Two-Headed Boy: Twenty-two
Sam’s imagined Dean dying a lot over the years.
He's has always had an overactive imagination. He’s used it to plan entire battles with his army men, he’s used it when drawing in his notebook during his dragon phase, he’s used it in the shower once puberty hit to imagine exactly how Dean’s hand would feel on his dick. But the thing he'd imagine most, tortured himself with since he was about eight years old, since the first time Dean came back to the car with Dad where Sam was made to wait alone in the dead of Michigan's dense wintered woods for two hours while they went and did God knows what--was Dean dying.
Alone in the dark, all Sam had been able to think about was Dean being attacked by a bear. Dean being shot by an irresponsible, overeager hunter (if he’d only known). Dean falling over a cliff and breaking his legs. Why were they in the woods for so long? Why did they need to go to the woods? Where is Dean?
Dean had come back with a gash on his leg from ankle to knee, but it was apparently from falling down a steep incline and landing on a jagged rock. He was bleeding, looking a little pale and freezing to the touch when Sam put small, warm hands on his cheeks, but he was there.
Sam didn't know it then, but he knows now those injuries came from killing a wendigo. It hadn't mattered then. Didn't matter because at least Dean was back, breathing tired, bitter air in Sam's face. Because maybe Sam, at eight, had spent those two hours alone in the Impala trying to figure out how to say goodbye to Dean, if he had to. If Dean just hadn't come back.
It happened every time Dean left with Dad, left on his own, for any length of time. Sam’s imagination ran with it, tortured him. Brought him to tears more than once over the course of their short lives.
He’d never imagined it would be water that did him in. Water and a taser and one hundred thousand volts. He’d killed the rawhead, but he’d suffered a massive heart attack in the process.
Two weeks to live.
Sam’s sitting by himself back at the motel, hand clutched around his phone, tears brimming in his eyes, and he’s still shaking.
Shaking since he came down those stairs again, found Dean pale with barely a pulse in standing water in that basement. Shaking still when he’d finally gotten to see him again, see the weakness in his eyes and the way he could hardly move without flinching in pain.
Two weeks to live.
He wants to call Dad back again and bitch him out. Wants to call Bobby back, third time this hour, ask if he’s heard anything yet from anybody. If he’s heard anything about this LaGrange guy in Nebraska.
He shouldn’t have left Dean alone in that basement. The kids could’ve gone out by themselves; the monster was in the basement. Sam should have been with him. Could have covered him. See it before it got him.
He wants a cigarette so bad he’s chewing on his lip, tonguing at a chunk he’s ripped out inside his cheek. He wants to hurt, wants to take all that hurt from Dean, wants it to all be on him.
There’s a knock on the door.
Sam’s own heart almost stops when he seems him propped up against the door frame, looking like he’s going to fall over at any second, looking like he crawled the entire way here. Like he just had to be here.
He reaches for him, hands wrapping around Dean’s borrowed hoodie, pulling him in as gently as he can with all of this panicked hunger rushing around in him.
“C’mere. God, Dean, what are you doing here? They shouldn’t. They sh-shouldn’t--”
“Checked myself out. Not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.” Dean’s so strangely pliant, so soft in Sam’s worn cotton hoodie, the circles under his eyes dark as bruises, his eyes holding an odd, almost frightening paleness. Sam’s hands soften, slide around to hold onto Dean’s arms as he guides him inside, eases him into a chair. Dean grunts and nudges at him in protest, mouth set in an annoyingly adorable frown.
Sam shuts the door, locks it, double checks the deadbolt. Slides a hand around to the small of his back to make sure his gun’s still there. He knows there’s nothing out there after them, not right now anyway, but his hackles are up, every fiber of him tuned into Dean, on keeping him safe. Sam feels dangerous, reckless, like he wants someone to try and come after Dean just so he can kill them, so he can bend bones with how desperate and furious he feels.
“Stop it. Don’t joke about that. Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve come and gotten you.” Sam sinks down on his knees right in front of where Dean is slouched in the chair, kneeling right in front of him, his hands going to Dean’s thighs, eyes fixed on his brother. Dean just shrugs, uncomfortable under Sam’s eyes and Sam knows it, can feel the tension thrumming weakly through Dean’s body.
“You look like shit, Sammy. Have you slept at all? All I’ve been doin’ is sleepin’.” Dean reaches up, a hand lighting on Sam’s cheek, fingertips stroking at the rough, abandoned scruff covering it. Sam closes his eyes, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, bringing his hand up to cover Dean’s.
Please. Please, God. Please.
“Been on the phone. Online. Calling every number in Dad’s journal.”
He opens his eyes and finds Dean still watching him, regarding him, exhaustion overriding every other emotion in his expression. “For what?”
“For a way to help you. One of Dad’s friends, Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A specialist.”
Dean huffs out a laugh, his eyes blinking closed slowly, staying that way for just a few seconds before they open again. He runs a thumb over Sam’s bottom lip, and Sam turns his face to press a kiss to the pad of it, kissing across Dean’s open palm.
“You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?”
“I’m not gonna let you die, period. We’re going.”
“Not tonight. Just,” Dean sighs, stretching his fingers out, letting Sam kiss at them now, like he’s savoring it. “Can we just stay here tonight? Can we just sleep? I just.”
Dean pauses and Sam looks up, his eyes filling with tears when he sees them in Dean’s. He moves closer, knees dragging across carpet, stomach hitting the chair between Dean’s spread legs. His heart is racing with frenzied, unbearable love, with terror that he won’t be able to fix this in time. Sam’s chin is trembling as he strains forward, wrapping long arms around Dean’s body, nestling his face against his stomach.
Dean sighs, the breath moving through his whole body, and Sam sends up a silent thank you that Dean’s here to draw breath at all. Sam feels one hand light on top of his head, the other resting on his back, feels Dean relax very slowly against him.
They stay there in absolute quiet for what feels like an hour but is likely only a handful of minutes, both of their eyes closed, Sam’s back aching from the stretch but it feels like replenishment, like just being this close, like this small connection right here is doing something, is working some kind of miracle.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Sam whispers, lifting up finally, Dean’s hoodie wet from his tears but they both ignore it, ignore just like they ignore the way Dean’s eyes are shiny them, the tears brimming against warm green but they don’t fall.
Sam pulls back and stands up, leaning over to press a kiss to the center of Dean’s forehead before he helps him up, arms going around his brother who feels so small, so thin, God, has he always felt like this?
And what will he do if he can’t save him? What will he do when Dean just dies in his arms? In his sleep or flying down a lonely highway in the middle of the night or after giving one of those big, bright laughs that sound like fireworks? What will he do besides keep him anyway? What will he do besides try to figure out how to follow him down?
He yanks the covers back and guides Dean down onto the bed, using every single muscle in his body to take all of the work away from Dean. He reaches down and tugs Dean’s boots off, fingers lighting on the button of his jeans before Dean stops him with a grunt, with a shake of his head.
“Don’t. I’m. I’m kinda cold.”
“I’ll get you in something warmer. It’s okay. You’ll be warm, I promise.” Sam leans over while he’s undoing Dean’s pants and kisses his eyebrow, stealing a moment to take a deep breath, to just breathe him in, wishing for the thousandth time in his life that he could preserve this: Dean’s scent, what he smells like when Sam loves him this much, when he needs him right here.
“You bein’ a creeper’n smellin’ me?” Dean cracks an eye open to smile at Sam, soft and teasing and already half-asleep. Sam smiles back because he can’t help it, because, well. It’s true.
“Love how you smell,” he tells him though it’s hardly a confession. He leans over to grab his bag and dig through it, coming up with his favorite sleep pants, some they got on clearance at Old Navy right after Christmas with different colored reindeer all over them. Dean had gotten them for him as a joke but they’re flannel and soft and warm. He tugs Dean’s pants off then, not kissing at his vulnerable-pale thighs like he wants to, just busies himself with pulling the pants up on him with Dean lifting and squirming around to help.
“Smell like a hospital,” Dean mumbles, nose wrinkling up as he wiggles back down into the bed, trying to find his warm spot again.
Sam shakes his head as he peels his own jeans off, stripping down to his t-shirt and his underwear. He flicks the light by the bed off, the dark flooding in around them, soothing and absolute. He makes his way into bed by feel alone, careful not to jostle Dean too much as he settles in beside him, pulling the blankets up over them both.
“You smell like Dean. ‘s my favorite smell in the world.” He wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders and guides him over to him, not stopping until Dean’s cheek is on his chest, his body tense with what is obviously pain but he’s on his side, arm draped across Sam’s chest, surrounded by body heat.
“I jus’ smell like BO and motor oil and regret.” Dean’s voice is soft, like he’s dreaming, his breathing weak but Sam has his hand on Dean’s back, can feel every breath, listening for each one. Just in case.
He snorts and shakes his head, free hand coming up to cradle Dean against him, fingers stroking across his cheek and up into his hair.
“Whatever it is, I love it. Would smell every inch of you if I could.”
Dean grunts, a sound that Sam translates into well, that’s just a little fuckin’ weird, Sammy, a hand worming its way under Sam’s back, hiding there in the heat between his body and the mattress. Sam just holds him a little tighter, rubs his back to stroke warmth into it.
“Even my pits?”
Sam smiles.
“Especially your pits.”
Another grunt, another wiggle closer to Sam. Sam closes his eyes, fingers tumbling over Dean’s back in slow circles, savoring every exhale of Dean’s that tickles the hair on Sam’s arm.
“Even if I hadn’t showered in a coupla days?”
Sam grins into the dark, wants to tickle Dean just to make him react but he can’t. Knows he can’t. Not anymore.
“Definitely. Lick ‘em clean.”
“Ugh!” Dean wriggles a little, burrowing down closer to Sam, face tucking into his neck, mouth so close to Sam’s ear now. “That’s just gross, Sammy.”
“Maybe.” Sam shrugs as much as he can, tipping his head down to kiss Dean’s temple, keeping his lips there. “Still true.”
Dean falls quiet, seems to contemplate that for a minute. Sam drifts a bit, almost asleep in a matter of seconds. Hasn’t slept more than half an hour a night in three days, couldn’t stop thinking of Dean, couldn’t stay out of his hospital room, out of that uncomfortable chair right by his bed.
“Sammy, uh. ‘msorry we never got to. That I didn’t.” Dean’s voice sounds so small, like it’s trapped. He clears his throat gently. “Can’t believe I’m gonna die without knowin’ what it feels like to be inside of you.”
Sam’s entire body reacts to that, chest tightening, throat closing up, tears filling his eyes without hesitation. He turns into Dean, curling up around him as much as he possibly can, both hands sliding up to keep Dean where he is, tucked up right against him.
“Don’t say that,” he whispers, his chin trembling. He tips his head down, pressing kiss after kiss to Dean’s forehead, not even trying to hide the tears that spill down his cheeks. “This is not supposed to happen. This isn’t going to happen. I’m going to figure this out, Dean. I’m gonna fix this. I’m gonna save you from this.”
Dean’s clutching at him now, fists in tight curls around Sam’s t-shirt. Sam rubs at his back, through his hair with both hands, not stopping until Dean relaxes again, until he’s soft against him like he was before. His breath feels wet against Sam’s neck, the tiny puffs of air uneven and faint.
Three more words before they both fall quiet, before the night burrows in around them, filling in all the spaces around their bodies, giving them a beautiful, fleeting feeling of being the only two people left in the world, just for tonight. Three more words from Dean’s mouth, spoken clear and tired against Sam’s skin.
“I trust you.”
It had been easy, too easy, to heal Dean.
Sam’s up the second Dean’s knees hit the ground up on that shaky platform, hands on his brother before he goes down completely. This is it. This is the end. This is how they will end.
Except it’s not.
Except Dean’s eyes open, scurrying around in a panic before they find Sam, bright and powerfully alive. There are cries going up around them, prayers to the Lord Jesus, shouts of hallelujah, applause like this had been a performance, like Dean had played the scene out to the hilt, sold it to them hook, line, and sinker.
Sam can’t keep his hands off of him, can’t let him go. When they make it back into the safety of the car and Dean is quiet, Sam curls a fist in the side of his hoodie and yanks him closer, not caring that they’re in the muddy parking lot of a makeshift church, that people are walking by, probably looking in. He cups Dean’s still-ashen cheeks in his hands and tips his head to slide his mouth across Dean’s, kissing warmth into his cool lips. He runs a hand down, spreads it out over Dean’s chest, feeling for and finding his heartbeat, the strong, steady rush of it bringing tears to his eyes.
“It worked,” he whispers against Dean’s lips before surging forward again, backing Dean against the door and kissing him over and over again. “Didn’t it? It worked. Talk to me. God, talk to me, Dean, please.”
“Sammy,” Dean sighs, getting both hands on Sam’s chest and pushing him back a little, leveling him with tired, wary eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. I--”
“Do you feel better?”
Dean pauses, rubs his lips together. Sam’s eyes snap down, watching them. He leans forward because he can’t help himself, drops one more kiss to his mouth, whimpering when he gets a fresh taste of Dean, the ache of it pulling at him, reminding him that Dean’s okay. Dean’s okay, he’s okay--
“Sam, please, just.” Dean rests his head back against the fogged-up window, the rain slipping down outside behind him. His hands slide down and off of Sam’s chest, and Sam catches them, holds onto them. Doesn’t miss how cold Dean’s fingers still are. He draws three of Dean’s fingers into his mouth, just the tips of them, his tongue sliding all across them, tasting dirt and salt and the sweetness underneath that is Dean’s skin. Licks at Dean’s fingernails, tastebuds dragging over the whorls of his fingerprints. Love him. Love him, love him, need him.
Sam raises his eyebrows at him, impatient for him to speak, to say it. Say it say it and never stop saying it. He releases Dean’s fingers from his mouth wet and spit-shined but keeps hold of them, cradles those hands with both of his own.
“I feel better,” Dean finally says, his eyes hooded, guarded. Sam moves a little closer, crowding Dean up even more against the door. Someone walks right by the window, voices close. Sam reaches up behind Dean to push the lock down on the door.
“That’s a good thing. Dean, just. Just stop overthinking it. Stop worrying about how it happened. Who cares how it happened? You’re okay. You’re healed. Y-You’re.”
The sob that escapes is unexpected and humiliating. He lets go of Dean’s hands only to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck, practically sitting in his lap by now but he has to be this close, has to try and press them together to ease this ache a little. Dean is still so pliant, so sweet when he sighs, wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, gives in to the way Sam wants to hold him.
“Sammy,” Dean sighs again, right against his ear, the cold tip of his nose dragging over the curve of it. “C’mon, please don’t do this. You’re gonna kill me for real. Please. Stop cryin’.”
“Tell me I’m not gonna lose you. Just say it, Dean. Please just say it.”
He tightens his arms around Dean, holding him so tight that Dean grunts, doesn’t have room to draw a full breath. Dean’s cold hands work their way under Sam’s shirt, hiding right against his spine.
“Not gonna lose me,” he replies, tipping his head up to kiss at Sam’s jaw. “You’re not gonna lose me. Promise.”
It’s a feeble promise and they both know it, but it feels good. Exactly what Sam needs to hear.
He kisses Dean again on the mouth, biting at the soft, sinking plush of his bottom lip before he kisses down, fingers dragging up Dean’s shirt, yanking it up to reveal his chest. Dean’s nipples are hard and goosebumped, chest rising and falling faster by the second.
“Say it again,” Sam murmurs just before his eyes slip closed, just before he ducks down and sucks one of Dean’s nipples into his mouth. Dean gasps, jerks hard in Sam’s hold, two helpless hands coming to rest on the back of Sam’s head, keeping him where he is when Sam starts to suck.
“I’m okay,” Dean breathes, melting back against the door when Sam’s hard sucks fall into a rhythm, his fingers stroking through Sam’s rain-slicked hair. “Not goin’ anywhere.”
“God, Dean,” Sam growls, breath washing hot over Dean’s skin. He pulls back, staring at the raw, reddened nipple he just wrecked, letting his tongue slide out to flick at it. Dean just moans, arching his back a little, pushing his chest out for more. “I swear to God, sometimes I just want to. To.”
“To what, Sammy? What do you wanna do?” Dean’s out of breath and hard in his jeans, pupils blown wide, mouth deep red in arousal. He guides Sam over to his other nipple and Sam goes, obeys by drawing it into his mouth just like he did the first one, letting out a contented sigh as he starts to suck.
Sam doesn’t answer for a long moment, caught up in the primal, embarrassingly childlike mediation of sucking on Dean’s nipple. It’s a strange, bone-deep comfort, maybe for both of them, and they laze there in the car, windows completely fogged up, kept safe by the Impala just like they usually are, one feeding and one being fed from.
Sam’s hands dig into Dean’s sides, grabbing hold of the scant extra flesh there and holding on, probably bruising the hell out of Dean’s skin but he doesn’t care. He pulls off finally with a wet gasp, completely out of breath when he looks up at Dean through his lashes and finds him almost asleep, eyes closed, long lashes fanned over pale skin.
“Want all of you,” Sam finally says, sitting up again to nuzzle right in against Dean’s face, kissing across his cheek. “Sometimes I just need you so much. Want to know what you taste like inside, want to fucking drown in you, Dean. Sometimes it scares me.”
Dean hums, like it all sounds so good, like what Sam said is beautiful and not terrifying. Sam lets Dean’s shirt fall back down and nudges down to his neck, licking at it like he’s tasting for something, like he’s marking his territory before he starts to kiss there too, starts up his starved, wet sucking on Dean’s neck.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean hisses, grabbing fistfuls of Sam’s hair and holding on when Sam brings out his teeth, when he starts to bite at the skin he’s sucked raw, just little nibbles that he licks over to soothe. “I promise th-that. Later. Later, I promise we can do whatever you want. I just.”
Sam breaks away finally, feeling wild, like Dean is his to feed from and he’s just drank his fill. He licks his lips and stares into Dean’s eyes, the connection between them right now so alive, so intense that he feels dizzy.
“I think I need to go to a hospital. Get some more scans, just to make sure.” Dean reaches up to stroke across Sam’s cheek like he’s soothing him, calming him down. And he does, it does. Sam finally sighs, his mind clearing, heart still pounding in his teeth but he slows down, listens to what Dean’s saying.
“Yeah,” he whispers, giving Dean a small smile. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go make sure.”
Cassie is stunning.
Like, seriously stunning. Most of the girls that Dean hooks up with are pretty. Some are beautiful, even. But Cassie’s intelligent, strong, wise in that same way that Sam always saw in Jess. The way he’d always imagined Mom being, too.
And when he sees the way she looks at Dean, the way her eyes soften with memories, the way she can’t stop staring at him, he feels that familiar, swooping pain in his gut, the one he’s been used to feeling for most of his life.
All he can think is maybe this is it. Maybe she’s the one who’ll finally take him away.
He forces himself to smile, to meet her eyes when they’re introduced. He digs down deep, finds that wall he’d let drop, the one that kept him safe from moments like this. The wall that he’s let down recently, since he’s found out what Dean’s mouth tastes like. He pulls it back up and around him, desperate to get his guard up before this gets through, this inevitable pain.
He smiles at her and knows that he’s not safe. That this one’s going to hurt.
They sleep in separate beds that night, both wearing clothes, both with their backs to the other.
They don’t talk about it.
They sit in the car, idling in front of the motel. Dean’s going to see Cassie under Sam’s suggestion, and Sam’s sitting in the passenger seat with his laptop bag in his lap, still reeling from the thought that Dean had been in love with Cassie. That Dean had fallen in love with anyone.
“I can come with you, if you want.” Sam stares down at his bag, at the place where it’s faded, worn from rubbing against Sam’s thigh for so many years. It’s the bag that Dean gave him when he’d given him his first laptop back in high school with money he’d scraped together with Bobby. It’s quietly Sam’s most prized possession.
“Nah,” Dean says after a pause, looking down himself, scratching at his eyebrow, squinting out across the parking lot, anything to avoid looking at Sam. “You stay here and do some research, make some phone calls. I’ll call you later.”
Sam glances over at him finally, taking in the way Dean’s shifting in his seat, fidgeting even more than usual. He licks his lips, nails scraping across the worn leather of his bag.
“I can, uh.” He blushes, biting down at the constantly-raw sore inside of his mouth, the one that he won’t leave alone long enough to let it heal. “If. I-If you want, I can.”
“Spit it out, Sam,” Dean prompts, a smile in his voice, eyes on Sam’s restless hands.
“I can suck you off,” Sam finally says in a rush, the words a little too hungry, too desperate. “Before you go. If you want.”
He can feel the burn of Dean’s eyes on him and he closes his own, his heart pounding in his chest, breath held, like he’s waiting to be sentenced. His mouth floods with spit at just the thought of having the weight of Dean’s dick on his tongue, of smelling him. God, the smell of him.
“I think I’m good,” comes the reply, Dean’s tone light, matching the way-too-casual clap of his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Besides, you know the rules. No foolin’ around during a hunt.”
Sam bites down on the apology that wants to come out, the need for it to keep hurting, for Dean to keep saying things that tear him apart disturbing and overwhelming.
“Right,” he mumbles, hair falling into his eyes, his hand already on the door handle.
“C’mon, I’ve gotta go. Wanna get there before dark. I’ll call you.”
“Sure.” He glances over at him, meets his eyes for the first time since they left the pier. He leans toward him the tiniest bit, head tipping, angling for a goodbye kiss, but Dean looks away at the last second.
“See ya, Sammy.” Dean’s hand is on the gearshift, ready to put her back into drive, ready to pull out.
Sam climbs out without another word, without a backward glance. Dean pulls away the second the door closes, the sound of that car leaving tearing at Sam’s stomach the way it always has.
He doesn’t call.
Sam’s ten years old again, and Dean’s out with Annie Daugherty at the movies, having pizza in the food court, being fawned over by all of Annie’s friends.
He’s twelve and it’s Liz McReynolds and Dean’s out all night with her, out at some lake with Liz and her wild friends, all in trucks filled with coolers of beer and girls with short shorts and slim, hairless thighs perfect and waiting for Dean’s ever-widening, eager hands.
He’s fifteen and Dean’s gone for days, disappeared and shacked up with some girl called Janx. Dad’s gone, doesn’t give a shit, wouldn’t give a shit even if he was here. Dean’s sexual prowess is just something else for him and Dad to bond over, for Dad to crow about to his hunting buddies.
Sam’s twenty-two, his birthday’s tomorrow, and Dean’s with Cassie Robinson, and he’s probably in love with her.
The TV’s on out in the main part of the motel room, playing some teen melodrama with loud commercials, and Sam’s sitting on the floor in the bathroom for absolutely no reason. His newly-cleaned gun is beside him on the dingy, tiled floor, his worn copy of House of Leaves on his other side, ignored, a pretense.
It’s well after midnight, and he keeps thinking maybe he should call. Should interrupt. The petty part of him wants to, but the part of him that thinks Dean would never pick him over a girl like Cassie doesn’t let him. Doesn’t want Dean to just simply ignore the call, not answer.
And why would Dean pick Sam over Cassie? Why would he pick something so messy, so completely, irreversibly fucked-up, over what could be a very solid, fulfilling relationship with an amazing girl?
It’s what he’s dreaded, what he’s always known his whole life. An inevitability. There have always been girls, but one day The Girl was bound to come along. And the fuck of it is that she came along awhile ago, back when Sam was playing college, and he hadn’t even known it.
Hadn’t known Dean was in love with someone else.
He reaches up, feels around for his phone on the sink above his head. Stares down at the screen, his finger poised to turn it back on.
Don’t.
He drops it on the ground, doesn’t care if it breaks. Drags his long legs up close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. What if Dean wants to stay here? What if he just wants Sam to let him go? What then? Where will Sam go?
Why wasn’t whatever has been happening between them enough? Why wasn’t Sam enough?
He doesn’t call until morning, after he’d gotten a call from the police, frantically looking for Cassie.
Dean turns up to the police site, his eyes dark like he hasn’t slept but his body loose, hips easy as he walks toward Sam. He looks well-fucked.
Sam can smell her on him the second Dean approaches, and he tells himself it’s okay, that he can do this. He can let Dean go, if he needs to. He’s done it before, when he left for Stanford. He can do it again.
It was always too good to last anyway.
Dean kisses her goodbye on the morning of Sam’s birthday, the wet sounds of their mouths making Sam grit his teeth, grip the steering wheel hard where he waits in the car.
But he’s saying goodbye. He’s leaving. In love or not, he’s coming with Sam. And it’s good enough for now.
Sam drives and Dean sleeps, sunglasses covering his eyes, his head tipped back on the seat in a way that Sam knows is going to make his neck hurt like a bitch.
He drives and the further he gets from Missouri the lighter he feels, the darkness lifting just enough for Sam to try and comprehend that look Dean had given him right before he’d gone to sleep, the silent, long glance that had ended with a smile, with a sigh like Dean had maybe made a decision.
Dean groans himself awake, lifting his head up slowly.
“Fuck, my neck,” he grits out, sunglasses slipping down on his nose. Sam reaches over without missing a beat, hand slipping beneath the collar of Dean’s jacket to rub his neck, thumb finding the tight muscle and working at it relentlessly.
Dean sighs, sinking back into the seat again, his body going lax under Sam’s hand.
“So good to me, Sammy,” he sighs, and Sam’s heart swells, leaps with pride. He smiles in spite of himself and maybe because Dean’s not looking at him, slowing his hand down to keep massaging gently even after he’s worked the crick out.
“Sleep well?”
Dean grunts, a vocalized shrug, moving a little closer to Sam like a cat that rubs at the hand petting it.
“Fuckin’ exhausted. Bein’ chased by that racist monster truck or whatever the fuck it was took it outta me.”
Sam gives a humorless breath of laughter, lips tugging into a smirk as his chest tightens.
“Yeah, pro’ly. And, you know. Up all night the night before, right?”
He’s trying so hard to sound amused, like he’s totally okay with this, with what’s happened over the last few days. And he’s trying to be, he really is. He can’t help it that he’s breathlessly possessive over his brother, that he wants to rip the eyes and arms and mouth off of anyone who touches him, anyone, and he always has.
Dean tenses under his hand, and Sam lets go, curls his fingers back around the wheel again. It’s quiet between them, both of them frowning.
“Guess so,” Dean says after a minute. He’s even more unreadable than usual in the sunglasses, his mouth drawn down, hands curled tight in his lap.
“You guess so?” Sam can’t help it, can’t help but pick at the scab, try to make it bleed. “What, was it just one and done? Spent the rest of the night cuddling and planning a future?”
“Shut up, Sam.”
The humor is completely gone from Dean’s voice, and he’s back over on the other side of the seat, no part of him touching Sam anymore.
“Why? It’s fine, Dean. Seriously. It’s just, you know. It’d have been nice to know about before, I guess. Would have been nice to know that the person I fell asleep with the night before, the person who kissed me just before we walked into the newspaper office was gonna fuck somebody else over the weekend.”
Dean is silent, and Sam’s feeling a little hysterical, all of the emotions he’s shoved down over the last few days finally coming up for air.
“It’s cool. I just didn’t know it was like that. I thought maybe there was something real between us. That it wasn’t just a desperation thing. In the trenches or whatever. I just wish I’d known.”
He’s driving too fast now, eating up broken pavement, the engine roaring around them, swallowing up John Fogerty’s voice on the radio, rumbling around in Sam’s chest until it feels like he’s shaking. He’s shaking.
“I just wish I’d known,” he repeats, his chin trembling now, breaths gasping, short.
“What do you want me to say?” Dean sounds tired, almost bored, but Sam can hear the anger underneath, ready to boil over. Sam wants it to fucking boil over.
“That I’m overreacting? That it’s not just me? That I mean something more to you? That I haven’t been waiting for twelve years now for you to--”
“You said eleven,” Dean interrupts, turning to look at Sam, pushing his sunglasses up finally.
Sam blinks, jolted out of his racing thoughts. “What?”
“Eleven. You said it was eleven years before. Half your life.”
Sam feels drunk now with all of Dean’s attention on him again, with those eyes on him, a question poised in the air between them, every bit of Dean focused on him.
“Well,” he mumbles, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as they fly through the newly-sprouting cornfields, the sun stuck behind the clouds, making the day grey around them. “Today’s my birthday, so. I’m calling it an even twelve now.”
There’s a beat of confused silence, a struggle on Dean’s side of the car before a sigh rushes out of him, before Dean’s doubling forward, face pressed into his hands.
“Goddamnit,” he says into his palms, muffled and sounding completely defeated. “Sammy, I forgot. Jesus.”
Sam smirks again, shaking his head, dismissive.
“It’s fine. It’s not like. I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s never been a big deal.”
“Yeah, well, it always has been to me. Shit.” Dean sits back again, can’t seem to stop moving, like he would be pacing if they weren’t stuck in the car. “First one since. Since before you left that I got to be with you on it, and. Fuck.”
Sam glances over at him, honestly surprised at the turn of this conversation, at how hung up Dean is on this.
“Dean, really. It’s okay.”
“It’s just be so crazy, man. Such a fuckin’ weird few months, and--”
“Dean, I swear, I don’t give a shit. Promise.”
“Can you. Sammy, can you pull over?”
San shoots a look over at him, eyes trailing over Dean’s body. “What? Are you gonna be sick?”
“Just pull over.” Dean’s tugging off his sunglasses, opening the glove compartment to throw them in. Sam obeys, always Dean’s little brother, pulling over into the grass off the side of the road, not another car in sight, nothing but miles and miles of cornstalks and the forgotten highway.
Sam kills the engine and Dean grabs him, hand tight around Sam’s arm and he yanks Sam closer to him, pulling on him until Sam’s forced to come, following Dean’s hands until he no choice but to climb on top of him, straddling him. Dean’s hands light on his spread thighs, Sam’s knees digging into the vinyl seat on either side of Dean’s body and he whimpers when Dean’s mouth finds his, when Dean parts his lips and practically begs Sam inside.
Sam spreads his legs even more, shoving his hips up against Dean’s body, getting in as tight as he can even as Dean’s hands slide around to his ass, gripping hard enough to bruise but he’s holding Sam close, this close, close enough for it to hurt.
Dean tastes like her. Sam knows because he doesn’t taste like himself, tastes sweeter, cleaner. Sam’s tongue slides in, licking around like he owns the place, like he’s looking for something. Dean whines for that, the sound so fucking beautiful in the trapped heat of the car, in the warm safety of Sam’s mouth. Sam’s got his hands on Dean’s face, holding him in place so he can lick his mouth clean, swallowing down everything that shouldn’t be there in the first place, taking it all away until there’s nothing left but the way they taste together.
“Shouldn’a done it, Sammy,” Dean gasps against his lips, hands shoving down into the back of Sam’s pants to grip his bare ass, to pull him in as Dean lifts his hips, grinding them together. “I knew it as soon as I did it. Knew it felt wrong. Don’t know why I did it. I just. I just had to be sure. Had to know.”
“And what did you find out?” Sam straightens up from his curl around his brother, looks down into Dean’s eyes where Dean’s got his head tipped up, looking up at Sam from under those long eyelashes and Sam doesn’t know how he lucked out, how he ended up with a brother this devastatingly fucking gorgeous, how lucky he is because he would have fallen in love with Dean no matter what, no matter what the circumstances were. Reality is that there’s no one more beautiful in creation than his brother, and he’s looking up at Sam like maybe Sam’s something special, too.
“That nobody makes me feel like you do,” Dean says, soft like it’s a secret, staring right into Sam’s eyes. “That I couldn’t have been in love with her, because nothing makes me feel like this. Like I feel right now. If that was love with her, then there aren’t any fuckin’ words for what we are. For what I feel right here.”
Sam’s hands gentle where they’re cupping Dean’s face, fingers stroking at his cheeks, thumbs gliding over the swell of his bottom lip. He closes his eyes, feeling immediately and instinctively unworthy of all of that, every single word, but he knows at his core that it’s true. That it’s what he’s always felt, from the very beginning.
When he kisses Dean again, it feels like a movie kiss, a kiss with fireworks, with symphonic bursts of music, with a gasping, pleased audience with swollen hearts and tearful eyes. Their tongues press and slide together, making a home out of their combined mouths, mouths that are pressing in so close, so airtight that it feels like they’ll never separate again. That it’s all gonna end with just this kiss.
Sam reaches down between their bodies, making quick work of both of their pants and he reaches in at the same time to tug both of their dicks free, both of them already hard and straining toward each other and when he presses them together, the head of his own cock catching on the velvet-hard ridge of Dean’s, they both jerk, press up even harder together.
Dean finally breaks away, panting up at the ceiling of the car while Sam looks down, letting a fat wad of their combined spit slide down his bottom lip and drip onto their dicks trapped in both of Sam’s big hands, saliva running all down the sides, slicking it all up and making that first stroke up absolute, glorious perfection.
Both of Dean’s forefingers press in against his asshole right at that second, the tips squeezing into him with absolutely no lube, prying at his hole. Sam starts to jerk of them off together, the sensation like nothing else he’s ever known before, like nothing he could have imagined it would be.
He can feel Dean’s blood pumping in the thick pulses of his cock right up against his own, like he’s holding Dean’s heart. It feels powerful, like they’re exactly equal, like they’re both giving and taking at the exact same time. Because only two men can do this, can make it feel just like this. A girl couldn’t do this for either of them, could never give something so intimate.
Cassie couldn’t do this for Dean.
He rubs a thumb over the heads of both of them, smearing all their precome together until it’s slick as hell, until it’s runny and messy and he starts to ride him then, fucking into his own hand as he starts to jerk them off, rocking back into Dean’s hands on his ass and Dean can finger him dry if he wants, can fuck him however he wants any day of the week, especially today.
“Shit, yeah, Sammy, so fuckin’ good. Goddamn, your fuckin’ dick. Jesus Christ.”
“Kiss me,” Sam whispers, curling down again, one hand abandoning its grip so it can slide up into Dean’s hair, sinking in and pulling Dean’s mouth up against his own. “Kiss me, Dean.”
Sam moans long and good when Dean listens, when he kisses him with that fucking pretty mouth, when Dean flicks his tongue over Sam’s top lip before gnawing on it hard enough to break skin. Sam just keeps riding him, trying to keep a hand around both of them but their dicks are both fat, both long and slippery with slick and he gasps when he feels one of Dean’s hands join him on the other side, trapping their cocks right up between them, completing the circle and making it almost unbearably good.
Dean’s other hand spreads out in his pants, fingers stretching wide to span as much of Sam’s ass as he can, his middle finger sinking right up into his hole, pressing down hard to make Sam feel as full as he can.
They’re moving in tandem now, Sam’s hips snapping hard, Dean’s body tense under him as he fucks up against him, both of their hands working furiously on their cocks, the pulse and throb of them exactly the same, matched up, down to the way their mouths are panting at each other, Sam’s bottom lip caught up in Dean’s teeth.
Sam comes first, coming so hard that it hits his chin on the first spurt, the ones that follow splashing up over their tangled-up hands, dripping down their dicks and making it so slick, so loud, dripping wet, dirty skin on skin. He whines, can’t do much else with Dean sucking on his bottom lip like he is, nails digging into the back of Dean’s neck, breaking skin in five little half-moons there.
His thrusts slow as he comes down, panting so hard that he thinks he’s gonna pass out but his hand keeps moving, keeps working, wants to be completely aware when Dean finally loses it.
Dean lets go of Sam’s lip, gives it back feeling twice as big as it was before, sucked-fat and bleeding a little and Sam kisses down Dean’s jaw, finding bruised skin there on his neck, right over his pulse, a mark he didn’t put there.
“C’mon, Dean,” he pants, his arm hurting, muscles straining but Dean is shaking under him, so fucking close. “C’mon and give it to me. Give it to me ‘cause I’m the one who can make you come. Nobody else can make you fuckin’ come like this. Nobody else. ‘Cause you’re mine.”
He sinks his teeth in then, tongue pressing right up against that bitemark and Dean’s entire body tightens, goes still and Sam feels his hand get soaked where they’re still jacking their dicks together, Dean absolutely creaming their hands. Sam keeps working their dicks together, his own hurting from it so much that he has to grit his teeth but Dean needs it, loves it, loves to drag it out until he just can’t anymore.
Sam lifts up, his eyes closed, mouth blindly finding Dean’s, and they both sigh into the kiss. Dean’s got two fingers in his ass now, somehow, both of them curled up and resting there, like it’s comforting Dean to have them there, to be inside of Sam somehow.
Their hands slow to a stop at the same time, their clothes an absolute mess, hands completely covered in come. Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s, their mouths sliding together but they’re not kissing anymore, just touching.
“Nobody else matters,” Dean says softly, his voice shaky. “No matter what. Nobody else has anything to do with this, us. No matter what happens. Okay?”
Sam nods, lips firming up just enough to give Dean one more kiss. “Okay.”
Dean smiles finally, opens those eyes up and looks right at Sam. “Happy Birthday.”
Sam grins against his lips, shivering when Dean’s fingers give a couple of lazy thrusts into his ass.
“Thanks.”
“So, what do you wanna do today, birthday boy? Your wish is my command.”
“Hm,” Sam take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he considers. “Well, we should probably change clothes. And find some water to wash our hands. And maybe just. I dunno. Stop and get a pizza and find a room for the night.”
Dean’s smirk is almost deadly it’s so cute. Asshole.
“Aww, Sammy. You wanna cuddle with me for your birthday?”
Sam rolls his eyes, but the way his cheeks heat up tells them both that Dean’s right. “Maybe. I could want something else, too, you know.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Cinnamon sticks?”
Sam pulls on the hair he’s currently massaging into, making Dean hiss but not lose his smile.
“Maybe head.”
Dean waggles his eyebrows, licks his lips. “I could do that.”
“Mm.” Sam curls down again, kisses that wet mouth. “I meant give you head.”
He feels Dean’s dick pulse weakly against his own, and Dean chokes down a whimper.
“I, uh. Yeah, I guess we can arrange that.”
“Gonna make sure you don’t ever turn down me givin’ you head again,” Sam murmurs against his mouth, his next kiss a little more possessive. Dean makes a sound, breaks the kiss to meet Sam’s eyes.
“I won’t. I swear.”
It’s the honesty in Dean’s eyes right at that moment, the promise in them that’s about more than any kind of sex, that makes it Sam’s favorite birthday ever.
next.
He's has always had an overactive imagination. He’s used it to plan entire battles with his army men, he’s used it when drawing in his notebook during his dragon phase, he’s used it in the shower once puberty hit to imagine exactly how Dean’s hand would feel on his dick. But the thing he'd imagine most, tortured himself with since he was about eight years old, since the first time Dean came back to the car with Dad where Sam was made to wait alone in the dead of Michigan's dense wintered woods for two hours while they went and did God knows what--was Dean dying.
Alone in the dark, all Sam had been able to think about was Dean being attacked by a bear. Dean being shot by an irresponsible, overeager hunter (if he’d only known). Dean falling over a cliff and breaking his legs. Why were they in the woods for so long? Why did they need to go to the woods? Where is Dean?
Dean had come back with a gash on his leg from ankle to knee, but it was apparently from falling down a steep incline and landing on a jagged rock. He was bleeding, looking a little pale and freezing to the touch when Sam put small, warm hands on his cheeks, but he was there.
Sam didn't know it then, but he knows now those injuries came from killing a wendigo. It hadn't mattered then. Didn't matter because at least Dean was back, breathing tired, bitter air in Sam's face. Because maybe Sam, at eight, had spent those two hours alone in the Impala trying to figure out how to say goodbye to Dean, if he had to. If Dean just hadn't come back.
It happened every time Dean left with Dad, left on his own, for any length of time. Sam’s imagination ran with it, tortured him. Brought him to tears more than once over the course of their short lives.
He’d never imagined it would be water that did him in. Water and a taser and one hundred thousand volts. He’d killed the rawhead, but he’d suffered a massive heart attack in the process.
Two weeks to live.
Sam’s sitting by himself back at the motel, hand clutched around his phone, tears brimming in his eyes, and he’s still shaking.
Shaking since he came down those stairs again, found Dean pale with barely a pulse in standing water in that basement. Shaking still when he’d finally gotten to see him again, see the weakness in his eyes and the way he could hardly move without flinching in pain.
Two weeks to live.
He wants to call Dad back again and bitch him out. Wants to call Bobby back, third time this hour, ask if he’s heard anything yet from anybody. If he’s heard anything about this LaGrange guy in Nebraska.
He shouldn’t have left Dean alone in that basement. The kids could’ve gone out by themselves; the monster was in the basement. Sam should have been with him. Could have covered him. See it before it got him.
He wants a cigarette so bad he’s chewing on his lip, tonguing at a chunk he’s ripped out inside his cheek. He wants to hurt, wants to take all that hurt from Dean, wants it to all be on him.
There’s a knock on the door.
Sam’s own heart almost stops when he seems him propped up against the door frame, looking like he’s going to fall over at any second, looking like he crawled the entire way here. Like he just had to be here.
He reaches for him, hands wrapping around Dean’s borrowed hoodie, pulling him in as gently as he can with all of this panicked hunger rushing around in him.
“C’mere. God, Dean, what are you doing here? They shouldn’t. They sh-shouldn’t--”
“Checked myself out. Not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.” Dean’s so strangely pliant, so soft in Sam’s worn cotton hoodie, the circles under his eyes dark as bruises, his eyes holding an odd, almost frightening paleness. Sam’s hands soften, slide around to hold onto Dean’s arms as he guides him inside, eases him into a chair. Dean grunts and nudges at him in protest, mouth set in an annoyingly adorable frown.
Sam shuts the door, locks it, double checks the deadbolt. Slides a hand around to the small of his back to make sure his gun’s still there. He knows there’s nothing out there after them, not right now anyway, but his hackles are up, every fiber of him tuned into Dean, on keeping him safe. Sam feels dangerous, reckless, like he wants someone to try and come after Dean just so he can kill them, so he can bend bones with how desperate and furious he feels.
“Stop it. Don’t joke about that. Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve come and gotten you.” Sam sinks down on his knees right in front of where Dean is slouched in the chair, kneeling right in front of him, his hands going to Dean’s thighs, eyes fixed on his brother. Dean just shrugs, uncomfortable under Sam’s eyes and Sam knows it, can feel the tension thrumming weakly through Dean’s body.
“You look like shit, Sammy. Have you slept at all? All I’ve been doin’ is sleepin’.” Dean reaches up, a hand lighting on Sam’s cheek, fingertips stroking at the rough, abandoned scruff covering it. Sam closes his eyes, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, bringing his hand up to cover Dean’s.
Please. Please, God. Please.
“Been on the phone. Online. Calling every number in Dad’s journal.”
He opens his eyes and finds Dean still watching him, regarding him, exhaustion overriding every other emotion in his expression. “For what?”
“For a way to help you. One of Dad’s friends, Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A specialist.”
Dean huffs out a laugh, his eyes blinking closed slowly, staying that way for just a few seconds before they open again. He runs a thumb over Sam’s bottom lip, and Sam turns his face to press a kiss to the pad of it, kissing across Dean’s open palm.
“You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?”
“I’m not gonna let you die, period. We’re going.”
“Not tonight. Just,” Dean sighs, stretching his fingers out, letting Sam kiss at them now, like he’s savoring it. “Can we just stay here tonight? Can we just sleep? I just.”
Dean pauses and Sam looks up, his eyes filling with tears when he sees them in Dean’s. He moves closer, knees dragging across carpet, stomach hitting the chair between Dean’s spread legs. His heart is racing with frenzied, unbearable love, with terror that he won’t be able to fix this in time. Sam’s chin is trembling as he strains forward, wrapping long arms around Dean’s body, nestling his face against his stomach.
Dean sighs, the breath moving through his whole body, and Sam sends up a silent thank you that Dean’s here to draw breath at all. Sam feels one hand light on top of his head, the other resting on his back, feels Dean relax very slowly against him.
They stay there in absolute quiet for what feels like an hour but is likely only a handful of minutes, both of their eyes closed, Sam’s back aching from the stretch but it feels like replenishment, like just being this close, like this small connection right here is doing something, is working some kind of miracle.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Sam whispers, lifting up finally, Dean’s hoodie wet from his tears but they both ignore it, ignore just like they ignore the way Dean’s eyes are shiny them, the tears brimming against warm green but they don’t fall.
Sam pulls back and stands up, leaning over to press a kiss to the center of Dean’s forehead before he helps him up, arms going around his brother who feels so small, so thin, God, has he always felt like this?
And what will he do if he can’t save him? What will he do when Dean just dies in his arms? In his sleep or flying down a lonely highway in the middle of the night or after giving one of those big, bright laughs that sound like fireworks? What will he do besides keep him anyway? What will he do besides try to figure out how to follow him down?
He yanks the covers back and guides Dean down onto the bed, using every single muscle in his body to take all of the work away from Dean. He reaches down and tugs Dean’s boots off, fingers lighting on the button of his jeans before Dean stops him with a grunt, with a shake of his head.
“Don’t. I’m. I’m kinda cold.”
“I’ll get you in something warmer. It’s okay. You’ll be warm, I promise.” Sam leans over while he’s undoing Dean’s pants and kisses his eyebrow, stealing a moment to take a deep breath, to just breathe him in, wishing for the thousandth time in his life that he could preserve this: Dean’s scent, what he smells like when Sam loves him this much, when he needs him right here.
“You bein’ a creeper’n smellin’ me?” Dean cracks an eye open to smile at Sam, soft and teasing and already half-asleep. Sam smiles back because he can’t help it, because, well. It’s true.
“Love how you smell,” he tells him though it’s hardly a confession. He leans over to grab his bag and dig through it, coming up with his favorite sleep pants, some they got on clearance at Old Navy right after Christmas with different colored reindeer all over them. Dean had gotten them for him as a joke but they’re flannel and soft and warm. He tugs Dean’s pants off then, not kissing at his vulnerable-pale thighs like he wants to, just busies himself with pulling the pants up on him with Dean lifting and squirming around to help.
“Smell like a hospital,” Dean mumbles, nose wrinkling up as he wiggles back down into the bed, trying to find his warm spot again.
Sam shakes his head as he peels his own jeans off, stripping down to his t-shirt and his underwear. He flicks the light by the bed off, the dark flooding in around them, soothing and absolute. He makes his way into bed by feel alone, careful not to jostle Dean too much as he settles in beside him, pulling the blankets up over them both.
“You smell like Dean. ‘s my favorite smell in the world.” He wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders and guides him over to him, not stopping until Dean’s cheek is on his chest, his body tense with what is obviously pain but he’s on his side, arm draped across Sam’s chest, surrounded by body heat.
“I jus’ smell like BO and motor oil and regret.” Dean’s voice is soft, like he’s dreaming, his breathing weak but Sam has his hand on Dean’s back, can feel every breath, listening for each one. Just in case.
He snorts and shakes his head, free hand coming up to cradle Dean against him, fingers stroking across his cheek and up into his hair.
“Whatever it is, I love it. Would smell every inch of you if I could.”
Dean grunts, a sound that Sam translates into well, that’s just a little fuckin’ weird, Sammy, a hand worming its way under Sam’s back, hiding there in the heat between his body and the mattress. Sam just holds him a little tighter, rubs his back to stroke warmth into it.
“Even my pits?”
Sam smiles.
“Especially your pits.”
Another grunt, another wiggle closer to Sam. Sam closes his eyes, fingers tumbling over Dean’s back in slow circles, savoring every exhale of Dean’s that tickles the hair on Sam’s arm.
“Even if I hadn’t showered in a coupla days?”
Sam grins into the dark, wants to tickle Dean just to make him react but he can’t. Knows he can’t. Not anymore.
“Definitely. Lick ‘em clean.”
“Ugh!” Dean wriggles a little, burrowing down closer to Sam, face tucking into his neck, mouth so close to Sam’s ear now. “That’s just gross, Sammy.”
“Maybe.” Sam shrugs as much as he can, tipping his head down to kiss Dean’s temple, keeping his lips there. “Still true.”
Dean falls quiet, seems to contemplate that for a minute. Sam drifts a bit, almost asleep in a matter of seconds. Hasn’t slept more than half an hour a night in three days, couldn’t stop thinking of Dean, couldn’t stay out of his hospital room, out of that uncomfortable chair right by his bed.
“Sammy, uh. ‘msorry we never got to. That I didn’t.” Dean’s voice sounds so small, like it’s trapped. He clears his throat gently. “Can’t believe I’m gonna die without knowin’ what it feels like to be inside of you.”
Sam’s entire body reacts to that, chest tightening, throat closing up, tears filling his eyes without hesitation. He turns into Dean, curling up around him as much as he possibly can, both hands sliding up to keep Dean where he is, tucked up right against him.
“Don’t say that,” he whispers, his chin trembling. He tips his head down, pressing kiss after kiss to Dean’s forehead, not even trying to hide the tears that spill down his cheeks. “This is not supposed to happen. This isn’t going to happen. I’m going to figure this out, Dean. I’m gonna fix this. I’m gonna save you from this.”
Dean’s clutching at him now, fists in tight curls around Sam’s t-shirt. Sam rubs at his back, through his hair with both hands, not stopping until Dean relaxes again, until he’s soft against him like he was before. His breath feels wet against Sam’s neck, the tiny puffs of air uneven and faint.
Three more words before they both fall quiet, before the night burrows in around them, filling in all the spaces around their bodies, giving them a beautiful, fleeting feeling of being the only two people left in the world, just for tonight. Three more words from Dean’s mouth, spoken clear and tired against Sam’s skin.
“I trust you.”
It had been easy, too easy, to heal Dean.
Sam’s up the second Dean’s knees hit the ground up on that shaky platform, hands on his brother before he goes down completely. This is it. This is the end. This is how they will end.
Except it’s not.
Except Dean’s eyes open, scurrying around in a panic before they find Sam, bright and powerfully alive. There are cries going up around them, prayers to the Lord Jesus, shouts of hallelujah, applause like this had been a performance, like Dean had played the scene out to the hilt, sold it to them hook, line, and sinker.
Sam can’t keep his hands off of him, can’t let him go. When they make it back into the safety of the car and Dean is quiet, Sam curls a fist in the side of his hoodie and yanks him closer, not caring that they’re in the muddy parking lot of a makeshift church, that people are walking by, probably looking in. He cups Dean’s still-ashen cheeks in his hands and tips his head to slide his mouth across Dean’s, kissing warmth into his cool lips. He runs a hand down, spreads it out over Dean’s chest, feeling for and finding his heartbeat, the strong, steady rush of it bringing tears to his eyes.
“It worked,” he whispers against Dean’s lips before surging forward again, backing Dean against the door and kissing him over and over again. “Didn’t it? It worked. Talk to me. God, talk to me, Dean, please.”
“Sammy,” Dean sighs, getting both hands on Sam’s chest and pushing him back a little, leveling him with tired, wary eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. I--”
“Do you feel better?”
Dean pauses, rubs his lips together. Sam’s eyes snap down, watching them. He leans forward because he can’t help himself, drops one more kiss to his mouth, whimpering when he gets a fresh taste of Dean, the ache of it pulling at him, reminding him that Dean’s okay. Dean’s okay, he’s okay--
“Sam, please, just.” Dean rests his head back against the fogged-up window, the rain slipping down outside behind him. His hands slide down and off of Sam’s chest, and Sam catches them, holds onto them. Doesn’t miss how cold Dean’s fingers still are. He draws three of Dean’s fingers into his mouth, just the tips of them, his tongue sliding all across them, tasting dirt and salt and the sweetness underneath that is Dean’s skin. Licks at Dean’s fingernails, tastebuds dragging over the whorls of his fingerprints. Love him. Love him, love him, need him.
Sam raises his eyebrows at him, impatient for him to speak, to say it. Say it say it and never stop saying it. He releases Dean’s fingers from his mouth wet and spit-shined but keeps hold of them, cradles those hands with both of his own.
“I feel better,” Dean finally says, his eyes hooded, guarded. Sam moves a little closer, crowding Dean up even more against the door. Someone walks right by the window, voices close. Sam reaches up behind Dean to push the lock down on the door.
“That’s a good thing. Dean, just. Just stop overthinking it. Stop worrying about how it happened. Who cares how it happened? You’re okay. You’re healed. Y-You’re.”
The sob that escapes is unexpected and humiliating. He lets go of Dean’s hands only to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck, practically sitting in his lap by now but he has to be this close, has to try and press them together to ease this ache a little. Dean is still so pliant, so sweet when he sighs, wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, gives in to the way Sam wants to hold him.
“Sammy,” Dean sighs again, right against his ear, the cold tip of his nose dragging over the curve of it. “C’mon, please don’t do this. You’re gonna kill me for real. Please. Stop cryin’.”
“Tell me I’m not gonna lose you. Just say it, Dean. Please just say it.”
He tightens his arms around Dean, holding him so tight that Dean grunts, doesn’t have room to draw a full breath. Dean’s cold hands work their way under Sam’s shirt, hiding right against his spine.
“Not gonna lose me,” he replies, tipping his head up to kiss at Sam’s jaw. “You’re not gonna lose me. Promise.”
It’s a feeble promise and they both know it, but it feels good. Exactly what Sam needs to hear.
He kisses Dean again on the mouth, biting at the soft, sinking plush of his bottom lip before he kisses down, fingers dragging up Dean’s shirt, yanking it up to reveal his chest. Dean’s nipples are hard and goosebumped, chest rising and falling faster by the second.
“Say it again,” Sam murmurs just before his eyes slip closed, just before he ducks down and sucks one of Dean’s nipples into his mouth. Dean gasps, jerks hard in Sam’s hold, two helpless hands coming to rest on the back of Sam’s head, keeping him where he is when Sam starts to suck.
“I’m okay,” Dean breathes, melting back against the door when Sam’s hard sucks fall into a rhythm, his fingers stroking through Sam’s rain-slicked hair. “Not goin’ anywhere.”
“God, Dean,” Sam growls, breath washing hot over Dean’s skin. He pulls back, staring at the raw, reddened nipple he just wrecked, letting his tongue slide out to flick at it. Dean just moans, arching his back a little, pushing his chest out for more. “I swear to God, sometimes I just want to. To.”
“To what, Sammy? What do you wanna do?” Dean’s out of breath and hard in his jeans, pupils blown wide, mouth deep red in arousal. He guides Sam over to his other nipple and Sam goes, obeys by drawing it into his mouth just like he did the first one, letting out a contented sigh as he starts to suck.
Sam doesn’t answer for a long moment, caught up in the primal, embarrassingly childlike mediation of sucking on Dean’s nipple. It’s a strange, bone-deep comfort, maybe for both of them, and they laze there in the car, windows completely fogged up, kept safe by the Impala just like they usually are, one feeding and one being fed from.
Sam’s hands dig into Dean’s sides, grabbing hold of the scant extra flesh there and holding on, probably bruising the hell out of Dean’s skin but he doesn’t care. He pulls off finally with a wet gasp, completely out of breath when he looks up at Dean through his lashes and finds him almost asleep, eyes closed, long lashes fanned over pale skin.
“Want all of you,” Sam finally says, sitting up again to nuzzle right in against Dean’s face, kissing across his cheek. “Sometimes I just need you so much. Want to know what you taste like inside, want to fucking drown in you, Dean. Sometimes it scares me.”
Dean hums, like it all sounds so good, like what Sam said is beautiful and not terrifying. Sam lets Dean’s shirt fall back down and nudges down to his neck, licking at it like he’s tasting for something, like he’s marking his territory before he starts to kiss there too, starts up his starved, wet sucking on Dean’s neck.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean hisses, grabbing fistfuls of Sam’s hair and holding on when Sam brings out his teeth, when he starts to bite at the skin he’s sucked raw, just little nibbles that he licks over to soothe. “I promise th-that. Later. Later, I promise we can do whatever you want. I just.”
Sam breaks away finally, feeling wild, like Dean is his to feed from and he’s just drank his fill. He licks his lips and stares into Dean’s eyes, the connection between them right now so alive, so intense that he feels dizzy.
“I think I need to go to a hospital. Get some more scans, just to make sure.” Dean reaches up to stroke across Sam’s cheek like he’s soothing him, calming him down. And he does, it does. Sam finally sighs, his mind clearing, heart still pounding in his teeth but he slows down, listens to what Dean’s saying.
“Yeah,” he whispers, giving Dean a small smile. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go make sure.”
Cassie is stunning.
Like, seriously stunning. Most of the girls that Dean hooks up with are pretty. Some are beautiful, even. But Cassie’s intelligent, strong, wise in that same way that Sam always saw in Jess. The way he’d always imagined Mom being, too.
And when he sees the way she looks at Dean, the way her eyes soften with memories, the way she can’t stop staring at him, he feels that familiar, swooping pain in his gut, the one he’s been used to feeling for most of his life.
All he can think is maybe this is it. Maybe she’s the one who’ll finally take him away.
He forces himself to smile, to meet her eyes when they’re introduced. He digs down deep, finds that wall he’d let drop, the one that kept him safe from moments like this. The wall that he’s let down recently, since he’s found out what Dean’s mouth tastes like. He pulls it back up and around him, desperate to get his guard up before this gets through, this inevitable pain.
He smiles at her and knows that he’s not safe. That this one’s going to hurt.
They sleep in separate beds that night, both wearing clothes, both with their backs to the other.
They don’t talk about it.
They sit in the car, idling in front of the motel. Dean’s going to see Cassie under Sam’s suggestion, and Sam’s sitting in the passenger seat with his laptop bag in his lap, still reeling from the thought that Dean had been in love with Cassie. That Dean had fallen in love with anyone.
“I can come with you, if you want.” Sam stares down at his bag, at the place where it’s faded, worn from rubbing against Sam’s thigh for so many years. It’s the bag that Dean gave him when he’d given him his first laptop back in high school with money he’d scraped together with Bobby. It’s quietly Sam’s most prized possession.
“Nah,” Dean says after a pause, looking down himself, scratching at his eyebrow, squinting out across the parking lot, anything to avoid looking at Sam. “You stay here and do some research, make some phone calls. I’ll call you later.”
Sam glances over at him finally, taking in the way Dean’s shifting in his seat, fidgeting even more than usual. He licks his lips, nails scraping across the worn leather of his bag.
“I can, uh.” He blushes, biting down at the constantly-raw sore inside of his mouth, the one that he won’t leave alone long enough to let it heal. “If. I-If you want, I can.”
“Spit it out, Sam,” Dean prompts, a smile in his voice, eyes on Sam’s restless hands.
“I can suck you off,” Sam finally says in a rush, the words a little too hungry, too desperate. “Before you go. If you want.”
He can feel the burn of Dean’s eyes on him and he closes his own, his heart pounding in his chest, breath held, like he’s waiting to be sentenced. His mouth floods with spit at just the thought of having the weight of Dean’s dick on his tongue, of smelling him. God, the smell of him.
“I think I’m good,” comes the reply, Dean’s tone light, matching the way-too-casual clap of his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Besides, you know the rules. No foolin’ around during a hunt.”
Sam bites down on the apology that wants to come out, the need for it to keep hurting, for Dean to keep saying things that tear him apart disturbing and overwhelming.
“Right,” he mumbles, hair falling into his eyes, his hand already on the door handle.
“C’mon, I’ve gotta go. Wanna get there before dark. I’ll call you.”
“Sure.” He glances over at him, meets his eyes for the first time since they left the pier. He leans toward him the tiniest bit, head tipping, angling for a goodbye kiss, but Dean looks away at the last second.
“See ya, Sammy.” Dean’s hand is on the gearshift, ready to put her back into drive, ready to pull out.
Sam climbs out without another word, without a backward glance. Dean pulls away the second the door closes, the sound of that car leaving tearing at Sam’s stomach the way it always has.
He doesn’t call.
Sam’s ten years old again, and Dean’s out with Annie Daugherty at the movies, having pizza in the food court, being fawned over by all of Annie’s friends.
He’s twelve and it’s Liz McReynolds and Dean’s out all night with her, out at some lake with Liz and her wild friends, all in trucks filled with coolers of beer and girls with short shorts and slim, hairless thighs perfect and waiting for Dean’s ever-widening, eager hands.
He’s fifteen and Dean’s gone for days, disappeared and shacked up with some girl called Janx. Dad’s gone, doesn’t give a shit, wouldn’t give a shit even if he was here. Dean’s sexual prowess is just something else for him and Dad to bond over, for Dad to crow about to his hunting buddies.
Sam’s twenty-two, his birthday’s tomorrow, and Dean’s with Cassie Robinson, and he’s probably in love with her.
The TV’s on out in the main part of the motel room, playing some teen melodrama with loud commercials, and Sam’s sitting on the floor in the bathroom for absolutely no reason. His newly-cleaned gun is beside him on the dingy, tiled floor, his worn copy of House of Leaves on his other side, ignored, a pretense.
It’s well after midnight, and he keeps thinking maybe he should call. Should interrupt. The petty part of him wants to, but the part of him that thinks Dean would never pick him over a girl like Cassie doesn’t let him. Doesn’t want Dean to just simply ignore the call, not answer.
And why would Dean pick Sam over Cassie? Why would he pick something so messy, so completely, irreversibly fucked-up, over what could be a very solid, fulfilling relationship with an amazing girl?
It’s what he’s dreaded, what he’s always known his whole life. An inevitability. There have always been girls, but one day The Girl was bound to come along. And the fuck of it is that she came along awhile ago, back when Sam was playing college, and he hadn’t even known it.
Hadn’t known Dean was in love with someone else.
He reaches up, feels around for his phone on the sink above his head. Stares down at the screen, his finger poised to turn it back on.
Don’t.
He drops it on the ground, doesn’t care if it breaks. Drags his long legs up close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. What if Dean wants to stay here? What if he just wants Sam to let him go? What then? Where will Sam go?
Why wasn’t whatever has been happening between them enough? Why wasn’t Sam enough?
He doesn’t call until morning, after he’d gotten a call from the police, frantically looking for Cassie.
Dean turns up to the police site, his eyes dark like he hasn’t slept but his body loose, hips easy as he walks toward Sam. He looks well-fucked.
Sam can smell her on him the second Dean approaches, and he tells himself it’s okay, that he can do this. He can let Dean go, if he needs to. He’s done it before, when he left for Stanford. He can do it again.
It was always too good to last anyway.
Dean kisses her goodbye on the morning of Sam’s birthday, the wet sounds of their mouths making Sam grit his teeth, grip the steering wheel hard where he waits in the car.
But he’s saying goodbye. He’s leaving. In love or not, he’s coming with Sam. And it’s good enough for now.
Sam drives and Dean sleeps, sunglasses covering his eyes, his head tipped back on the seat in a way that Sam knows is going to make his neck hurt like a bitch.
He drives and the further he gets from Missouri the lighter he feels, the darkness lifting just enough for Sam to try and comprehend that look Dean had given him right before he’d gone to sleep, the silent, long glance that had ended with a smile, with a sigh like Dean had maybe made a decision.
Dean groans himself awake, lifting his head up slowly.
“Fuck, my neck,” he grits out, sunglasses slipping down on his nose. Sam reaches over without missing a beat, hand slipping beneath the collar of Dean’s jacket to rub his neck, thumb finding the tight muscle and working at it relentlessly.
Dean sighs, sinking back into the seat again, his body going lax under Sam’s hand.
“So good to me, Sammy,” he sighs, and Sam’s heart swells, leaps with pride. He smiles in spite of himself and maybe because Dean’s not looking at him, slowing his hand down to keep massaging gently even after he’s worked the crick out.
“Sleep well?”
Dean grunts, a vocalized shrug, moving a little closer to Sam like a cat that rubs at the hand petting it.
“Fuckin’ exhausted. Bein’ chased by that racist monster truck or whatever the fuck it was took it outta me.”
Sam gives a humorless breath of laughter, lips tugging into a smirk as his chest tightens.
“Yeah, pro’ly. And, you know. Up all night the night before, right?”
He’s trying so hard to sound amused, like he’s totally okay with this, with what’s happened over the last few days. And he’s trying to be, he really is. He can’t help it that he’s breathlessly possessive over his brother, that he wants to rip the eyes and arms and mouth off of anyone who touches him, anyone, and he always has.
Dean tenses under his hand, and Sam lets go, curls his fingers back around the wheel again. It’s quiet between them, both of them frowning.
“Guess so,” Dean says after a minute. He’s even more unreadable than usual in the sunglasses, his mouth drawn down, hands curled tight in his lap.
“You guess so?” Sam can’t help it, can’t help but pick at the scab, try to make it bleed. “What, was it just one and done? Spent the rest of the night cuddling and planning a future?”
“Shut up, Sam.”
The humor is completely gone from Dean’s voice, and he’s back over on the other side of the seat, no part of him touching Sam anymore.
“Why? It’s fine, Dean. Seriously. It’s just, you know. It’d have been nice to know about before, I guess. Would have been nice to know that the person I fell asleep with the night before, the person who kissed me just before we walked into the newspaper office was gonna fuck somebody else over the weekend.”
Dean is silent, and Sam’s feeling a little hysterical, all of the emotions he’s shoved down over the last few days finally coming up for air.
“It’s cool. I just didn’t know it was like that. I thought maybe there was something real between us. That it wasn’t just a desperation thing. In the trenches or whatever. I just wish I’d known.”
He’s driving too fast now, eating up broken pavement, the engine roaring around them, swallowing up John Fogerty’s voice on the radio, rumbling around in Sam’s chest until it feels like he’s shaking. He’s shaking.
“I just wish I’d known,” he repeats, his chin trembling now, breaths gasping, short.
“What do you want me to say?” Dean sounds tired, almost bored, but Sam can hear the anger underneath, ready to boil over. Sam wants it to fucking boil over.
“That I’m overreacting? That it’s not just me? That I mean something more to you? That I haven’t been waiting for twelve years now for you to--”
“You said eleven,” Dean interrupts, turning to look at Sam, pushing his sunglasses up finally.
Sam blinks, jolted out of his racing thoughts. “What?”
“Eleven. You said it was eleven years before. Half your life.”
Sam feels drunk now with all of Dean’s attention on him again, with those eyes on him, a question poised in the air between them, every bit of Dean focused on him.
“Well,” he mumbles, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as they fly through the newly-sprouting cornfields, the sun stuck behind the clouds, making the day grey around them. “Today’s my birthday, so. I’m calling it an even twelve now.”
There’s a beat of confused silence, a struggle on Dean’s side of the car before a sigh rushes out of him, before Dean’s doubling forward, face pressed into his hands.
“Goddamnit,” he says into his palms, muffled and sounding completely defeated. “Sammy, I forgot. Jesus.”
Sam smirks again, shaking his head, dismissive.
“It’s fine. It’s not like. I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s never been a big deal.”
“Yeah, well, it always has been to me. Shit.” Dean sits back again, can’t seem to stop moving, like he would be pacing if they weren’t stuck in the car. “First one since. Since before you left that I got to be with you on it, and. Fuck.”
Sam glances over at him, honestly surprised at the turn of this conversation, at how hung up Dean is on this.
“Dean, really. It’s okay.”
“It’s just be so crazy, man. Such a fuckin’ weird few months, and--”
“Dean, I swear, I don’t give a shit. Promise.”
“Can you. Sammy, can you pull over?”
San shoots a look over at him, eyes trailing over Dean’s body. “What? Are you gonna be sick?”
“Just pull over.” Dean’s tugging off his sunglasses, opening the glove compartment to throw them in. Sam obeys, always Dean’s little brother, pulling over into the grass off the side of the road, not another car in sight, nothing but miles and miles of cornstalks and the forgotten highway.
Sam kills the engine and Dean grabs him, hand tight around Sam’s arm and he yanks Sam closer to him, pulling on him until Sam’s forced to come, following Dean’s hands until he no choice but to climb on top of him, straddling him. Dean’s hands light on his spread thighs, Sam’s knees digging into the vinyl seat on either side of Dean’s body and he whimpers when Dean’s mouth finds his, when Dean parts his lips and practically begs Sam inside.
Sam spreads his legs even more, shoving his hips up against Dean’s body, getting in as tight as he can even as Dean’s hands slide around to his ass, gripping hard enough to bruise but he’s holding Sam close, this close, close enough for it to hurt.
Dean tastes like her. Sam knows because he doesn’t taste like himself, tastes sweeter, cleaner. Sam’s tongue slides in, licking around like he owns the place, like he’s looking for something. Dean whines for that, the sound so fucking beautiful in the trapped heat of the car, in the warm safety of Sam’s mouth. Sam’s got his hands on Dean’s face, holding him in place so he can lick his mouth clean, swallowing down everything that shouldn’t be there in the first place, taking it all away until there’s nothing left but the way they taste together.
“Shouldn’a done it, Sammy,” Dean gasps against his lips, hands shoving down into the back of Sam’s pants to grip his bare ass, to pull him in as Dean lifts his hips, grinding them together. “I knew it as soon as I did it. Knew it felt wrong. Don’t know why I did it. I just. I just had to be sure. Had to know.”
“And what did you find out?” Sam straightens up from his curl around his brother, looks down into Dean’s eyes where Dean’s got his head tipped up, looking up at Sam from under those long eyelashes and Sam doesn’t know how he lucked out, how he ended up with a brother this devastatingly fucking gorgeous, how lucky he is because he would have fallen in love with Dean no matter what, no matter what the circumstances were. Reality is that there’s no one more beautiful in creation than his brother, and he’s looking up at Sam like maybe Sam’s something special, too.
“That nobody makes me feel like you do,” Dean says, soft like it’s a secret, staring right into Sam’s eyes. “That I couldn’t have been in love with her, because nothing makes me feel like this. Like I feel right now. If that was love with her, then there aren’t any fuckin’ words for what we are. For what I feel right here.”
Sam’s hands gentle where they’re cupping Dean’s face, fingers stroking at his cheeks, thumbs gliding over the swell of his bottom lip. He closes his eyes, feeling immediately and instinctively unworthy of all of that, every single word, but he knows at his core that it’s true. That it’s what he’s always felt, from the very beginning.
When he kisses Dean again, it feels like a movie kiss, a kiss with fireworks, with symphonic bursts of music, with a gasping, pleased audience with swollen hearts and tearful eyes. Their tongues press and slide together, making a home out of their combined mouths, mouths that are pressing in so close, so airtight that it feels like they’ll never separate again. That it’s all gonna end with just this kiss.
Sam reaches down between their bodies, making quick work of both of their pants and he reaches in at the same time to tug both of their dicks free, both of them already hard and straining toward each other and when he presses them together, the head of his own cock catching on the velvet-hard ridge of Dean’s, they both jerk, press up even harder together.
Dean finally breaks away, panting up at the ceiling of the car while Sam looks down, letting a fat wad of their combined spit slide down his bottom lip and drip onto their dicks trapped in both of Sam’s big hands, saliva running all down the sides, slicking it all up and making that first stroke up absolute, glorious perfection.
Both of Dean’s forefingers press in against his asshole right at that second, the tips squeezing into him with absolutely no lube, prying at his hole. Sam starts to jerk of them off together, the sensation like nothing else he’s ever known before, like nothing he could have imagined it would be.
He can feel Dean’s blood pumping in the thick pulses of his cock right up against his own, like he’s holding Dean’s heart. It feels powerful, like they’re exactly equal, like they’re both giving and taking at the exact same time. Because only two men can do this, can make it feel just like this. A girl couldn’t do this for either of them, could never give something so intimate.
Cassie couldn’t do this for Dean.
He rubs a thumb over the heads of both of them, smearing all their precome together until it’s slick as hell, until it’s runny and messy and he starts to ride him then, fucking into his own hand as he starts to jerk them off, rocking back into Dean’s hands on his ass and Dean can finger him dry if he wants, can fuck him however he wants any day of the week, especially today.
“Shit, yeah, Sammy, so fuckin’ good. Goddamn, your fuckin’ dick. Jesus Christ.”
“Kiss me,” Sam whispers, curling down again, one hand abandoning its grip so it can slide up into Dean’s hair, sinking in and pulling Dean’s mouth up against his own. “Kiss me, Dean.”
Sam moans long and good when Dean listens, when he kisses him with that fucking pretty mouth, when Dean flicks his tongue over Sam’s top lip before gnawing on it hard enough to break skin. Sam just keeps riding him, trying to keep a hand around both of them but their dicks are both fat, both long and slippery with slick and he gasps when he feels one of Dean’s hands join him on the other side, trapping their cocks right up between them, completing the circle and making it almost unbearably good.
Dean’s other hand spreads out in his pants, fingers stretching wide to span as much of Sam’s ass as he can, his middle finger sinking right up into his hole, pressing down hard to make Sam feel as full as he can.
They’re moving in tandem now, Sam’s hips snapping hard, Dean’s body tense under him as he fucks up against him, both of their hands working furiously on their cocks, the pulse and throb of them exactly the same, matched up, down to the way their mouths are panting at each other, Sam’s bottom lip caught up in Dean’s teeth.
Sam comes first, coming so hard that it hits his chin on the first spurt, the ones that follow splashing up over their tangled-up hands, dripping down their dicks and making it so slick, so loud, dripping wet, dirty skin on skin. He whines, can’t do much else with Dean sucking on his bottom lip like he is, nails digging into the back of Dean’s neck, breaking skin in five little half-moons there.
His thrusts slow as he comes down, panting so hard that he thinks he’s gonna pass out but his hand keeps moving, keeps working, wants to be completely aware when Dean finally loses it.
Dean lets go of Sam’s lip, gives it back feeling twice as big as it was before, sucked-fat and bleeding a little and Sam kisses down Dean’s jaw, finding bruised skin there on his neck, right over his pulse, a mark he didn’t put there.
“C’mon, Dean,” he pants, his arm hurting, muscles straining but Dean is shaking under him, so fucking close. “C’mon and give it to me. Give it to me ‘cause I’m the one who can make you come. Nobody else can make you fuckin’ come like this. Nobody else. ‘Cause you’re mine.”
He sinks his teeth in then, tongue pressing right up against that bitemark and Dean’s entire body tightens, goes still and Sam feels his hand get soaked where they’re still jacking their dicks together, Dean absolutely creaming their hands. Sam keeps working their dicks together, his own hurting from it so much that he has to grit his teeth but Dean needs it, loves it, loves to drag it out until he just can’t anymore.
Sam lifts up, his eyes closed, mouth blindly finding Dean’s, and they both sigh into the kiss. Dean’s got two fingers in his ass now, somehow, both of them curled up and resting there, like it’s comforting Dean to have them there, to be inside of Sam somehow.
Their hands slow to a stop at the same time, their clothes an absolute mess, hands completely covered in come. Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s, their mouths sliding together but they’re not kissing anymore, just touching.
“Nobody else matters,” Dean says softly, his voice shaky. “No matter what. Nobody else has anything to do with this, us. No matter what happens. Okay?”
Sam nods, lips firming up just enough to give Dean one more kiss. “Okay.”
Dean smiles finally, opens those eyes up and looks right at Sam. “Happy Birthday.”
Sam grins against his lips, shivering when Dean’s fingers give a couple of lazy thrusts into his ass.
“Thanks.”
“So, what do you wanna do today, birthday boy? Your wish is my command.”
“Hm,” Sam take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he considers. “Well, we should probably change clothes. And find some water to wash our hands. And maybe just. I dunno. Stop and get a pizza and find a room for the night.”
Dean’s smirk is almost deadly it’s so cute. Asshole.
“Aww, Sammy. You wanna cuddle with me for your birthday?”
Sam rolls his eyes, but the way his cheeks heat up tells them both that Dean’s right. “Maybe. I could want something else, too, you know.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Cinnamon sticks?”
Sam pulls on the hair he’s currently massaging into, making Dean hiss but not lose his smile.
“Maybe head.”
Dean waggles his eyebrows, licks his lips. “I could do that.”
“Mm.” Sam curls down again, kisses that wet mouth. “I meant give you head.”
He feels Dean’s dick pulse weakly against his own, and Dean chokes down a whimper.
“I, uh. Yeah, I guess we can arrange that.”
“Gonna make sure you don’t ever turn down me givin’ you head again,” Sam murmurs against his mouth, his next kiss a little more possessive. Dean makes a sound, breaks the kiss to meet Sam’s eyes.
“I won’t. I swear.”
It’s the honesty in Dean’s eyes right at that moment, the promise in them that’s about more than any kind of sex, that makes it Sam’s favorite birthday ever.
next.