, sounding almost defeated, almost sad, but honest. She sighs, her gaze dropping, eyes finally letting Sam go. “Lord help me, I do. This isn’t normal, Sam. This isn’t what brothers are--”
Sam shakes his head, tries to take his hands back from her but she holds fast, her eyes locking with his own again with a fierceness that makes him stop.
“But that isn’t all you are,” she continues, her voice rushed, words bitten off. “There’s more to you two. More than you even know.”
He frowns, head tipping to the side, an icy sliver of fear sliding through his veins. “What? What do you mean?”
“Sam! You ready?”
Dean’s voice cuts through the fog, through the darkness he feels seeping in around his edges. He looks up, finds him, meets his eyes. Dean’s looking right back, seems to sense that there’s more to what Sam and Missouri are doing than just a simple conversation.
“I’ve gotta go,” Sam says distantly, his hands going limp against Missouri’s, dropping away as he stands up.
He makes his way over to the car, to Dean, only glancing over at Jenny as she says goodbye.
They say their goodbyes to Missouri, her eyes lighting on him last, knowing, grave. He realizes with a start that he doesn’t want to know what she knows, what she sensed. He doesn’t want anything that will ruin this, this delicate thing he has with Dean. He wants to keep it, even if just for a little while longer.
The smell of the car surrounds him when they close the doors to the outside, stale and slightly damp and comforting. She roars to life all around them, and Sam’s eyes are on Dean when Dean looks past him to the house, just one last time. Sam doesn’t look back, doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean as they pull away, tires cutting through slick streets.
When Dean slides his hand across the seat between them, his palm up, Sam covers it with his own.
“Tell me about her?”
They’re back at the motel, the rain beating down outside, icy cold and heavy. Dean’s got a bottle of Wild Turkey and he’s drinking straight from it, half of it already in his stomach. He’s sitting at the little table near the window, boots unlaced but still on, his jacket damp and dangling from the back of his chair, the smell of the leather thick in the room. Sam’s on the bed, on fresh sheets, staring up at the ceiling to keep from staring at Dean.
Dean stays quiet for a few beats, gathering up his thoughts and Sam waits him out, always waits him out. His eyes look red-rimmed and he looks exhausted, chased. Sam wants to beg him over to the bed, wants to wrap every single part of his body around him and not let him up, not let him go.
“Don’t ‘member much,” he starts out, his voice low with whiskey-grit. He leans back in the chair, hand rubbing heavy at his eyes. Sam’s watching him now, can’t help it. Aches for him. “Just, uh. She liked that show. The one with the guy and the two chicks in the apartment? And Don Knotts was the landlord?”
A smile pulls at Sam’s lips. “Three’s Company.”
Dean lets out a little laugh, almost smiling before he tips the bottle again, takes another drink. “Yeah. That’s it. Anyway, I just remember Don Knotts and how much he made her laugh. She’d laugh ‘til she cried. She’d watch it and fold laundry while I did, yanno. Whatever kids do, Legos or whatever.”
“I bet she had a great laugh.” Sam closes his eyes, invokes her voice in his mind again, just plays his name over and over again, trying to piece together what that voice would sound like laughing, bright and carefree, over a sitcom. Tries to gather it from Dean like he can touch his thoughts the way Missouri had touched his.
“She had a big laugh.” Dean’s got a smile in his voice, a remembering smile. “Sounded too big for her body. Dad made her laugh a lot, too. He goosed her a lot. She was really ticklish. He’d scare her by tickling her and she’d chase him around the house.”
Sam shakes his head, can’t imagine his dad teasing anyone, laughing about anything like that. Maybe he used to, back when Sam was too little to really remember, but he can’t recall Dad’s laugh, not right now. Can imagine what his Mom’s sounds like, but not his. Not Dad’s.
“What else,” he whispers.
“She’d sing a lot. You know that ‘Louie, Louie’ song? She’d sing along to that song even though she didn’t know all the words. She used to make me laugh by just singin’ the craziest shit durin’ the verses, yanno? And she’d get all loud during the chorus. Every time I hear that song even now, I just hear her singin’ it.”
Sam looks back over and Dean’s full-out grinning now, hands clasped around a mostly-empty bottle.
“Must be where you get it,” he teases, nose crinkling with his smile when Dean looks over. “Was she tonedeaf, too?”
“You little fucker,” Dean barks out in an unexpected laugh, brandishing the bottle at Sam like a lazy weapon. “I’m amazin’. ‘s why I drive with the windows down. Waitin’ for somebody to hear me sing’n make me famous.”
Sam grins over at his brother, at the sound of his laugh, at the bright sprawl of his smile, at the warmth in his eyes and he realizes then how much Dean got from Mom. Which one of them got her beauty, her light.
“Why are you all the way over there?” He’s speaking quietly now, his smile fading into an intense focus, eyes trailing over the curl of Dean’s hand around the bottle, at the spread of his legs. Dean looks over at him, eyes guarded, mouth lowering into a bit of a frown.
“I just,” Dean starts, shifting a little in his chair. “Maybe I just want too much.”
Sam lifts up then, elbows behind him on the mattress to prop himself up. His face feels warm.
“Want too much of what? What makes you think it’s too much?”
“Eh,” Dean grunts, setting the bottle down finally, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He scrubs his hands over his face, the sigh that escapes him rushing hot and loud over his palms. “Just. Just a rough day or so. Hard seeing her. Hard seeing you get hurt. Just.”
Dean stops talking, his throat working loud as he swallows, once twice. His voice is shaking, watery. “I just need to get out of here. Outta Lawrence.”
“We can leave now,” Sam offers, already trying to wake up more, pushing himself to sit up. “Let me just--”
Dean shakes his head, sitting back again, reaching for his bottle once more but just to put the cap on it, turning it until it’s tightly closed. His jaw is a firm line, tensed.
“It can wait ‘til morning. Sorry for being such a whiny bitch about this. It’s just--”
“Overwhelming,” Sam finishes, a sad smile tugging at his lips when Dean nods. “Dean?”
Dean looks over at him again, his movements slow, like he’s pushing through water. Even his blinks are slow. “Hm?”
“What do you want too much of?”
It’s quiet between them when their eyes finally meet, neither of them pushing or challenging, just holding. Cars rush by outside, somebody blaring Skynyrd, reminding Sam that life still goes on outside of this room, outside of Dean’s gaze, outside of the words between them. Somehow.
“Think maybe I want too much’a you.”
Sam sucks in a breath that catches in his throat, that leaves in a noisy, desperate sound. He clutches at his own shirt, stomach tightening.
“No such thing,” he tells him, the words quiet but packed with conviction. His dick is well-aware of what’s going on, hears the heat in Dean’s voice even when Sam’s mind is focused on the emotions. “No such thing because you can have all of me and it’s still not enough. Always wanna give you more.”
“Sam,” Dean groans, the sound like a growl and Sam’s afraid for a second that he’s gone too far, given up too much truth, made Dean angry, but Dean’s standing up now, not steady on his feet at first but he makes his way toward Sam, toward the bed without stumbling, without losing the swagger of his hips even as he kicks off his boots in two heavy clunks.
Sam presses his head back into the pillow when Dean gets closer, when he’s right here. He stares up at his brother, watches him tug his shirt off over his head, revealing his winter-pale skin, his freckles standing up in stark, precious contrast to it. The shirt gets tossed and Dean’s coming at him now, crawling into the bed and right on top of Sam, and Sam’s heart is racing now, hands already shaking.
“Goddamnit, Sammy. Godfuckingdamnit.” The words pour like heat out of Dean’s mouth, sounding like endearments somehow and Dean is on him, over him, surrounding him. His hands are digging into the meat of Sam’s sides, squeezing his hips, shoving at his shirt. Sam lets Dean take it off, his chest trembling with soft pants.
He whimpers when Dean’s hands run up his body, from his navel to his collarbone, body arching up hard, following those hands until they stop. Dean’s knee is nudging between his legs, shoving against Sam’s inner thigh to kick his legs apart, to spread him wide to fit himself between them. Sam closes them up again when Dean gets where he needs to be, wraps his legs around Dean and looks up into Dean’s eyes that are wild, stunning green and bloodshot, looking over Sam’s entire face like he’s memorizing him.
“God, just wanna eat you alive,” Dean mumbles just as he slides his mouth against Sam’s, both of their lips parting, breath exchanged between them. Dean’s thumbs slide over his nipples, the sensation completely unexpected and not gentle, and it pulls on every nerve in Sam’s body, driving a hard shudder up his spine, making him wrap his arms around his brother, clinging to him while Dean strokes at his nipples in small, rough circles.
“You can,” Sam pants, petting the back of Dean’s neck, fingers catching on the cord of the amulet swinging down, dragging against his bare skin. “God, Dean, I’ll let you.”
Dean tastes bitter and gold with the whiskey, the flavor overwhelming when Dean finally kisses him, but Sam’s tongue slides out, edges into Dean’s mouth, seeking his real taste underneath. Dean hums into his mouth, a pleased, low purr just as he rocks his hips down, his dick hard in the trap of his jeans, rubbing thick against Sam’s stomach.
“Ohmygod,” Sam whispers, words getting caught and lost in Dean’s mouth. “Ohmygod, Dean.”
“You feel it?” Dean drops his hips, legs spreading between Sam’s, getting in deeper to grind against Sam’s stomach. “Don’t even know what you do to me. Fuck, Sammy, you don’t even know.”
Sam opens his mouth to speak, to at least let out a sound but Dean takes his mouth in a rough kiss, tongue fucking into him in low, hungry pulses that set Sam’s hips off, making him hump up, starved for a rhythm. Dean rocks against him, amulet hitting Sam in the chin.
“Sorry,” Dean breathes, reaching back with one hand to yank the necklace off over his head. He’s halfway to the nightstand with his hand, about to drop the amulet on it but Sam reaches out, tangles his fingers with the cord, tugs it away.
He pulls it down over his own head, over his messy curls, letting it come to rest against his own chest. He glances up at Dean to smile at him but Dean is frozen, staring at him, right down at the amulet on Sam’s chest.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispers, hips digging in harder now, close enough that Sam can actually feel the strong pulse of lust in Dean’s dick. “Oh, fuck.”
Dean curls down, tongue slipping out to swirl around one of Sam’s nipples, just a quick kiss, a quick taste and then he’s moving down a little more to kiss at the amulet, tongue flicking at the skin underneath, around it. Sam grips Dean’s shoulders hard, socked feet planted against the bed so he can thrust up, starving for friction. Dean keeps on kissing, tasting, sucking at the tiny bump of Sam’s sternum, tonguing the amulet before his hand is there and he’s pressing down on it, hard, the horns digging into Sam’s skin.
Sam’s eyes slip closed, head tipping back on the pillow and he just feels it, Dean’s dick digging against him, the amulet pressing into his skin so hard it’s going to leave a bruise. It fucking hurts, sharp and metal and unrelenting and it’s so good that Sam digs his nails into Dean’s shoulders, breaking skin and hoping that it tells Dean for him that he doesn’t want it to stop, to please, please keep going.
“G-gonna come, Dean,” he finally gasps out, his dick throbbing so hard in his pants that he can feel it in his temples, in his wrists. Dean moans somewhere near his face, so close and then he’s kissing him, one hand on Sam’s left nipple and the other still pushing, pressing at the amulet, imprinting it in Sam’s skin.
He comes then, thinking about the shape the bruise is going to leave on him, thinking about how he’s going to feel it tomorrow, when they’re back on the road, that he’s going to remember this every time he feels it. That there will be evidence that Dean touched him, wanted him like this. That Dean is doing this, right now.
That he is Dean’s.
He comes in desperate, pulling spurts, the warmth of it flooding his underwear, soaking into the worn cotton. He comes against nothing, nothing touching his dick, nothing causing it but his brother’s possessive hands, his mouth. Comes like a girl, like a good boy, for Dean.
“So fuckin’ good, Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean pants against his mouth, like he can hear Sam’s thoughts. “Came so fuckin’ good for me.”
Dean’s hand slides down, fingers pushing between Sam’s legs to grip at him, to rub hard at his dick, the wet squelch of come loud even in his pants. Sam fucks up against his hand, rocks against it, mouth parted as sound after humiliating, grateful sound leaves him.
Sam whimpers, his stomach trembling as Dean pulls jolts of sensation out of him. He nudges at Dean’s face, begs his mouth back over his own. He sighs when Dean kisses him, when he licks back into his mouth, those beautiful lips kiss-swollen and soft against his. Dean keeps his hand between his legs, massaging at his spent dick until Sam tries to squirm away, tries to close his legs.
“Show me what you want, Dean.” His voice sounds wrecked, scraped raw. His hands trip down Dean’s ribs, slide around to rub at his stomach, at the front of his jeans, right over his dick. “Show me how to do it right.”
Dean’s braced up over him and staring down at Sam, his breath a shivering, searing heat that washes down all over Sam’s face. He watches Sam through the trembles, through the heaving pants that settle into arrhythmic puffs of air through his nose. He holds on and waits, waits until Sam’s eyes find his own again, waits until everything around them and between them is still but their heartbeats.
He laces his hand with Sam’s where it’s curled on the mattress, just lines their fingers up and lets their lifelines touch, just like always. He tugs Sam’s hand and Sam goes along easily, a disciple that travels between their bodies, his hand still tucked in Dean’s.
Sam looks down, can’t help it even as Dean watches him, stares down at him like Sam’s about to tell him a secret. All Sam hears is the soft sound of their hands edging past the elastic waist of Dean’s underwear, the hush-slide of the back of his own hand down Dean’s burning, naked belly, along the soft scratch of his happy trail and into the damp, warm curls around his dick.
Dean guides Sam’s hand where he wants it, slides it right down over the length of him and they both suck in a breath at the same time, both tense up and shiver in tandem. Sam’s eyes shoot back up to watch Dean’s face, to watch the almost vulnerable flutter of his eyelashes. Sam nearly gasps when Dean’s eyes meet his own, a fierce green glint in the darkness.
Sam’s hand shakes where it wraps around Dean’s dick and they shift on the bed, a gentle creak and whine announcing it as Sam spreads his legs a little wider and Dean tucks his hips closer toward their shared grip on his dick.
The literal second Sam starts to stroke, starts his hand on the long journey down the length of it, Dean gasps, the sound breaking wide open at the end, cracking into a sound that Sam has never heard before, could not dream up on his own. He watches Dean, watches his effort to hold his weight up over Sam, watches the way his raw lips part, watches the butterfly-shiver of his eyelashes when he struggles to hold Sam’s gaze.
“Yeah, Sammy. God, you feel it. Feel what you do to me? Feel.”
It’s the most intimate thing Sam’s ever felt, ever done, jerking Dean off like this. Dean’s just covering him, blocking out the entire rest of the world for Sam, just containing him here in this bed that’s not theirs, could never be theirs.
It’s so hot inside Dean’s pants, so humid and burning up and there’s a gorgeous scent coming up every time Sam strokes and Dean shudders through it, a sweaty, elemental smell that is dirty with sex and pure with something sacred between them, just between them. After all these years, they deserve a little bit of sanctuary, even if it’s just a stolen night in a motel room in a town that should’ve been their home.
“Wanna see it, Dean,” he begs, thumb sliding over and over the head, smearing in the slick that’s practically pouring out of Dean, soaking his fingers, sticking to them sweet as honey. “Please.”
Dean presses his knees into the bed, holding himself up with one shaking arm as the other hand leaves their shared hold on his cock and fumbles with the button, with the zipper of his jeans, fingers sex-dumb and shaking.
“Please,” Sam keeps whispering against Dean’s mouth, right through the soft, aching grunts that keep falling from Dean’s lips every time Sam grips the base of his dick. “Please. So beautiful, Dean. You’re so beautiful.”
He can feel when Dean’s cheeks heat up at the words, can feel him tense, fight the denials that are probably gathering on his tongue. He grabs hold of Dean’s belt loop and tugs down once Dean gets his pants open, helps him push them down as far as they’ll go, just under the curve of his ass. His underwear is next, much easier to move out of the way, the elastic catching on the head of his dick before it gives way, revealing Dean’s cock to the air, for Sam’s eyes, finally.
Sam’s mouth floods with spit, his dick giving a protesting throb between his legs.
He’s seen it before, saw it in Holly’s mouth in that basement all those years ago, with The Doors playing. Saw it when he fucked her not long after that in the room they shared in that house, the house that almost felt like home for awhile. Saw it a handful of times before and after, always in flashes, in hungry, embarrassed glimpses, usually when he walked into the wrong room at the wrong time. But none of those times were for him.
This is for him. This is Dean for Sam. That perfect, rose-pink cockhead shining with precome in Sam’s clumsy, big-handed grip, all for him. The hefty, solid length of him, more than a fistful, more than even Sam’s hand can cover, for him.
He looks up, catches Dean’s eyes, sees the strange shyness there, the flush on his cheeks. Knows it’s because Dean’s not comfortable with this, with being told he’s beautiful, with Sam’s eyes on him, with as much love as lust.
Sam turns his wrist, lets Dean’s dick rub against his abs, letting it bump against his navel. A groan punches out of Dean, his hips fucking forward, straining to get at more warm skin.
“Yeah, Dean, fuck it,” Sam murmurs, arching up to give him more to rub against. “Fuck me.”
Dean moans, the sound rumbling and dangerously low as Dean drops down against him, trapping his dick between their stomachs, trapping Sam’s hand. He starts to thrust, fucking Sam’s hand, the head of his cock catching on Sam’s navel every single time, feeling oddly intimate, close.
The amulet is pressing into his skin again, trapped between the hard lines of their chests. The bed is thumping now, moving with Dean’s body as he ruts against Sam, his balls warm as they nudge the side of his hand. He lets his pinky slide out, stroke at the soft heft of them, pulling a choked cry from Dean.
“Yeah, Sammy, play with ‘em. Shit, yeah.” Dean’s straining against him now, trying to get in deeper somehow, and Sam’s other hand flies down, desperate to please, to make it good and he gather’s Dean’s balls up in his hot palm, squeezing and tugging, his forefinger stroking all along the skin between them and Dean’s asshole.
Dean doesn’t tell him he’s going to come, doesn’t say anything else, just presses their foreheads together, sweat pouring off of him and soaking Sam’s face, his chest. When Dean starts to come, he’s utterly silent, no sounds but the brutal slap of his body against Sam’s, but the slip-slip of dick that gets wetter and wetter when Dean creams between them, all up along Sam’s chest, soaking Sam’s hand.
He lets out the breath he held all through his orgasm in a harsh, gasping rush, a sob dragging up out of his throat as he kisses Sam, Dean’s entire body shaking now, trembling as he keeps thrusting, keeps pressing up hard into Sam’s hand.
Sam feels it too, that strange, overwhelming emotion that Dean seems to be feeling sweeping through him as well, leaving his eyes stinging with tears, his other hand wrapping around Dean’s neck, cradling the back of his head as he presses kiss after soft kiss to Dean’s trembling lips.
Dean keeps thrusting long after his orgasm finally finishes with him, keeps pushing tiredly into Sam’s patient hand, and Sam just lets him, just stays right there, coaxing every single second of pleasure Dean could have out of him. They’re kissing like they mean it now, focused on it entirely, Sam’s tongue exploring Dean’s mouth, licking at the roof of it, over his teeth that he’s suddenly obsessed to know, to know the bump and shape of each one by feel alone.
Dean finally goes still on top of him, all of his weight melting down into Sam, jeans still caught around his thighs. He sighs into Sam’s mouth, right into Sam’s kisses, and Sam smiles.
“So sexy,” he whispers, sucking at the tip of Dean’s tongue before he lets him inside of his mouth. Dean grunts, a wordless denial, both of his hands pushing into Sam’s hair to keep him still, to hold him there, right where he is.
“Pretty hot yourself, little brother.” Dean’s mouth leaves his, kisses down over Sam’s chin, sucking on the point of it before licking down his throat. Sam closes his eyes, his one clean hand resting at the back of Dean’s head, just holding onto him as he sucks on Sam’s neck, right over his heavy heartbeat. “Be right back.”
Dean slips off of him, sudden and too soon, and Sam honest to God pouts. Keeps his eyes on Dean’s tight, bare ass as he sheds his jeans and underwear on the way to the bathroom. Sam starts to kick off the rest of his own close when Dean flicks on the light and disappears for a moment, using his ruined underwear to wipe himself clean before he tosses his clothes over the side of the bed.
He looks down at his hand, the one covered in Dean’s come, lines of it webbing between his fingers, thickening as it starts to dry.
Closes his eyes as he brings his hand to his mouth, sliding two fingers across his own tongue. God, yes. That taste.
It’s Dean, just like he remembered, just like he tasted in Holly’s mouth almost a decade ago. But this is his, straight from the source. Just for him. He swallows it all down before moving onto the other two fingers, free hand moving to his dick to rub, to grip at idly when he moves down to his palm, licking it clean.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy.”
Sam’s eyes fly open, both of his hands stopping what they’re doing. He looks over and finds Dean standing next to the bed, a dripping wet washcloth dangling from his hand, looking disgustingly, scorchingly gorgeous and naked, his eyes trained Sam’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, reaching for the cloth, wiping the rest of his hand clean, bottom lip sucked up into his mouth to get the last taste of Dean.
Dean’s hand is in his hair, his grip hard as he yanks Sam’s head back, latching onto his mouth, his tongue sliding in, claiming, seeking. Sam relaxes then, kissing Dean back lazily but mostly just letting him feed, letting him taste himself, letting him lick and drink at any part of his mouth that he wants.
“What’re you tryin’ to do to me? Hm? Christ. Tryin’ to rev me up again? ”
Sam smiles against his mouth, reaching down then to wrap his hand around Dean’s dick again, giving him a slow tug. Dean whines, twists his hips away from Sam just as his dick gives a greedy jump toward Sam’s hand.
“We’re sleeping, Sammy.” There’s light in Dean’s eyes, a tiny glimmer of humor behind his serious big brother face, behind the tired lines. Dean leans over and flicks off the lamp by the bed, leaving them in muffled streetlight. Sam’s smile softens and he reaches up, hooking an arm around Dean’s neck and tugging him down into the bed, laughing a little when Dean lands with an oof.
“Sorry if I hump you in my sleep.” Sam gathers the blankets up and tugs them over their bodies, making sure Dean is completely covered before he relaxes again. They’re face-to-face, and Dean slides closer, lifting one of his legs to drape it over Sam’s.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dean retorts, wrapping an arm around Sam’s neck and pulling him close enough to press a kiss to his jaw. Sam’s eyes widen, body tensing as he pulls back to meet Dean’s eyes.
“Wait. Seriously?”
Dean grins, dirty and teasing and moves right back in to continue his kisses, teeth nipping at Sam’s earlobe.
“No, not really.”
Sam lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing into the kisses, pulling the covers up higher until they’re practically buried under them. He closes his eyes, arm sliding around Dean’s body and tightening, keeping him close.
“Sammy?”
“Hn?”
“You’re still wearin’ socks.”
Sam cracks an eye open to squint at him in the dark.
“...Yeah? So?”
“You’re, like. Naked otherwise.”
Sam snorts, a completely unsexy sound.
“So? My feet get cold.”
“Body heat, man. I can keep your feet warm. Take the socks off.”
Sam opens both eyes now, staring at his brother just inches from his face.
“You’re serious.”
“Yep.”
“My socks bother you that much.”
“Mhmm.”
Sam sighs, letting it be loud and annoying before he starts to try and toe his socks off. Dean’s feet join in, and together they manage to wrangle them off and kick them from under the covers to land on the floor. Sam raises his eyebrows even though he knows Dean can’t see it.
“You happy now?”
He sees Dean’s smile just barely in the shadows, and he tastes it when Dean leans over, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth. Dean’s toes drag over top of Sam’s feet, their legs tangling together, the soft whisper of skin on skin.
“Yep. Thanks.”
Sam just grunts, a smile pulling hard at his lips. Dean tucks in against him, face pressed into crook of Sam’s neck, nose snuffling around in his hair before Dean settles in. Sam’s hand slides up into Dean’s hair, spreads out to cradle the back of his head before his eyes close again.
He hears, faint and probably already in a dream, Mom’s voice brush against his ear in a simple goodnight, Sam.
next.
He closes his laptop and makes his way over to the bed, leaning down to card a hand through Dean’s hair.
“Hey. Dean. C’mon, get up,” he whispers, fingertips stroking over his whiskery cheek. Dean tenses, eyebrows drawing together before he gasps awake, his eyes immediately focusing on Sam, hand clamping down hard on Sam’s forearm, ready to throw off his attacker.
“Sammy,” Dean grits out, relaxing after he processes what’s happening, where he is. Sam smiles, can’t help it, leans down and presses a lingering, licking kiss to Dean’s sleep-sour mouth. Dean hums, loosens his grip on Sam’s arm to stroke over the tender skin inside his elbow. “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” Sam mumbles against his mouth, absolutely unable to keep the dorky grin off his face. “We, uh. We should get down to the house. Don’t you think?”
Dean sighs, his other arm coming up to wrap around Sam’s waist, trying to tug him back down into bed. “Can’t we just stay here? Just for today?”
“Dean,” Sam sighs, the whine soaked through the entire word. He presses another kiss to Dean’s mouth, one to his nose, one to his forehead. “C’mon, get in the shower. I already have coffee made.”
“My good boy,” Dean gruffs, a self-satisfied little smile taking over his face as he sits up but it disappears almost immediately, replaced with disgust. “Oh, Christ. My pubes are like, fuckin’ glued together.”
Sam snorts and stands up straight again, striding across the room and grabbing a clean coffee mug and filling it with hot, cheap coffee from the motel room’s sad little set-up.
“Like I said: shower.” He turns just in time to come face to face with Dean, and his smile softens as he hands him his coffee. Dean takes it with a grateful sigh, eyes closing as he takes a careful sip.
“Perfect. Thanks, Sammy.” Dean takes another step toward him and gives him another kiss, this one coffee-flavored, strong and warm-mouthed. Their lips smile together, noses nudging and then Dean’s slipping past him, toward the bathroom.
Sam turns to watch him go, to get a good view of his ass in his tight underwear.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean flicks the bathroom light on as he takes another drink of coffee, glancing back at Sam as he swallows, eyebrows raised but his eyes soft.
“Does this, uh. Does this feel weird to you?” He glances away from Dean’s gaze, eyes finding his own naked toes. Doesn’t know why he asks, isn’t sure he’s going to like the answer. But he just needs to know. Needs to know where he stands, how much to protect himself.
“No.”
Sam looks back up then, eyes widening in surprise. Dean’s still watching him, leaning against the doorframe, coffee in his hand.
“Really?” He can’t help but smile, just a tiny bit.
Dean shrugs, coffee to his lips again, He takes a long drink, swallows. “It feels, uh. It feels good. Like, amazing. But not weird. You know?”
Sam’s hand circles his own wrist, thumb rubbing fretfully at the scar.
“So, I don’t, like. Gross you out?”
Dean snorts, rolls his eyes like Sam’s the biggest idiot in the world. Which, well. He probably is. He ducks his head, smile pulling at his lips before he glances back up at Dean through his lashes. Dean’s eyes are following the long line of Sam’s body, a slow trail down before going back up, taking his time. Their eyes meet again and Dean licks his lips.
“Definitely, definitely don’t gross me out, Sammy. Promise.”
Sam grins, cheeks pinking.
“‘Kay.”
Dean shakes his head, fond smile ghosting his lips as he closes the bathroom door. Sam smiles to himself as he refills his own coffee, listening to the sounds of Dean getting naked, Dean getting wet.
So, so good.
He picks up his phone, his smile disappearing. Calls Dad.
This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean at 866-907-3235. He can help.
Sam’s fuming, chest rising and falling quickly. He hurries to the front door, opening it up and stepping outside just as the voicemail beeps to prompt him to speak.
“Dad, it’s Sam.” He walks the few feet to the car so he can touch it, lean against it, comforted somehow by the cold metal. “I don’t know where you are or what you think you’re doing by ignoring us, but it has to stop. Now. Me and Dean, we’re in Lawrence. We’re home. Something bad’s about to happen, and. And we’re in over our heads. I don’t know what’s going on, or what’s going to happen, but. But we need your help. Dean needs you. I don’t care if you don’t consider me your son anymore, if you’ve written me off, but don’t you dare ignore Dean. He’s always been there for you. And he needs you now. Don’t fuck this up.”
He slams his phone closed and presses it to his mouth, the unrelenting plastic cutting into his lip. He wants to call back, to apologize. To beg instead of threaten. To tell his Dad that he misses him because what if something bad did happen to him? What if it’s only a matter of time before the phone gets cut off, and they’re left with nothing, not even a voicemail to call?
“Sam, what the hell are you doing?”
Dean’s standing in the crack of the door in a pair of jeans, still mostly soaking wet, his eyes brimming with concern as he stares out at Sam leaning against the Impala.
“I just.” Sam licks his lips, attempting a smile to lighten the mood. “Just checking my voicemail. Couldn’t get reception in there.”
Dean relaxes visibly, but his frown stays. “Well. Get in here. It’s cold out there, man.”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam replies, pushing away from the car. “Just. Give me a minute, okay?”
Dean stares at him for another few seconds before shaking his head to himself and closing the door back, leaving Sam outside alone again.
Sam closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he sends up a quick prayer to please look out for Dad, please look out for Dean.
He’ll worry about himself later.
It’s well after midnight, and they’re parked outside of their old house, eyes warily trained on it, like they’re waiting for it to pounce. Jenny’s back home with her two kids, Missouri has left, and Sam can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more, that they aren’t done here.
And Dean trusts him enough to camp out in the car in the middle of December, staring up at the house that contains most of his very best memories, ones that Sam was too young to share.
They’re unusually quiet, caught up in their own thoughts. Sam swallows as gentle as he can, his throat bruised pretty bad inside and out from the cord that just kept tightening and tightening, would have kept air out until he wasn’t breathing, but Dean had come. Dean had found him. Saved him.
He rubs at the bruises on the outside of his throat and cuts his gaze over to Dean who’s staring up at the house, his eyes far-off, mouth drawn down in what can only be sadness. Sam reaches over, fingers curling to run his knuckles over Dean’s clenched hand resting on his thigh. Dean looks over at him after a beat, his eyes so big, so haunting in the darkened car.
“I just,” Sam starts, swallowing again through the pain, through his nervousness. “Just wanted to say thank you. For finding me when you did.”
Dean just watches him, stares at him, eyes flickering down to his mouth every few seconds before he leans over and presses his lips to Sam’s, slow, wet skin catching on dry.
Sam’s eyes slip closed, breath leaving in a tremble when Dean pulls back. He licks his lips, tastes Dean there.
“Still can’t believe this isn’t just a dream.” He feels Dean’s hand push up into the back of his hair, short nails dragging over his scalp.
“If this was a dream, I’d have you in a much different place than my car on the side of a street in Kansas, Sammy.”
Sam grins for that, head tipping down, forehead brushing over Dean’s cheek.
“Thanks for trustin’ me on this.”
Dean shrugs, and Sam can feel it more than see it. They separate and turn to look back up at the house at the same time, searching each window for any movement or light. Nothing.
“Don’t think Missouri likes me very much.” Dean’s still looking at the house and his voice is muffled by the glass but Sam can hear him. Hears the little bit of hurt in his voice. He wants to reach over for him again, to push in closer but he doesn’t, for a bunch of reasons. Number one being the fact that they’re on a job.
“Think I know why,” Sam replies softly, fingers tangling with the bracelet on his left hand instead of fucking with his scar again. He feels Dean’s eyes on him, feels the questions before they’re asked.
“You do? Why? I mean. I mean, I know I’m not the most likeable guy in the world, but damn. She ain’t very sentimental, is she? She knew me when I was little. Think that would count for something.” He’s dangerously close to pouting now and Sam turns to look at him, grinning at the frown on his face.
“She knows what we did last night.”
Dean’s eyes are huge, like he just got caught, color draining from his cheeks. “How the fuck does she know that?!”
Sam shrugs, studying Dean’s face carefully, looking for any regret.
“She read it in me, I guess.”
Dean’s eyes narrow.
“Read it in you? Why’d you let her?”
Sam snorts. “Seriously? You think I sorted through my thoughts and let her pick which ones to see? I’m just lucky she didn’t see more.”
Dean pauses, tongue slipping out to wet his bottom lip. “Like what?”
Sam looks back up at the house, avoiding Dean’s seeing eyes now. “She could’ve seen any of the horrible thoughts I’ve had about you half my life, and any of them would’ve been a lot worse.”
Dean’s tapping on the steering wheel now, like he’s considering, like he wants to know each of those thoughts but isn’t brave enough to ask. “So. So why does she not like me when you’re the one thinkin’ everything?”
Sam smirks, reaching up to stroke across Dean’s tapping knuckles, at the tiny blond hairs there. “Because I’m the little brother. You’re the big bad brother, corrupting me.”
Dean scoffs at that, head jerking to the side to meet Sam’s eyes, indignance pouring out of him. “What?! That’s bullshit! That’s--”
“Yeah,” Sam interrupts, voice soft, mouth pulled into a devious little smile. “Believe me, if she knew what I’ve been thinking about you since I was thirteen, she wouldn’t even talk to me.”
Dean’s expression changes in a single second, dropping from confused anger into curious lust in a blink. He shifts closer to Sam, hand falling from the steering wheel to push up over Sam’s knee, pulling him closer. “Yeah, Sammy? What’ve you been thinkin’?”
“Dean,” Sam sighs as Dean nudges his face closer, their noses sliding together. “Dean, we gotta be good. We’re on a job, remember?”
“Fuckin’ boy scout,” Dean groans, their lips just barely touching before Dean’s sighing, leaning back to rest his head on the window. Sam stays where he is, doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to not be able to taste his mouth. He kisses at Dean’s chin, eyes up to scan over the house one more time before he closes them, tipping his head to the side to kiss down Dean’s throat.
“Love how you taste,” he whispers into Dean’s skin before his tongue licks out, sliding wet and hungry over his throat, tasting sweat and dirt and leather. Dean’s throat rumbles in a low growl right against his tongue, and the feel and sound of it makes Sam’s dick throb. “Used to watch you sweat and jerk off thinking about you dripping it all over me while you fucked me.”
“Oh, fuck, Sammy. Jesus Christ.” A strong arm comes up to wrap around Sam, hand pressing in hard to the back of his head, keeping him where he is. “Why you gotta do this now? While we’re workin’? C’mon, let’s just go back to the room. I’m sure--”
Sam pulls back then, pushes against Dean’s grip on him. He licks his lips as he slides back over to his own side of the car, mouth swollen and wet from kissing. He shakes his head as he tries to calm his breathing down again. “No, Dean, we. We gotta stay here. Just. Trust me on this.”
“Goddamnit,” Dean rasps, pushing a hand up through his hair before letting out a frustrated sigh. “Alright, so tell me again, what’re we still doin’ here?”
It’s only a few moments later, a few more words, and they see Jenny at the window, desperate palms slapping against the glass, blonde hair lit up in the moonlight.
Sam can’t help it, pictures his mom, can imagine acutely her fear in those last few moments, that same butterfly-in-a-jar franticness he sees in Jenny’s eyes as they charge toward the house, his hands already shaking, heart in his throat.
He catches Dean’s eyes just before they separate at the top of the stairs, a shared moment of feeling lost, of feeling young, of wishing there was someone who could maybe save them this time.
Sam.
His name in her voice is still ringing in his ears as he sits on the front steps of his once-home, a voice that he couldn’t have imagined but will now never forget. Pictures can capture a lot, can show him that her eyes were the same color as Dean’s, that Sam got her dimples, that she smiled with her entire face. But no one could have told him what she sounded like, exactly how beautiful and painful it would be to hear her say his name.
Missouri is talking and he’s talking back, but he can’t hear her. Can only hear SamI’msorrySamI’msorrySamI’msorrySam--
“Sam? Did you hear what I said?”
He glances over, blinking out of the cradle of his mom’s voice to focus on Missouri who is watching him, who surely knows what he’s thinking, who has nothing but pity on her face.
“Sorry, what?”
She reaches over and touches his hand, her warm palm over his bruised knuckles, and he knows she’s reading him, reading him right now. Sensing all of his hesitation.
“I just asked what you boys were gonna do now. Where you’re going to go?”
Sam shrugs, his eyes finding Dean who is talking to Jenny at the car, who has his hands in his pockets and circles under his eyes and rain streaking his cheeks. He feels Missouri’s hand tighten around his own.
“Dunno. Wherever Dean takes us. Gonna go look for Dad, I think.” He can’t take his eyes off of Dean, can’t look away, even when he hears Missouri draw in a deep breath beside him, even when he can practically feel her thoughts, her disapproval through her fingertips.
“Do you boys really know what you’re doing? Do you understand what this means?”
The words are vague but it’s all spelled out to Sam, bright and bolded. He finally tears his eyes away from his brother and looks over at her, meeting her gaze head-on.
“You mean am I sure this is what I want with him?”
She searches his eyes, stays quiet for a long moment. Sam can feel her in his mind like feather-light touches just inside of his ears, sliding across his thoughts, knowing him. He shivers.
“Yeah, Sam. Are you sure this is what you want? You can have so much more. Be so much more. You know that, don’t you?”
Sam tugs his hand from underneath hers, eyes widening a little in disbelief. He scoots back from her but turns to face her more, not backing down from her questions.
“You can read my thoughts, right? You can read me really easily, because of whatever this is that I have. Right?”
She blinks a few times in quick flutters, like she wants to break the gaze, like she wants to say something, but she just nods.
Dean and Jenny are quiet now, maybe speaking softly, maybe not speaking at all. He drops his voice to barely a whisper.
“Then you know what he means to me. What he’s always meant to me. You know how I feel when I’m not around him. You know that panic-feeling I get whenever he’s not around, when he’s even in the next room. When he’s just over there, but he’s still not here. Not where I can touch him, if I want. Here. Feel.” He reaches out for her with both hands, completely covering hers with his own, long fingers curling around to touch her palms.
Tears well in her eyes, her lashes jumping again as she draws in a quick, shuddering breath.
“Sam,” she whispers, her hands trembling under his like wings.
“You feel it? Do you?” He has tears in his own eyes now, that ache in him rising up to the surface, clutching at him, trying to pull him under, the ghost of the emptiness he’d felt back at Stanford, when Dean was so far away. “Now imagine how I feel when he’s closer. When. When he’s touching me and it’s just us and he’s as close as I can have him. It isn’t wrong. It isn’t. Isn’t bad. We aren’t gross. It’s who we are. Can’t you see it? Can’t you feel that?”
He’s squeezing her hands now, probably too tight, and her eyes are completely brimming in tears but she’s nodding, hands turning over under his to clasp them together.
“I do,” she says, sounding almost defeated, almost sad, but honest. She sighs, her gaze dropping, eyes finally letting Sam go. “Lord help me, I do. This isn’t normal, Sam. This isn’t what brothers are--”
Sam shakes his head, tries to take his hands back from her but she holds fast, her eyes locking with his own again with a fierceness that makes him stop.
“But that isn’t all you are,” she continues, her voice rushed, words bitten off. “There’s more to you two. More than you even know.”
He frowns, head tipping to the side, an icy sliver of fear sliding through his veins. “What? What do you mean?”
“Sam! You ready?”
Dean’s voice cuts through the fog, through the darkness he feels seeping in around his edges. He looks up, finds him, meets his eyes. Dean’s looking right back, seems to sense that there’s more to what Sam and Missouri are doing than just a simple conversation.
“I’ve gotta go,” Sam says distantly, his hands going limp against Missouri’s, dropping away as he stands up.
He makes his way over to the car, to Dean, only glancing over at Jenny as she says goodbye.
They say their goodbyes to Missouri, her eyes lighting on him last, knowing, grave. He realizes with a start that he doesn’t want to know what she knows, what she sensed. He doesn’t want anything that will ruin this, this delicate thing he has with Dean. He wants to keep it, even if just for a little while longer.
The smell of the car surrounds him when they close the doors to the outside, stale and slightly damp and comforting. She roars to life all around them, and Sam’s eyes are on Dean when Dean looks past him to the house, just one last time. Sam doesn’t look back, doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean as they pull away, tires cutting through slick streets.
When Dean slides his hand across the seat between them, his palm up, Sam covers it with his own.
“Tell me about her?”
They’re back at the motel, the rain beating down outside, icy cold and heavy. Dean’s got a bottle of Wild Turkey and he’s drinking straight from it, half of it already in his stomach. He’s sitting at the little table near the window, boots unlaced but still on, his jacket damp and dangling from the back of his chair, the smell of the leather thick in the room. Sam’s on the bed, on fresh sheets, staring up at the ceiling to keep from staring at Dean.
Dean stays quiet for a few beats, gathering up his thoughts and Sam waits him out, always waits him out. His eyes look red-rimmed and he looks exhausted, chased. Sam wants to beg him over to the bed, wants to wrap every single part of his body around him and not let him up, not let him go.
“Don’t ‘member much,” he starts out, his voice low with whiskey-grit. He leans back in the chair, hand rubbing heavy at his eyes. Sam’s watching him now, can’t help it. Aches for him. “Just, uh. She liked that show. The one with the guy and the two chicks in the apartment? And Don Knotts was the landlord?”
A smile pulls at Sam’s lips. “Three’s Company.”
Dean lets out a little laugh, almost smiling before he tips the bottle again, takes another drink. “Yeah. That’s it. Anyway, I just remember Don Knotts and how much he made her laugh. She’d laugh ‘til she cried. She’d watch it and fold laundry while I did, yanno. Whatever kids do, Legos or whatever.”
“I bet she had a great laugh.” Sam closes his eyes, invokes her voice in his mind again, just plays his name over and over again, trying to piece together what that voice would sound like laughing, bright and carefree, over a sitcom. Tries to gather it from Dean like he can touch his thoughts the way Missouri had touched his.
“She had a big laugh.” Dean’s got a smile in his voice, a remembering smile. “Sounded too big for her body. Dad made her laugh a lot, too. He goosed her a lot. She was really ticklish. He’d scare her by tickling her and she’d chase him around the house.”
Sam shakes his head, can’t imagine his dad teasing anyone, laughing about anything like that. Maybe he used to, back when Sam was too little to really remember, but he can’t recall Dad’s laugh, not right now. Can imagine what his Mom’s sounds like, but not his. Not Dad’s.
“What else,” he whispers.
“She’d sing a lot. You know that ‘Louie, Louie’ song? She’d sing along to that song even though she didn’t know all the words. She used to make me laugh by just singin’ the craziest shit durin’ the verses, yanno? And she’d get all loud during the chorus. Every time I hear that song even now, I just hear her singin’ it.”
Sam looks back over and Dean’s full-out grinning now, hands clasped around a mostly-empty bottle.
“Must be where you get it,” he teases, nose crinkling with his smile when Dean looks over. “Was she tonedeaf, too?”
“You little fucker,” Dean barks out in an unexpected laugh, brandishing the bottle at Sam like a lazy weapon. “I’m amazin’. ‘s why I drive with the windows down. Waitin’ for somebody to hear me sing’n make me famous.”
Sam grins over at his brother, at the sound of his laugh, at the bright sprawl of his smile, at the warmth in his eyes and he realizes then how much Dean got from Mom. Which one of them got her beauty, her light.
“Why are you all the way over there?” He’s speaking quietly now, his smile fading into an intense focus, eyes trailing over the curl of Dean’s hand around the bottle, at the spread of his legs. Dean looks over at him, eyes guarded, mouth lowering into a bit of a frown.
“I just,” Dean starts, shifting a little in his chair. “Maybe I just want too much.”
Sam lifts up then, elbows behind him on the mattress to prop himself up. His face feels warm.
“Want too much of what? What makes you think it’s too much?”
“Eh,” Dean grunts, setting the bottle down finally, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He scrubs his hands over his face, the sigh that escapes him rushing hot and loud over his palms. “Just. Just a rough day or so. Hard seeing her. Hard seeing you get hurt. Just.”
Dean stops talking, his throat working loud as he swallows, once twice. His voice is shaking, watery. “I just need to get out of here. Outta Lawrence.”
“We can leave now,” Sam offers, already trying to wake up more, pushing himself to sit up. “Let me just--”
Dean shakes his head, sitting back again, reaching for his bottle once more but just to put the cap on it, turning it until it’s tightly closed. His jaw is a firm line, tensed.
“It can wait ‘til morning. Sorry for being such a whiny bitch about this. It’s just--”
“Overwhelming,” Sam finishes, a sad smile tugging at his lips when Dean nods. “Dean?”
Dean looks over at him again, his movements slow, like he’s pushing through water. Even his blinks are slow. “Hm?”
“What do you want too much of?”
It’s quiet between them when their eyes finally meet, neither of them pushing or challenging, just holding. Cars rush by outside, somebody blaring Skynyrd, reminding Sam that life still goes on outside of this room, outside of Dean’s gaze, outside of the words between them. Somehow.
“Think maybe I want too much’a you.”
Sam sucks in a breath that catches in his throat, that leaves in a noisy, desperate sound. He clutches at his own shirt, stomach tightening.
“No such thing,” he tells him, the words quiet but packed with conviction. His dick is well-aware of what’s going on, hears the heat in Dean’s voice even when Sam’s mind is focused on the emotions. “No such thing because you can have all of me and it’s still not enough. Always wanna give you more.”
“Sam,” Dean groans, the sound like a growl and Sam’s afraid for a second that he’s gone too far, given up too much truth, made Dean angry, but Dean’s standing up now, not steady on his feet at first but he makes his way toward Sam, toward the bed without stumbling, without losing the swagger of his hips even as he kicks off his boots in two heavy clunks.
Sam presses his head back into the pillow when Dean gets closer, when he’s right here. He stares up at his brother, watches him tug his shirt off over his head, revealing his winter-pale skin, his freckles standing up in stark, precious contrast to it. The shirt gets tossed and Dean’s coming at him now, crawling into the bed and right on top of Sam, and Sam’s heart is racing now, hands already shaking.
“Goddamnit, Sammy. Godfuckingdamnit.” The words pour like heat out of Dean’s mouth, sounding like endearments somehow and Dean is on him, over him, surrounding him. His hands are digging into the meat of Sam’s sides, squeezing his hips, shoving at his shirt. Sam lets Dean take it off, his chest trembling with soft pants.
He whimpers when Dean’s hands run up his body, from his navel to his collarbone, body arching up hard, following those hands until they stop. Dean’s knee is nudging between his legs, shoving against Sam’s inner thigh to kick his legs apart, to spread him wide to fit himself between them. Sam closes them up again when Dean gets where he needs to be, wraps his legs around Dean and looks up into Dean’s eyes that are wild, stunning green and bloodshot, looking over Sam’s entire face like he’s memorizing him.
“God, just wanna eat you alive,” Dean mumbles just as he slides his mouth against Sam’s, both of their lips parting, breath exchanged between them. Dean’s thumbs slide over his nipples, the sensation completely unexpected and not gentle, and it pulls on every nerve in Sam’s body, driving a hard shudder up his spine, making him wrap his arms around his brother, clinging to him while Dean strokes at his nipples in small, rough circles.
“You can,” Sam pants, petting the back of Dean’s neck, fingers catching on the cord of the amulet swinging down, dragging against his bare skin. “God, Dean, I’ll let you.”
Dean tastes bitter and gold with the whiskey, the flavor overwhelming when Dean finally kisses him, but Sam’s tongue slides out, edges into Dean’s mouth, seeking his real taste underneath. Dean hums into his mouth, a pleased, low purr just as he rocks his hips down, his dick hard in the trap of his jeans, rubbing thick against Sam’s stomach.
“Ohmygod,” Sam whispers, words getting caught and lost in Dean’s mouth. “Ohmygod, Dean.”
“You feel it?” Dean drops his hips, legs spreading between Sam’s, getting in deeper to grind against Sam’s stomach. “Don’t even know what you do to me. Fuck, Sammy, you don’t even know.”
Sam opens his mouth to speak, to at least let out a sound but Dean takes his mouth in a rough kiss, tongue fucking into him in low, hungry pulses that set Sam’s hips off, making him hump up, starved for a rhythm. Dean rocks against him, amulet hitting Sam in the chin.
“Sorry,” Dean breathes, reaching back with one hand to yank the necklace off over his head. He’s halfway to the nightstand with his hand, about to drop the amulet on it but Sam reaches out, tangles his fingers with the cord, tugs it away.
He pulls it down over his own head, over his messy curls, letting it come to rest against his own chest. He glances up at Dean to smile at him but Dean is frozen, staring at him, right down at the amulet on Sam’s chest.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispers, hips digging in harder now, close enough that Sam can actually feel the strong pulse of lust in Dean’s dick. “Oh, fuck.”
Dean curls down, tongue slipping out to swirl around one of Sam’s nipples, just a quick kiss, a quick taste and then he’s moving down a little more to kiss at the amulet, tongue flicking at the skin underneath, around it. Sam grips Dean’s shoulders hard, socked feet planted against the bed so he can thrust up, starving for friction. Dean keeps on kissing, tasting, sucking at the tiny bump of Sam’s sternum, tonguing the amulet before his hand is there and he’s pressing down on it, hard, the horns digging into Sam’s skin.
Sam’s eyes slip closed, head tipping back on the pillow and he just feels it, Dean’s dick digging against him, the amulet pressing into his skin so hard it’s going to leave a bruise. It fucking hurts, sharp and metal and unrelenting and it’s so good that Sam digs his nails into Dean’s shoulders, breaking skin and hoping that it tells Dean for him that he doesn’t want it to stop, to please, please keep going.
“G-gonna come, Dean,” he finally gasps out, his dick throbbing so hard in his pants that he can feel it in his temples, in his wrists. Dean moans somewhere near his face, so close and then he’s kissing him, one hand on Sam’s left nipple and the other still pushing, pressing at the amulet, imprinting it in Sam’s skin.
He comes then, thinking about the shape the bruise is going to leave on him, thinking about how he’s going to feel it tomorrow, when they’re back on the road, that he’s going to remember this every time he feels it. That there will be evidence that Dean touched him, wanted him like this. That Dean is doing this, right now.
That he is Dean’s.
He comes in desperate, pulling spurts, the warmth of it flooding his underwear, soaking into the worn cotton. He comes against nothing, nothing touching his dick, nothing causing it but his brother’s possessive hands, his mouth. Comes like a girl, like a good boy, for Dean.
“So fuckin’ good, Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean pants against his mouth, like he can hear Sam’s thoughts. “Came so fuckin’ good for me.”
Dean’s hand slides down, fingers pushing between Sam’s legs to grip at him, to rub hard at his dick, the wet squelch of come loud even in his pants. Sam fucks up against his hand, rocks against it, mouth parted as sound after humiliating, grateful sound leaves him.
Sam whimpers, his stomach trembling as Dean pulls jolts of sensation out of him. He nudges at Dean’s face, begs his mouth back over his own. He sighs when Dean kisses him, when he licks back into his mouth, those beautiful lips kiss-swollen and soft against his. Dean keeps his hand between his legs, massaging at his spent dick until Sam tries to squirm away, tries to close his legs.
“Show me what you want, Dean.” His voice sounds wrecked, scraped raw. His hands trip down Dean’s ribs, slide around to rub at his stomach, at the front of his jeans, right over his dick. “Show me how to do it right.”
Dean’s braced up over him and staring down at Sam, his breath a shivering, searing heat that washes down all over Sam’s face. He watches Sam through the trembles, through the heaving pants that settle into arrhythmic puffs of air through his nose. He holds on and waits, waits until Sam’s eyes find his own again, waits until everything around them and between them is still but their heartbeats.
He laces his hand with Sam’s where it’s curled on the mattress, just lines their fingers up and lets their lifelines touch, just like always. He tugs Sam’s hand and Sam goes along easily, a disciple that travels between their bodies, his hand still tucked in Dean’s.
Sam looks down, can’t help it even as Dean watches him, stares down at him like Sam’s about to tell him a secret. All Sam hears is the soft sound of their hands edging past the elastic waist of Dean’s underwear, the hush-slide of the back of his own hand down Dean’s burning, naked belly, along the soft scratch of his happy trail and into the damp, warm curls around his dick.
Dean guides Sam’s hand where he wants it, slides it right down over the length of him and they both suck in a breath at the same time, both tense up and shiver in tandem. Sam’s eyes shoot back up to watch Dean’s face, to watch the almost vulnerable flutter of his eyelashes. Sam nearly gasps when Dean’s eyes meet his own, a fierce green glint in the darkness.
Sam’s hand shakes where it wraps around Dean’s dick and they shift on the bed, a gentle creak and whine announcing it as Sam spreads his legs a little wider and Dean tucks his hips closer toward their shared grip on his dick.
The literal second Sam starts to stroke, starts his hand on the long journey down the length of it, Dean gasps, the sound breaking wide open at the end, cracking into a sound that Sam has never heard before, could not dream up on his own. He watches Dean, watches his effort to hold his weight up over Sam, watches the way his raw lips part, watches the butterfly-shiver of his eyelashes when he struggles to hold Sam’s gaze.
“Yeah, Sammy. God, you feel it. Feel what you do to me? Feel.”
It’s the most intimate thing Sam’s ever felt, ever done, jerking Dean off like this. Dean’s just covering him, blocking out the entire rest of the world for Sam, just containing him here in this bed that’s not theirs, could never be theirs.
It’s so hot inside Dean’s pants, so humid and burning up and there’s a gorgeous scent coming up every time Sam strokes and Dean shudders through it, a sweaty, elemental smell that is dirty with sex and pure with something sacred between them, just between them. After all these years, they deserve a little bit of sanctuary, even if it’s just a stolen night in a motel room in a town that should’ve been their home.
“Wanna see it, Dean,” he begs, thumb sliding over and over the head, smearing in the slick that’s practically pouring out of Dean, soaking his fingers, sticking to them sweet as honey. “Please.”
Dean presses his knees into the bed, holding himself up with one shaking arm as the other hand leaves their shared hold on his cock and fumbles with the button, with the zipper of his jeans, fingers sex-dumb and shaking.
“Please,” Sam keeps whispering against Dean’s mouth, right through the soft, aching grunts that keep falling from Dean’s lips every time Sam grips the base of his dick. “Please. So beautiful, Dean. You’re so beautiful.”
He can feel when Dean’s cheeks heat up at the words, can feel him tense, fight the denials that are probably gathering on his tongue. He grabs hold of Dean’s belt loop and tugs down once Dean gets his pants open, helps him push them down as far as they’ll go, just under the curve of his ass. His underwear is next, much easier to move out of the way, the elastic catching on the head of his dick before it gives way, revealing Dean’s cock to the air, for Sam’s eyes, finally.
Sam’s mouth floods with spit, his dick giving a protesting throb between his legs.
He’s seen it before, saw it in Holly’s mouth in that basement all those years ago, with The Doors playing. Saw it when he fucked her not long after that in the room they shared in that house, the house that almost felt like home for awhile. Saw it a handful of times before and after, always in flashes, in hungry, embarrassed glimpses, usually when he walked into the wrong room at the wrong time. But none of those times were for him.
This is for him. This is Dean for Sam. That perfect, rose-pink cockhead shining with precome in Sam’s clumsy, big-handed grip, all for him. The hefty, solid length of him, more than a fistful, more than even Sam’s hand can cover, for him.
He looks up, catches Dean’s eyes, sees the strange shyness there, the flush on his cheeks. Knows it’s because Dean’s not comfortable with this, with being told he’s beautiful, with Sam’s eyes on him, with as much love as lust.
Sam turns his wrist, lets Dean’s dick rub against his abs, letting it bump against his navel. A groan punches out of Dean, his hips fucking forward, straining to get at more warm skin.
“Yeah, Dean, fuck it,” Sam murmurs, arching up to give him more to rub against. “Fuck me.”
Dean moans, the sound rumbling and dangerously low as Dean drops down against him, trapping his dick between their stomachs, trapping Sam’s hand. He starts to thrust, fucking Sam’s hand, the head of his cock catching on Sam’s navel every single time, feeling oddly intimate, close.
The amulet is pressing into his skin again, trapped between the hard lines of their chests. The bed is thumping now, moving with Dean’s body as he ruts against Sam, his balls warm as they nudge the side of his hand. He lets his pinky slide out, stroke at the soft heft of them, pulling a choked cry from Dean.
“Yeah, Sammy, play with ‘em. Shit, yeah.” Dean’s straining against him now, trying to get in deeper somehow, and Sam’s other hand flies down, desperate to please, to make it good and he gather’s Dean’s balls up in his hot palm, squeezing and tugging, his forefinger stroking all along the skin between them and Dean’s asshole.
Dean doesn’t tell him he’s going to come, doesn’t say anything else, just presses their foreheads together, sweat pouring off of him and soaking Sam’s face, his chest. When Dean starts to come, he’s utterly silent, no sounds but the brutal slap of his body against Sam’s, but the slip-slip of dick that gets wetter and wetter when Dean creams between them, all up along Sam’s chest, soaking Sam’s hand.
He lets out the breath he held all through his orgasm in a harsh, gasping rush, a sob dragging up out of his throat as he kisses Sam, Dean’s entire body shaking now, trembling as he keeps thrusting, keeps pressing up hard into Sam’s hand.
Sam feels it too, that strange, overwhelming emotion that Dean seems to be feeling sweeping through him as well, leaving his eyes stinging with tears, his other hand wrapping around Dean’s neck, cradling the back of his head as he presses kiss after soft kiss to Dean’s trembling lips.
Dean keeps thrusting long after his orgasm finally finishes with him, keeps pushing tiredly into Sam’s patient hand, and Sam just lets him, just stays right there, coaxing every single second of pleasure Dean could have out of him. They’re kissing like they mean it now, focused on it entirely, Sam’s tongue exploring Dean’s mouth, licking at the roof of it, over his teeth that he’s suddenly obsessed to know, to know the bump and shape of each one by feel alone.
Dean finally goes still on top of him, all of his weight melting down into Sam, jeans still caught around his thighs. He sighs into Sam’s mouth, right into Sam’s kisses, and Sam smiles.
“So sexy,” he whispers, sucking at the tip of Dean’s tongue before he lets him inside of his mouth. Dean grunts, a wordless denial, both of his hands pushing into Sam’s hair to keep him still, to hold him there, right where he is.
“Pretty hot yourself, little brother.” Dean’s mouth leaves his, kisses down over Sam’s chin, sucking on the point of it before licking down his throat. Sam closes his eyes, his one clean hand resting at the back of Dean’s head, just holding onto him as he sucks on Sam’s neck, right over his heavy heartbeat. “Be right back.”
Dean slips off of him, sudden and too soon, and Sam honest to God pouts. Keeps his eyes on Dean’s tight, bare ass as he sheds his jeans and underwear on the way to the bathroom. Sam starts to kick off the rest of his own close when Dean flicks on the light and disappears for a moment, using his ruined underwear to wipe himself clean before he tosses his clothes over the side of the bed.
He looks down at his hand, the one covered in Dean’s come, lines of it webbing between his fingers, thickening as it starts to dry.
Closes his eyes as he brings his hand to his mouth, sliding two fingers across his own tongue. God, yes. That taste.
It’s Dean, just like he remembered, just like he tasted in Holly’s mouth almost a decade ago. But this is his, straight from the source. Just for him. He swallows it all down before moving onto the other two fingers, free hand moving to his dick to rub, to grip at idly when he moves down to his palm, licking it clean.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy.”
Sam’s eyes fly open, both of his hands stopping what they’re doing. He looks over and finds Dean standing next to the bed, a dripping wet washcloth dangling from his hand, looking disgustingly, scorchingly gorgeous and naked, his eyes trained Sam’s mouth.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, reaching for the cloth, wiping the rest of his hand clean, bottom lip sucked up into his mouth to get the last taste of Dean.
Dean’s hand is in his hair, his grip hard as he yanks Sam’s head back, latching onto his mouth, his tongue sliding in, claiming, seeking. Sam relaxes then, kissing Dean back lazily but mostly just letting him feed, letting him taste himself, letting him lick and drink at any part of his mouth that he wants.
“What’re you tryin’ to do to me? Hm? Christ. Tryin’ to rev me up again? ”
Sam smiles against his mouth, reaching down then to wrap his hand around Dean’s dick again, giving him a slow tug. Dean whines, twists his hips away from Sam just as his dick gives a greedy jump toward Sam’s hand.
“We’re sleeping, Sammy.” There’s light in Dean’s eyes, a tiny glimmer of humor behind his serious big brother face, behind the tired lines. Dean leans over and flicks off the lamp by the bed, leaving them in muffled streetlight. Sam’s smile softens and he reaches up, hooking an arm around Dean’s neck and tugging him down into the bed, laughing a little when Dean lands with an oof.
“Sorry if I hump you in my sleep.” Sam gathers the blankets up and tugs them over their bodies, making sure Dean is completely covered before he relaxes again. They’re face-to-face, and Dean slides closer, lifting one of his legs to drape it over Sam’s.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dean retorts, wrapping an arm around Sam’s neck and pulling him close enough to press a kiss to his jaw. Sam’s eyes widen, body tensing as he pulls back to meet Dean’s eyes.
“Wait. Seriously?”
Dean grins, dirty and teasing and moves right back in to continue his kisses, teeth nipping at Sam’s earlobe.
“No, not really.”
Sam lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing into the kisses, pulling the covers up higher until they’re practically buried under them. He closes his eyes, arm sliding around Dean’s body and tightening, keeping him close.
“Sammy?”
“Hn?”
“You’re still wearin’ socks.”
Sam cracks an eye open to squint at him in the dark.
“...Yeah? So?”
“You’re, like. Naked otherwise.”
Sam snorts, a completely unsexy sound.
“So? My feet get cold.”
“Body heat, man. I can keep your feet warm. Take the socks off.”
Sam opens both eyes now, staring at his brother just inches from his face.
“You’re serious.”
“Yep.”
“My socks bother you that much.”
“Mhmm.”
Sam sighs, letting it be loud and annoying before he starts to try and toe his socks off. Dean’s feet join in, and together they manage to wrangle them off and kick them from under the covers to land on the floor. Sam raises his eyebrows even though he knows Dean can’t see it.
“You happy now?”
He sees Dean’s smile just barely in the shadows, and he tastes it when Dean leans over, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth. Dean’s toes drag over top of Sam’s feet, their legs tangling together, the soft whisper of skin on skin.
“Yep. Thanks.”
Sam just grunts, a smile pulling hard at his lips. Dean tucks in against him, face pressed into crook of Sam’s neck, nose snuffling around in his hair before Dean settles in. Sam’s hand slides up into Dean’s hair, spreads out to cradle the back of his head before his eyes close again.
He hears, faint and probably already in a dream, Mom’s voice brush against his ear in a simple goodnight, Sam.
next.