Chapter Text
Stick to the plan, Dean thought bitterly as his shotgun kicked back in his hands, firing at the ghost in front of him. It screamed—or, she screamed—and disappeared in a wisp of smoke. He immediately took off running down the hallway she’d been guarding, shouting Sam’s name at the top of his lungs. Yeah, Sammy, don’t worry, he continued, kicking down doors along the hallway to try to find the source of Sam’s shouting. I’ll stick to the plan, right after I make sure you’re not dying.
“Dean!” Sam shouted, and Dean shifted slightly, aiming his kick for the door to his right rather than his left. It caved, and Dean burst through, alert eyes scanning for anything that looked remotely Sam-shaped.
The ghost (one of them, Dean had managed to count three so far) had Sam against the wall and judging by the way Sam was grasping his own throat, the ghost was choking off his oxygen supply. He aimed the shotgun and fired, once, scattering the ghost with an angry and protective roar. Sam dropped to the ground with a shuddering gasp and a loud crash, knees buckling beneath him.
“Easy, easy,” Dean said, catching Sam and supporting him. Sam’s fingers dug into the flesh of his back, even through his jacket, and Dean felt his lungs expand as much as they possibly could, his palm pressed against the middle of Sam’s back. “I’ve got you, Sammy, I’ve got you, just breathe.” Dean soothed, and he watched and felt as Sam’s tension eased, albeit only slightly.
One of the ghosts made itself known by screaming and hurling furniture at the brothers, which Dean easily avoided by using his upper-body strength to swing Sam out of the way. Sam ended up stumbling away from Dean and bumping into the opposite wall, but he was out of the way, and that was what mattered. Dean fired, once, twice, because a second ghost showed up, and when he had a second, he turned to look back at Sam.
“Son of a—” he snarled, pushing off the ground, using every bit of friction he had to propel himself forward, between Sam and the third ghost. Sam’s eyes widened as he realised what Dean was trying to do, and his lips parted to shout his protests, but it was too late. Dean’s hands slammed into the wall behind Sam, on either side of his head, and their chests rammed together, nearly knocking the air out of the both of them.
“Sa—aammy—” Dean choked, fingernails digging into the decaying wood of the wall, his fingertips popping through the first layer of decaying wood from the sheer strength of his grip. His eyes were locked on his baby brother’s, and though he could see them widening, see the fear filling them up and making his pupils and irises somehow smaller and brighter, all he could think about was the sensation of being stabbed. He had known it was coming, but it didn’t help. It never did.
There was the sound of a shotgun going off, and Dean let out a small puff of air as he slumped forward, face pressed into the crook of Sam’s neck. His ears were ringing deafeningly loud, and the pain was like fire, spreading through his veins—but he could hear Sam’s heartbeat. He could feel it too, the pulse point on his throat was jumping against Dean’s cheek, and it was better than any pain medication that he could have asked for.
I don’t tell you enough, he thought, breathing Sam’s scent in for the moments he assumed could be his last. He smelled like gunpowder and shampoo and Sam, and Dean wondered if it was such a bad way to die. I don’t tell you enough, but I love you, Sammy. More than anything.
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam growled, his arms wrapping around Dean and pulling him up, back onto his feet. Dean opened his mouth to tell Sam that he should shut up, but the inhale that speaking required was filled with a pain that was intense enough to make stars flash behind his eyes, and his words twisted into something incoherent and wounded.
His arm was pulled around Sam’s neck, and every single muscle in his body screamed in protest at being moved like this, but Dean grit his teeth and tried to be less like dead weight. Sam led him out of the room, one arm around Dean’s waist, keeping him steady, the other holding the shotgun, aiming it in front of them. Dean wanted to tell him to hold it with both hands, because holding it like that and firing would end up with his wrist being sprained, but his tongue was thick and heavy, and he hurt.
Somehow, they made it out of the abandoned house without running into any of the ghosts. Dean looked over at Sam, because no matter how bad it got, he could always make himself focus on the details of Sam’s face, and his heart jumped a little more noticeably. Sam looked about ready to slaughter anything that got in his way, and Dean wondered if the ghosts had seen the expression and decided yeah, okay, we’re good, because even Dean would be wary of getting on Sam’s bad side with him like this.
It was also super hot, but he was only thinking that because he was dizzy with blood loss and probably dying to an extent. He would be shoving that thought down into the tiny little box where he put all thoughts like that, because it was wrong and sick, and they made Dean hate himself even more.
That was his baby brother he was lusting after. If John could see him now—what would he think when he’d told Dean to protect Sam, and then discovered that Dean was someone that Sam needed protecting from?
Probably put a bullet between my eyes, he thought, and then giggled as Sam lowered him into the passenger seat. Something brushed the wound, however, and the giggle turned into a whimper of pain, his teeth grinding together.
“I’m not putting a bullet between your eyes, and neither is anyone else.” Sam hissed, slamming the passenger door with way more force than necessary and jogging around the front of the car. Dean wanted to yell at Sam for treating Baby so badly, but then he felt a wave of dizziness that just about took his consciousness. Little black dots danced around in front of his eyes and he swallowed, hard, gripping Baby’s front seat hard enough for his fingers to tear the leather. Nope, he thought. Not happening. I am staying awake, thank you very much.
“Good,” Sammy breathed, pulling the keys out of Dean’s front pocket and cramming them into the ignition. Dean became mildly aware that whatever he thought he was thinking, he was saying, and decided to try and monitor that a little better before he said something incriminating, like, oh hey, I want to jump your bones, Sam. Of course, I’m aware we brothers. Doesn’t that turn me off? Surprisingly, no.
“Stop talking, Dean,” Sam suddenly said, voice tight, and the horror that washed over Dean was worse than the pain by about a landslide. He closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth, and, absently, hoped that the stab wound killed him before he realised he really didn’t want to die. Even if Sam knew, now, and left him in the dust, like he should, Dean needed to stick around to make sure Sam didn’t end up dead, or worse.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean said, surprising both the brothers, until Dean slumped over and his hands, that had been pressing over his wound, went limp.
~
Everything was groggy and fuzzy, and Dean winced as he tried to open his eyes and found that they were very heavy. He tried to flex his fingers and felt something pinching his middle finger on his left hand, and then his eyes opened.
Hospital. Of course. Sam wouldn’t take any chances, despite the fact that hospitals needed information they couldn’t give. Granted, were the situations reversed, Dean would have thought extremely hard about whether or not skipping a hospital trip would be worth it. He guessed that Sam had done the same, and suddenly wanted to know exactly what that son of a bitch ghost had done to him.
Except when he tried to sit up, his stomach blossomed with pain, and there was a weight on his right side, keeping him pinned. He groaned, gritting his teeth and letting himself settle back into the pillows. He glanced at the weight, and it took a few pregnant seconds to realize that it was Sam, curled up beside him, head on Dean’s shoulder, arm sprawled carefully over his chest, palm resting just over Dean’s heart.
It was like a warning alarm was going off inside his head—warning, intimacy, warning, intimacy—but he shut that down pretty quick because it was Sam, and Sam was the only person Dean had ever wanted to be intimate and vulnerable with.
That only set off another alarm in Dean’s head that was screaming that it was Sam, and they were in a very public place and they were brothers—but he shut that one down too, because he was tired and Sam was warm and, honestly, fuck it. He was home. His scent was home. Everything about Sammy was home, and it wasn’t just because he’d owned Dean since the day he was born—it was the fact that he was the one constant in Dean’s life. Even if Dean tried, he doubted he could get rid of Sam for good.
Which was nice. Because Dean figured that he might go insane if he didn’t have Sam.
He sighed, breath fanning over the top of Sam’s head, and carefully curled his right arm a little better around Sam’s broad shoulders. His cheek was rather comfortable pressed against the crown of Sam’s
head, so he let himself lay there, slipping back off into one of the better sleeps of his life.
~
“Dean,” Sam murmured, touching Dean’s cheek. Dean groaned, clinging to the blissful warmth of sleep and cuddling with—
He shot upward into a sitting position far too quickly and choked on the pain that arose because of his actions. Sam’s hand flew back, away from his face, but landed on his shoulder, his touch light but grounding. Dean bit back tears of pain and slumped back in bed, cringing as his muscles ached and throbbed. Sam’s face was hovering above him, rich with concern, and Dean blinked, focusing on the features of his little brother’s face.
“Jesus,” Dean croaked. “You look as shitty as I feel.” Sam snorted, wet and thick, and his forehead fell down, landing on Dean’s shoulder. Dean let out a soft breath and raised one hand, sliding it over the curve of Sam’s spine to a place just below his shoulder blades. “I’m okay, Sammy. Gonna be just fine.” He murmured quietly, and Sam’s hands fisted the sleeves of his hospital gown, fingertips digging into the muscle of Dean’s biceps.
“You idiot.” Sam growled; words muffled by the skin of Dean’s shoulder. “You stupid stupid—” Dean snorted, but that hurt, so he winced. Sam immediately pulled back, eyes wide, and Dean shook his head.
“Not you,” he muttered, licking his lips that were slightly chapped. “M’fine.” He added, but Sam’s face just fell into a snarl and he pushed away, dropping into a chair beside Dean’s bed. He buried his face in those big hands of his, and Dean wished he had the strength to reach out for him. The best he could do was lift
his arm to twitch his fingers at Sam, but Sam wasn’t looking, so he didn’t see it.
“You almost died, Dean.” Sam said, voice pitched low, and he looked up, letting his hands fall into his lap.
“I don’t know if you remember, but you were saying stuff you probably didn’t mean to, and then you passed out and you almost died. If I hadn’t—” he broke off, rubbing at his eyes with the edge of his palm.
“Don’t do that again. Don’t do it ever again.” He warned, and Dean didn’t say anything for a few moments.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he muttered, and Sam twitched like Dean had threatened to hit him. Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Sam avoided his gaze. “Sam…what did I say?” he asked, slowly, dangerously, and Sam still refused to look at him. “Sam.” He repeated, and there was no question in his voice this time.
Sam looked at him, and Dean couldn’t place what was in his eyes. “Let’s get you out of here, okay? They’re gonna want information that I’ve been putting off giving up. You think you can walk?”
He’s changing the subject, Dean’s mind objected, but Dean pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters, as Sam so helpfully pointed out, and he gave a short nod, hoping his confidence in his abilities wasn’t vain. Sam mirrored the nod and helped Dean remove the IV from his arm, which made Dean grit his teeth a little more, and then helped him out of bed. He passed Dean his clothes and kept his eyes on the door in case anyone would try to stop them.
Changing hurt. Breathing hurt. Looking at Sam hurt, in a completely different way, but it hurt, nonetheless. Standing upright hurt like hell, and walking, using his muscles hurt, everything hurt. He didn’t tell Sam any of that, however. When Sam looked over, eyes questioning, Dean replied without words that he was fine.
He wasn’t. He was anything but. He’d said things to Sam that he probably didn’t mean to, and that could be any number of things, but the worst—oh, god, what if he’d told Sam? What if Sam knew?
Horror and dread settled in a knot just behind his sternum, tight and uncomfortable, and it only got worse when Sam automatically put an arm around Dean’s shoulders, supporting him. Dean had no choice but to put his arm around Sam’s waist, their hips bumping together as they walked through the hospital, dodging doctors and nurses, until they managed to get into an elevator that was empty.
“Fuck,” Dean hissed, leaning up against the wall as Sam slammed his palm against a button that would take them to the ground floor. Sam was in front of him, crouching slightly because he was tall, thanks, fingertips brushing Dean’s jaw and his cheeks. Dean snapped his teeth, like a fucking dog, and Sam stepped back, eyebrows and hands raised.
He was bleeding—he could feel the warmth spreading through the bandages on his stomach from the wound, and he carefully pressed a hand over it, applying the pressure needed to slow the bleeding. They were moving him too soon, but as long as he stayed alive, he would be okay. They would be okay. Sam was watching him, concerned, but keeping his distance, and the part of Dean that had been locked away until this entire shitshow had happened longed for him to come closer. Dean didn’t think it was a good idea—he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t snap his teeth again, or worse.
Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with anyone else? Why did it have to be his little brother, the person he was supposed to protect without wanting to ruin him for anyone else?
The elevator dinged as it reached their desired floor, and Dean wiped the evidence of his pain from his face and put his arm back around Sam’s waist. They walked out, casually, despite the urge to vomit almost overwhelming Dean, and passed nurses and doctors that were watching them with suspicious eyes. The front doors came into view and they crossed the threshold, Dean’s lungs expanding through the pain and greedily tasting the fresh night air.
His knees buckled, then, and Sam inhaled sharply, reinforcing his grip on Dean’s shoulders as he led him through the dark. The sun was breaking over the horizon, and Dean was mildly surprised that it was morning already. They needed to get the hell out of dodge before someone asked the right question, or too many questions.
The front seat was shiny and slightly damp, and Dean wanted to snap at Sam for leaving moisture on the leather but didn’t. It was damp because he’d cleaned up Dean’s blood, and Dean couldn’t make himself angry enough about that to do anything. He settled, grimacing in the pain that had shifted to a dull ache he could almost ignore, hand immediately pressed back over his side.
“Too soon,” Sam muttered as he started the engine and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Dean didn’t say anything, but slumped against the window, his breathing labored but shallow. The glass was cool against his forehead, and soothing, so he let his eyes go hooded, and let himself relax. The bleeding had either stopped, or he couldn’t feel it anymore, and Sam was okay.
Sam was okay. Dean let out a relieved sigh that went unnoticed beneath the rumble of Baby’s engine, and the knot behind his sternum eased slightly. He could worry about that later—he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to do anything other than stay awake right now. That was okay, though, because no one needed him to be on his feet, fighting, and Sam was next to him, safe, taking them away from this damned town.
“Ghosts?” Dean couldn’t help but ask, and Sam didn’t look over.
“Burned the house while you were out.” He spoke gently.
Dean nodded, to no one, and looked back out the window, the pain ebbing.
~
Day sixteen of acting like everything is okay, Dean thought bitterly as he watched the way Sam’s hands gripped Baby’s steering wheel. He looked away, eyes on the motel they were approaching, and he reached down to carefully touch the place where he’d been stabbed. Is sheer fucking hell, he finished.
It had healed, mostly, but the scar was mangled and puckered and sore. They’d taken out the stitched about six days before, and that had hurt like a bitch, but it had felt a little relieving too. Like he was off life support, in a way. Sam shared his relief—he could see it in the way he looked at Dean’s scar whenever Dean got out of the shower, and he was glad. Of course, that was the closest thing to unguarded that Sam got these days, and Dean was becoming more and more convinced that he had told Sam the one thing he swore he couldn’t.
Which meant that they were either going to be like this for the next few decades, or however long they lived, or they were going to have to talk about it. Dean knew that if they talked about it, it might end up with Sam leaving for good, and his constant would no longer be his, or constant. So, Dean decided to
choose door number one, at least for the time being.
Some Sammy was better than No Sammy.
They parked, and wordlessly, Sam got out to get them a room, leaving the keys in the ignition for Dean. Dean watched him walk away, disgustingly forlorn, and then got their bags out of the trunk. His side ached at the exertion, but Dean didn’t care. It was something he could feel that wasn’t longing, or hatred, or lust, and that was fine by him.
He waited by Baby until Sam appeared back in the parking lot, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t looking at Dean, but then, Dean wasn’t looking at him. He reached down and picked up the bags, permitted Sam to take one off his hands because of the frown on his brother’s face, and they walked in silence to their room.
“Shit,” Sam suddenly said as they reached the door, stopping in his tracks. “Forgot my gun. Can you go grab it?” he asked, and Dean didn’t say anything, dropping the bag he’d been carrying and heading back to Baby. Being away from Sam felt like he was finally able to breathe, and like he was suddenly unable to breathe. It was a conundrum that had Dean frustrated beyond belief, and one he elected to ignore as best as he could.
He rooted around for Sam’s gun and found it tucked under the driver’s seat. He checked the clip, popped it back into place, and then shoved it in the back of his jeans, making sure no one was looking as he flipped his shirt over the handle. The metal was cool against his skin, and he shivered, also because it was Sam’s. He chewed on his bottom lip and locked Baby back up, heading back towards the room.
Sam had gone inside, but left the door slightly ajar, making it easy for Dean. There was a brief moment of gratitude and affection for Sam, but the knot behind his sternum choked it off pretty quick, and then tightened further. He inhaled slowly, deciding on a long, cool shower as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him. His thumb flicked the lock into place, and even though he wanted to rest against the door for a moment, he pushed off of its surface.
Sam was unpacking, standing with his back to Dean, shoulders shifting underneath the fabric of his flannel as he moved their clothes from the bags into the dresser. Dean tore his eyes away, because fuck, his little brother was so goddamn strong, and muttered about going for a shower. Sam grunted in response, and as soon as Dean was in the safety of the bathroom, and the water was running, he let out a long sigh and his guard slipped.
Peeling away the layers of his clothing hurt more than it should, but at least he could do it on his own. The few days where Sam had to help him get out of his shirts were ones of sheer torture, and what made it worse was that Sam couldn’t even look at him as he did it. It only made him more convinced that Sam knew.
It dawned upon him, the magnitude of the situation, as he was tugging his jeans down his hips, his torso bare, save the amulet that Sam had given him when they were kids. He stopped abruptly, unable to breathe, and his knees buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. His palms were pressed against the tile floor, splayed, fingertips digging into the cold, unforgiving material, heart hammering in his chest like a caged animal.
Jesus fucking christ, Sam knew.
“Dean—” Sam’s voice came from the other side of the door, and Dean knew he should have locked it as soon as Sam burst through, eyes filled with concern that Dean didn’t deserve. His voice cut off, however, when he saw Dean, sitting on his knees, jeans undone and loose around his hips, revealing the waistband of his boxers, his chest and stomach naked. Dean tensed at Sam entering the bathroom, and even more so when Sam crouched down next to him.
“Don’t,” Dean hissed when Sam raised a hand. Sam ignored this warning, and his palm rested on the back of Dean’s neck, its weight and warmth comforting and grounding. Dean closed his eyes, hands balling into fists, jaw tense. Sam’s other hand rested on Dean’s cheek, and Dean flinched, a low animalistic sound erupting from the back of his throat.
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam scoffed, and then he was leaning down and pressing his mouth against Dean’s, soft and sweet, like they’d just finished their first date. Dean choked but didn’t pull back—he couldn’t let this happen again, but he could savour it for a few seconds; memorize the softness of his brother’s lips, their
warmth and the way they seemed tailored to fit his—
He lunged back, shaking his head and biting into his bottom lip hard enough that he drew blood. “No,” he said, unable to look Sam in the eyes. “No, you don’t want this. You don’t have to—”
“Jesus christ Dean!” Sam cried, beyond frustrated. “I’ve wanted you since I was old enough to get hard. I was waiting until your stupid wound healed more, you idiot!”
“Uh,” Dean said, eloquently. Sam groaned, gritting his teeth, and then leaned forward, pressing Dean’s back against the door to the shower. He kissed Dean the way he cleaned his guns, the way he stitched Dean back together after a particularly rough hunt, the way he cradled Dean’s dislocated shoulder before snapping it back into place, and Dean was lost the moment it started.
Sam spread his legs, and Dean let him, wrapping them around his waist, hands coming up to tangle in that too-long hair of Sam’s. It was soft to the touch and Dean’s fingers slid through it easily, his grip tightening when Sam’s hands brushing the bare skin of his waist. Sam groaned, and then his tongue was pressing into Dean’s mouth and it should have been disgusting—instead, he was harder than he’d been since high school, aching in his boxers, just for Sammy. He rocked his hips, and felt Sam’s erection press
into his ass, and he gasped.
“Fuck—” he hissed, pulling back and sliding out of Sam’s lap to stare at his crotch. Sam, breathing hard, cheeks red, furrowed his brow. Dean raised his eyebrows, mouth filling with saliva at the sight of Sammy’s dick, a hard, long line against his jeans. “Seriously?” Dean asked, breathless, tearing his eyes away to look into his little brother’s face.
Sam blushed harder. “It’s proportional.” He defended. Dean snorted and shook his head, hands pushing Sam’s shoulders back to give him access to the front of his shirt. Dean wanted to say something about how Sam was all ‘prim’ for actually buttoning up his flannels, but then, there wouldn’t be this twisting sense of anticipation in his stomach if Sam hadn’t.
He’d seen Sammy naked loads of times, and sure, maybe he’d snuck a peek at the curve of his ass, but it was never much more than that. He’d seen his bare chest more times than he could count, and it shouldn’t be different, it shouldn’t—
Dean bit back the urge to groan, hands pushing Sam’s shirt off his shoulders and onto the ground behind him, where it pooled. Sam looked at Dean like he was suddenly self-conscious or something, and Dean wanted to cry. Sam was built like a Greek fucking god, all toned muscle and smooth skin, and Dean wanted to taste every single inch—and he could.
“Dean,” Sam suddenly murmured, leaning forward and mouthing at Dean’s throat, the back of Dean’s head hitting the door to the shower. Dean hissed, dragging his fingers through Sam’s hair again, encouraging him to keep doing that thing with his mouth, his other hand digging into Sam’s shoulder. If Sam said his name like that again, he’d have to take a second to make sure he didn’t cream the inside of his jeans like he was fourteen.
Sam’s hands grasped his hips, thumbs dipping below the waistband of his boxers, pulling Dean back into his lap. Dean let him, kicking off his shoes and then digging his heels into Sammy’s lower back, urging him closer. Sam laughed, soft and breathy, so Dean grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged his head to the side, lavishing the column of his throat, all teeth and tongue.
“Fuck—” Sam groaned, fingers digging into Dean’s hips. Dean hummed, sucking a mark where Sam’s pulse was jumping, earning a lovely sound that slipped from Sam’s lips. His skin was damp, not from sweat but from the steam that was filling the bathroom up from the running water, and Dean ran his tongue along the sharp edge of Sam’s jaw, swallowing the collected moisture there.
Then all of a sudden, Sam was getting up, carrying Dean like he weighed absolutely nothing. Dean made a surprised sound that he would never admit to making, and wrapped his arms around Sam’s neck as Sam carried him out of the bathroom.
“Knew you were all vanilla,” Dean grunted as Sam dropped him on the pre-made bed, leaning down to give him a filthy kiss. At Dean’s words, however, Sam bit his lower lip, reminding Dean that he’d already drawn blood by doing the same thing to himself. Sam pulled back, licking Dean’s blood from his lips, and Dean clenched his jaw, a wave of heat rolling over him at the sight.
Wordlessly, Sam flipped Dean onto his stomach, his hips pressed into the edge of the mattress, legs hanging off the side of the bed. Dean pushed himself up, feeling oddly exposed with his ass pointing in Sam’s direction. Sam leaned up, pressing sloppy kisses to Dean’s back and shoulders, hands pushing Dean’s jeans down his hips and thighs.
“Sam—” Dean began as Sam finished removing the remainder of his clothing.
“So pretty like this,” Sam purred, grabbing handfuls of Dean’s ass and kneading the flesh there, making Dean gasp and push his face into the mattress. Then one of Sam’s hands came down on his ass, and he cried out, arching his back, pressing his ass back, towards Sam. “Here’s the secret Dean,” Sam whispered, leaning up and sucking Dean’s earlobe into his mouth. “I’m about as far from vanilla as you are.”
Then he was moving back down, and his mouth was wetting Dean’s hole, his tongue pressing into Dean, teeth grazing his rim, and Dean moaned, hips pushing back on Sam’s tongue. His hands were spreading Dean’s cheeks, and the sounds Sam’s mouth was making as he ate Dean out were lewd in ways that had
Dean flushing bright red.
Sam pulled away with a smack, and leaned up, pressing two of his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Dean eagerly sucked on them, moaning around the digits like he was a pornstar.
“Shiiiit,” Sam groaned, and Dean’s entire body lit up with heat for a split second before dying down slightly, keeping him on the edge of sanity. The heat came back with a vengeance, however, when Dean heard the zipper of Sam’s jeans being pulled down, and his hips bucked, grinding his aching dick into the mattress beneath him. “Tell me, Dean,” Sam growled, pulling his fingers from Dean’s mouth.
“Fuck me, Sammy, please,” Dean slurred, rocking his hips into the mattress, hands fisting the sheets. “C’mon, little brother, fuck me.”
Sam’s fingers pressed into him, and Dean groaned, pushing back to take him deeper. Sam cursed under his breath, one hand pressed over Dean’s lower back, keeping him from moving as he stretched him out, brushing over his prostate and making Dean whine and squirm.
“So tight,” Sam hissed, adding a third finger, and Dean saw stars, choking quietly on the intensity of the pleasure. Sam kept pushing in and out of him, stretching him until Dean was impatient, and wiggled against his fingers.
“Now, Sam,” Dean urged.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Sam whispered, leaning down and kissing Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s chest swelled with affection, and it was a feeling he was used to shutting out and hiding. Now, however, he let himself be swallowed by it, rolling onto his back with Sam’s fingers still pumping in and out of him, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
“Not g’nna hurt me,” Dean murmured, wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck and kissing him slowly. Sam groaned softly into the kiss, tongue brushing against Dean’s—and Dean felt sparks go off when he realised that he could taste himself, and he liked it. “Wanna feel you, Sammy,” Dean breathed, and Sam nodded, leaning down and sucking a mark into Dean’s collarbone.
“You’re going to feel this for days, Dean,” Sam grunted as he pressed the blunt head of his dick against Dean’s stretched hole, fingers sliding out. Dean arched against him, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make it bleed again.
“That’s the point,” Dean hissed, and Sam’s hips jerked of their own accord, and then Sam popped past Dean’s rim and started filling him up. Dean whined at the sensation of being split open and knew that Sam was right—he was definitely going to feel this for days afterwards.
“Oh, fuck,” Sam choked, pressing deeper and deeper at an agonizingly slow pace. Dean couldn’t breathe properly—how was Sam this big? He just kept getting deeper, and when Dean thought this has to be it, he added another inch. “Christ, you’re so hot Dean,” Sam hissed, fingers pressing bruises into Dean’s hips. Dean’s eyes rolled into the back of his head when he felt Sam’s hips press flush against his ass, the zipper of his jeans cold against Dean’s skin.
He didn’t even take his jeans off. That shouldn’t have made Dean’s dick twitch against his stomach, but it did, and Sam groaned appreciatively at the sight.
“God—hnn—” Dean gasped when Sam experimentally rolled his hips. He then lifted Dean’s hips off the mattress and slid a pillow beneath his ass, propping him up. The simple action took Sam just that fraction deeper, and Dean choked. “If you don’t move, right fucking now, I’ll go find someone else to do this.” He growled, and Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, eyes darkening as he snapped his hips. Dean yelped, hands reaching up and grasping onto Sam’s shoulders.
“No one is ever going to touch you again, Dean,” Sam snarled, leaning down and sucking some of the blood from Dean’s bottom lip. “You’re mine.”
“Saaammy,” Dean whined, fingers digging into the muscles of Sam’s back and shoulders. Sam’s pace was quick and lethal, and Dean could already feel his orgasm thrumming just behind his navel, even without laying a hand on himself.
“Say it.” Sam ordered, sinking his teeth into the junction of Dean’s shoulder.
“Y-yours,” Dean stammered, barely able to string together two thoughts let alone two words. “Yours, Sammy, always been yours, always be yours,” he slurred, so close to the edge. Sam’s hips faltered briefly at Dean’s words, and he groaned, moving to slot their mouths together, more breathing the same air than actually kissing.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, and it sounded like the prayer of a man who received all of life’s riches. “Oh, god, Dean, I’m gonna—” Sammy choked, and Dean tugged on Sam’s lower lip with his teeth.
“Come for me, Sammy,” Dean moaned. “Fill me up.”
Sam gave a cry that sounded a lot like Dean’s name, and the feeling of his dick pulsing inside of him drove Dean over the edge. He coated his and Sammy’s stomachs in his come, his whimpers swallowed up happily by his little brother. Sam slumped against Dean, face buried in the crook of his neck, breath hot against Dean’s skin. Dean carefully retracted his fingers from bruising Sam’s back, groaning as he let his muscles relax.
“We left the water running.” Sam murmured, vibrations of his voice tickling Dean. Dean swallowed, licking his lips, craving water that was cold and crisp, and concentrated on listening to the rest of the motel room. Sure enough, the water was running, and Dean’s lips curled into a grin. His fingers came up and twisted through the sweat-damp strands of Sam’s soft hair, soothing his little brother.
“Haven’t fucked like that since before you left for college,” Dean mused. Sam snorted, and didn’t move.
“I would have stayed for you.” Sam admitted quietly. Dean continued to card his fingers through Sam’s hair, humming softly.
“I know,” he whispered, “but I couldn’t have asked you to do that for me. This…this is fucked up, Sammy, even for us.”
Sam pushed up, chest and stomach sticky with Dean’s release, and looked into Dean’s eyes with an expression so loving and pure that Dean wanted to look away. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like that, especially by Sammy.
“We should be able to have this one thing. Everything else always goes to shit.” Sam said, voice firm and determined. “It’s been you and me for as long as I can remember. This,” he said, gesturing between the both of them, “is something we deserve to have. I don’t want anyone other than you. I’ve been in love with you since I was a kid, Dean—nothing can change that.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, swallowing a lump of emotion and relief. “Yeah, uh, I love you too.”
Sam’s face split into a broad, dimpled grin, and he leaned down, kissing Dean gently. Dean was mildly taken aback, because kissing had never really been a tender thing for him—it was always hunger from some girl he’d picked up in a bar—but this was nice. Really nice, actually.
“Okay,” Dean grunted when Sam pulled back. “Get off. This is gross.”
Sam barked with laughter, kissing Dean once more.
~