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Dean dreams of falling now. Every single night without fail. Those dreams where you're falling off a building and you'd better not hit the ground before you wake up, because if you hit the ground, you die.
But it's more than falling; it feels more like he's being pulled down.
The dreams started the night after he sold his soul to bring his brother back from the dead.
He hasn't told Sam about them; he knows exactly what would happen if he did. There'd be pain and anguish and Sam beating himself up over the fact that he can't do a goddamn thing about this fucked-up situation.
Sam's right, he is selfish, but Dean'd do it all over again if he had to. Ten thousand times over, without the slightest hesitation.
He hasn't told Sam about the other dreams he has, either. They always start out innocently, with the two of them fighting; sparring, like when they were kids. By the end, Dean is on top of Sam, holding his wrists above his head, while they kiss, messily with lots of tongue. He always wakes up panting, with sweat drenching his clothes and his hand on his cock.
Dean's been having those dreams since he was nineteen.
They stay in the car when they get back to the motel, in silence. Sam looks like he doesn't want to move, so Dean just sits there, staring at the number on their door. It's starting to come off its hinges and the nine is upside down, so it looks like a six. He kinda wishes he'd just gotten out of the car when they arrived, just left Sam here to process things on his own, because this is awkward and uncomfortable and it's hanging in the air between them.
Those are the terms, there's no way out of it.
Dean clears his throat. He doesn't mean to, but it's instinctive and it just feels so fucking serious in here right now. Exactly not how he wants to spend his last ten or so months on earth.
That's a bit too fucking serious, right there.
"Something you want to say, Dean?" Sam doesn't look at him, just keeps staring ahead doing that jaw clenching thing he always does. If Dean were to look down, he'd most likely see Sam clenching his fists so tight that his nails'd be making imprints.
Dean just huffs out a breath. "Nah, I'm good. Think we could maybe go inside? I'm bored out here. I need a drink."
He checks his watch. "Maybe we should check out that bar from last night again? That chick that works there..." Dean bites his lip like he's trying to remember. "Merril? She's got a tongue stud and no offense, but I think I'd enjoy that much more than sitting in silence with you, little brother."
"I think I'll pass."
"Suit yourself. More for me, then." Dean punches Sam on the shoulder and gets out of the car. He sees Sam take a couple of deep breaths before he gets out the passenger side and slams the door.
“You don’t get to fucking do that, Dean.” He can hear Sam hissing through his teeth and now Dean knows he’s not going to let it go. He’ll pick a fight just to see how Dean reacts. Sam is nothing if not predictable.
“I don’t want to get into this right now, Sam. I've got places to go and chicks with tongue studs to bang and you know, you're kinda bringing me down, so...” Dean gestures towards the motel room.
“Whatever.” Sam shrugs his shoulders and follows Dean towards the motel room door, huffing under his breath, kicking stones and dirt as he walks, like they're a substitute for what he really wants to lay into with his boot.
Dean laughs bitterly. Sam always ribs him for being immature, but when he doesn’t get what he wants? Thirteen-year-old girl all the way. Dean bites down on everything else he wants to say and he can feel his own jaw flex. Shuts his eyes for a second and unlocks the door.
"Ladies first."
Sam pushes past, nearly bowling him over and mutters under his breath, low and icy, "Fuck you, Dean, just... fuck you."
Dean doesn't want this, doesn't want to fight or make Sam angry with him. He just wants everything to be normal again, like nothing happened. It's the only way they're going to get through the next few months with a minimum of heartache.
But Sam's never been one to let things go.
Dean has a temper, he’s well fucking aware of that fact. But it’s nothing like Sam’s. With Dean it’s all noise. He overreacts. But ten minutes later, he’s usually calmed the fuck down and everything’s cool.
Sam, though ... Sam blows up like a volcano, but after, he’s all ice-cold rage and grudges and words dripping with venom and he never lets a damn thing go.
***
When Dean stumbles in at two am, half-drunk, well-fucked and ready to just fall into bed, boots and jeans and all, Sam is sitting on the edge of his bed with the night-light on, staring at the floor.
"Some interesting stain on the carpet there, sport? Like Bob from Twin Peaks? I guess that makes you Maddie. Man, Sheryl Lee was hot," Dean grins, totally lost in adolescent-crush memories, before shaking his head and forcing himself out of it.
"You think you're funny," Sam slurs, getting up slowly and taking a swig from the bottle of mostly-empty Johnnie Walker on the table. He grimaces and drinks again, draining it dry. "You're really, really not."
Dean laughs and it sounds hollow. "Sitting in the dark, getting drunk, huh, Sammy? Well, that's some healthy behaviour right there." Dean stands with his back against the wall opposite and watches as Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before walking over to Dean on legs that look really unsteady.
"You." Sam stands opposite him, too close. Dean can feel Sam's breath ghosting against his cheek; it's warm and familiar and smells like whiskey and microwaved burritos. "You can't lecture me on healthy behaviour," he accuses, his forefinger poking Dean in the chest.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Look, Sam, we've been through this. I only have a year. Not even that now, and I don't intend to waste it listening to you break my balls. The deal's made and that's all there is to it. I thought we'd dealt with this."
"Fuck you, Dean, we haven't dealt with shit. You're not dealing with it, so why the fuck should I?"
Sam closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "You only have a year and you're out fucking anyone that'll have you. With tongue studs and appletinis."
His voice cracks and he's just barely whispering, staring at the floor again. "It's like you're already gone."
Dean feels like someone just thrust a knife into his gut and twisted. Sam looks up at him and there's so much hurt there, betrayal and anguish ... he sounds like he's eight years old again, begging Dean to stay in his bed after Dean'd read him the latest chapter of 'The Borrowers' because Dad wasn't there and Sam was too upset to sleep alone.
Dean could never deny Sam anything. It hurts like hell that he has to now, has to deny him the only thing that Sam's been hanging onto since the night the devil's gate opened and he realised exactly what Dean had done to bring him back.
Sam touches him then, fingers brushing against the line of his jaw and it feels so comforting that Dean leans into it, moves his lips against Sam's palm. When Sam takes his hand away and his mouth is on Dean's instead, he just goes with it. Sam brushes his lips against Dean's and they're soft and warm and Dean doesn't think, just growls and threads his fingers in Sam's hair and pulls him in. Licks into Sam's mouth and he tastes just as amazing as Dean always imagined he would, all the times he stood in the shower and jerked off and thought he was a sick fuck for imagining just what his brother would taste like. For dreaming about pinning him down and claiming his mouth.
They're both drunk and caught off guard and it shows. The kiss is sloppy and messy and wet and so fucking good that Dean sighs into Sam's mouth, trying to ignore the fact that Sam is rubbing against him and he's hard because if Dean thinks about that, even for a second, he's going to come in his damn jeans.
Something's off, though. It doesn't feel right, not when Sam is so fucked-up he can barely stand unaided. He pushes Sam away a little harder than he means to and Sam falls backward before Dean grabs his arm to help him balance. Sam looks hurt and rejected and Dean shakes his head.
"You're way too drunk for this, Sammy. This isn't how you want it to be."
Sam huffs out a laugh, but there's no weight behind it and his words sound heavy with venom when they come out. "I don't believe you, Dean. It was good enough for you to screw whatshername, but not me?"
Dean pulls Sam into him, kisses him one more time, quick brush of lips.
"That's why, you damn idiot. Get some sleep."
Sam staggers towards his bed and flops onto his stomach. A couple of minutes later he's asleep and snoring, loud. Always louder when he's drunk.
Dean sits down on his own bed and tries not to look at the hollow of Sam's back, the patch of skin that's peeking out from where his shirt is riding up, the curve of his ass. He has to force himself to look away. He's already hard as hell and his desire for this to not just be another fuck is about the only thing stopping him from going over there, pulling down Sam's jeans and rubbing against him, hard and fast until he comes all over that perfect ass.
Dean can’t recall ever being this honorable in… well, ever. But it's Sam and if he's honest with himself he's wanted this for years. It's too much to blow on a drunken screw that's going to complicate things every day for the rest of his life, so he strips down to his t-shirt and boxers, gets under the comforter and closes his eyes.
***
That night, he doesn’t dream of falling. Instead, he dreams of Sam with a tongue stud, down on his knees, sucking him off, metal and tongue and lips sliding over Dean's cock until Sam pulls back and Dean comes all over his face.
"I found it for you," Sam says. "Found a way to get you out of this." Then the crossroads demon appears and touches Sam on the arm. He falls down dead, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
Dean wakes up, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat, gasping for breath. Sam is sitting up in bed, watching him.
"You okay there, stalker-boy?" Dean wipes his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. "You enjoy watching me sleep?"
Sam raises an eyebrow. "I was not watching you sleep, you egomaniac. You were having a nightmare, so I wanted to make sure you were okay. I do remember what it's like, you know."
"I have nightmares every damn night, Dr Freud; you've never seemed particularly interested before."
"Yeah, well, maybe I have been and you just didn't care to notice. You've been too busy hunting and drinking and fucking everyone with a pulse." Sam pauses. "Well, almost everyone."
"Oh man, I am way too hung-over to deal with this." Dean leans back against the headboard. "And I'm a little over the jealous wife routine, Sammy, so how about we leave this for later, huh?"
"Sure." Sam clenches his jaw. "Let's just pretend I didn't kiss you last night, even though I know you wanted it."
Dean knows Sam's right, because he did want it. Does want it. Before Dean's brain has any time to catch up, Sam is on top of him, knees on either side of his thighs, hands cradling Dean's face and he's kissing him again. This time it isn’t sloppy and messy, it's hard and forceful. Sam's tongue is exploring Dean's mouth like Sam does everything, thorough and precise and it's so perfect that Dean has to pull away for a second to catch his breath and think.
Sam is frantic, desperate; he rubs against Dean, his cock sliding up and down Dean's cock and he's sucking on Dean's neck, sucking so hard it's going to bruise.
"Wanna mark you, Dean, so they all know. So she knows." Sam's voice hitches and it makes Dean's chest ache. There's no room for her here, not now; he can't think about that because he has plenty of time (fifty-one weeks, one day and fifteen hours) to think about her. Right now all he wants to think about is Sam, just like he always did before the ticking clock got set above his head.
"Don’t need to do that," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair. "Everyone knows anyway, everyone knows it's all about you."
Sam stops then and looks down at him, pain and hurt clouding his features. "I can’t just let you die, you know. I just. Can't."
"And I couldn’t either," Dean says, "so I guess that makes us even, huh?"
He grabs Sam and pulls him forward, one hand sliding up under his t-shirt, fingers stroking until he finds the ridged patch of scar-tissue. He rubs at it and that seems to make Sam crazy, and isn’t that just a little piece of fucked-up, right there?
Sam moves against his hand, thrusts his hips forward, sharply. "Dean. God. Fuck me. Wanted you to since...."
Dean cuts him off by kissing him, hard. He doesn’t want to think about all the time they've wasted when they could've been doing just this. He rolls them over so he's on top, stripping off his t-shirt and boxers and throwing them on the floor. He moves off of Sam, long enough for him to do the same and they're both naked, breathing audibly.
Dean thinks back to what a skinny fucking beanpole Sam was through puberty and how different he is now, though possibly thinking about Sam at thirteen isn't such a great idea when Sam is naked and under him. He can't help it though, remembers when Sam hit fifteen and started to fill out and Dean had to screw everything that crossed his path: girl, guy, anything to take his mind off the fact that his brother had turned into the star of every masturbation fantasy he saw when he closed his eyes.
But that's nothing compared to how he's feeling now. He rubs his thumb over Sam's lips, hissing when Sam takes it into his mouth and licks in cat-like circles before going down on it; sucking, scraping with his teeth. Jolt of fucking want in Dean's belly and he moans, "Sam. God, Sammy, your fucking mouth."
Sam releases Dean's thumb with a pop and says, "Lube in my duffle, in the side, you wanna grab it?"
Dean thinks that maybe they're rushing things; he normally likes to take his time, but this is different. It's desperate and frantic and if he's honest with himself, not altogether healthy. But that's something he's not ready to think about, so he gets up and walks over to where Sam's bag is, finds condoms and a plastic bottle and goes back to the bed.
He straddles Sam's thighs and he doesn't want to know, but Sam has supplies in his goddamn bag and he can’t help himself. "How many, Sam? How many dudes have you…?"
"Not many. Enough. You don't really want to know, do you?"
Sometimes Dean wishes Sam didn't share his damn brain the way he does, because Sam's right. He really doesn't want to know. At all. But Dean can't help it, can't help seeing it in his head; Sam on his knees in front of some faceless guy, servicing his cock, or bent over some frat boy's desk, just taking it.
"Um… you do remember I'm here, right? Waiting?" Sam arches his eyebrow and Dean laughs, deep and throaty. Plenty of time (fifty-one weeks, one day and fifteen hours) to jerk off to and obsess over Sam and his forays into queer college life. Later.
Not now, because Sam is turning over, kneeling towards the headboard, thrusting his ass back and fisting his cock and it makes Dean fucking wild seeing him like that. He bends over him and tongues the hollow in the small of Sam's back. He tastes like sweat and desperation. Dean pours lube on his fingers, smearing them with clear fluid, circles Sam's hole and pushes two slowly in. Sam flinches a little, small intake of breath and Dean figures it's probably been a while, but it doesn’t take long for Sam to relax. Dean can see the moment where it all changes and Sam's hips start to move; he fucks himself on Dean's fingers and breathes, "More, more, please."
Sam begging is just about one of the hottest things Dean's ever seen in his life. He gets a third finger inside him, tight, slippery heat and Dean can't wait to feel how fucking great it's going to feel around his cock. He doesn’t have to wait long because Sam's writhing on his hand now, moaning, "Fucking come on," and Dean rolls the condom on, lines himself up and pushes in.
He's holding back, inching in so slowly, not wanting to hurt Sam until Sam groans, "Dude. I'm not a girl; you wanna fuck me before I die of boredom? Or orgasm denial?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "You're so fuckin' bossy," he says as he pushes in the rest of the way, "and you are. So. A. Girl." God, it feels so fucking good to be in there now, surrounded by tight, tight heat and when Dean moves, pulling almost all the way out, slamming back in, the friction against his cock is unbelievable.
It's been a long time since he's done this with a guy.
Too fucking long. Shoulda been doing this to you for years, Sam.
But regret's a bullshit emotion and life's too short and all that matters is now and this. Dean grabs Sam's hips so hard that his fingernails dig in and he starts to pull him back and forward, fucking him just the way Sam seems to want, fast and hard and relentless. Pulling all the way out and slamming back in over and over, hard enough so that they both feel alive, so they remember what it's like not to be worried about how many days they have left or whether there's a way out of it or how long it'll take either one of them to eat a bullet when the other one leaves.
Sam's grunting now, moaning, "Fuck, Dean. Fuck," and Dean can see Sam's hand speeding up, jacking himself faster and faster in response to Dean's thrusts. One more stroke and Sam's coming, groaning and clenching around Dean's cock. Dean fucks him through it, but the tight friction's too much for him to take and he gets two, maybe three more thrusts in before he's coming too, breathing out words against Sam's back, like he thinks they'll be caught there and not heard, not caught in the air between them.
Dean pulls out, slowly and walks to the trash, on very shaky legs. He wants to say something to break the tension, but the words get stuck in his throat and he doesn't know what he could possibly say beyond, What the fuck did we just do?. So he says the most random thing that his brain manages to come up with.
"I'm fucking starving."
"You're… starving?" Sam rolls over and he has that look on his face, the one that Sam generally reserves for when he's at his most exasperated. "I just. Sometimes I don’t believe we're even related."
"That'd be convenient," Dean smirks. Sam exhales, a huge sigh and Dean collapses next to him on the bed, rolling over so his back's to Sam.
"I still think you're a selfish shit," Sam murmurs, "which is interesting because I thought I was the selfish one."
"You still are."
"Whatever, man. You have me beat."
There's a long pause before Sam speaks again, long enough for Dean to consider filling it with stupid shit that his brain's not even capable of coming up with, he's so fucking tired.
"Dean? I'm not gonna give up, you know. On you. Ever."
Dean doesn't say anything to that, because there's nothing else to say.
end