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Dean leaves Sam sleeping. Heads for the nearest bar and downs shot after shot of Cuervo, till he can feel the liquor abrading the back of his throat.
It doesn't work. Nothing will.
But he tries anyway. Picks a fight outside the bar with some redneck asshole and gets his face slammed into the concrete, and a boot in his gut. It hurts like hell, but it makes him forget for a while, maybe twenty minutes or so, as he lies there immobile.
Dean stumbles back to the motel with a split lip and a couple cracked ribs, thanking a God he doesn't believe in that he didn't drive.
After everything, dying in a fucking carcrash would suck.
When he gets to their room, he strips down to his t-shirt and boxers, tapes his ribs up and crawls into Sam's bed. Just sits there, propped up by pillows and staring at the wall. Even drunk his senses are on-form and he can see there's a scorch mark on the wall, the off-white wallpaper singed black and peeling. Dean can't help but think of fire and burning and seared flesh and it makes a chill go right through his bones.
"Where'd you go?" Sam murmurs. Dean's gaze is fixed to the wall, but he knows without looking that Sam's staring at him, like he's burning a hole in him.
"Needed some air."
"You okay?" Sam's voice is scratchy, low and sleep-drunk and Dean can feel it in his groin. Sam strokes his arm, and Dean's skin prickles.
"'m tired, Sam." He lies down, turns his head away, towards the door. There's things he wants to say, wants to tell Sam, but he feels like there's a hand over his mouth stopping him.
There isn't enough time anyway. Not enough time to even skim the surface, so instead, he says nothing.
Dean drifts off to sleep, fingering the leather that holds his amulet around his neck.
The dream is so vivid he's not quite sure if he's really asleep. There's nothing out of the ordinary about the scene: he sees himself roll over and pull Sam to him, one hand in his hair and the other on his throat, thumb tracing his carotid.
They kiss and it's almost like the way they always kiss, except it feels more desperate, more frantic, wild. Dean's on top of Sam within seconds, hands inside his boxers, pulling them down and off, and flipping Sam onto his stomach. He pulls his own underwear down, lines himself up and pushes inside with no lube, no foreplay. It's not careful or gentle; it's just hard, brutal fucking.
Sam's whimpering and writhing, but it's not from pleasure, it's almost like he's trying to get away. Dean just holds him down, one hand on the back of his neck, not letting him move. He can feel the rush building inside him, pleasure warm and sweet in the pit of his stomach and he thrusts in one more time, buries himself deep inside Sam and groans.
He comes with his eyes closed; and when he opens them, they're pure black.
Dean wakes up gasping for breath, panicked and disgusted, but mostly turned on. He feels dirty, like he needs a good shower, but within seconds he has one hand on his cock and one at his side, nails gouging his palm as he strokes himself hard and fast.
When his orgasm hits, he hears them: slavering and growling and he imagines what it'll feel like, being ripped apart by them.
They're coming for him.
It's five am, and Dean Winchester hears the baying of the hounds.
Nineteen hours and counting.
end