Let Your Sins be Strong (That Crown Don’t Make You a Prince remix) 5/5

[xzombiexkittenx]

Having your soul bonded to someone else’s is really friggin’ weird. Dean doesn’t get any cool powers; he can’t exorcise demons or bend spoons. He doesn’t feel smarter, or any more inclined to read War and Peace or whatever. He still doesn’t want to eat salads for lunch. He still thinks Hell on Earth is a lousy idea, even if the sight of it doesn’t scare the shit out of him anymore. But he knows where Sam is. He knows if Sam’s hungry, or tired, or happy. Something in his chest gets warm and tingly when Sam’s close to him, which might be the gayest thing Dean’s ever thought in his life, including the time where he kissed his brother and it didn’t totally suck.

It’s stopped feeling like he’s trapped with Sam and started feeling like they’re in it together again. Winchesters against the world.

“What’s giving you the warm and fuzzies?” Sam asks, about a week after the soul-bonding. “You’ve been all Care Bear share on and off all week.” He flops down onto the bed next to Dean and snags the remote control, flipping over to the news.

Dean shrugs and tries to steal it back, but Sam’s got octopus arms and also he’s a cheating cheater who cheats because he uses his powers to pin Dean to the mattress. Which doesn’t freak him out anymore because if he really tries he can break it and also, it just doesn’t feel the same as it used to. It just feels like the warm tingly chest thing all over.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says, giving up. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. “So what time is this thing?”

“You’ve got about an hour to get into your suit,” Sam says. “Ruby’ll be here in about ten minutes though, so you might wanna put some pants on before then. Also, Bobby’s probably going to be with her so you really might want to have pants on.”

Dean puts the goddamn suit on. Sam’s watching so he can’t pretend he’s James Bond, which totally defeats the point of wearing a suit, but at least they’re both dressed by the time there’s a knock on the door. Ruby stays out of his way, but Bobby and Cas are both there too, and Dean spends a few minutes giving Bobby a slightly less than manly hug and slapping Cas on the shoulder and congratulating him on not getting fried by an archangel before the war even started.

Being soul-bonded to Sam, apart from being stupid sounding, means that Dean is browbeaten into attending the conference, where he has to shake hands and kiss babies and shit like that. It also means that when Sam gets in front of everyone he uses his grip on Dean’s shoulder to maneuver him forwards and announces that they’re soul-bonded - and the more Dean says that, the gayer it sounds - so any angels with bright ideas should probably just give it up.

Sam’s not wrong. There’s no way they’re using Dean as a vessel now. He’s attached to Sam in weird metaphysical ways and he’s pretty sure he’s useless to Michael. It doesn’t make soul-bonding sound any less gay and Sam could maybe not have his arm around Dean’s shoulders when he talks about it.

Sam also announces that Dean is going to be in charge of Supernatural relations with Hell. Any problems with the out of the closet vampires, or abuses in the werewolf full-moon detention centers, Dean’s on it. Which is news to Dean. He’d argue, because as awesome as that sounds, he’s supposed to be getting Sam out of the bureaucracy, not helping out with it, but they’re kind of in front of hundreds of people and are being broadcast live to thousands more, and also Sam is announcing that he’s shutting Hell.

No more new demons, no more back and forthing, with the ones already out, and sure, Sam’s not laying out a plan to get rid of all the ones riding people, or dealing with the backlog still writhing in the Pit, but it’s a start. It’s a really awesome start.

Not only that, but it’s a really awesome start that Dean was sure Lucifer would put the kibosh on. But it and the other angels can still move between the worlds, and Dean’s sort of got the impression that Lucifer is bored with demons and bored with turning human souls into them, especially now that God doesn’t seem to be watching. Maybe Dean shouldn’t feel too sympathetic, but he’s pretty sure that if he’d been caged in Hell as long as Lucifer, he wouldn’t give a flying fuck what Sam did with it either.

And Dean might be tired after the conference from playing nice with all the freaks who like to hang around Hell, and wrung out from recalling old war stories with Bobby and not stabbing Ruby all over again, and putting up with Sam’s big grabby hands towing him around from pillar to post, two days of the suit, but for the first time in years and years and years, things are looking like they might even turn out okay.

So yeah. One for the good guys.

*~*~*

The last thing on Dean’s list has gone unchecked, which is weird. Not that incest is ever normal, but rather it’s strange that Sam hasn’t forced the point. It’s not like Sam has been the king of subtle about what he wants from Dean but he hasn’t brought it up. It makes Dean shudder to think how long this has been going on, what it was that brought this out in Sam. Was it his transformation into the Boy King? Was it when Dean sold his soul and the demons taunted that Sam hadn’t been brought back right. Was it before that? Before Stanford? Dean doesn’t want to know that he did this to Sam, that he somehow managed to fuck his brother up that way, because he’s got front row seats to the things Sam wants to do to him and he really hopes that it’s not his fault.

Sam wakes up in the night - if he even sleeps at all - pressed against Dean’s back, hard against his ass, one hand dangerously low on Dean’s stomach. And Sam gets up, goes into the bathroom and comes back flaccid. The fact that Dean is grateful for that should be a big hint that he’s not sleeping much himself. It’s not like Sam to hold back, to not force a point. But he’s been mostly keeping his hands to himself, a little flirting, a little pushy, but not actually pushing, not saying anything, and not groping Dean while Dean pretends to be asleep.

Dean’s head is all full up with Sam’s dreams, twisted motel sheets and the hard surface of the library tables, the cold press of Sam’s throne, warm sunshine on them, and hellfire, and the bone bleach of the moon. Dean’s mouth is bruised from sucking Sam, from gags, from kissing, Sam’s half out of a suit, stripping off jeans and flannel, naked. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes Dean is willing in the dreams, sometimes shy, sometimes slutty and desperate, and sometimes he’s not willing at all so Sam just holds him down and takes, his big hands and broad shoulders, his powers, the whammy. The details aren’t important. Sam dreams about sweat and spit and fucking into Dean like he’s trying to break them both wide open, Dean under him, bent over tables and beds, sitting on his dick, hands on Sam’s chest as he rides him, twisted up on his side; Sam always leaves bruises and Dean always moans like he’s being paid for it, coming warm and wet for Sam whether he wants to or whether he doesn’t. Sam’s the one who’s dreaming, but he’s not the only one waking up hard.

He probably should have read the fine print on the whole binding their souls together thing a little more carefully. Or at all. Honestly, the dreams are so vivid that Dean’s been starting to wonder if it’s not more than just him getting a peek into Sam’s subconscious, if it’s not more like the two of them, off in Nod, and Dean’s letting it happen, letting Sam fuck him boneless and stupid. He’d be a little more aggravated at their combined subconscious about the distinct lack of topping he gets to do, except for the part where Sam’s a goddamn artist with his dick and, more importantly, the part where he doesn’t want anyone fucking anyone.

It’s kind of driving Dean crazy. He hasn’t been laid in what feels like years (it’s over a year and a half certainly) and he’s pretty sure if he spends any more time jerking off he’s going to go blind. Not that letting Sam fuck him up the ass is a great solution to his problem.

Dean really wishes there was someone he could talk to. “Hi, Bobby, so Sam really wants to fuck me, what do you think I should do about that?” Not so much. He doesn’t call Bobby and he doesn’t call Ellen either, even though she might be a little more receptive to what he had to say. Probably because she’d gone deaf during the war and wouldn’t be able to hear him, but whatever.

Chuck sort of kneecapped him, cornering him in one of the corridors that didn’t go anywhere. “I have to see it,” he said. “If you even think about making me talk about it, I’ll set Suriel on you.”

“Future sex or dream sex?” Dean asked.

“You’re just lucky one of you knows how to fuck,” Chuck said, grimacing and pulling a hotel sized bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket. Suriel plucked it out of his hand and drank it herself. “I thought I was going to fall asleep writing about you and Anna.” He was obviously in a shitty mood, he was saying that just to be mean, probably. So that was Chuck and the only thing Suriel would say was “Honey, if you don’t want him, send him my way,” which wasn’t all that helpful either.

Dean puzzles over how Chuck’s brain works, and exactly how freaked out he is that some random dude has been watching him screw girls up and down America, and then seeks out better advice.

He doesn’t get it.

“There’s got to be a nice way of saying, Sam, you’re hot and all, and I’m sure it would be awesome, but dude, you’re my brother and that’s just not something I’m into,” Dean said a few days after the Chuck incident. “You spend a lot of time with him; you’ve got to have some kind of suggestion.”

The sound of Lucifer’s laughter, awkwardly enough, made Dean kind of hard. “Oh,” the angel said, wiping away tears of mirth. “You are too perfect. You want our advice? Fuck his brains out, we think it would be good for him.”

“That’s not really what I was looking for,” Dean said, scrubbing a hand over his head.

Lucifer patted him on the shoulder. “No one is ever going to love you like Sam does,” it said. “Let’s be honest, Dean Winchester, you’re damaged in such very specific ways that you’re useless to anyone else but our prince. So why not let him have you?”

Dean didn’t say anything to that, because as protected as he was, he was pretty sure that telling Lucifer to fuck itself would be pushing a little too far. He figured it served him right, asking the Prince of Lies for advice, but still.

Asking Castiel wasn’t super-helpful either.

“I don’t get it,” Dean says to Castiel. “What’s up with everyone thinking I’m some kind of emotional cripple?”

Castiel’s gaze shifts to an extremely ugly wall sconce. “Your upbringing was difficult for you, I know,” he says. “Your father was very hard on your and his favoritism towards Sam was-”

“Oh Jesus,” Dean groans, “not you too.”

“Sam does love you,” Castiel says but Dean is already storming off.

He’s kind of got everything he wants, is the thing. Sam’s walled off Hell from humanity, they’re not taking in any new souls. And maybe Sam still looks like his hair is possessed, but he’s looked that way since puberty, so whatever. And it’s been good, this sharing their souls thing. They’ve been good. Dean’s not sure they’ve ever been this settled together. Dean loves his brother, he’s just not sure he loves Sam like that. Not while he’s awake enough to tell himself no, anyway. He writes himself another list and wonders if this is something that has transferred over from Sam.

1) Sam
2) Sam wants stuff
3) I maybe want that stuff too
4) sometimes.
5) Lucifer thinks it’s a good idea which means it’s probably a bad idea. (Lucifer did help save the world)
6) What happens when you’re dreaming stays in Vegas (chuck needs to dry out)
7) Man the fuck up

This list, he will be the first to admit, is kind of crappy.

Dean tosses it into one of the myriad of fireplaces around Oz and then goes for a drive.

*~*~*

Sam’s in the library when Dean goes looking for him. He’d disappeared down there two days ago muttering about getting souls out of Hell and improperly filed relief claims, whatever the fuck that means. He’s been keeping himself walled off from the bond between them, something Dean actually hasn’t figured out how to do yet, and while Dean is glad he doesn’t have to deal with second-hand boredom, it’s frustrating.

His boots clomp across the stone floor and Sam looks up, though since Dean can feel Sam through the bond, he’s pretty sure Sam knew he was there long before he even opened the door. Dean takes a quick survey of the huge tower of books next to his brother and the tired circles under Sam’s eyes and hops up onto the table, shoving dusty old tomes out of his way. He figures beer pong and Jessica are the only two reasons Sam didn’t drive himself nuts at Stanford.

This conversation is probably going to suck out loud. Dean’s ready for it, but he doesn’t have to like it. “Do me a favour and don’t freak out,” Dean says and Sam gets up, his chair scraping loudly on the flagstones. “More than you’re already doing. Jesus, does reading these things give you ADD or what? Calm down.” He coughs and looks away. Sam doesn’t sit back down. “Okay, so you’re an enormous girl and I don’t want you to be embarrassed, is all.”

Sam folds his arms across his chest, shirt pulling at the shoulders. Dean makes a mental note to talk to Ruby about that. He hasn’t been able to make Sam wear anything not douchey or ill-fitting since Sam was twelve and someone has to have a word with the prince of Hell and remind him that just because he’s the size of a goddamn mountain doesn’t mean he can’t find a t-shirt that actually freaking fits him. Since Dean still doesn’t much care for Ruby, he thinks giving her a thankless job sounds about right.

He’s thought of a few things he could say in this moment and right now none of them seem right. “Berith told me you don’t actually need to sleep as much as you do, so, well…whatever, and it’s none of my business…”

So maybe this wasn’t part of Dean’s plan when he signed up for the soul-bonding, and if he’s honest with himself, he’s not a hundred percent sure that this isn’t Sam pulling him down, instead of him pulling Sam up. But this is where they are, and Dean’s willing to put everything he’s got into making their soul, and Sam’s reign on earth, as good as it can be considering it’s fundamentally evil. Sam’s reign, not their soul.

Dean spares a moment to wonder if being evil is like insanity, if you think you’re evil you’re probably not, but if you are, you’ll think you’re totally fine. He has no idea where this puts him and Sam.

He’s fucking this little speech up so he decides to keep sticking his foot in his mouth and just get it over with. “You’ve been having these dreams.”

“You’ve seen them,” Sam says flatly. Not like he’s angry, more like he’s really trying not to make this more awkward than it already is because the silence is getting weird and Dean can’t think of anything he wants to say, so they’re just sort of staring at each other like morons.

“Fuck,” Sam says and sits back down in his chair.

Either Sam’s the best actor in the world, or he had actually resigned himself to the fact that a little dream action was all he was going to get from Dean. Considering what Berith said, that Sam needs to sleep maybe once a month, it seems pretty likely that he’s been betting on the latter. “You weren’t supposed to know,” Sam says, staring out the windows at Hell.

Dean sort of thought that Sam was working him over, trying to talk him into it without talking him into it. It’s actually nice to know that Sam’s not that much of a sneaky bitch. “I figured,” Dean lies. “So I’ve been thinking about that mountain, or molehill, or whatever it was…And maybe you were right. Maybe it’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Sam says. “I dragged you to Hell, I want to fuck you, and that’s not so bad?”

Okay, so maybe Dean isn’t doing this right. If you put it like that it sounds kind of like he’s humouring Sam. Incest is something you probably need more than a lukewarm reception for. Dean slides off the table so he’s standing between Sam’s knees. The chair is pretty high, but Sam’s now eyelevel with Dean’s crotch so he gets up on the chair too, knees either side of Sam’s hips. So now he’s sitting on Sam’s lap, but at least it’s not totally weird.

“What?” Sam says and Dean is really sick of all the talking. He’s fucking this up and why did Sam have to pick this to get all obtuse about? Dean kisses his brother and wonders if Sam’s sudden reluctance to just take what he wants is something he got from Dean’s side of their soul, or if he’s worn himself out in the dreams.

But Sam gets with this new program pretty fast, pulling Dean in closer, so Dean’s knees bang against the back of the chair and then getting Dean’s face in his hands, angling his head exactly how he wants it. Because Dean’s brother is grabby and bossy and that’s kind of okay right now because holy shit he’s just as good at kissing in real life as he is in their dreams, wet and nasty, sucking on Dean’s tongue so all Dean can think about is what that might feel like if it was his dick.

He pushes Sam back and Sam grabs onto his thighs like he’s planning on keeping Dean exactly where he is no matter what. “It’s still incest,” Sam says. “And you don’t want this.” His grip on Dean is telling a different story about how this is going to go, but Dean pries one of them off and puts it against his chest.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he says. “Quit being a bitch and see for yourself.”

He can feel it when Sam stops walling himself off and there’s a lot of really fucked up stuff going on with Sam. He’s seen the darker dreams and is intimately familiar with Sam’s jealous, possessive side, and the “no doesn’t always mean no” dreams. But Dean’s saying yes and he’s practically humming with their connection, hard and still a little bit weirded out, but mostly just ready to finally let them be everything for each other.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Dean asks and Sam gets his hands under Dean’s thighs, lifts, stands, and shoves Dean back onto the table, books spilling off onto the ground.

Dean tugging at Sam’s shirt until Sam stops chewing on his neck long enough to help him out and pull it off. Dean tips his head back so Sam will stop pulling his hair and runs a hand over the scarring on Sam’s chest and arm.

“Does it hurt?” he asks and Sam shakes his head, popping the buttons on Dean’s jeans and yanking them down, along with his boxers.

“Not a lot of feeling there,” Sam says, pressing Dean’s hips down so he can be a total tease and lick and suck at his thighs and hips, totally ignoring Dean’s dick. Dean pulls his own shirt off, head thumping back against the stone table when Sam starts marking up his inner thighs, and his messy hair is brushing over Dean’s balls and dick.

Dean grabs a handful of Sam’s hair and hauls him up so Sam is pressed against him, grinding their hips together. Sam’s still in his jeans and Dean shudders as the denim drags hard over his cock and Sam takes that opportunity to bite one of his nipples. “Jesus, Sam,” he says, groaning, and Sam sucks on his bottom lip until Dean’s mouth feels swollen.

“Tell me you’ve got something,” Sam says and he’s lucky Dean’s just that freaking awesome.

“Jeans,” Dean says. “Back pocket.”

It’s kind of an effort for Dean to get out of Hell without help and he’d been reluctant to ask any of the fallen angels if they could maybe get him some lube, so all they’ve got is a single-serving, emergency sachet Dean found at the bottom of his duffle. If it was a condom he’s pretty sure it would be expired. He’s also pretty sure it’s not going to be enough, but he’s naked on a library table in Hell about to let his little brother fuck him up the ass. Either they do this now, or Dean’s going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

Sam leans over and kisses him again and Dean hooks one leg up over Sam’s waist to make things a little easier. So Sam takes total advantage and pushes two fingers up into Dean, popping open his own fly with one hand so his dick is dragging wetly over the skin of Dean’s thigh.

“Holy shit,” Dean says, arching up, half trying to get away from it because that hurts like a son of a bitch and half trying to get away because Sam managed to jam both those fingers right up against his prostate and Dean’s never going to hear the end of it if he comes now. Sam’s got this possessive, dominating thing going on, apparently Dean’s kind of into that. Who knew, right?

“This okay?” Sam asks, a little late, since he’s pretty much fucking Dean with his fingers, opening him up.

Dean hitches his leg up a little higher on Sam’s sweaty back and nods. His thighs are shaking, and he can’t get enough air. Sam hooks his arm under Dean’s thigh to hold him open and pushes in another finger. He gets his other hand around Dean’s throat, not tight, just holding. “I never thought you’d be like this in real life,” Sam says. “Thought there was no way you’d let me do this. Let me fuck you like this, open up for me like you’re fucking made for it. Let me fuck you up like this.” Dean digs his bitten-down nails in where the scar tissue ends on Sam’s shoulder and Sam gives a full-body twitch.

“Quit trash-talking and do it already,” Dean says. Sam pulls his fingers out and smears what little is left of the lube on himself before he does what Dean said. Dean jerks and shudders, heel banging against Sam’s back. “Oh my god,” Dean says as Sam pushes into him, not giving him time to fucking breathe, until he can feel the open fly of Sam’s jeans against his ass and Sam’s panting against his throat, hot and damp.

It’s too much and Dean squirms, trying to figure out if he likes it or not, because he doesn’t remember this from the dreams, it was easier there, but Sam takes that as an invitation and starts thrusting like he’s trying to pop Dean’s hip out of joint.

One thing was true about their nocturnal shenanigans and that’s that Sam is good at this. Really, freaking awesome in fact and Dean’s suddenly on board with this like he wasn’t totally sure he was going to be. He likes sex plenty, more than plenty, and so maybe he usually kind of gets a kick out of aggressive girls. Sam’s aggressive, that’s for sure.

Sam rakes his teeth over Dean’s shoulder and his fingernails over one of Dean’s nipples, and Dean feels cracked open and crazy, clutching at Sam’s hair and back. “Sammy,” he says, voice wrecked, and then can’t say anything else because Sam is tongue-fucking his mouth like he intends to get inside Dean any way he can. There’s nothing for Dean to brace himself on so his back is scraping against the stone because Sam’s balancing with one hand next to Dean’s stomach and the other is holding Dean’s face, thumb tucked under his bottom lip.

And then he stops.

“Fuck,” Dean says, hips jerking uselessly against Sam’s weight. Sam’s about as deep in him as he’s going to get and Dean’s not going anywhere. “Sam,” he says, and it might sound a little bit like begging, but if he’s not mistaken, that’s not going to be a problem for Sam. “C’mon, shit, I’m so close.” And he is, even though Sam’s not even come close to touching his dick. “What the fuck are you stopping for?”

Sam’s eyes are wide and he pets weirdly at Dean’s hair and chest. “Just need a minute,” Sam says.

Dean groans and thumps his head against the table. “Sammy,” he says and Sam pushes that little bit deeper into him.

“I’m inside you,” Sam says.

“Oh my god are you kidding me?” Dean mutters. “You’re a freaking girl genius. We finishing this or did you want me to paint your nails for you?”

Sam grabs his hair again, jerking Dean’s head so Dean has to look at him. “I love you so fucking much,” Sam says, voice a growl. It’s a big gay declaration, and a promise, and a threat all in one.

Dean opens his mouth to call Sam a girl again and makes a punched moan instead when Sam starts fucking him, without any more preamble. He finally gets one of those big hands around Dean’s cock and starts jerking him off and Dean can’t find anything more to say other than Sam’s name, gasped out every time Sam pushes into him and he comes, panting against Sam’s shoulder. Sam grips his hips, hard enough to add to the bruises already there and shoves into him, pulling him down the table onto his dick, and comes.

Dean lies there, catching his breath, feeling Sam’s come leak out of him, his brother’s dick softening in his ass. Sam’s heavy on top of him, pretty much out for the count. Dean rubs a hand over Sam’s hair and decides he’s a genius himself for doing this.

Sam grunts and pushes himself up slightly, carefully pulling out before flopping back onto the table next to Dean. They probably look like idiots; Sam’s still in his jeans and Dean’s still got one of his shoes on, which he toes off.

“Was it good for you, baby?” Dean asks, only half serious.

Sam gives him the most half-assed middle finger Dean’s ever seen, eyes shut. “Fuck you,” he says. “Again.” He pushes a few more books away from himself to make room for himself and they join the others on the floor.

Dean rolls over so he’s got his head on Sam’s shoulder, figuring he just took it up the ass, so a little...not cuddling…this is nothing.

“Are we good?” Dean asks, because he was half serious before.

Sam’s fingers, and that better not be the hand all covered in lube, the dickhead, card through Dean’s hair. “Yeah,” he says and then, after a long, contented pause, “I know you’re still waiting on the whole demon army thing and I know it’s been bugging you that I haven’t disbanded them.”

“Now?” Dean asks, screwing his eyes shut because he really, really doesn’t want to talk politics.

“Cas told me about the whole Michael’s vessel thing you weren’t telling me.” Sam only sounds mildly accusing. “I just…The gates of heaven are still shut to new souls, so with Hell closed there’s one bigass purgatory going on.”

Dean opens his eyes again with a sigh. “What’s your totally non-post-coital point?”

“I kind of thought that now we’re, you know, working together, we could come up with some sort of diplomatic thing and convince them to reopen.”

“You want to go kick their asses?” Dean says.

Sam shrugs awkwardly under him. “Saving people, hunting things,” he says. “Whatever.”

Dean puts his hand on Sam’s chest, and he can feel Sam’s heart beating there and the content thrum of their bond. “You’re one of those assholes who wants to jump up and save the world after sex, aren’t you?”

He can practically hear Sam’s smirk. “I’ve got a quick recovery time,” Sam says. “Or I could fuck you again…”

Dean pinches Sam. “Oh fine,” he says. “Let’s go save the world again.”

End.