SPN fic: All Blood Bleeds Red: Part Two
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Sam manoeuvres Dean out to the car, sneaking them out through the emergency exit of the auditorium, where they'd already disabled the alarm, just in case. Dean feels dizzy, his chest aching. There's blood everywhere, sticky and red, slowly drying.
"The upholstery," he complains dimly, but Sam shakes his head, gently shoving him down into the passenger's side and closing the door.
He says, "I'll clean it later," the words dim through the closed door. He throws the shotgun in the back seat before getting in on the other side, jamming the keys into the ignition. "You okay?"
Dean nods sluggishly. "Be fine," settling down low in the seat and resting his head against the bench. His shirt's torn, the jumpsuit bunched up around his waist. He traces his hand over the twisting red line down the centre of his chest, where the skin's knit together. It's not like it never happened - there's more than a reminder of pain. Every fucking heartbeat hurts, his whole chest throbbing with it.
His ears are ringing with the sound of his own screams.
They're maybe five miles down the road when it hits him. The adrenaline, the fear, the pain - all of that, it's there in his veins like a fucking drug, pounding in his brain. He's alive. It hurts too fucking bad for him to be dead, and there's blood everywhere, all over his clothes, his skin, all over Sam, all over the seat of his car, and he hurts so bad his eyes are stinging. He isn't going to cry.
He won't cry, but he's so fucking hard he can feel his dick swelling, pushing hard against the wet, tacky fabric of his blood-soaked underwear, like what little blood he's got left has all drained into his cock.
"You okay?" Sam asks again, glancing over, and Dean curls his body protectively around his aching prick, shaking with want. He feels light-headed and sick, and can't decide whether it's nausea or disgust. Sam reaches over, resting one warm hand on Dean's knee, squeezing lightly.
Dean barely manages to choke out, "Fine," as he thrusts one hand between his legs, palming at his dick. He feels his body arch, trying to swallow a moan as he presses down harder, rubbing the heel of his hand over the bulge in his fucking jumper. He's so close to reaching in and jerking himself off he can already feel the calluses of his palm on his dick, but Sam's looking over again, looking so sweet and concerned that Dean swears he's going to puke all over himself any second.
He can hear the catches in his breath, gasping ragged for hair, hand still cupped over his erection, maybe to hide it, maybe just to touch it, Dean doesn't even know. But he can feel himself shaking, and before he knows it he's reaching for the door, gasping, "Pull over - Sam! Pull the fuck over!"
The tires screech as Sam jerks the car onto the shoulder, and Dean's got the door open when they've just barely stopped moving, falling into the gravel and onto his knees. He heaves, puking up burger and fries and good Texan beer. The sharp stones bite into his palms but Dean doesn't notice - everything else hurts too much, and his dick's still hard and heavy between his legs, even when he's on his hands and knees on the side of the road, puking and mewling like a fucking baby.
Sam's got the good sense not to say anything when Dean climbs back into the car, and he doesn't ask again if he's okay, or reach out a reassuring hand. Dean's grateful for the silence, even more grateful when Sam reaches for a tape. Dean recognises the writing on the case, his own familiar scrawl, and it's not even ten seconds later when he hears the first chords of Metallica's cover of Turn the Page. Sam gives him the weakest smile, shifting the car back into drive, and Dean swallows down the taste of bile.
: : :
He knows.
He knows what's going to happen before they even get into the motel room, knew it because he saw how hard Dean was, even beneath the bulky janitor's jumpsuit, saw him palm his stiff dick through those layers of fabric, trying so hard not to moan. When the bathroom door slams in his face, it isn't a surprise. He'd be lying if he said that made it hurt any less.
There's a click when Dean locks the door, and seconds later, there's his groan of relief. Sam remembers when he didn't know what this was, didn't understand - but sitting on the carpet, leaning against the wall, he can hear Dean's muffled sounds of pleasure through the thin bathroom door. If he listens hard, he can make out the slick sound of skin on skin, Dean fucking into own hand. He hates this ritual, crouched on the floor just outside, listening to his brother jerk off, wondering - Jesus, what if whatever the spirit did doesn't hold, if his chest opens up again - and all that blood. He listens to Dean's low moans the way he would to a heartbeat, a sign of life, that Dean's alive and okay on the other side of that door.
"Oh, god," he hears, and he leans back against the wall. Dean's voice is quiet but desperate, with that familiar hitch that Sam recognises from every time Dean's ever fucked him, every time Sam's ever sucked him off or given him a handjob. "Oh, god. Fuck, please." Sam shifts slightly, sighing. He's being more vocal than usual, his pleas throaty and needy, and Sam wants -
"Fuck, please," Dean begs. "Fuck, oh god, Sam." And Sam just stops.
He feels dizzy, almost, reaching a hand out to grip the short fibres of the carpet as if to steady himself. Because he's been listening to this for over a year, and months of Dean's sex sounds all blend together in his mind but Dean's never - never once said Sam, not while...
"Sam, god, yes." He hears it, that catch in Dean's voice that says he's about to come - and then there's silence, a sigh of a curse, Dean muttering, "Fuck," in something that's like relief. And it takes Sam a second to realise he has to get up, get the bandages together, and a washcloth, and a second more after that to finally drag himself to his feet, leaning against the wall for support.
It's the first time Sam's ever felt that maybe, just maybe, he was in there with Dean. His eyes feel hot and he doesn't know exactly why.
: : :
He feels calm. The tension, that strain between his shoulders, is gone. His shorts are sticky with blood and come and sweat but he doesn't care, slumping down onto the edge of the bed. Sam's staring at him, eyes wide and bright with something like innocence, and his hands shake as he comes over to stand by Dean.
"You're okay," he murmurs, reaching out to touch his trembling fingers against the ragged tear on Dean's chest. "Jesus, Dean." And then Sam's on his knees in front of Dean, and for a minute he swears his little brother's going to tug the jumpsuit down and blow him, but Sam doesn't. He just grips Dean's knees and rests his forehead in Dean's lap and breathes, whispering, "God. Oh, god."
Dean has no idea how long they stay like that. It's quiet, Sam grasping his knees and pressing his mouth against Dean's thigh, kissing the bloody leg of the grey jumper. Dean can smell the copper of his own blood, the stink of sex and come, the bitter tang of sweat. Sam doesn't seem to care, nuzzling against Dean's leg, breathing in deep and murmuring, voice soft, "You scared the shit out of me."
"Me too."
Sam lifts himself up, cupping Dean's face in his wide, warm hands. His mouth is soft and warm and he tastes like Sam, spit and heat and comfort. It's nothing much, their mouths brushing, Sam's huge hands warm, stroking over Dean's stubble, but it's right in a way nothing else in the world ever is.
Sam pulls away slowly. "First aid kit's in your bag, right?" Dean just nods.
: : :
Dean's pliable, quiet. It's not like him, this softness, the way he looks at Sam with something unreadable in his eyes. He doesn't move, but he lets himself be maneuvered, doesn't struggle as Sam wraps his chest in layers of white gauze. He's not even shaking now, just still and silent.
"You okay? You're freaking me out," Sam murmurs, and Dean just looks at him, eyes dark and warm, and then draws him down for a kiss. Dean's mouth is soft and wet, his lips soft under Sam's, but the kiss is short, no teeth or tongues, just something quick and weirdly intimate. "Okay," Sam says. He tucks the end of the bandage in, gives Dean's shoulder a gentle shove. "You're done."
Dean's breathes out in a ragged sigh, lies down on the bed. Sam's itchy with dried blood, but he doesn't care enough to shower, doesn't want to be that far from Dean right now, can't stand another minute of that fucking door shut between them.
: : :
He knows Sam isn't sleeping. He can hear his brother's shallow breathing, can picture Sam staring at the ceiling above them. They're not touching, and Dean doesn't know why, doesn't know if there's some reason Sam's keeping distance, or if he should be doing something other than laying here, looking up.
"I don't know which was worse," he finally says, and he can hear the rough edge in his voice, spent from screaming. "Back in that cabin - with Dad - it was - it was Dad." He turns, and can make out the dim shape of Sam looking at him. "But Sam, I thought, you know, it was Dad, and he'd - he'd break through it. And I'd be okay." His breathing sounds harsh to his own ears, and he swallows it down, whispering, "This time - this time I knew I was going to die."
There's silence, then, nothing but the occasional deep rumble of an engine on the road outside.
Sam finally whispers, "Dean, I -" like there's something he can say, like they should talk about this. But the thing is, Dean doesn't really want to talk. He just wanted to say that one thing.
"Go to sleep," he murmurs, and he rolls onto his side, reaches an arm out across Sam's body. The mattress creaks beneath them and they shift together, Sam nestling back against Dean's chest, slow and cautious.
"All right," he says softly, reaching up to grip Dean's hand, and he's not going to complain, not this time, just squeezes his little brother a little tighter, and does his best to ignore the ache in his chest.
: : :
"Thirteen days," Dean says, and Sam looks up from the computer.
"What?"
Dean runs a hand over the bandages on his chest, fresh and clean and white, redone after Sam finally got him in the shower. There's something in his eyes, something quiet and withdrawn, and he says, "Sam, you're supposed to cut my heart out in thirteen days."
It's morning, and quiet. Dean's shivering and Sam looks at him, shakes his head. Because he won't. It isn't going to happen, not like that, and he says, "No."
"Sam -"
"No." He shuts the laptop slowly, and shifting to his feet. Dean looks up at him with something like nervousness, something that's got no place there, because Dean is never like this, soft and quiet, all the rough edge worn down. "No, Dean," he murmurs, spreading Dean's thighs apart and standing between then, hunched down to look into his eyes. "I'm gonna find a loophole, okay? There's gonna be another way."
Dean looks up at him, eyes wide and bright, with more green in them than Sam's ever seen.
Sam pulls away, slumps down on the mattress next to Dean. "There's a way. I just - I just have to find it." He reaches out, touches Dean's knee. It must be the blood-loss that's made his brother so fragile, and last night - it's weird to think of Dean's habit in concrete terms, but he knows last night was different, and knows without having been in that bathroom that the orgasm was more powerful. It's not that different than usual, because Dean's always been quieter after, almost peaceful, like all the tension and fear's gone out of him. It's like that, only more, leaving Dean all soft edges and warmth.
"How -"
"I know because sacrifices are about two things: power, and symbolism." He squeezes Dean's knee lightly. "Not about death, not about the actual act of cutting out somebody's heart, but the power and the symbolism behind it. And there's a way - there's gonna be a way that I can do that without actually killing you." He could say a lot of things, about Dean's heart being his, and not being about to give it up to some Mayan god, or something equally ridiculous and sappy that Dean would laugh at him for, even as quiet and subdued as he is now. Instead, he says, "You're my brother. I'm not giving up on you that easy, Dean."
Dean smiles then, almost shy, but happy and relieved. A second later he's grinning, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the curve of Sam's neck, whispering, "Okay."
: : :
By afternoon, Dean feels more like himself. He's grounded again, his relief faded into something more comfortable. He's tired still, sluggish from the loss of blood, but feels more just simply peaceful and content than that strange soft openness.
Sam's back at the laptop, pausing occasionally to glance over at one of the books that lay open beside him. Dean's propped up against the headboard, looking through an issue of Maxim his brother picked up for him, having refused to buy him Playboy.
"Found anything yet?" Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head.
"Only that you have to be celibate until after the ritual." After. Dean's more hopeful than he should be, maybe, because the whole thing seems pretty cut and dry to him. Mayan sacrifice, you need to cut out the heart - can't really live without one of those. But Sam seems confident, and it's easy to accept that his geek brother knows more about the subtleties of this than Dean does.
Dean fakes a horrified expression. "What? Celibate? Damnit, Sam, that makes this a waste of time, doesn't it?" he asks, and puts the magazine down as if in dismay. Sex doesn't exactly sound appealing at this exact moment anyway, although he's dimly aware that thirteen days, two weeks, is longer than he's gone without it in a while - longer than he's gone without since they started this thing.
Sam grins. "I'm not exactly happy about it either," he says, "but all the sacrificial victims of the Mayans were kept celibate up until - you know."
"They got their hearts cut out," Dean supplies for him, feeling something like fear, just for a second. But Sam - Sam will find this answer of his. A way around. Dean'd much rather keep his heart in his chest.
Sam shrugs. "Probably where the whole virgin sacrifice myth came from," he says, and Dean swings his leg off the side of the bed and gets to his feet. Sam smiles a little up at him. "You feeling better?"
"Yeah. Less light-headed." He goes over to Sam's chair, leans down to wrap his arms loosely around Sam's neck, pressing a kiss just beneath his brother's ear. Sam shivers agreeably, reaching up to touch Dean's wrist. "Man, now that I'm not allowed to, I really want to suck you off." It's not true, not really, but the way Sam sighs is worth it, and Dean would do it.
"Don't tease," Sam murmurs. "Not fair to say that right after I've said you can't." But he leans back, away from the computer, and Dean feels a rush of affection that he knows has a lot to do with last night, with the peace that comes with that kind of release, but he doesn't care. He feels warm, happy, and nips at the shell of Sam's ear.
"Dude, you've been doing that research crap all day," he murmurs. "Take a break. I'm hungry."
Sam starts to shake Dean loose, shaking his head. "I need to find -"
"You will. After we get some lunch. Come on."
: : :
It takes ten days, slowly putting together the pieces. Dean makes himself useful, running back and forth between the motel and the library, picking up the books Sam needs, taking them back when he's done with them. Dean's easy, trusting peace lasts two days before the restlessness sets in, and he's always moving: driving to the library, doing push-ups on the motel room floor, disappearing off to god-knows-where for hours at a time, coming back smelling like clean sweat and heat.
Dean's never been the kind of guy who can keep himself still, always needs to be in motion, going somewhere, doing something - but now he's frenetic, never holding still for even a moment, not even in sleep. Sam's given up on sleeping in the same bed with him; Dean tosses and turns and the bruises on his shins are just now beginning to fade. During the day, Sam sees him for maybe a few hours as he drops some books off, wanders their motel room aimlessly before taking off again.
He doesn't talk much, but his eyes are haunted, scared, and Sam wishes - but there's nothing he can do right now, except find the answer. And then he does. Everything fits, and it should work. Sam closes the laptop and shoves his notes aside, and waits for Dean to come back.
It's another three hours before Dean comes in, stripping off his sweat-soaked t-shirt before the door's even closed. He's panting and breathless, his skin shiny with sweat, and his eyes are bright and tired. "Dean," Sam says, and Dean gives him a weak, absent smile, heading for the bathroom.
His skin's slick when Sam takes hold of his wrist, and he turns, looking at his younger brother. "What?" There's something in his voice, restless and dark, frustrated.
Sam can't help but split into a grin. "I got it," he whispers. "Dean, everything - the sacrifice, I know how to do it. The loophole I was looking for."
Dean looks at him, forehead creased. "What?" he says again, softer this time, confused instead of scared.
"I worked everything out," Sam whispers. "All I need is blood, Dean, that's it. It's so fucking simple." He leans down, pulls his brother in, kissing him quickly. "I kept thinking of all these complicated things that wouldn't work, but it's simple. All we need is blood." Dean kisses him back, hesitant, hands wrapped loosely around Sam's wrists.
"Blood?" There's a question to his voice, and Sam nods. "Whose?"
"Yours." Sam kisses him again, nipping lightly at his lower lip. "But it's just blood. Not your heart, Dean, just a ritual, some candles, and blood. It's gonna be okay." He smiles then, and Dean grins back at him, sudden and bright.
"Blood," he says, and he doesn't know exactly what Sam's planning, but apparently that's okay, because he kisses Sam, nudging him towards the bed.
They fall back onto the tangled covers of Dean's bed. Dean's licking into his mouth, and Sam opens for him eagerly, rubbing fingers through his brother's short hair. Dean's smiling into the kiss, relieved, and they bump their teeth together, Sam arching up beneath the weight of Dean on top of him.
"Fuck," Dean groans, lowering his head to suck on Sam's neck, and he's rutting against Sam's thigh like a dog, reaching down for the fly of his jeans when Sam remembers.
Sam echoes him, muttering, "Fuck," but it's different, and he hates the fact that he has to reach for Dean's wrist, saying, "Stop. Dean, stop. We can't."
Dean doesn't seem to understand at first, jerking his own jeans open with one sure tug, shoving them down around his hips before he realises that Sam isn't joking, that he's really being told to stop. "What?"
"We can't," Sam sighs. "Celibate. You have to be celibate." He's achingly hard against one of Dean's legs, and it hurts - Dean doesn't move away, stays pressed intimately against him. Sam can feel that Dean's hard too, hanging out, cock arching up towards his belly, hands trembling as he lowers himself down.
"Shit," Dean whispers. "Shit, I forgot about that." He settles down on top of Sam, between his legs, and Sam's pushing, hard, against his groin. Dean doesn't move, though he presses a kiss into the side of Sam's neck. "I'm sorry."
Dean still smells like sweat. He could smell like sex, too, if they could only, but - they can't risk it. Sam doesn't know how important it is to the ritual, but they can't risk - can't do this. "Don't be," Sam murmurs. "Just - go take a cold shower or something."
"No." Dean shifts slightly, lifting himself up. He jerks Sam's jeans open, shoving one warm hand into Sam's briefs. Beneath him, Sam bucks up, shaking his head, reaching for Dean's wrist.
"Stop, can't," he whimpers, helpless. "Dean - Dean, please. Don't."
Dean leans in to kiss his throat again, settling back down. "I'm not," he murmurs. "I'm not, Sam. I know." And his hand rests over the hardness of Sam's cock, cradling him, and it's so fucking hot, and if he just moved, he could - but he doesn't. He's still beneath Dean's body, and Dean's hand is hot and comforting, shifting to lightly grip his aching, swollen prick and just hold it. "This okay?"
Sam moans, shuddering beneath Dean, and nods. "Don't move," he breathes. "Just - just don't move, I won't be able to -"
Dean breathes against neck, and murmurs, "I won't. It's all right, just - just relax." Sam can feel Dean's hard cock against his thigh, his own dick weeping pre-come over Dean's hand as his brother holds him, tender and sure. He closes his eyes, still shaking, listening to the ragged sound of Dean's breathing.
: : :
It's torture, in a way. His cock is pressed warmly against the denim covering Sam's thigh, bare, hard, and if he just rocked against him, it would feel - fuck, it would feel so good. Sam's dick is hard and wet, and there's pre-come leaking over his fingers, slick and so hot. He doesn't move, doesn't stroke his little brother's aching prick to soothe the pain of arousal, just presses kisses into his neck. He feels like he can barely breathe. Beneath him, Sam is perfectly still aside from the fact that he's trembling. He can hear the light chatter of Sam's teeth when he whispers, "Dean," his voice strangled.
"I'm gonna fuck your brains out when this is over," Dean whispers, hearing the hitch in his brother's breath. "Spread you open. Maybe I'll fuck you with my tongue first." He can feel Sam tighten beneath him, resisting the urge to arch up. "You'd like that, right?"
"Y-yeah," Sam gasps, and Dean can feel him trying so hard not to move, not to thrust into Dean's loose fist and make himself come.
He nips lightly at Sam's jaw, smiling. He knows he's shaking too, but he goes on. "Yeah, I know. You want that - my tongue thrusting into your ass, me holding you open, licking into you as deep as I can while you buck up against me, trying to get my tongue in deeper, all the way in." Sam's groan is low and guttural, desperate. "You'd be so wet from all that spit I'd barely need to lube you up, but I would."
Sam doesn't answer this time, doesn't say anything, but Dean can feel how hard he is, thick, desperate to come even though neither of them can. He's trembling, making incoherent sounds, his voice dry as he mumbles something that sounds like Dean's name.
"Use that stuff I keep in my coat pocket - you know, with Dad's journal," he murmurs. "The stuff you like so much, gets warm when I put it on, makes you so fucking hot." He wants so badly to squeeze Sam's cock, to get him off, but he's pretty sure it would count as breaking his vow of celibacy. Fuck. "Then I'll fuck you with my fingers, make sure you're ready. Open you up so fucking wide."
They don't move, but Dean keeps making promises to the skin of Sam's throat, saying, "I'll get three fingers in you before I fuck you. Maybe even four, I don't know, I guess it depends. Thrust them into you can't stop screaming my name. That's when I'd fuck you." He pauses, breathing deep, and he wants it as bad as Sam does, wants to fuck him right now, and it fucking hurts, but he keeps going. Can't stop. "I'll be so fucking hard, Sam," he says, and maybe his voice cracks a little, but if it does, Sam doesn't say anything, just moans quietly. "And I'll roll you over to fuck you, onto your back, push your legs up. So that when I'm inside you, I can look at you, see those - see those faces you make."
Sam turns his head slightly, looking at Dean. He's sweating, still shaking, worse than he was before. "You - Dean, you promise?" he asks, and Dean smiles, kissing Sam's trembling lips.
"Yeah, Sammy," he whispers. "Yeah, I promise. I'll - I'll fuck you like that, okay? And I'll have your dick in my hand, kinda like I do now, only I'll be jerking you off, stroking you until - until you can't fucking stand it anymore." He kisses Sam again, and Sam whimpers beneath him, needy, only barely managing to keep still. His underwear are soaked through with pre-come. "You'll come with my inside you, and I'll watch - I'll watch you, and when you're done, that's when - that's when I'll come, fucking you."
Sam gasps, whimpering, and Dean licks a wet stripe up his neck, muttering, "I promise, Sam. When this is over, I promise, okay?"
Sam nods weakly, reaching up to stroke one hand along Dean's sweat-slicked spine. "Okay," he breathes. "Yeah. Me - me too, I'll let you." Dean starts to pull his hand out of Sam's briefs, to end this, but Sam grips his arm, shaking his head. "No. No, I - I like this. Don't move. Stay."
"Okay," Dean murmurs, and he adjusts his grip on Sam's cock, and his little brother groans.
"Please," he gasps, suddenly begging, helpless. "Please, Dean, I need -"
"We can't, remember?" He lifts himself just enough to kiss Sam, close-mouthed and sweet. "I won't move again, I'm sorry, it's okay. Close your eyes, it's okay. I can't." And he settles down again, nuzzling in against Sam's neck, whispering soft, comforting sounds with no meaning.
: : :
When Sam wakes up, the motel is dark and he's alone. His cock throbs dully between his legs, tenting his briefs. They itch, pre-come dried and flaking against his skin. He shifts, moaning low as he sits up. Dean's gone, god only knows where, and Sam's aching. He grumbles, rolling out of bed and looking through his bag for clean briefs and a pair of jeans.
He aches to jerk off, to touch himself, to come - but Dean can't, and it would feel strange, wrong to do it without him.
He gets dressed, breathing a sigh. He'll ignore it, and it'll go down. He glances out the window, and there's a shadow hunched on the sidewalk outside the room - it's Dean. Sam drags the covers off the bed, wrapping them around his waist to hide his hard-on, and slips outside.
Dean looks up when he comes out, smiling a little. He says, voice soft and a little rough, "Woke up about an hour ago. Couldn't sit there with you hard like that and not jerk off. Thought I'd sit out here until you woke up." He pats the cement, and Sam settles down next to him. It's a strange moment of stillness, and Sam almost wants to lean in against his brother's side, although he doesn't.
"Sorry about - you know," Sam mutters, glancing down. "Wasn't... wasn't really fair to you." He shifts, uncomfortable, erection still straining against his briefs, and it'd be nice if he could ignore it. "Since you can't -"
Dean looks at him, smiles a little, and reaches an arm out, tugging Sam against his side. "You think I didn't enjoy getting you all hot and bothered like that?" he murmurs, nipping lightly at Sam's ear. His breath is hot and moist. "God, Sam, you think you have to say sorry for that? You're a fucking moron." He smiles. "Not too much longer now anyway. Couple days. I'll make it. You get off?"
Sam shakes his head, reaching his arms around Dean's waist. Dean snorts, but doesn't protest, doesn't say anything at all. "No," Sam murmurs. "Didn't want to without you."
"Still hard?"
"Yeah. It'll go away eventually."
"Moron," Dean says again, pressing his mouth against the top of Sam's head.
"Dean," Sam murmurs, frowning as Dean reaches a hand down under the blanket. "What-" and then his brother's hand traces over the zipper of his jeans. "Dean, you can't."
Dean smiles, stretching down to kiss softly at Sam's throat. "Can't get you all the way there," he mumbles into the soft skin of his neck, "but I can start you off." He pops the button, then slips his hand into Sam's underwear, fingers stroking along the side of his shaft.
"Fuck." Dean's hand wraps around his cock, jerking slow and easy, and he mouths at the lobe of Sam's ear. "D-dean, this, god, feels-"
"Tell me when you're gonna come." He breathes out hot against Sam's neck, mumbling, "S'okay to do it without me, y'know. Y'think I always wait for you to wake up to take care of my morning wood?"
Sam leans into Dean, shaking his head. "S'different. You got me all-" and he gasps sharply, gripping Dean's knee as tightly as he can. "Not - not fair to jerk off 'cause of you when you - when you can't - oh god, Dean, please," and Dean chuckles low in his throat.
"C'mon, Sammy." It's fucking amazing, Dean's callused fingers stroking over him, coaxing soft groans from his throat as Dean whispers, "You're fucking hot like this, Sam, wish I could finish you off, Jesus, that's it." Sam's hips buck up into Dean's hand, and he whimpers loudly.
"Close," he murmurs, reaching down for Dean's hand. "Dean, 'm close, stop," but Dean doesn't stop, not yet, although Sam reaches down to hold his wrist. "Fuck, fuck, c'mon, please, I'm, holy fuck, Dean."
And then Dean pulls his hand away and Sam wraps his hand around his cock, which is slick with pre-come. Dean's still right there, arm wrapped tightly around Sam's waist, hand gripping his thigh. "That's my boy," he breathes as Sam's eyes close, groaning. And then Sam comes, arching up off the cement sidewalk, Dean still holding him close, "That's it, Sammy, attaboy."
"Oh, fuck," Sam breathes out, murmuring, "that was - Dean, what-?" And Dean reaches back down into Sam's briefs, smiling against his throat. And Dean gently cups his soft dick, smiling a little. "Oh, Christ."
Dean's fingers are coated in milky-white wetness when he draws them back out, and he's smiling like the cat that ate the canary as he sucks them into his mouth. "Mm."
"Fuck," Sam complains, "you're gonna make me hard again."
"Let's go back inside," Dean says quietly, leaning over to kiss the corner of Sam's mouth. "I'll watch you jerk off."
: : :
The Texas heat makes running almost unbearable, and when he gets in, Dean can feel the sweat sticking his t-shirt to his skin. His jeans are chafing so bad he almost thinks maybe Sam's onto something with the whole shorts thing. The restless energy makes it impossible to stay still, and dizzy numbness of exhaustion and dehydration helps take the edge off.
Sam's gone, out running some errand or getting food, who knows. Dean can't even be bothered to care, more concerned about quenching his thirst with one of the bottles of warm water stuck among the duffle bags. He takes a shower in the hottest water he can take, until everything's so hazy he thinks he might faint. Then he collapses naked into the far bed and passes out. It's as close as he gets to sleep.
He wakes up, sweaty and sticky, when the motel room door opens, and turns his head to look at Sam as he comes in with a worn-out cardboard box.
"Where ya been?" he asks, wincing at the bright light that shines in through the open door.
Sam steps in, shutting the door quickly behind him. The room is blessedly dark, and Sam says, "Had to pick up a couple things, no big deal." He shoves the box under the spare bed and starts stripping out of his button-down. "Go back to sleep."
Dean turns his face back into the pillow and closes his eyes. It's a minute and a half before Sam crawls onto the bed next to him, his skin damp and warm against Dean's. He almost wants to complain when Sam's arm falls across his back, but he's run ragged, too damn tired. He's unconscious again before he can even think of what to say.
: : :
Sam leaves Dean in bed when he goes to shower in the morning. His brother's only pretending sleep, his breathing too shallow and quick, but there's no point in calling him on it. At least he's stopped elbowing and kicking Sam like he's been doing all night. The motel room is dark, only a sliver of light coming in through the mostly-closed curtain, painting a gold stripe on the worn-out carpet.
He takes a lukewarm shower, with just enough hot water that his teeth aren't chattering as he ducks his head under the spray. There's not a lot of steam, but the cool water makes him feel clean in a way he hasn't since they got here. He's not even all the way awake yet, although the shower helps, maybe.
When he comes out, Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a pair of jockeys and a t-shirt. He's holding a large book in his hands, the cardboard box it was in discarded on the bed next to him. He looks up when Sam comes out of the bathroom, his eyes wide. He looks down a second later, flipping the page with a shaking hand.
"Shit," Sam mutters, and he sits down on the bed next to him. When he takes the book from Dean's hands, his brother doesn't fight it, just looks up at him, his pupils blown wide in the darkness of the room. He packs the book into the box, then looks back over the bedspread-the small flint knife is discarded on the bed behind Dean, as is the jar of body paint. He puts them in too, shuts the cardboard box, and shunts it back under the opposite bed.
Dean doesn't look up at him, just sits and stares at his lap. He's gripping his thighs, which are startlingly white beneath the dark tan of his hands. His breath comes slow and measured, shuddering but controlled.
"Dean." Sam reaches out to touch him, his fingers brushing Dean's wrist.
Dean jerks away, gasps, "Don't-" and is gone, off the bed, snatching his keys off the dresser. The door slams behind him, rattling on its hinges.
Sam looks out the motel window a few minutes later, and Dean's sitting in the Impala, staring out through the windshield, the car idling in place.
It's a good forty-five minutes before Dean comes in. "Let's get breakfast," he says blandly, reaching for the jeans that are lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. "I'm starving, and the car needs gas."
"Sure," Sam says. "Let me grab my wallet."
: : :
The next few days are quiet, although Dean's humming with energy. He feels nauseous and constantly hungry, sick when he eats and dizzy when he doesn't. He's half-hard constantly, and takes to wearing Sam's jeans to try and conceal it, though they're miles too long and fall down around his hips even with a belt. It doesn't even work all that well, but it's a way of keeping Sam close without letting him mother Dean to death, so they provide a small comfort.
"You're destroying my jeans," Sam complains as Dean comes back to their table at the corner bar, "and those are my favourites." After two days of wearing them, they're starting to look ragged where he's been stepping on them.
Dean throws a french fry at him from across the table. "Whatever," he says. "They're comfy."
"You're such a dick."
Dean's smile is humourless, and he picks up his burger. His stomach lurches uncomfortably. "I know," he says. "This is supposed to be news?"
: : :
Dean doesn't say anything when Sam tells him he needs to go out for a drive and should be back in a couple hours. When Sam reaches under the bed for the cardboard box with the trappings of the ritual, Dean suddenly announces, "I'm gonna shower," and disappears into the bathroom. It's the third time he's showered today.
He hears the water turn on behind the closed door, and takes that opportunity to start packing things into the car. It's easier without Dean watching him, stripping the blankets and sheets off one of the bed and loading them into the back seat along with the first-aid kit and all the other necessities.
The water's still running when he leaves.
: : :
It's 10:00 and dark by the time Sam comes back. He looks tired and worn out, and he stands silhouetted in the open doorway. "You ready?" he asks.
Dean doesn't answer, just grabs his leather jacket off the back of the chair and slides it on, ignoring the look Sam gives him. It's still hot outside, well over 90, but the smell of the leather is familiar and warm.
Sam gets into the driver's seat, so Dean just shrugs, slides into the opposite door, and doesn't look at the supplies in the back seat. His baby rumbles to life when Sam twists the key in the ignition.
He slouches down low in the seat, pressed against the passenger's side window, staring out at the road. Sam takes them off the highway onto twisty, rocky back roads, and Dean watches the countryside. It's dark and flat, all withered brown fields beneath the dim light of the moon, a rickety old farmhouse every couple of miles. Dean feels motion sick and dizzy, finally just closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of leather and sweat.
He doesn't ask where they're going, or if they're close. He doesn't even want to know. His stomach is knotted and he feels queasy.
"You okay?" Sam asks, and Dean opens his eyes to glance over at him. He desperately hopes he isn't going to be sick.
"I'm fine," he lies. "I just wanna get this over with."
: : :
It's been ten minutes since Dean's said anything. He keeps an eye on his brother as he pulls the car off into an empty, dead field, watching him shrink down in the seat. He can practically taste the fear in the air, his Dean's raw, barely-checked terror. It's still Dean who gets out of the car first, reaching over to turn on the floodlights. It's eerie, how everything fades into blackness around them. It's quiet, like there's no life out here, not even any insects in this dry, dusty country.
"You okay?" Sam asks again, but this time Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't even glance at Sam, just shrugs out of his leather jacket, his button-down shirt. His eyes are huge and wide, but he just looks down at his feet, toeing off his boots. He doesn't want to talk, that much is obvious, so Sam starts unpacking the car. He spreads one of the motel's ugly flowery blankets out over the dried, packed earth of what should be a field, finds the candles, the matches, the gasoline, the paint, the chipped flint knife.
When he looks up, the rest of Dean's clothes are on the ground. His brother is naked and pale in the light from the car's floodlights, shivering in the warm night air. The tan of his arms is washed out by the harsh light, and he just looks small and frightened, shoulders hunched, every muscle in his body tense. His dick is shrunken and limp between his legs, and Sam suddenly hates this - hates doing this to Dean, hates seeing his brother terrified and alone. When Sam tries to touch him, Dean flinches away, shaking his head.
His voice is hoarse and quiet, muttering, "Don't. Just - just don't." Dean doesn't want this. Everything feels so fucking wrong.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispers. "Dean, I'm sorry." He swallows, uncertain, and says, "It's not gonna be that bad, okay? It's just -"
"I know," Dean says sharply, and he still won't look up, won't meet Sam's eyes. "I know what you're going to do, so just shut up and get it over with."
Sam reaches down for the container of body paint and the printed sheets with the symbols he needs. Dean's eyes are lowered, like he can't bear to watch, and Sam quickly rolls his sleeves up before he opens the little blue container. There's a gold tag on the lid that reads "Mayan blue," and Sam can only hope it's close enough to the real thing. He's praying this works. It should.
"Ready?" he asks. Dean doesn't answer, although he's frustrated, impatient with Sam's questions. He's shaking, looking anywhere but at Sam, one hand cupped protectively over his dick. "I need you to turn around."
Dean turns without a word, baring that wide expanse of skin and muscle. He shivers when Sam touches him, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder. The paint is cold, thick and greasy when Sam dips his fingers into it. Sam watches the muscles shift beneath Dean's skin, tense, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.
Dean starts to twist away at the first soft touch, then stills suddenly, clenching his hands at his sides. Sam takes two fingers coated in paint and traces down along Dean's spine, one single solid line. Dean bows rather than arches, hunching in on himself. His breath is catching in his throat, and Sam asks quietly, "Am I hurting you?"
"No," Dean says flatly. "No, just - just fucking do it." He's just scared of what's coming, tense in a way that's familiar and yet a thousand times worse than Sam's ever seen it. Sam hates that he knows exactly what's doing this to his brother: the promise of pain, of receiving what he wants and is afraid to take.
He traces the huge sun-spiral on Dean's back, thick blue lines traced with three fingers, all twisting towards the centre. Dean's breath comes in shallow, panting gasps, nothing like the sex-sounds Sam's used to. He leaves palm-prints on Dean's hips, an instinct to mark Dean that has everything and nothing to do with the ritual. It's an attempt to claim him as his own, leaving his prints on his brother's skin amidst the swirls of the god's symbols.
Sam draws straight lines along the nape of Dean's neck that curve over his shoulders, spiralling in on themselves, promising strength and power to the god who claims Dean's blood. He marks down Dean's sides, three streaks of blue paint from his armpits down to his hips on both left and right, fading into the handprints Sam's already left there. He voices the softest hint of a moan when Sam draws spirals on each of his buttocks. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Dean growls, this time definitely annoyed, twisting to look back at Sam. And the shiver that shakes him this time isn't one of fear, but because Sam's knelt down behind him, tracing lines over the tender skin at the backs of his knees. "Jesus, stop fucking asking me if I'm okay."
"All right," Sam agrees. "Turn around."
Dean does as he's told. He holds his hands at his sides, his prick still small and soft, although his expression is sharp and defensive despite how exposed he is like this. Sam leans in, painting blue just beneath Dean's bottom lip. Dean lowers his eyes, looking away from his brother, lashes brushing his cheeks; it's oddly sudden modesty. Sam traces blue down Dean's chest, covering the pink scar left from the Mayan king's attempt at sacrifice.
Dean breathes a small moan as Sam traces a spiral out from his left nipple, the sound helpless and involuntary. It's only gradually that he relaxes, not leaning away from Sam's hands. His skin glows gold beneath the headlights of the Impala. There are blue spirals looping over his stomach, around his navel, and he moans low in his throat; it sends a shudder though Sam's body. Dean's still tense, but there's less blind terror now, just the soft thrum of anticipation and apprehension.
"Almost done." Sam reaches down, painting a blue stripe along Dean's cock, which twitches beneath his fingers. Dean mutters something - a protest, a sound of pleasure, it's not clear. "There," Sam murmurs, quickly smudging paint across Dean's cheeks, blue lines just beneath his eyes. "That's it."
Dean blinks slowly, releasing a shuddering breath. He looks like a strange thing, his body covered in twisting lines of blue, spiralling around his arms, over his belly, marking his thighs and his back. He bites his lip and mumbles, "Sam."
: : :
He can feel it curling in his gut, knots of sick fear the second Sam turns away from him, reaching for the bowl, the strips of clean, white fabric, and that sharp flint knife. He's not ready for this, he can't. And beneath that fear, there's something else, something hot in the pit of his stomach, full of promise. The position is weirdly intimate, seated between one another's legs, Dean's knees resting on top of Sam's. The denim of his brother's jeans is rough against his skin, and he swallows thickly, looking down at the knife in Sam's hand.
"It's okay," Sam whispers. "I'm scared too. It's okay to be scared." Dean's gasping, trying to breathe as seething, stuttering anger lurches in his chest. Sam's hand is warm as it presses into the skin over his heart, and Dean shoves it away.
He snarls, "Don't," that single choked word filled with all anger he's got, fuelled by fear and helplessness. He doesn't have anything besides that hoarse demand, and Sam pulls back. They stare at each other, Dean trying to pull the last tattered remnants of his pride back to himself, as if they'll get him through this in one unbroken piece. He isn't fucking fragile.
"I'm gonna cut here first," Sam finally says, his tone carefully bland as his fingers trace over the knotted, twisted scar-tissue where Dean's chest was torn open.
: : :
Dean's blood is dark and red, spilling down over his chest, back arching up in something almost like pain. He's shaking, fat droplets oozing from the line Sam's carved through the thick tissue of the scars. He bleeds with each intake of breath, shuddering and uneven, mouthing words without sound. Dean's hands shake, and he grips Sam's thighs, blunt nails biting into flesh through the layer of denim. His whole body shudders with uncertainty and arousal, twisting as Sam draws the cold blade back from his brother's blood-soaked skin.
He lets Dean bleed, slick and sticky over his chest and his stomach, dripping into his navel and down. It's slow, but there's more, vanishing into his pubic hair, almost black against the blue tint of his skin. His entire body is tense, cock flushed and hard between his legs. He tilts his head back, and Sam watches as Dean swallows that lump in his throat, eyes unfocused, staring up at the sky.
Sam feels it in the pit of his stomach, something sick and right, that little voice that whispers how beautiful Dean is like this. It's nothing like guilt, just an admission that this is something his brother wants, needs, nothing to do with Mayan gods or ritual sacrifice.
"For Al Tzenul," he murmurs, voice thick and hoarse, but he doesn't mean it at all. He thinks, this is for us, for Dean, this is ours, and that's where the truth of it is. All symbolism aside, it's theirs. He leans in, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss against Dean's throat. The sound his brother makes is painful, a heart-broken and needy moan that echoes deep in his chest.
Sam reaches back, knife still in one hand, finds the squares of torn cloth laid out just behind him. He wads one cotton swatch up in his hand, reaching down. His knuckles brush briefly over the shaft of Dean's dick, and then he strokes upward, mopping up the blood that coats his chest and belly. It soaks into the fabric, all darkest red and smudges of blue paint, leaving streaks of smeared colour.
Dean's soft groan is muffled, kept quiet as if out of shame. He shifts, looking down and that piece of fabric Sam presses lightly over the wound, never once looking at his brother's face. He's trembling still, his jaw clenched against the pain, still gripping tightly at Sam's thighs. There'll be bruises tomorrow, Sam knows, but he doesn't care. His own hands are still, damp with blood but sure and steady as he strokes the cloth over the edges of the wound, watching the blood flow with each of Dean's shaky breaths.
: : :
His arms are red and blue and mottled drips of purple, slick with so much blood and paint. The lacerations wrap around his forearms like bracelets, and Sam's careful, smoothing the strips of cloth over the thick, puckered lines. He rubs them open, pressing his thumb into the split flesh, blood leaking out between his fingers to be soaked up by the torn pieces of cotton. They're deep, twining around his wrists, ten in all, surgical and straight with only a small gap left over the veins.
His knees quiver, Sam's legs sturdy and warm beneath them on either side of him. Dean hates the constant shudder of his body, the way his arms shake in Sam's tender grip. He's tense with pain, all these knife-strokes pressed deep into his flesh.
"Almost done," Sam murmurs, peeling a soaked-through piece of fabric away from one of the sluggishly bleeding wounds. He drops it in with the rest, a pile of wadded up red and purple cloth that heaps past the lip of the silver bowl.
Dean watches his brother from beneath his lashes. Sam's hands are coated in a thick, tacky layer of blood, and his shirt is covered with it. There's a smudge across one cheek just beneath his eye, the result of an absent gesture, dark ruddy-brown against the glow of his skin. It's nothing compared to Dean's body, a canvas of smudged blue paint and thick smears of drying blood, his skin itching with it, a distraction from the bite of the injuries his brother's traced into his chest and arms.
He aches, his dick dark and heavy, that familiar need curling in his stomach like a living thing. Everything hurts - the cut gouged into his chest, red and angry over the scars left from that night in the museum.
: : :
It's over.
The bowl is filled with blood-soaked rags, and Dean looks strange and beautiful, the blood and paint running and thinned where Sam soothes alcohol and Neosporin over the cuts, listening to the low hiss of Dean's breath. It's a quick and dirty job of covering the wounds, binding Dean's chest with layers of gauze until there's no more red leaking through. Dean's groan is muffled, breath shallow and straining against the pressure of the bandages. He doesn't speak, hasn't said a word since extracting that promise from Sam.
He would look fierce if it weren't for the raw expression on his face, skin painted blue, red and brown, arms and chest bound with thick layers of bandage and tape. But there's something in the way he watches Sam, his eyes saying he's frightened and sore. He'd look like a warrior, if he weren't so damn exhausted, dick straining against his belly, desperation in his eyes like a beacon.
Sam knows what he has to do.
He douses the bloody rags in gasoline, putting that silver bowl aside in the grass. There's no pomp or ceremony, just a muttered, "Chaac, listen - this is yours." He drops a match into it, and it goes up in smoke and flame.
When he looks back at his brother, Dean hasn't moved, back stiff, his body still shaken by those fine tremors. And Sam says, quietly, looking at Dean. "And - and Dean," he tries to say, tries to tell him something soothing, but there are no words for the way his brother flinches back.
Finally, Sam whispers, quiet, "Don't be scared anymore," crawling across the blanket to where his brother sits, shaking and bloody. "Don't -" and then his hands are on Dean's hips and his mouth is covering Dean's.
: : :
He feels the first cool drop of rain on his shoulder as Sam kisses him. He wants to say no, push Sam away, telling him you can't do this, I won’t let you - but that isn't what he wants at all. Instead he fists his hand in the stiff fabric of Sam's t-shirt, breathing hot into his brother's mouth. It only lasts a second, Sam pulling away slowly.
Sam's voice is soft and hoarse, and he murmurs into Dean's ear, saying quietly, "I want this," and tugging at his shirt until the buttons pop open. "Please, Dean, let me."
And it's not like Dean could say no. It's not like he could do anything other than what he does, pushing Sam's shirt off before reaching down to drag that t-shirt up over his head. There's a bulge in Sam's jeans, straining up against his fly, and Dean gives in, leaning in to latch his mouth over Sam's, biting at his lips, one of Sam's hands pushing against Dean's bandage chest until he swears he can see stars.
Dean doesn't ask if he's sure, just stretches back, still shivering. There are clouds overhead now, heavy with rain, and his fingers latch on around his leather jacket, pulling it over. Sam takes it from him, his hands steady where Dean's are still shaking. He reaches in to that inside pocket, finding the little bottle of lube he keeps there.
There's warmth in Sam's voice, rain dropping onto his shoulder, beads of cool moisture on his skin. "You brought lube to a sacrifice?" he asks, a slight smile on his lips as he presses it into Dean's hand, moving back and tugging his jeans open.
"With you around, I bring it everywhere," Dean murmurs, his voice still sounding small, the joke as weak as his attempt at a leer. Sam balls up his jeans and underwear, tossing them aside. There's a slight reddish tinge to his skin where the blood soaked through his clothes, and he leans back on the blanket, reaching out to tug at Dean's arm.
Dean hesitates, just a second, looking at Sam spread in front of him, propped up on his elbows. The rain's not heavy, not yet, not a real Texas downpour, sprinkling drops over Sam's belly and chest. "I want this, Dean," he whispers. "Please."
Dean closes his eyes, feeling the ache and sting of his body. He's dizzy, not sure if it's blood-loss or something else, but there's no denying this. He presses forward, swallowing harshly. "I need it," he admits, and then Sam pulls Dean's head down, biting into his mouth, his kiss fierce and hot, all tongue and teeth and warmth.
: : :
It's spitting rain, thunder rumbling distant on the horizon.
Dean fucks him slow, his hips stuttering against Sam's at first, his thrusts hesitant and shallow despite the need in his quiet words, gasping, "Sam," and "I'm sorry," and, "Christ - just let me -" like he's scared of being pushed away.
Sam clutches at his shoulders, blunt nails digging into Dean's slick skin, finding purchase in the tender flesh beneath the smeared paint and rainwater. His brother arches above him, finally finds his way home, thrusting in deep. The rain carves lines through the layers of paint and blood left by Sam's hands, and Dean is cool and wet beneath his fingers, beads of moisture condensing on his shoulders and along the curve of his neck.
God - Dean's never fucked him like this, slow and desperate, his voice like a prayer as he murmurs against Sam's chest, lashes dark against his cheeks, eyes lowered. He looks up at Sam in quick glances, never more than a second, taking that brief moment to watch as Sam leans his head back, swallowing raindrops as he mouths Dean's name. His eyes are fixed on Sam’s collarbone, as if he can’t meet Sam’s eyes. As if he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be fucking Sam's willing body while blood seeps through his bandages, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Sam does the only thing he can, leaning in to press a kiss into the soft skin of Dean's neck. His skin is bitter from the paint but Sam doesn't care, just moves down to press his teeth into the meat of Dean's shoulder, teeth sinking into that tender flesh until he feels his brother grow tense, stilling above him, until he tastes the sweet tang of copper.
When he draws back, Dean's eyes are wide and frightened, and he cranes his head briefly to the side, eyeing the puckered bite in his shoulder. A few red drops seeping from the tender - blood spilled between them instead of for some ancient god.
He chokes, "Sammy," but can't get another word out because Sam drags him down for a kiss, letting him taste the iron on his tongue, licking insistently into Dean's mouth. Dean doesn't pull away, fisting his hands in Sam's hair, fingers twisting and tugging. He groans into that open-mouthed kiss, thrusting his tongue against Sam's, and this time - he's there, not holding back now.
: : :
He's soaked to the bone, burning up, Sam's legs wrapped loose around his waist, his brother's fingers digging into his shoulder blades. He holds him close, rubbing down to brush over the bandages that wrap around his torso. Sam's kisses are wet and open along Dean's jaw, along the line of his throat, nipping and teasing, tongue working over the red imprint of his teeth in the fleshy muscle of his shoulder.
It soothes the itch of the drying blood, leaving faded rust-coloured stains on the blanket beneath them as he fucks deep into his brother. Sam begs, pleads, whispers Dean's name into his skin.
There's no fear there, only trust and need, muttering, "It's okay - Jesus, Dean, please - like that, god, Dean."
The bandages are cool against Dean's skin, wet even though he feels like he's burning up. Sam's hot and tight around him, taking him in, his cock straining against his belly, slick with pre-come.
When Dean takes him in his hand, wrapping it around his brother's thick length, Sam bucks up beneath him. His spine curves up, and he groans Dean's name. His eyes are unfocused, hazy and needy, and he stretches upwards to press a sloppy, open kiss against Dean's mouth, groaning something that sounds a lot like ohgodrightthere.
Dean pushes in as deeply as he can, feeling Sam buck beneath him, jerking his little brother's cock in long, even strokes, sweeping his thumb over the slight indentation of the slit.
One of Sam's hands moves away from Dean's shoulder, reaching down between them, closing around Dean's fist. It's Sam who whimpers then, Dean squeezing him a little tighter as his brother guides him, stroking fast and hard. They're both close, and he can feel it, thrusting in that slight bit deeper, feeling his Sam's cock twitching in their joined hands. "Sammy," Dean whispers, breathless, pressing a kiss against his brother's mouth. He can feel Sam's slight smile, and Sam holds his gaze as he fucks in deep, jerking him off together, so close - so goddamn close.
He feels dizzy with the impending orgasm, Sam's soft cries echoing in his ears. Everything's shining, and he feels Sam come, wet and hot against his belly.
Everything goes white, and then everything goes black.
: : :
"Dean - Jesus, Dean, come on." He shakes his brother's shoulders, muttering, "Come on, please," until he finally opens his eyes, gazing dazedly up at Sam.
"Wha - dijoocome?" Dean slurs and Sam can't help but smile, pressing a kiss against his brother's slack mouth.
He whispers, "Yeah, Dean. Yeah, I came. And then you did - and then you passed out on top of me." Dean's smile is faint, hazy, everything about him completely out of focus, like he can't pull himself together now.
Blood's leaked through the bandages on his arms and chest, spots of red showing through the blue-tinted fabric, rain making the gauze dark and heavy with moisture. Dean doesn't move, just staring up at the clouds, letting the rain wash a little more of the blood and paint from his skin. He mutters, "Didn't pass out."
"Fainted then," Sam allows, which is worse, really.
This time Dean doesn't argue, although he squeezes faintly at Sam's hand. He's still conscious, barely, and Sam can tell he's out of it. He pulls away slowly, searching for his clothes. They're muddy and coated in blood, soaked through by the rain, but he pulls on his briefs anyway, leaving Dean on the blanket while he dumps their drenched clothes and Dean's sodden leather jacket into the back seat of the car.
He goes back for the first aid kit, and for Dean, who groans irritably when Sam nudges at his shoulder. "Tired," he mumbles as Sam drags him to his feet, and he leans heavily against his brother's side, as if his own feet can't support him. He's utterly spent, stumbling as Sam helps him to the car, arm firmly around Dean's waist.
"Gotta get you home," he whispers, and Dean mumbles something that sounds like agreement. He manages to get Dean into the passenger seat, reaching back for the other blanket and wrapping it around his brother. Dean's shivering now, teeth chattering although he doesn't seem to notice. He looks up at Sam with foggy eyes, and smiles.
"That - good, Sam. Was good." Sam thinks he means the sex, but he doesn't really know. He tucks the blanket a little closer in around Dean, leaning into the car to press a quick kiss to Dean's cool lips.
"I know," he says. "Come on, Dean. Let's get you home."
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