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Sam knows it’s going to happen again as soon as he walks through the motel room door.
He’s not sure if it’s something he senses vibrating in the air—his weird psychic thing giving him a heads up, or if it’s just the faint bite of hard liquor that hits the back of his throat as he breathes in. Whatever it is, it folds over him like a blanket and the ball in his chest is relief as he lets the feeling suffocate him.
When he opens his eyes again, he sees Dean standing in the doorway of the bathroom, backlit by the artificial light and glowing against the cool darkness of the main room. Sam’s hand shakes a little as he pushes the door closed behind him, flipping the lock.
“Dean?” he says, placing the cans of soda he’d bought from the vending machine outside on the small table by the door. He’s not paying close enough attention to what he’s doing, though, and one of the cans tips over, rolling off the edge to land with a dull thunk on the threadbare carpet. He can’t see Dean’s eyes, but he sees the minute tilt of his head as his brother follows the soda’s journey until it disappears under the edge of a bed.
Unfolding his arms, Dean takes a step forward, and as he turns toward him, Sam sees the deep line between his brows that he was expecting, the tight clench of his jaw. Stepping back as Dean gets closer, Sam collides softly with the door, and all he can do from there is lean his head back until he feels like he’s on one of those carnival rides that spin so fast you can’t lift your head or your arms or any other part of your body without being forced right back to where you started.
Sam thinks it’s a pretty apt metaphor for this whole thing, really, except the ride never ends for him. There’s no slow release of pressure from his chest, no relief in the slackening of his body as gravity normalizes. Not until Dean’s Dean again, anyway. And it seems like forever every single time.
“Dean?” he repeats, making a valiant attempt at keeping his tone neutral, but it’s stupid, because he’s pressing himself against the door like he can push through it, and neutral words or sobbing and begging—he’s tried them all—the outcome’s never different.
Dean’s in front of him now, and yeah, Sam’s taller than his brother, but looking at the hard lines of tension in Dean’s face makes him feel shorter than he’s ever felt in his life.
The smell of whiskey is thick on Dean’s breath, and Sam’s looking at his mouth, the pulse in his throat jumping like it wants to escape. It’s a hollow, depressing realization: he knows this scenario so well that he can stand here and wait for the way Dean’s lips purse like they always do just before he starts. Sam flinches when he sees it, wonders what the first pain will be. Heat blossoming on his cheek from the sharp crack of Dean’s hand? Wrenching in his shoulder as Dean spins him around and bends his wrist up against his back? Bruises on his knees from the force with which Dean pushes him to the ground? It could be any of them.
He’s surprised and not a little panicked when it’s none of those, only Dean’s hand, warm and callused cupping the side of his face. Slitting his eyes open, Sam stays as still as he can. Maybe Dean won’t—maybe he’s not going to—
And then he cries out, tears springing to his eyes as Dean fists his hand in Sam’s hair, strands torn from the root in his grip. He’s pulling Sam away from the door then, and Sam’s slouching down, trying to ease the pain, but Dean just yanks him back up, shoving him across the room, and he knows, he knows Sam can be a klutz at the best of times, counts on the way he trips over his own feet, toppling onto the single bed’s lumpy mattress.
He’s up again as soon as he can get his feet under him, pushing off the bed only to be shoved back down by strong hands on his shoulders, Dean crowding him from the front and the top and deep down inside him and he’s just everywhere and Sam feels like he’s suffocating again without any of the relief of unconsciousness.
“Dean, don’t,” he says through a throat that’s ready to close over in fear, and he brings his hands up to push Dean away, but all he gets is Dean’s fingers closing around his wrists, bones grinding painfully until Sam stops trying to get free. “Please,” he chokes, holding his hands up in submission, palms toward Dean as he cringes back. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry, just don’t—”
Dean releases one of his hands then, but there’s not even time to discard the notion that Dean would heed his begging when he never has in the past before the back of Dean’s hand is connecting with his cheek. There’s the sharp bite of pain as Dean’s ring splits the skin over his cheekbone, and Sam curls instinctively, trying to no avail to cover his face as Dean wrenches his head back and backhands him again in exactly the same place, with exactly the same force, ring cutting deeper into his cheek. There’s blood flowing from the wound now, so it smears across his skin with the next hit, and Sam can feel the moment when the cut tears open even wider.
His breath comes fast and shallow, and he can’t see much through the pool of moisture filling his eyes, so he stares at the dull brown bedspread to his left because he can’t bring himself to move his head from the position Dean’s blows have turned it in. His bones feel hollow anyway, and he’s not sure he could move if he tried, so he sits there, mouth trembling. It’s the sound of Dean’s slow and even, completely calm breaths that bring the tears spilling over his lashes and down his cheeks. The sting as salt hits the torn flesh of his face is barely a blip on the radar as far as he’s concerned.
The worst part is, Sam could stop him. He wouldn’t rely on his combat training, because Dean’s always been one step ahead of him in that, and banking on the off chance that he could catch Dean by surprise isn’t even worth it. But he could stop him. He could look at Dean and think it and Dean would be pinned to the door like Sam had pinned himself a few minutes ago. He could hurt Dean like Dean hurts him. Could hurt him so much more.
But he doesn’t. He won’t. Can’t, because that’s not what he is. It’s not who he is, and it’s not who he plans to become, so he doesn’t.
Which means he closes his eyes as Dean picks up his legs and throws them onto the bed, drags him closer to the headboard and then flips him onto his front. Sam’s stomach churns ominously and he wonders for a moment if he’s going to be sick. Wonders if Dean would stop if Sam threw up all over the pillow. It’s his doubt over the answer that makes him swallow down bile, because Dean’s going to do this to him, and he would rather not inhale his own chuck while it happens.
The resignation of his own thoughts surprises him out of his daze for a moment, and he sobs, the sound bursting out of his chest as Dean’s name. “Stop,” he begs, and he knows Dean’s not listening, or he’s listening but doesn’t give a damn as he pulls Sam’s sneakers off with a strange gentleness that’s countered by the double bang-thump of them slamming viciously into the wall and dropping to the floor. Dean doesn’t even bother to work Sam’s belt open, because he knows Sam never wears it very tight, so he just pulls until the loose jeans slide off Sam’s hips, the material only snug enough that it drags Sam’s boxers down with them.
Clenching his hands into fists, Sam tries to be angry. Tries to work up something strong enough to break through the horrified stillness clouding his mind so that he can surge up and fight Dean. Show him he can’t do this to Sam, can’t force his brother’s legs apart or hold him down when he tries to get up and get away. Can’t take everything Sam’s tried so hard to build in himself and shatter him into pathetic, useless pieces that lie there listening to the messy sounds of Dean slicking himself with whatever he has for lubricant this time.
But he already has, and that’s what Sam’s doing. He’s crying like their dad always said would make people think he was weak, and he doesn’t try to stop himself because Dean already knows how weak he is. Knows it and uses it as he spreads the cheeks of Sam’s ass apart and puts two thick fingers inside him, not stretching, just applying slick so he doesn’t give Sam an injury to go to the hospital with. Making him wet inside so Dean can fuck him as hard as he likes and not have to worry about friction burns.
“Don’t,” Sam pleads, and his voice is so shot he doesn’t even know if Dean can understand him. It’s all he can do, though—try to make Dean hear him because he can’t fight him. He’s more scared of doing something to make Dean leave him than he is of being raped by his own brother, and the thought has his whole body shaking with the force of his renewed sobs. He’s begging again, an endless chorus of ‘don’tdon’tdon’t,’ but he’s so twisted up inside that he’s not sure if it’s ‘don’t do this to me’ or ‘don’t leave me again.’
There’s only one meaning behind the words he starts choking out when he feels Dean get into position behind him, though, the slippery head of Dean’s cock lining up with his entrance, knuckles brushing the soft skin of Sam’s inner thigh as Dean guides himself in.
“No, no, nono, please.” Sam’s voice is so thick with tears that he hardly recognizes it as his own, the words breaking with pain when Dean enters him, flared head forcing him open beyond his limits, and he instinctively tries to crawl away, but Dean’s free hand clamps hard around the back of his neck and pins him down. The pillow under his face is disgusting with tears and snot and blood, and he can hardly breathe, but oxygen seems like the least of his worries as Dean keeps shoving, working hard against muscles trying to reject the intrusion of his cock.
When he’s buried as deep as he’ll go, Dean grunts, the first real sound he’s made this whole time, and it cracks something in Sam’s chest, because he sounds so satisfied that it’s almost like some kind of approval. ‘You did real good, Sammy,’ like Dean used to say when Sam got his report cards back in school, neat little columns of A’s, and Sam would beam, ‘Thanks, Dean!,’ and the smile he got in return made him try that much harder the next year.
Dean hasn’t moved yet. Sam wonders if he’s supposed to be grateful for the opportunity to adjust to Dean’s girth, but all it means to him is that it’ll be that much longer before this is over. That much more time in an eternal moment of deafening silence to feel Dean’s breath hot and ragged on the back of his neck. To feel the crisp curls of Dean’s pubic hair against his skin and his balls resting against Sam’s. Too many empty seconds to wish, in spite of the situation and everything it means, that there wasn’t a conflicting intimacy to it all that made Sam want it. Not this, just something like it and different at the same time, every bit as wrong, but given out of love, not taken out of anger.
It’s a relief when Dean pulls back, Sam’s stomach clenching at the sensation and detaching him from the hopelessness of his own thoughts. Sam’s not sure if he’d rather float in that mental current of self-disgust or be fully present on this bed in this rundown motel room, spread under his brother as Dean thrusts back in, the movement so much smoother than the first because Sam’s given up fighting. Might as well be unconscious for all the difference it would make.
He’s tried that before, anyway. Swallowed about three times as many as the recommended dose of the strongest pain killers in their med kit right before he suspected it was about to happen.
It hadn’t worked, though. Dean had looked so angry that even through the haze of the pills Sam’d started rethinking his great idea. Dean had dragged him, staggering, into the bathroom, dropped him on the floor in front of the toilet and told him to cough them up. When Sam hadn’t done it, Dean had forced his jaw open and stuck his fingers down the back of Sam’s throat until he’d puked himself faint. Then he’d bent Sam over the bath tub and fucked him harder than Sam could remember him ever doing before. The remainder of the drug in his system hadn’t helped at all.
His memory is never crystal clear after these episodes, but listening to Dean grunt louder in his ear as he nears his completion, Sam wishes it hurt like he knows it used to. Dean’s no more or less gentle than he was in the beginning, but Sam can’t help but feel like his body betrays him further every time by getting used to the stretch of initial penetration, the throbbing ache of that first thrust and the pain that radiates up his lower back with every one that follows. With little to no prep and only as much lube as damage minimization calls for, he doesn’t understand how he could’ve let himself become accustomed to this. Wonders if maybe he’s as sick as he sometimes thinks he is, and maybe he does deserve it, so Dean’s just doing this to help him realize.
By the time Dean jerks to a stop with a bruising snap of his hips and releases inside Sam, Sam’s whole head hurts with crying. His throat is sore, his nasal passages burn, and his head feels like it’s stuffed with barbed wire, digging into his brain and the backs of his eyes.
His head hurts more than his ass, but it’s the pain in his heart that leaves him sobbing on the bed as Dean draws out, his limp cock leaving a wet smear of come and lube on the back of Sam’s thigh as he gets off the bed.
The slam of the bathroom door means it’s over, it’s finished, but Sam shakes and shakes and whimpers until the pounding in his head is too much and he blacks out.
~*~
Dean locks the door behind himself even though he knows Sam won’t be moving anywhere for a while. He used to leave it unlocked, but after a couple of instances when this first started where he’d barged straight back out, unable to help it, he’d deliberately begun making sure to latch the door. The fraction of a second he’ll need to open it again will give him enough pause to reconsider what he’s doing.
Taking off his watch, he sets the alarm for two hours from now and places it carefully on the sink before stepping into the shower stall. The water pressure’s unsurprisingly pathetic, so he only stands under it for a minute or so before aiming the faucet at the wall. The water cascades down the back of his head and over his shoulders where he sits on the tile floor, arms stretched out with his elbows on his bent knees. He’s going to be here awhile, so he might as well be comfortable.
At least it’s over now. For a few more months, anyway. Until Sam starts twitching again, snapping unexpectedly, always on edge and unable to sleep at night, circles like bruises under his eyes. Then it’ll happen again and Dean’ll fix his brother the way Sam’s asked him to, and they’ll go on like normal for a little while before the cycle starts over.
He’d been putting it off, and he knows that’s why it was worse than usual. He’d been hoping maybe he could wean Sam off this thing he needs like a junkie craves the needle, but then Sam had nearly taken some poor woman’s head off because she couldn’t remember the name of a man who might be able to help them with the case they were on, and Dean had known it needed to be soon. Today.
The flask of whiskey had been in his bag where he always kept it, and he’d taken a sip when Sam went out to get sodas. He had barely enough to wet the inside of his mouth before setting the open flask on the folding table. Maybe Sam would prefer no warning at all, but Dean needs there to be that moment where Sam realizes what’s about to go down. Can’t make himself blindside Sam completely. Sam hasn’t said anything about it, so Dean figures he doesn’t mind so much.
When Sam had come back to the room, Dean had watched him from the bathroom doorway and tried to remember how he ever came to be okay with raping his brother on a semi-regular basis. Not that he’s okay with it precisely, but he does it, doesn’t he? It’s close enough.
He knows it started in a dirty bar in some podunk little town, getting Sam certifiably trashed in an attempt to weasel out the reason for his whacked behavior the last couple weeks. Sam liked to talk when he was drunk, and Dean had never been above underhanded tactics to find out what he wanted to know.
“You want me to what?” Dean had asked, sure he’d misheard what his brother had said. But no, apparently not, because Sam repeated himself, giving him a whole slurred list of things he wanted—needed, he said—Dean to do to him. A whole drunken ramble about why he wanted—needed it. How he didn’t know what was wrong with him, but knew this was the only thing that stopped him from going off the rails completely.
Dean had almost asked how he knew this in particular would cure his problem, but quite honestly? He didn’t want to know.
There had been a few blissful days after that night where nothing happened. Dean wasn’t even sure Sam remembered his little confession, but as the week went on and he started acting weirder and weirder, every now and then Dean would look over and find Sam watching him, a desperate, pleading look on his face before he turned away.
The whiskey had been a fortifier that first time, a little Dutch courage and the only thing that gave him the balls to shove Sam into the wall and later onto the bed, hesitating every time Sam begged him to stop only to have Sam beg him in the next breath to keep going, giving Dean his wrists to pin above his head.
They’ve perfected the routine since then. Dean never stops when Sam begs him to now, never lets him up when Sam says ‘don’t’ or ‘please’ or ‘nonono.’ He ignores the sobbing and drags him back when he tries to crawl away. Keeps hitting him or biting him or fucking him until Sam breaks down completely and Dean can only screw his eyes closed to keep his own tears at bay and close his teeth on Sam’s skin to hold in the ‘I’m sorry’ and the ‘I love you so much, I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ while he forces his dick into Sam’s hastily prepared hole.
He’d freaked Sam into hysterics one time when he couldn’t keep his mouth shut on the words, and he’d learned his lesson. He never says anything during these sessions anymore. Can’t risk what might spill off his tongue if he lets himself speak, even to tell Sam to shut up or stay still.
Blowing out a breath, Dean folds his arms on his knees and rests his forehead on them, eyes unfocused. He snaps his head up a second later, expression twisting as he looks at his cock, soft between his legs. Most of the semen and slick is gone, and it looks small and insignificant just lying there.
He wishes he didn’t understand it. Didn’t understand how he can get hard enough to do what he does to Sam. Feels like throwing up whenever he thinks about the fact that he doesn’t entirely hate ‘fixing’ his brother this way. That there’s more than a small part of him that gets so fucking turned on he can’t see straight when Sam—huge, strong, competent Sam—just gives it up to him. Sits there and takes it when the back of Dean’s hand propels his head to the side with the force of a slap. Sits there and takes it and bleeds in a torrent as Dean thinks ‘I’m your brother; your blood is my blood’ and coats Sam’s face and his own hand with the dark red when he hits him again.
It’s only the knowledge of how gentle they’ll be with each other when he goes back out there that keeps Dean sane. The knowledge that he’ll take so much more pleasure from that—from the whispered words and wordless gestures of adoration—than he ever has from using Sam like this. It’s easy to forget, when he’s swallowed by the self-hatred and recrimination that bubbles in his chest on days like these, that this isn’t all they are; it isn’t all they do. They’ve been lovers since Sam was sixteen, and they fuck all the time, but they make love just as often, and so what if Dean would’ve called himself a pussy once for thinking of it like that? He’s not a kid anymore, scared to say ‘Yeah, that’s Sam, I’m stupidly in love with him,’ in case some guy wants to call him a little bitch for it. Whatever.
The way he loves Sam and the way Sam loves him back unconditionally, without question or hesitation, is the only thing that makes any of this bearable. It terrifies him that Sam needs this from him, because he doesn’t know what’s in Sam’s head that makes him feel like he has to be beaten down like this. Dean used to have panic attacks sometimes, never sure, always doubting that Sam really did want him to treat him this way, because Sam so clearly believes it when it’s happening.
It had taken a lot of reassurance before Dean accepted that it’s just a place Sam goes to in order to make it real for himself. Because yeah, he’s developed the necessary acting skills for the job they do, but Dean couldn’t comprehend what Sam did to himself, told himself or thought about to believe in that moment that Dean could ever rape him. That Dean would ever truly want to hurt him.
He still doesn’t know what Sam thinks about when it’s happening. Just hopes Sam was being honest with him that time when he admitted to Dean that he doesn’t actually remember very well anything that goes on in his head once everything’s said and done. God, he hopes that’s the truth.
Dean’s not sure how long his watch alarm beeps for before he hears it, but it’s gone silent by the time he stands up, legs stiff from sitting still for all that time. The hot water’s run out, but it’s summer, so it’s not like the water’s freezing his nipples off or anything. It’s a pretty nice temperature, actually, and he zones out to go through the motions of washing himself. Complimentary soap and shampoo only, since he used the conditioner on Sam earlier, but it does the job and washes most of the psychological filth from his skin. He’ll only feel properly untainted once he’s touched Sam’s face, kissed the smooth skin over his heart and cleaned him up.
Sam has his rituals, Dean has his own.
Speaking of which, it’s time to go back out there, so he dries off and ties the towel around his waist.
The room’s dark, cool and quiet. Dean pads softly across the carpet to the spare bed and lifts the corner of the blanket to grab the things he’d put there in preparation, the first aid kit and wet cloth being the most important.
Sam’s still on the other bed, but he’s not on his belly, and he’s thrown the rest of his clothes, with the messy pillow, on the floor. He’s not asleep anymore, Dean knows, and his eyes open when Dean gets closer. He looks awful, but he’s never more beautiful to Dean than when he lets Dean see how much he needs him in moments like these. Dean used to worry that Sam would wake up after they’d done this and be afraid of him, but there’s never anything except trust in his sleepy eyes and Dean thanks fuck for that.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he’s careful not to jostle Sam too much as he puts the supplies on the floor before reaching out and cupping the uninjured side of Sam’s face. He assesses the cut while he savors the feeling of Sam’s soft cheek under his palm, his thumb touching the corner of Sam’s mouth until Sam turns his head into Dean’s hand and lets him take in the steady breaths moving past his lips. When he’s satisfied and decides the wound should only need a butterfly stitch, Dean brushes his hand down Sam’s neck and stops on his chest. There’s the barest sigh of contentment from Sam as Dean lays his cheek on the defined muscle of Sam’s left pec, eyes closed and ear pressed to his skin as he counts the steady beat of the heart he needs so much. It’s at a regular and even resting pulse, and tears are splashing on Sam’s chest before Dean can help it. He doesn’t make a sound, but his body shakes, and all he can hear in his mind is the frantic jackrabbiting of Sam’s heartbeat while Dean lay over his back and hurt him.
A big hand moves in Dean’s blurry vision, but he knocks it away before it can settle on him, and he pulls himself together, wiping his face and pressing his shaking lips softly to Sam’s chest. He tastes like salt, all tears and sweat, but his heart’s beating normally and that’s everything Dean needs.
The wet cloth is first in his hands, and he cleans Sam’s face, getting the bulk of blood from around the cut, scrubbing gently at the snot and tears until the tackiness is gone. When he’s done that, he cleans and disinfects the open slice before closing it up with a butterfly stitch and taping a small bandage over the top. Dean goes back to the bathroom then to rinse the cloth out, getting it freshly warm and wet, but he’s sitting on the bed again in a flash, barely needing to touch Sam’s knee before it’s being raised and pushed out so that Dean can clean between his legs.
Sam had told him at the beginning that he didn’t have to do any of this, that he was okay once he’d been given time to come down, but it was something Dean refused to budge on. It goes against all his protective instincts to leave Sam alone after forcing himself on him, even if Sam has asked him to do it, but he does. He always gives Sam that time that he needs when all Dean wants to do is hold him and tell his baby brother everything’s going to be all right.
He lets Sam have that, so Sam has to let him take care of him afterward.
As soon as Sam’s clean, Dean stands up, coaxing him gently to his feet and guiding him to the clean bed on the other side of the room. Neither makes any move to get under the blankets and Dean drops the towel from around his waist, lying down, Sam next to him a beat later.
Sam’s head is settled comfortably on Dean’s shoulder, his wide hand splayed out over Dean’s collarbone, thumb against the hollow of his neck so they can both feel the thud of his pulse. Dean’s content to stroke his fingers through Sam’s soft hair for a long time after that, soothing the scalp he’d abused earlier until the motion lulls him into a half-asleep state. They stay like that for hours, Dean’s hand coming to cradle Sam’s skull at some point after his arm tires of the absent petting, and Sam’s cheek is warm and a little sweaty from their combined body heat.
Nothing in particular rouses them from their doze, but when Sam moves lazily to brush his thumb back and forth over one of Dean’s nipples, Dean goes with it, goosebumps popping up on his skin as the rosy nub hardens from Sam’s attention.
Sam likes to take his time when they have sex on these days, so Dean settles in for the long haul. Sam touches every inch of skin he can reach from his position, and if there’s some he can’t, he goes to it. When Sam’s lips and fingers have Dean tingling all over, only then does Sam let him take over, lying out on his back so Dean can kneel between his legs and take that flushed, hard cock into his mouth.
Sam loves it when he does this, and Dean never gets tired of doing it for him, listening to the tortured noises of pleasure emitting from Sam’s throat. He sounds so different now, not a single thing to liken to the Sam who was shattered and broken on the bed across the room. “Dean,” he moans, and he must’ve said Dean’s name a couple dozen times today, but none of them sounded anything like this. Dean owns these sounds, because Sam only ever gives them to him, and he takes every single one and locks them up inside to remember when he can’t think of anything but Sam’s face bleeding into a ratty motel pillow.
Sucking messily, Dean pulls off the tip of Sam’s cock, and he doesn’t even have time to lick his lips before Sam’s tugging him up and flipping him over. The sheer size of Sam’s body has always been one of Dean’s biggest turn-ons and Sam knows it, uses it to his advantage whenever he can. Right now he’s braced on his arms, covering Dean from head to toe and then some, and Dean reaches up and grips his biceps, groaning when he feels the bulging muscles tensing and flexing minutely with the shifting of the mattress under their weight.
“Dean,” Sam says again before fitting his mouth to Dean’s, and they share the faint taste of Sam’s precome between them while he reaches for the lube on the bedside table. It’s almost empty, and Dean would’ve preferred to use it on Sam earlier, but he’d known Sam wouldn’t want it that way, so he’d saved it for this. Running his tongue along the perfect line of Sam’s teeth, he sucks air in through his nose when Sam’s slick fingers dip into the crease of his ass, circling his hole gently before one slides in real slow.
Sam never rushes this part, knows he has to account for his size when taking Dean, but he’s even more careful now, spending far too long for Dean’s peace of mind with each finger he adds, opening Dean under the fiery gaze that makes Dean’s cheeks redden, shy like he never is except for when Sam watches him so closely.
The last dollop of lube is squirted out into Sam’s palm, and Dean can’t look as that enormous hand spreads the slick gel over ruddy skin or he’ll freaking come, because Sam’s been teasing his cock and his prostate for what feels like an eternity.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, and Dean finally breaks.
“Sam,” he says, voice hoarse with a day’s disuse and deep with what feels like a lifetime’s anticipation.
It’s all Sam needs and then he’s slipping into Dean, and it feels so good that Dean’s bottom lip starts quivering and he has to hold it still with his teeth while Sam’s cock opens him inch by inch until he’s so far inside that Dean doesn’t think they’ll ever get apart again. Doesn’t care. Wants to breathe Sam into his lungs and be filled with him down to every last cell.
“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Dean moans, and he’s glad it’s such an easy name to say, because while Sam’s unmoving inside him, just hot and hard and stuffing him to the brim, nothing else he could say would mean anything at all.
The power of speech dances farther from his grasp when Sam settles into a rhythm that’s deep but not fast, powerful but not hard, and he’s got his legs wrapped tight around Sam’s hips, heels digging into Sam’s calves. The angle’s perfect, and Sam’s mouth on his nipple is perfect, and Sam’s hands slippery with sweat on his hips, that’s perfect too, and it doesn’t take long before Dean’s arching up, ‘ah ah ah’ on every shallow exhale until he comes without a single touch to his cock, painting his stomach with his release and pulsing one last time as Sam thrusts jerkily through his own orgasm and spills inside him.
His hands are weak like he’s just woken up, so he drapes his arms around Sam’s back and tugs him down until Sam collapses against him. He’s heavy, but Dean likes to feel Sam’s sated weight pressing him down, never feels more like Sam’s than he does at this moment, and Sam doesn’t move because he knows that. He knows everything about Dean, and Dean was scared of that once, but he doesn’t remember why.
Relief folds over Dean like a blanket, and as he sweeps damp bangs of hair off Sam’s forehead and cheeks, he lets it swallow him up.
FIN