Work Text:
“You think Mom would have wanted this for us?”
As he says the words, Sam wonders how many times Dean had the same thought. He wonders if Dean ever questioned why it felt so good to have his younger brother pressed against him under sweaty motel sheets. If Dean deconstructs every stolen, secret moment of their youth the way Sam has. If he ponders how or why that clumsy, desperate passion gave way to more, so much more. He wonders if Dean felt the same nauseous shame, the same deep sadness that Sam had wrapped around himself like a protective cocoon ever since he left for Stanford.
“So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?”
Sam over-analyzed his relationship with Dean for years. He knew all the facts. Their emotional growth took place in isolation. While they were kept safe by a loving father who did the best he could, they starved for the tender touch of the mother who was ripped away from them too soon. John was too driven by revenge and fear to give his sons the gentle affection they needed and so naturally, they sought solace in each other. Teenage hormones and too many life-or-death close calls shaped them into wanton, reckless, boys who took pleasure where they could find it. In one another. Sam and Dean transcended brothers and friends, becoming lovers before Sam was done with puberty. Sadly, understanding the pathology didn’t make Sam’s feelings for his brother any clearer or the soul-deep desire he felt for Dean ache any less.
“No. Not normal. Safe.”
Sam left because he was being smothered. His identity was constantly folded up, packed away, shoved into some hidden corner of his body. His soul had become a hardened little lump of coal clanking around in his big, useless shell. The life was being sucked out of him every cramped minute he spent in the backseat of Impala or shabby motel room, consumed with lying and hiding. They had to stay safe, had to keep moving, had to keep secrets, so many secrets. Sam couldn’t be honest with teachers, classmates, or friends. He never formed real relationships, was too plagued with worry and the bitter taste of lie after lie. He feared Dad would find out he had aspirations outside of hunting or that he and Dean had long since become more than brothers. Sam began to resent Dean too, even question what had grown between them. A bond forged in secret, in the dark. Doubt and guilt became constant companions and helped Sam build all those walls.
“And that's why you ran away.”
It feels like a lifetime ago but Sam’s body knows better. It hasn’t forgotten. The adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he pounces on the shadowy intruder in his living room brings back his years of training in an instant. He feels strong, quick, and capable. He’s proud in that moment, feeling like a capable protector. Pride dissolved to shock and his skin flushes with arousal upon realizing it’s his brother pressing him to the floor. Dean’s husky, dirty-velvet voice sends a tremor down his spine, making his body arch involuntarily under his touch. Sam wants to believe he has moved on but his body betrays him. Now his heart betrays him too. Even as he tries so hard to resist the pull of his beautiful, charismatic brother, that familiar ache in his chest grows. His carefully constructed barriers began to fall away, layer by crumbling layer.
“I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.”
Dean never understood Sam’s reasons for leaving, wouldn’t outwardly accept that it runs deeper than simply trying to escape the life thrust upon him by fate. They haven’t seen one another in almost two years but Sam is just as good at reading the emotions on Dean’s face as he ever was. He can see the pain flicker in Dean’s eyes as Sam blames it all on Dad, yet again. Dean never believed that he wasn’t the real reason Sam left. The truth was Sam couldn’t look him in the eye and tell him that their relationship wasn’t at least part of what made him go. Back then all Sam wanted was a fresh start, a second chance. Something pure and honest and good that didn’t fill him with that sticky, dark, longing he always felt for Dean. Sam’s heart was spilling over with thorny, choking vines that had grown without the benefit of light. He wanted a chance to love freely, in the sunshine, cultivate something simple and beautiful – like what he had now with Jess.
“Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it.”
What Dean was asking wasn’t about Dad, not really, not for either of them. The deep pools of Dean’s eyes swim with loneliness and hurt. Hurt Sam had put there. The guilt stings as Sam tries to avoid those jade green orbs. He fails and they pull him in, make his heart vines cinch tight, their thorns digging deep. Sam’s suffering forces him to retaliate. He makes Dean beg. He craves the sting of pleasure-pain he gets from feeling needed by his brother. He longs for that wobbly, nauseous tickle in his stomach he gets looking at his brother’s gorgeous face as it twists up in desperation. Feeling needed, wanted, and necessary was salve to Sam’s reopened wounds. Dean didn’t disappoint.
“I can't do this alone.”
"Yes you can.”
“Yeah, well, I don't want to.”
Sam still feels in control when he goes back inside to explain things to Jess. He gave Dean what he wanted but knew he’d come back to her soon. He could envision his future-self curled around her warm, powder-scented softness in the bed they shared, his interview aced, and their life together back on track. This little detour wouldn’t hurt anyone. Sam doesn’t let Jess kiss him on the lips when they say goodbye. He doesn’t want to taste the lingering slick of her cherry chap stick on his mouth as he drives away with his brother. He doesn’t want to think about how her lips are soft and plush like the only ones he’d ever kissed before. Perfect and full, just like Dean’s.
~~~
Sam hates himself for enjoying it. He prickles and complains about everything but inside he’s more at peace then he has been in a long time. The smell of the inside of the Impala and the tinny sound of Sabbath blaring out of the speakers held the same bittersweet nostalgia for Sam that other kids his age experienced going home for the summer to eat their parent’s food and let Mom do their laundry. Something inside Sam awakened as they took off down the highway. It felt good working the case, trying to solve this puzzle with Dean next to him – his partner and ally. Someone who really knew him in the only place he didn’t have to hide. The thrill and exhilaration was almost strong enough for Sam to ignore the pull of Dean’s warm skin, its smell, its taste. Almost.
When the trail goes cold, Sam’s frustration flares. In his anger he clings to the only thing he’s got, the promise he made to himself and Jess to go back to Stanford. This hunt was a nice distraction, maybe it was what Sam needed to finally believe he’d made the right choice. God knows Dean didn’t need Sam to find their father. He reminds Dean that he’s due back in Palo Alto by Monday. Now it’s Dean’s turn to retaliate.
“You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?”
Dean’s words bite back hard, slicing through the moth-eaten gauze of Sam’s façade. Dean was done pretending too, diving headlong into the cloudy mess of emotions, stoking the spark of frustrated desire that had been cracking between them since: “Woah. Easy, Tiger”
“Maybe. Why not?”
Sam spits as he balls his hands into fists, fingernails cutting into his palms. He channels the emotion swelling within him into anger instead of passion and need. He struggles to fortify his broken down wall of good intentions and repressed desire even as the heat of Dean’s gaze makes his confidence falter.
"Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?”
Does Jess know that he still wakes up sometimes with the ghost of Dean’s smell in his nostrils or the sharp taste of Dean’s come a memory lingering at the back of his throat? Does Jess know how Sam begged Dean to push inside him when he was too young to understand the consequences but old enough to know he wasn’t supposed to want it in the first place? Does she know the real reason he won’t let her touch his nipples when they fuck is because of that one summer Dean figured out he could make Sam come just by sucking them slow and sweet until his toes curled and he was practically speaking in tongues?
“No, and she's not ever going to know.”
Sam grinds his jaw, tries desperately to steel his resolve.
“Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy, but sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.”
Who Sam really was, who they really were was a fucking abomination as far as most people were concerned. Sam didn’t know if he could ever feel arousal or attraction toward anyone without being haunted by his undying need to taste, touch, and give every inch of himself to his brother. He didn’t know if he wanted to. When Dean shoves him against the bridge in anger it makes Sam harden in his jeans. The rumble of the Impala distracts Dean before he notices.
~~~
“You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been!”
Sam’s desperate words to Constance as she pinned him rattle around in his skull as he lets Dean pull up his shirt and inspect the wounds on his chest.
“You will be…”
“I can’t do this here, Sam. There’s not enough light. Besides, this house is giving me the creeps. Let’s find a place with an hourly rate so we can get you patched up.” Dean’s face is painted with concern. Sam protests at first, he always does. Being injured makes him feel ten years old again, vulnerable and burdensome, especially when Dean pulls out the first aid kit and turns into a mother hen. Sam’s chest is sore and tight and breathing is a little difficult so he lets Dean do this, hoping it will make them both feel better. He knows they have to point the car back toward Stanford soon if he actually plans to make his interview but he stays silent.
Dean digs the coffee can with their emergency stash of twenties out of the trunk and pays for a few hours at a motel so crappy even the Lot Lizards at the adjacent truck stop avoid it. Sam’s eyes trace the water and mold stains fanning out across the ceiling as he lets Dean help him peel off his layers, ditching his hole-filled purple t-shirt, hoodie, and jacket on the floor next to Dean’s duffle bag.
There’s only one bed in the dilapidated room but it doesn’t matter, they’re not sleeping here. The plan is to stop for a few hours to soothe wounds, shower, and maybe grab some food at the diner next door. They’ve done it a hundred times before with Dad, but this time Sam feels the quiet between him and Dean pulsing with unspoken desire. He hisses when Dean presses gently around the red, finger-shaped welts that throb hot and red across the flat plane of his sternum.
“Sorry, Sammy. Just tryin’ to see how bad it is. Shit, that fucking bitch.” Dean grits his teeth as he spit out the words, possessive and angry, eyes squinting as he pushes into Sam’s flesh again with firm, even pressure, checking for deeper damage.
Sam sucks in another breath as a silvery flash of pain racks his body. His hands fly up to Dean’s shoulders, gripping them for balance, comfort, something to squeeze as he clenches his jaw and breathes deep through the sting. He closes his eyes and tips his head down, forehead bumping against Dean’s and resting there gently. They stay like that, with Sam perched on the toilet seat and Dean on his knees in front of him, just inhaling one another’s air.
“I think you’re just bruised.” Dean says quietly, almost reverently, as his hands, heavy and warm skitter up over Sam’s collarbones, splaying out over the dip between his shoulder and neck. “I’m gonna go get some ice, okay?” Dean’s breath is moist against Sam’s lips as he tilts his head up, just the faintest hint of a tremble in his whisper. Sam moves his hand off Dean’s right shoulder and rests heavy with intent over Dean’s.
Sam‘s eyelashes flutter open and his tongue slips over his bottom lip before their mouths melt together, finally. The kiss is soft and tender like Dean’s healing hands, all molten warmth and sour spit. To Sam it tastes like comfort, soft memories of learning how to find pleasure by giving pleasure, like finding a home within a person instead of a place.
Dean pulls back first, still worried over Sam’s injuries. “Are you sure…? Sam, I –”
Sam chases Dean’s mouth, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck. He pulls their bodies close as his tongue seeks a deeper, harder kiss. He’s sure. The surge of love and desire within him erases the dark, moody thoughts that have plagued him for days, evaporating the guilt and self-doubt and replacing it with an almost jarring sense of completeness. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, Sam being here in this nowhere motel room in his brother’s arms, swelling hot and hard against the firm plane of Dean’s torso, back where he belongs.
Dean gets the message, pushing Sam’s thighs further apart to press himself between them. They slot together like puzzle pieces, evaporating the distance and time between them. His hands drag hungrily across Sam’s body as they kiss sloppy and wet like teenagers. His fingertips find their way to Sam’s belt buckle. There’s a muffled metallic sound as he opens Sam’s fly, hands seeking hot, tender skin.
“Bed, Dean. Please.” Sam says, hushed and low.
Dean nods silently and pulls them out of the bathroom and onto the squeaky queen-sized mattress in what feels like one seamless, liquid motion. Sam rests back on his elbows watching Dean from under his tousled bangs with hungry intent. Dean sheds his layers with military efficiency, unable to keep his eyes off of Sam. The only light in the room is what filters in from the parking lot through the nicotine stained curtains and the bathroom door hastily left ajar but Sam can still see flashes of brilliant green mapping out Sam’s pleasure points, developing a strategy.
Their hands meet on the waistband of Sam’s jeans, teaming up to push and pull them down his thighs to be discarded in a pool on the floor. Dean climbs up over Sam’s body. Its size and heat and smell wash calm comfort over Sam, eclipsing the shitty motel room, creating a space where only the two of them exist.
“Jesus Christ, I missed you so fuckin’ bad.” Dean’s voice is almost a growl as he buries his face into the side of Sam’s neck, licking a slow, wide stripe up his jugular before sucking and nipping on his earlobe. Sam’s legs fold around Dean’s waist and his hand finds the back of his neck. He digs his fingernails in, raking through the close-cropped hair at his nape. Sam’s back arches, presenting his neck for more attention from Dean’s hot, wet mouth. Dean’s body surges up and he thumbs over the inside of Sam’s thigh and he feels the press of Dean’s erection against his taint.
“You sure you want this?”
“Yeah, Dean. Yeah, I fuckin’ want this.” Sam brings his free hand to his lips, sucking his fingers into his mouth, loudly slicking them with spit. “Gotta let me get ready for you.” He huffs, pulling his hand away and pushing Dean back, opening his legs even further. Dean backs up, holding Sam’s thighs apart. He sits back on his haunches to watch Sam drag his spit-slick fingers over his hole. He wets the puckered skin as best he could before returning his fingers to his mouth for more saliva. Dean watches Sam’s opening quiver, licking his lips hungrily. Sam transfers spit a few times, slipping the tips of two fingers inside, before Dean loses it, pushing Sam’s legs back even further. He slides back and lies on his stomach before sealing his burning hot, velvet mouth over Sam’s entrance.
“Fuck yessss…” Sam groans as his brother’s talented mouth works him open. He pulls his fingers away to make way for Dean’s tongue. It probes inside him, retreats to flick around his rim, and then dives back inside twice as deep. Sam bucks against his mouth shamelessly, moaning and gasping wordless praise as he writhes under Dean’s attention. Dean’s thumb tucks under Sam’s balls, tugging them up to give him better access. His large, calloused hand curls around the base of Sam’s shaft. Sam knows he’ll lose it with only a few quick tugs so he keeps his hands to himself, white-knuckled fists tangling in the cheap comforter.
Dean pulls his mouth away, breathing hot and damp over Sam’s open, pink hole. “She do that for you, Sammy? Or you been savin’ this all for me, huh?” He dove in again, tongue first, fucking Sam open with his sopping wet mouth.
“Just for you, Dean. Always. Only you…” Sam gasps, breathless.
“That’s what I wanted to hear, baby. My fuckin’ hole. Gonna fuck you now, okay?” Dean was on his knees again, thumb tracing Sam’s rim and dipping inside, tugging it open. He didn’t wait for Sam’s answer. “Get your fingers in there, Sammy. ‘S been a while. Don’t wanna hurt you.”
Dean got up off the bed. Sam heard the zip of his duffle bag as he sucked on his fingers again. He slid two inside, all the way to the knuckle, enjoying that familiar burn. It had been so long. He watches Dean retrieve the lube and slick his erection liberally. He doesn’t bother adding a third digit. Sam wants it to sting, wants Dean’s thick cock to split him open, make damn sure he’d feel it in the morning.
He pulls his fingers out as Dean gets back on the bed, crawling up between his knees. Sam grips the base of his cock tightly, wanting to last as long as he could once Dean was finally inside him. Dean’s hands fell soft on his knees, caressing Sam’s thighs.
“We can stop if… Sam, are you sure…? I mean, what about –” Dean’s tone is soft, almost vulnerable.
Sam’s choked out sob cuts Dean off before he can complete the thought. “Dean, don’t – just…. Just fuck me. Please…!” Sam claws at Dean’s thigh and hip, tugging him closer, urging him inside. The feeling of Dean’s fat, slick cockhead pushing into Sam’s body made the messy, achy thoughts that played at the edge his consciousness evaporate. Dean slid home, too fast and too deep, making Sam yelp and cling to him the same way he had when Dean pressed at his wounds earlier.
Dean stills himself in Sam, arms wrapped around his shoulders, letting him work through the pain. Sam inhales deeply, willing his body to relax in the cardboard quiet of the shabby hotel room. Dean nuzzles against Sam’s cheek, kissing softly at the corners of his mouth and along his jaw line until Sam’s muscles loosen up and he begins to kiss Dean back. Communication passes between them unspoken in those kisses. All the things they could never manage to say in the light or with words. I want you. I need you. I love you. Despite everything else, this is right, this is good, and no one else can tell us otherwise.
They move as one, knowing where to touch, how hard to press, all the right angles. It’s the language of their hearts figuring out how to beat as one again. The sound of their blood pumping in unison becomes their rhythm and obliterates all the other static that had been filling Sam’s heart and mind for so long. He begs for it, pleads with Dean to fuck the come out of him. He begs for his forgiveness.
“Come for me, Sammy. Wanna feel you come on my cock.” Dean whispers against Sam’s swollen pink mouth as he thrusts up directly into Sam’s prostate. “Gonna fill you up so good, babe. So deep. Fuck, ‘m so close. You ready?”
Sam wraps his legs tight around Dean’s waist, body arching instinctively into the punishing thrusts. He feels Dean’s hips start to stutter as his prick drags through Sam’s too-tight passage at just the right angle to make him see stars. Sam’s body already feels loose and fucked out even as the muscles in his groin begin to clench up tightly around Dean’s throbbing cock. The pressure suddenly goes critical and Sam’s load erupts out of his dick. He’s coming completely untouched, shooting spurt after spurt up the center of his stomach, all the way up to his chest. It splatters hot and messy against the still-red welts on his sternum.
Dean floods his insides almost simultaneously, his thrusts turn burning hot and sloppy, but his cock stays huge and hard. Sam’s vaguely aware he’s crying out Dean’s name, screaming to God and heaven, as Dean fucks him right through both their orgasms.
Sam’s so blissed out that he doesn’t remember much for a few moments after he comes. He’s like a giant, raw nerve, taking in nothing but sensation. He’s vaguely aware of Dean’s soft lips against his temple and the firm heat of his body still curled around Sam’s as shockwaves of pleasure ripple through him. He’s aching in all the best ways when Dean finally pulls out as gently as he can. Dean kisses down his chest as he retreats, lips and tongue sliding through the cooling spurts of come decorating Sam’s torso. Sam groans, raking his hand over his face and back down through the remnants of the mess on his stomach as his hole tries to flutter closed. It’s throbbing and sore, feeling raw and so empty.
Sam’s skin pebbles with goosebumps as the room’s ancient A/C kicks on and starts spewing frigid, stale-smelling air into the tiny room. Sam turns on his side, curling in on himself, trying to capture their smell, the fragrance of Dean’s sweat and his own come, inhaling every bit before it’s erased by the funk of their surroundings. Dean returns with a wet washcloth and offers it to Sam.
“I’m gonna take a shower, if that’s okay.” Sam says, pushing the cloth away. He’ surprised at how hoarse his voice is. He gets up, finding his knees wobbly, and cringes at the mess dribbling down the back of his thighs. Sam focuses on that sensation, making a conscious effort to keep his mind free of anything besides the moment he’s currently experiencing. He’s not ready to be back in reality again, can’t be sure what he’ll do or say.
Dean nods. “It’s all yours.” He says as his hand brushes lightly over Sam’s arm. He crosses the room and starts picking their clothes up off the floor as Sam goes into the bathroom.
~~~
“You will be…”
The rumble of the Impala as it tears down the highway snaps Sam out of his sleep deprived haze. Dad’s journal sits heavy in his lap and his hands tense for a moment around the map and flashlight he’s holding. They haven’t spoken about what happened at the motel. They just pulled on their clothes, gathered their things, and got back in the car without pretense or excuses.
Sam flicks on the flashlight and studies the map even though his eyes hurt and he’s aching everywhere. Not all of the pain is physical. “Okay, here's where Dad went. It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado.”
Sam feels the familiar cocoon of self loathing creeping up around his shoulders, making him hunker down in the seat and fold up inside himself again. He pulls it in around himself happily, letting the familiar vestment sooth his nauseous guilt. The interview is in less than ten hours. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t push him much when he brings it up. They are already heading in the right direction. Sam closes his eyes and breathes deep. He tells himself this is the last lung full of this air he’ll ever take. Tomorrow he’ll wake up next to his girl, bright eyed and ready for his new life to begin. Maybe that’s what this was, Sam saying good-bye.
“You know, we made a hell of a team back there.”
“Yeah.”