Before And After - Wincest
Supernatural
Sam/Dean
N-17
~6500 words
Season Six, Soulless Sam.
There is something seriously wrong with Sam. Dean knows this like he knows his own name.
His not-dead-anymore dick of a grandfather thinks Dean’s being over-dramatic, but what the fuck does he know? Too bad it wasn’t his grandmother that was brought back. Mom must have gotten all her charm from Deana, because Dean hadn’t been that impressed with Samuel in 1973, and death hadn’t really improved anything as far as he could see. And what’s up with those weird-ass cousins. Whatever happened to “I don’t like other hunters, I don’t trust them” Samuel? He’s got a freaking pack of hunters now. They should just get matching shirts and call it good.
Five seasoned hunters and not one of them can see that there is something seriously fucked up about Sam.
Don’t get him wrong, Dean was damn grateful to have Sam back and apparently sane. But in his experience, nothing like this comes without a hell of a price. And to have Sam and Samuel back, and not knowing who did it? Yeah, this whole situation is nothing but a ticking time bomb and Dean’s just trying to figure out some containment strategies.
Which is why he needs to figure out what is wrong with Sam.
Speak of the devil, Dean thinks, as Sam comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and a swirl of steam. Not that they would be speaking of the devil any time soon. Sam claimed not to remember anything about his time in the pit. Dean had been lead singer on that song after his time below, so you’ll forgive his doubts.
“Hey,” Sam greets him. “Shower’s free. Want me to order a pizza while you’re in?”
Sometimes, on the road, in a motel, it all feels so familiar, and Sam sounds so much like the old Sam, that Dean forgets that everything is different. And he lets himself look and he lets himself want. He watches drops of water drip off the ends of Sam’s hair and slide down and around his chest, follows them as they get trapped in the line of hair below Sam’s bellybutton. The looking was new, the wanting was not.
Their lives were always divided into before and after. Before Sam left, after Jess died. After Ruby, before the pit. After Dean said no to Michael and before Sam said yes to Lucifer. Sam knowing Dean was looking, Sam looking back, they’d been teetering there on that precipice for such a short time. Before.
There were rules. Looking while the other was looking away was okay. A quick up and down was okay. Hands sliding on your own skin without waiting for your brother to sleep was okay. As long as they didn’t touch, it was …well not okay…but forgivable. The world was going to end anyway, if they had an unspoken acknowledgement of their less-than-brotherly feelings, what could it hurt? In the face of the sacrifices they had to make, no one had the right to judge them but them.
So Dean lets himself look while Sam just stands there. Sam is big all over, Sam has hip cuts you could wrap a hand around, and a thick nest of dark curls Dean’s fingers itch to sink into. He knows these things because Post-Pit Sam likes to walk around naked half the time. And Post-Pit Sam might have been a hunting machine this past year he but he obviously had plenty of time to work out, too, because goddamn he was built.
Sam’s hands whipping off that ridiculously small towel while Dean is (staring) looking is seriously not okay. Dean jerks his gaze back up to Sam’s face.
And see? That? That smile right there? That is not something his Sam would do. Not an expression he should be directing at Dean. It’s too open. And that look in his eyes, like he’s daring Dean to do something. That’s not how this works. There are rules. Or maybe not. Maybe after, things change. Maybe Sam’s changing them.
Sam doesn’t say anything though, just starts drying his hair with the towel. Dean grips the pink and green bedspread and pointedly does not look. Dean is so busy not looking, he doesn’t notice Sam moving until the wet towel smacks into his head. “What the?”
Sam is looking at him now, not bothering to hide his amusement. “You going to shower or what?”
Dean whips the towel back at him. The muscles in Sam’s arm bunch as he snatches the towel out of the air with one hand. “You going to get dressed or what?” Dean asks, already knowing the answer.
Sure enough, Sam just throws himself down on the bed across from Dean. Actually throws himself down and bounces back up, cock just bobbing up and down. Not that Dean was looking. Then Sam actually crosses his arms behind his head and smiles smugly at Dean, biceps bulging. They bulged. There was no other word for it. Dean tried to remember if he’d ever seen that in real life before.
“Toss me the remote.” Sam jerks his chin towards the nightstand closest to Dean’s bed. Dean drags his eyes away from Sam’s arms, getting stuck a little on his pecs, and fumbles for the remote. He tosses it to Sam. He has to look to do that, right? The television comes on with an audible click and hiss as the old machine warms up.
Dean turns towards the TV out of habit, but his eyes keep sliding sideways over to Sam. Just sitting there, naked as the day he was born, left hand pointing the remote at the TV, right hand kind of just roaming over his body. Sam runs his fingers through his hair, shaking it into place. Rubs the back of his neck. Scratches across the long-healed tattoo on his chest. Presses his fingertips against ribs on the right side. Dean knows those always ache a little. Sam leads with his right and they’d been cracked and broken the most. As he continues searching for something to watch, Sam slides his hand off his ribs, across the flat planes of his stomach, slowly down the speed bumps of his abs like he’s checking to make sure they’re still all there.
Dean remembers to breathe when Sam settles on some nature documentary, lions or some shit like that. The air wheezes past the tightness in his chest. Sam nestles a little deeper into the thin pillows propped against the headboard. He sighs, bending a knee up. Not the knee closest to Dean, no. Not the one that stands at least some chance of blocking Dean’s view of that monster cock; that gorgeous cock that Sam seems determined to flaunt. No, he lifts up the other one and then rolls just a little so Dean could, if he chooses, see everything. He chooses to look back at the television. When had he stopped looking at the television?
“It’s freaking hot in here, man. I’m sweating already,” Sam complains. And fuck Dean’s head turns before his brain can intervene. Sure enough, there’s a light sheen of sweat on Sam’s perfect body just gleaming in the cheap yellow lights. Sam drags a hand through the sweat on his chest, moving it downwards slowly. Now he does turn towards Dean and when his fingers start to dig into that thicket of curly hair at the base of his cock, Dean’s eyes snap up to Sam’s face. The fucker is staring right at him. “Aren’t you hot? Dean?” Sam’s not smiling, not smirking. His expression is as innocent as he can pull off right now. So Dean can’t really punch him. Then Sam’s glance drops to Dean’s lips and he licks his own lip and that’s it. That is so not okay. Except maybe it is, after.
Dean jumps off the bed. “Yeah. I am. Hot.” He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “You’re. It’s hot.” He covers his mouth with his hand, wiping non-existent moisture from the corners. “I’m gonna shower.”
Sam rolls on to his back again, draws both knees up to sit a little higher on the bed as Dean passes by. Dean doesn’t look at him, just smacks him on the calf as he passes. “There’d better be some hot water left.” He’s pretty sure he hears Sam say something about a cold shower but Dean could have heard wrong so he’s going to let that one slide.
The bathroom is still steamy, drops of water clinging to the metal, the mirror still fogged, and the air still holds the scent of Sam’s bodywash. Post-hell Sam is a lot pickier about toiletries than pre-hell Sam. That’s a weird quirk to pick up in the pit, but Dean’s not going to judge. Plus, it smells nice. Kind of piney. Woodsy. Goes well with the normal Sam smell.
There’s hot water and decent water pressure when Dean steps under the spray. Nice. He lets it play over the tight muscles in his shoulder, bends his neck so it hits there, too. He’s so tense lately. He’s got none of his usual stress relievers, he hasn’t even been drinking as much, not willing to let his guard down enough for that with all these secrets and lies in the air.
He turns around, letting the water run down his chest, feels it making trails through the hair on his legs, at his groin, waterfalling down the length of his dick. His dick that has been half-hard ever since Sam walked out of the bathroom in that washrag he was pretending was a towel. Goddamn it. That’s one side effect of drying out Dean hadn’t considered. Lisa had never complained, out loud anyway, but it’s hard to get it up when you’re drunk. And Dean had been drunk a lot the last year.
He’s not drunk now and getting up is not the problem. He grabs Sam’s bodywash off the ledge and lathers up. The smell fills the confined space and Dean’s nose colludes with his brain to give him a full 3D imagine of Sam lying on the bed, naked, hand sliding down to grab his cock. Dean’s hands follow the same trail, and he moans as he slicks his hand down his hard length the same time imaginary Sam does.
He clenches his teeth so the moan comes out more like a harsh pant. Fuck, it feels nice. He thrusts quickly into the circle of his fist, turning his back to the spray. He tries to keep his mind away from imaginary Sam and his all-too-real freak-of-nature body, he really does. Even though it doesn’t count if they’re not touching. He goes through the greatest hits - Lisa, random bar chicks, Pamela Anderson, that one teacher back in eleventh grade. It feels good, but more distant. Like he’s stepping back from the ledge. And that’s not what he wants. He has to come. He can’t go back into that room like this. A flash of what he’d see if he did go out now makes his cock jerk and he realizes he’s straining to hear over the water, through the crack in the door. Trying to hear if Sam is jerking off, too. He knows Sam has a hard time keeping it quiet. He’s been hearing the bitten back moans, shuddery inhales, and half-voiced names for years. It was hearing his own name that proved he wasn’t alone in this. He wonders if Sam got the lube out or if he’s going with just spit and his own slick. And oh, fuck, fuck. Now it’s too fast, too close. He doesn’t want to come yet. Oh god, he wants to come at the same time imaginary Sam does. Fucking hell. He can’t do this. At least not until he’s knows that’s really Sam out there. How certain are you that what you brought back, is 100% pure Sam?
He breathes deep, slow, in and out. Soaps up one more time, just because it feels good to have hands on him, even if they are his own. And because it smells like Sam. Sammy is going to be the death of him. Again. Always.
It was almost easier when he thought Sam was gone forever. Though living without him was like being grateful that every breath brought you that much closer to your last, living with him, with this Sam, this miraculously resurrected, fucked up Sam, was like being back in hell. It was Alastair trying to look like Sam just before he carved Dean’s heart out again and again. No matter what any demon had tried, they’d never been able to get Sam just right. They’d always left out the important part, the true parts.
Things like his full-body, bent-over-at-the-waist laugh, like he couldn’t stand up from the weight of it. The way he bit his lower lip when he was practicing with the throwing knives, and how those knives flashed as they spun their way to bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye. The warm salty smell of his hair after a run. The look in Sam’s eye whenever Dean told him good job. The gentleness and the strength of his hands.
Sam has great hands. He’s steady with a needle or a gun. And strong. Even as a gangly teen, his massages were legendary. Sam’s hands, kneading Dean’s shoulders after drills. Dean drops his hand to his straining erection and groans remembering. Remembering that summer when he’d put his shoulder out one too many times and Sam had spent hours splayed over Dean’s naked back.
Sam’s teenaged, muscular thighs pressed tight against Dean’s ribs, hands pushing hard into the muscles. Sweat dripping down on him as Sam slid lower and lower down the curve of his ass to reach the muscles below his shoulder blade.
Dean’s dick twitches hard and he thinks fuck it and does what he’d sworn never to do again. Back against the slippery tile wall, hands hot and tight around his dick, he pulls out the never-fail memory from the deepest, most repressed part of his go-to list. Sixteen year old Sam straddling Dean’s thighs. Both of them shirtless, in cut-off denim shorts. The pilled sheets on the rickety double bed they’d shared that summer. The throb in his dick when he’d realized Sam’s hands had stopped massaging and were now just running up and down Dean’s back.
Sweat eased the way as they slid up either side of his spine, squeezed gently against his neck, fingers scratching against his scalp. Then back down again just to the waistband of his shorts, fingertips lingering at the place his spine started to curve back up to his tailbone. Up and down and up and over his skin, Sam just making these tiny rocking motions against him like he couldn’t stop himself. Dean was barely breathing. Skin goosebumping as he strained to hear every breath, every pant and whine Sam tried to hold in. His dick ached where it pressed against his zipper, pressed into the mattress. And every time Sam rocked into him, pressing his hard length into Dean, Dean rocked back. His heart was pounding like he’d run ten miles and he wanted to run and he wanted to stay and he wanted to flip Sam over, slam their bodies together and just ravage that sweet pink mouth. He drew a ragged breath in, body shuddering, and Sam surged forward, hands gripping and sliding over Dean’s back, up his arms where they were crossed under his head.
More than a decade later, Dean cries out like he’d done then; remembering the feel of Sam’s hard cock against his ass, and Sam’s bare chest slick against his back. His legs are trembling now and he slows his hand down, fighting to hold off until the end of the memory. Let it build higher and sweeter like it had then.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, echoing the way then-Sam had cursed into his ear.
“Jesus, fuck. Oh, god. Dean.” Sam’s whisper was as ragged and slippery as Dean’s thoughts and he bucked down against Dean’s body for real now. Dean just pushed up on his forearms, head hanging down, and held on. Sam’s mouth was on the back of his neck, on his shoulders, hot lips and tongue sucking and biting and Dean knew it was going to leave a mark and didn’t give a single fuck. His need to kiss Sam clawed up his throat and his mouth watered to be on some part of Sam. Sam’s breath was loud in his ear and neither one of them heard the rumbling of the Impala as it pulled up the driveway. Sam drove into Dean, gasped an inhale and tensed, trembling. In the sudden silence, they both heard the heavy slam of the car door. “Fuck. Dad!” Dean pushed up more but Sam clamped down, trapping him against the bed as he came with a wail. Sam’s fingers bruising Dean’s wrists, his cock pulsing against him, warm and wet over the small of Dean’s back, and it was too much. Dean bit deep into his own arm as he came, pressed between his baby brother and a crappy used mattress.
Here and now, Dean can’t hold back a moan that sounds way too close to Sam. His prayers that Sam didn’t hear his slip go apparently unanswered (no surprise) and the bathroom door slams open, banging against the wall with a dull thud before bouncing back into Sam. Naked, hard as a rock, cock slicked up and straining from his body. So he did go for the lube, Dean thinks wildly before flinging a hand out in warning. “Sam!” To Dean’s surprise, Sam stops.
He stops, but the bathroom is really small and Sam is really big. The shower is just a stall with a crappy curtain that doesn’t even cover half the opening. Sink to the right, toilet to the left. There’s no way for Dean to get out without Sam moving. And by the way his eyes are raking up and down Dean’s body, and the way his hand is sliding up and down his cock (just like in Dean’s imagination), there is no way Sam is moving.
Dean’s laugh sounds false, even to him, but he has to try. “Jeez, Sam,” he chokes out. “A little privacy. What where doing? Standing at the door?” It hits him that yeah, that is what Sam was doing. Standing outside the door, hand on his cock while he listened to Dean shower and jerk off.
“I heard you.” Sam’s eyes are dark as he takes one step into the room. “I heard you say my name.”
Dean fishes for something to say to that, anything. He’s got nothing. “Sam, I…”
“Don’t lie, Dean. Not to me. Please. God, Dean.” And Sam is reaching out to touch him, and Dean can’t let that happen. He grabs Sam’s wrist. “Don’t.”
Sam lets his hand drop back down to his own cock. Dean can’t look away as Sam strokes up and down. “Come on. I know you want this,” Sam is saying, breath heavy and deep. “I’m so close already just listening to you, just picturing you. You’re so fucking hot.”
The sweat and the steam and the water in the air are coating Sam, carving out his muscles and Dean can see the tendons in his neck tightening. This is so wrong. Sam came back wrong and this is just more proof. Dean’s mouth is desert-dry and he tilts his face to the spray to get some water so he can explain this. He swallows once and Sam’s hand is splayed out around his throat. Eyes wide, he sees Sam half in the shower now, chest heaving. Sam crowds against him, hard cock rubbing against Dean’s thigh, and for the first time, Dean is almost scared of his brother. But Sam’s not squeezing hard, or pressing further into the shower. He’s just standing there, feeling Dean swallow.
“Sam.” Dean didn’t dare move. He wasn’t sure what he would do. Drag Sam closer, press their bodies together, mouths and chest and cocks, or push Sam away. Sam makes the decision for them and steps completely into the shower, his cock like a brand on Dean’s skin. His hand slides around Dean’s neck, curving around the base of his skull and pulls down, tilting Dean’s head up.
Dean slides an arm around Sam’s hips, pulling him closer, and another on his chest, holding him away. And doesn’t that just sum it all up. Sam’s breath is hot on Dean’s mouth. “Dean,” he begs and his lips move over Dean’s.
Dean shakes his head, mouth brushing against Sam’s, hand opening and closing around Sam’s hip. “Something is seriously wrong with you, man.”
“I know.” Sam leans his forehead against Dean’s, blocking the water completely and Dean feels it flow like a river down Sam’s perfect back. “I know something’s wrong. But not this, right?” Sam presses deep into Dean’s mouth, and Dean opens for it.
Sam moves against Dean, pushing him into the wall, his lips and tongue strong and alive, and he’s bending his knees and thrusting up, and up and against Dean, over and over, dick dragging up Dean’s body hot and hard. He pulls off, panting, one huge hand cupping Dean’s face as he searches Dean’s eyes for something. “This isn’t wrong, is it? I remember this. I remember, from before. You wanted this. I wanted it. Right? Before?” And Sam looks like he has so many times, like he needs Dean to make it all right, make everything okay. And right then, he’s almost certain it’s one hundred percent Sam.
Dean has to close his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy. I want it.”
“I knew you did.” And Sam pulls away, pupils dark with lust. He reaches behind him and shuts off the water. “Out.” He tugs Dean out of the shower but Dean doesn’t want to go. If it had happened in the shower, if they’ fucked in the shower, it would have just happened, something slow, inevitable, something they couldn’t stop. If they go somewhere else, if they stop and then start again, then it’s premeditated. It’s something they might have to talk about. Something they might do again.
Sam manhandles him against the cold porcelain of the sink, back first, and that’s gonna bruise, but he’ll worry about that when Sam doesn’t have a hand around his dick and his tongue in Dean’s mouth. Sam’s hand just barely keeps Dean’s head from cracking against the mirror. Sam is just attacking his mouth, tongue pushing in and sucking the air out of Dean’s lungs. His hand flies over Dean’s cock, slick with the lube from his own body, and the way Sam’s cock slides against his when Sam holds them together makes Dean shudder.
Sam stops moving, pulls his mouth off of Dean’s with one last bite on his bottom lip, and stills his hands on their cocks. Dean’s chest heaves as much it can with how far Dean is bent backwards over the sink. His hands are clenched against the thin edge, his head tight against the wet glass. He can feel both heartbeats where they are pressed together in Sam’s hand. Sam’s cock is huge and pulsing against Dean’s. Sam’s heartbeat. Sam is alive. Sam is alive and here and wants Dean.
Sam’s fingers tighten on the back of Dean’s head as he bends in, mouth on Dean’s ear, nipping at the lobe, around the edges. “I want to fuck you. You want that. You want me to fuck you.”
And Dean would argue with the certainty in Sam’s voice but the fucker is squeezing their dicks together, just squeeze and release, squeeze and release, and Dean can feel the precome sliding down his length, feel Sam dripping down, too, just as wet as Dean and he really really wants to come right now. Surging up off the sink, he forces Sam to step back. Goddamn it if Sam isn’t smiling at him like he thinks is funny. Dean knocks Sam’s hand off his cock and it’s his turn to get his hands in Sam’s hair. That fucking hair should be good for something. It’s his turn to ravage Sam’s mouth, finally get to bite those pink lips like he wanted to so many years ago.
It feels like heaven. Better than heaven and Dean would know. The taste of him as Dean slicks his tongue around, learning Sam from the inside out. Sam’s hands are on his ass now, kneading and caressing and generally feeling awesome. He vaguely registers it when Sam pulls a hand off and reaches for something behind them. Licking the water drops off of Sam’s neck seems like the best idea he’s had in months, years. Sam moans and curses when he does.
“God, Dean. Your fucking mouth.” His skin shivers when Dean bites hard and Sam pulls his head up. “Fucker.” His glance flickers between Dean’s eyes and his mouth. “You won’t bite so hard when my dick is down your throat.” He bites his lower lip and Dean feels the weight on his head, and he knows Sam is thinking about just pushing Dean down the floor, imaging Dean’s lips wrapped around his cock. Dean’s knees bend a little thinking about it. Sam’s hand just slips into the crack of his ass with that little movement. Dean feels something slippery and Sam’s eyes go dark, that scary not-quite-Sam smile on his face again, and Dean stills. “But not tonight.” Sam grabs his hips and twists Dean around. He yanks his hips back and pushes Dean down with a hand between his shoulder blades so fast that only Dean’s quick grab on the sink stops him from a bloody nose.
“What the fuck, Sam?” He looks into the mirror at Sam’s reflection, seeing as he does a small container of Vaseline. That must have been what Sam was grabbing at before.
Sam’s finger slips between his ass cheeks, sliding right against Dean’s hole like Sam had a fucking road map to Dean’s body. He leans over Dean’s back, eyes meeting in the mirror. “Ready?” And he forces that lubed up finger inside while Dean is still trying to figure out the answer.
The sound that comes out of Dean’s throat is somewhere between a moan and a yell, and his knuckles are white around the edge of the porcelain. Sam’s chuckle is dark and molasses thick as he leans his long body over Dean’s back, one hand deep in Dean’s ass, the other reaching around to fist Dean’s cock. Dean is surrounded, owned by his little brother, and all he can do it twitch and shudder at the heat and chills that chase up and down his body. Sam thrusts in and out as he caresses the weeping head of Dean’s cock. Though Dean’s brain may be screaming that everything about this is wrong, his body is right on board and it seems to be in control right now.
Dean yelps as Sam bites the side of his neck.
“Focus, Dean.” Dean feels the tip of finger against him as Sam pulls out. “You’ve done this before,” Sam says as Dean exhales and bears down as Sam’s second finger pushes in slowly but steadily.
“Yeah,” he says, head hanging down as he feels Sam’s palm slide up flush against his ass.
“I knew it,” Sam laughs and keeps pumping in and out hard, giving a little twist at the end of the upstroke that scrapes against Dean’s prostate. Dean groans and pushes back. “Shut up.” He bends lower, elbows on the wet, slippery porcelain. His back is cold without Sam blanketed across it. His dick slaps against the sink when Sam lets go of it. Dean looks up, complaint dying on his lips as he sees Sam reaching into the small open tub of Vaseline wedged behind the faucet. He pushes back up to look over his shoulder, watching as Sam’s hand disappears between his legs. The fingers in his ass keep up their thrusting and twisting as Sam slicks up his cock. “Yeah, god.” Dean turns to meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror.
“Ready?” Sam asks again.
“I was ready before. Just fuck me already.”
Sam slides his lub- slippery hand quickly up and down Dean’s cock, a twist at the top to match the evil twist of his fingers inside Dean, and he just keeps doing it and doing it until Dean is panting, legs trembling, arms weak. Dean can’t stop thrusting back and forth now, Sam behind him and Sam in front of him until he doesn’t know which sensation to chase. “Oh fuck. Shit.” His hips snap forward and back and he really wants Sam to fuck him but he can’t stop now. Sam slides in a third finger and Dean yells. “Fuck! Goddamn.” He pushes back up on to his hands. In the mirror, his eyes are wide, wild, green swallowed up by the black. He is face flushed, and his lips are red-bitten and swollen, and Sam is grinning like a maniac over his shoulder. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, fuck me. Fuck me now.”
Sam’s smile - oh god - Dean has seen less evil smiles in hell. “Now you’re ready,” he purrs. He lets go of Dean’s dick and slides out of his ass, and Dean gasps at the loss of sensation. Sam’s eyes are locked onto Dean’s as he guides his cock in, other hand tight on Dean’s hip. Dean can see his own cock, hard and swollen, greasy with Vaseline and dripping into the sink. It’s obscene, wrong, and so fucking good Dean is a little afraid of the orgasm he can feel building up at the base of his spine and in his balls.
At the first push of Sam’s cock, so much wider than his fingers, Dean goes up his toes and Sam’s hands tighten on his hips, drag him back down and onto Sam. Dean is panting, harsh breaths through his teeth, and he can’t stop staring at Sam’s face in the mirror. His teeth are clenched and eyebrows drawn together almost in pain. “Fuck. Dean. You’re so fucking tight.” They both exhale roughly and Dean’s feet drop back down to the floor as Sam pulls back just a little, still holding Dean open. He runs his hands over Dean’s back gently, drops down and kisses between his shoulders, down the bumps of his spine, all the while just pulsing his hips in and out, circling them as he kisses the cheek Dean turns up for him. He kisses the top of Dean’s head and their eyes meet in the mirror one more time. “Ready?” Dean breathes in deeply, lets it out, relaxing every muscle under his voluntary control, even his fingers loosen around the sink. He nods. “Ready.”
Sam’s hands on his hips lift him up just a bit and Sam bends his knees slightly and their groans echo against the tiled walls as Sam slides all the way into Dean. Dean slams one hand down on the sink. “Oh, oh, fuck.” He can feel Sam’s hands trembling. “Dean…I gotta. I gotta move.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. It’s okay, Sammy.”
Dean braces himself and he thought he was ready but he’s not. He’s so not ready for the way Sam just slams into him. He’s so full and Sam is touching every place inside of him. The pull and the drag and his hands grabbing and slipping and grabbing again for purchase on Dean’s sweaty skin. The bathroom is a sauna, their sweat and the heat and the steam from the showers has nowhere to go. Dean struggles to drag in the sultry air as Sam’s cock slides into him, pushing out all the air in his lungs.
Grunts and curses and he has to come now. He can’t take any more, every slide of Sam’s cock inside him, sparking and shorting out Dean’s brain. His cock slides through the puddle of precome slicking up the lip of the sink. Dean tries to grab his own dick but he can’t keep his balance with Sam slamming into him over and over. Shameless with need, he starts begging though clenched teeth. “Sam, Sam, touch me. Oh, god, please. Please.” His arms are starting to give out and his legs are trembling, head brushing into the mirrored cabinet with every thrust. “Please, Sam, I gotta come.” His balls are so tight against his body they almost hurt.
“Yeah, yeah. Dean. Okay, okay.” Sam’s hand slide off Dean’s hip, leaving bruises behind, and scratches up his body. “Yeah.” He reaches up Dean’s chest, pinching and twisting his nipple until Dean yells with it. He can’t tell what hurts and what feels good and if there is any difference between the two right now. One hard tweak that leaves Dean panting and Sam hooks his arm under Dean’s thigh and shoves his knee up on the thin ledge of the sink.
The press of his kneecap into the porcelain does hurt but Dean could give a fuck as Sam’s dick punches in to his prostate over and over. Dean scrabbles for a hold, one hand grabbing onto the edge of cabinet, the other in a death grip on the edge of the sink. He can barely keep his eyes open but the sight of them in the mirror has him riveted. Turned like they are, Dean can see darkness and light between their bodies and Sam pulls in and out, he can see his cock and balls hanging brazenly over the edge, tight and gleaming with sweat and lube. Sam’s thrusts are getting jerky, his hips stuttering as he curses and begs. “Yeah. Fuck. So perfect. Fucking gorgeous. I’m gonna…gonna come right inside you. And you just love it, don’t you?”
Dean grunts when Sam’s hand tightens on his hip and around his thigh. Sam stops moving and Dean can feel the pulsing of his dick inside him. He thrusts once, hard, and stops. “You do right? You love it.”
Dean groans, trembling, he’s right on the edge and going to lose his fucking mind. He tries to thrust back but Sam is a sequoia, an immovable object behind him, and Dean has zero leverage in this position. “Love your brother’s cock in you? Love me coming in you?”
“Fuck Sam!” he yells, cock shooting, once, twice. Almost coming, but not quite. Sam is filthy, this is dirty porn sex in a pay-by-the hour motel. It’s so not how Dean pictured this happened and he is one second away from coming harder than he can remember.
Sam grips him warningly, pushes in deep, not thrusting, just owning. Pushing in as deep as he can. “Tell me, Dean. Tell me if you love it. Because I’ll stop. I can stop right now.”
Dean whimpers at the thought of it. “No, god, Sammy. Sam, don’t stop.” Jesus Christ, Sam really was going to be the death of him. “Stop and I’ll kill you.”
Sam laughs and reaches with the hand hooked under Dean’s knee to just graze the top of his dick. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Dean can feel Sam throbbing, can feel his balls pulled up tight and hard where they’re crushed into Dean, and how the fuck is he holding still. Dean clenches his ass as tightly as he can around Sam and is rewarded with a hissed curse and three quick, hard fucks until Sam gets himself back under control. Now Dean can feel the trembling in Sam’s arms, in the stretch of his groin, and they are at the top of this cliff together. The fall might kill them both.
Sam starts pushing in and pulling out slowly, so slowly, moaning, and he drags Dean out of his mind with each slide. “Feel me, Dean? Do you feel me?”
“God, yeah. Sammy, I feel you. Feel so good, little brother.”
Sam’s thrust is less controlled after that. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Tell me. Tell me you love it, your little brother fucking you.”
And why the fuck not? Dean’s gone to hell for less. He exhales and gives in to all of it. “Fucking love it, Sammy. Love knowing it’s you, love feeling you. So do it, Jesus. Come already. Give it to me.”
“Dean!” Sam yells his name like he has a thousand times in their lives, pleading, searching for something only Dean can give him and he’s shooting deep into Dean, muscles locked up tight. With a shout, Dean falls right over that cliff with him. Stomach muscles, heart, mind and soul locked up around Sam as he shoots all over himself, the sink, into the air, cock pulsing up and down. It takes ages for Dean to come back to his body, for their breathing to even out some, hearts pounding.
Dean groans as Sam pulls out, groans again as he drops his leg down with a thump and pries his fingers from the edge of the sink. “Damn,” he laughs, shaky but good. He straightens up, wincing a little as he feels Sam’s come starting to slide down his thigh. He’s going to be sore in a dozen places later. He feels Sam against his back, hand tracing over what Dean knows must be bruises on his hips. Deep breath in, and he lifts up to meets Sam’s eyes in the mirror, looking for reassurance that this wasn’t a mistake. That Sam is still okay, that they’re still okay.
But Sam’s not looking in the mirror; he’s looking down with a wry smirk. Dean jolts at a loud slap on his ass. “Damn that was amazing,” Sam chuckles. “Should have been doing that for years.” He pats Dean on the ass again and turns away, reaching for the shower. “Hope there’s still some hot water. We’re gross. Vaseline’s a bitch to get off.”
Dean’s orgasm-muddled mind can’t even process anything Sam is saying or doing. His mouth open and closes soundlessly. They’ve just crossed this huge barrier, gave into a decade’s worth of sexual tension, gay, incestuous, sexual tension, and Sam’s big concern is washing up? Dean closes his eyes, hides his face behind one hand, and blinks back the tears. “Hey,” Sam calls cheerily from the shower. “Go get that towel, would you? I think it was the only one.”
Dean doesn’t answer for a moment, wiping his t-shirt ineffectually at the come on his stomach, between his legs, before throwing it back on the floor with a sigh. “Dean? The towel?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Hold your horses, I got it.” He turns, pausing at the doorway, watching Sammy almost whistling in the shower. Not really how he thought they would be after. He’s been with strangers with more post-sex warmth. He pictures Sam’s big warm hands, strong chest, imagines how it would feel to be held against them and closes his eyes.
Fuck what anyone else thinks. There is something seriously wrong with Sam.
Sam/Dean
N-17
~6500 words
Season Six, Soulless Sam.
There is something seriously wrong with Sam. Dean knows this like he knows his own name.
His not-dead-anymore dick of a grandfather thinks Dean’s being over-dramatic, but what the fuck does he know? Too bad it wasn’t his grandmother that was brought back. Mom must have gotten all her charm from Deana, because Dean hadn’t been that impressed with Samuel in 1973, and death hadn’t really improved anything as far as he could see. And what’s up with those weird-ass cousins. Whatever happened to “I don’t like other hunters, I don’t trust them” Samuel? He’s got a freaking pack of hunters now. They should just get matching shirts and call it good.
Five seasoned hunters and not one of them can see that there is something seriously fucked up about Sam.
Don’t get him wrong, Dean was damn grateful to have Sam back and apparently sane. But in his experience, nothing like this comes without a hell of a price. And to have Sam and Samuel back, and not knowing who did it? Yeah, this whole situation is nothing but a ticking time bomb and Dean’s just trying to figure out some containment strategies.
Which is why he needs to figure out what is wrong with Sam.
Speak of the devil, Dean thinks, as Sam comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and a swirl of steam. Not that they would be speaking of the devil any time soon. Sam claimed not to remember anything about his time in the pit. Dean had been lead singer on that song after his time below, so you’ll forgive his doubts.
“Hey,” Sam greets him. “Shower’s free. Want me to order a pizza while you’re in?”
Sometimes, on the road, in a motel, it all feels so familiar, and Sam sounds so much like the old Sam, that Dean forgets that everything is different. And he lets himself look and he lets himself want. He watches drops of water drip off the ends of Sam’s hair and slide down and around his chest, follows them as they get trapped in the line of hair below Sam’s bellybutton. The looking was new, the wanting was not.
Their lives were always divided into before and after. Before Sam left, after Jess died. After Ruby, before the pit. After Dean said no to Michael and before Sam said yes to Lucifer. Sam knowing Dean was looking, Sam looking back, they’d been teetering there on that precipice for such a short time. Before.
There were rules. Looking while the other was looking away was okay. A quick up and down was okay. Hands sliding on your own skin without waiting for your brother to sleep was okay. As long as they didn’t touch, it was …well not okay…but forgivable. The world was going to end anyway, if they had an unspoken acknowledgement of their less-than-brotherly feelings, what could it hurt? In the face of the sacrifices they had to make, no one had the right to judge them but them.
So Dean lets himself look while Sam just stands there. Sam is big all over, Sam has hip cuts you could wrap a hand around, and a thick nest of dark curls Dean’s fingers itch to sink into. He knows these things because Post-Pit Sam likes to walk around naked half the time. And Post-Pit Sam might have been a hunting machine this past year he but he obviously had plenty of time to work out, too, because goddamn he was built.
Sam’s hands whipping off that ridiculously small towel while Dean is (staring) looking is seriously not okay. Dean jerks his gaze back up to Sam’s face.
And see? That? That smile right there? That is not something his Sam would do. Not an expression he should be directing at Dean. It’s too open. And that look in his eyes, like he’s daring Dean to do something. That’s not how this works. There are rules. Or maybe not. Maybe after, things change. Maybe Sam’s changing them.
Sam doesn’t say anything though, just starts drying his hair with the towel. Dean grips the pink and green bedspread and pointedly does not look. Dean is so busy not looking, he doesn’t notice Sam moving until the wet towel smacks into his head. “What the?”
Sam is looking at him now, not bothering to hide his amusement. “You going to shower or what?”
Dean whips the towel back at him. The muscles in Sam’s arm bunch as he snatches the towel out of the air with one hand. “You going to get dressed or what?” Dean asks, already knowing the answer.
Sure enough, Sam just throws himself down on the bed across from Dean. Actually throws himself down and bounces back up, cock just bobbing up and down. Not that Dean was looking. Then Sam actually crosses his arms behind his head and smiles smugly at Dean, biceps bulging. They bulged. There was no other word for it. Dean tried to remember if he’d ever seen that in real life before.
“Toss me the remote.” Sam jerks his chin towards the nightstand closest to Dean’s bed. Dean drags his eyes away from Sam’s arms, getting stuck a little on his pecs, and fumbles for the remote. He tosses it to Sam. He has to look to do that, right? The television comes on with an audible click and hiss as the old machine warms up.
Dean turns towards the TV out of habit, but his eyes keep sliding sideways over to Sam. Just sitting there, naked as the day he was born, left hand pointing the remote at the TV, right hand kind of just roaming over his body. Sam runs his fingers through his hair, shaking it into place. Rubs the back of his neck. Scratches across the long-healed tattoo on his chest. Presses his fingertips against ribs on the right side. Dean knows those always ache a little. Sam leads with his right and they’d been cracked and broken the most. As he continues searching for something to watch, Sam slides his hand off his ribs, across the flat planes of his stomach, slowly down the speed bumps of his abs like he’s checking to make sure they’re still all there.
Dean remembers to breathe when Sam settles on some nature documentary, lions or some shit like that. The air wheezes past the tightness in his chest. Sam nestles a little deeper into the thin pillows propped against the headboard. He sighs, bending a knee up. Not the knee closest to Dean, no. Not the one that stands at least some chance of blocking Dean’s view of that monster cock; that gorgeous cock that Sam seems determined to flaunt. No, he lifts up the other one and then rolls just a little so Dean could, if he chooses, see everything. He chooses to look back at the television. When had he stopped looking at the television?
“It’s freaking hot in here, man. I’m sweating already,” Sam complains. And fuck Dean’s head turns before his brain can intervene. Sure enough, there’s a light sheen of sweat on Sam’s perfect body just gleaming in the cheap yellow lights. Sam drags a hand through the sweat on his chest, moving it downwards slowly. Now he does turn towards Dean and when his fingers start to dig into that thicket of curly hair at the base of his cock, Dean’s eyes snap up to Sam’s face. The fucker is staring right at him. “Aren’t you hot? Dean?” Sam’s not smiling, not smirking. His expression is as innocent as he can pull off right now. So Dean can’t really punch him. Then Sam’s glance drops to Dean’s lips and he licks his own lip and that’s it. That is so not okay. Except maybe it is, after.
Dean jumps off the bed. “Yeah. I am. Hot.” He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “You’re. It’s hot.” He covers his mouth with his hand, wiping non-existent moisture from the corners. “I’m gonna shower.”
Sam rolls on to his back again, draws both knees up to sit a little higher on the bed as Dean passes by. Dean doesn’t look at him, just smacks him on the calf as he passes. “There’d better be some hot water left.” He’s pretty sure he hears Sam say something about a cold shower but Dean could have heard wrong so he’s going to let that one slide.
The bathroom is still steamy, drops of water clinging to the metal, the mirror still fogged, and the air still holds the scent of Sam’s bodywash. Post-hell Sam is a lot pickier about toiletries than pre-hell Sam. That’s a weird quirk to pick up in the pit, but Dean’s not going to judge. Plus, it smells nice. Kind of piney. Woodsy. Goes well with the normal Sam smell.
There’s hot water and decent water pressure when Dean steps under the spray. Nice. He lets it play over the tight muscles in his shoulder, bends his neck so it hits there, too. He’s so tense lately. He’s got none of his usual stress relievers, he hasn’t even been drinking as much, not willing to let his guard down enough for that with all these secrets and lies in the air.
He turns around, letting the water run down his chest, feels it making trails through the hair on his legs, at his groin, waterfalling down the length of his dick. His dick that has been half-hard ever since Sam walked out of the bathroom in that washrag he was pretending was a towel. Goddamn it. That’s one side effect of drying out Dean hadn’t considered. Lisa had never complained, out loud anyway, but it’s hard to get it up when you’re drunk. And Dean had been drunk a lot the last year.
He’s not drunk now and getting up is not the problem. He grabs Sam’s bodywash off the ledge and lathers up. The smell fills the confined space and Dean’s nose colludes with his brain to give him a full 3D imagine of Sam lying on the bed, naked, hand sliding down to grab his cock. Dean’s hands follow the same trail, and he moans as he slicks his hand down his hard length the same time imaginary Sam does.
He clenches his teeth so the moan comes out more like a harsh pant. Fuck, it feels nice. He thrusts quickly into the circle of his fist, turning his back to the spray. He tries to keep his mind away from imaginary Sam and his all-too-real freak-of-nature body, he really does. Even though it doesn’t count if they’re not touching. He goes through the greatest hits - Lisa, random bar chicks, Pamela Anderson, that one teacher back in eleventh grade. It feels good, but more distant. Like he’s stepping back from the ledge. And that’s not what he wants. He has to come. He can’t go back into that room like this. A flash of what he’d see if he did go out now makes his cock jerk and he realizes he’s straining to hear over the water, through the crack in the door. Trying to hear if Sam is jerking off, too. He knows Sam has a hard time keeping it quiet. He’s been hearing the bitten back moans, shuddery inhales, and half-voiced names for years. It was hearing his own name that proved he wasn’t alone in this. He wonders if Sam got the lube out or if he’s going with just spit and his own slick. And oh, fuck, fuck. Now it’s too fast, too close. He doesn’t want to come yet. Oh god, he wants to come at the same time imaginary Sam does. Fucking hell. He can’t do this. At least not until he’s knows that’s really Sam out there. How certain are you that what you brought back, is 100% pure Sam?
He breathes deep, slow, in and out. Soaps up one more time, just because it feels good to have hands on him, even if they are his own. And because it smells like Sam. Sammy is going to be the death of him. Again. Always.
It was almost easier when he thought Sam was gone forever. Though living without him was like being grateful that every breath brought you that much closer to your last, living with him, with this Sam, this miraculously resurrected, fucked up Sam, was like being back in hell. It was Alastair trying to look like Sam just before he carved Dean’s heart out again and again. No matter what any demon had tried, they’d never been able to get Sam just right. They’d always left out the important part, the true parts.
Things like his full-body, bent-over-at-the-waist laugh, like he couldn’t stand up from the weight of it. The way he bit his lower lip when he was practicing with the throwing knives, and how those knives flashed as they spun their way to bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye. The warm salty smell of his hair after a run. The look in Sam’s eye whenever Dean told him good job. The gentleness and the strength of his hands.
Sam has great hands. He’s steady with a needle or a gun. And strong. Even as a gangly teen, his massages were legendary. Sam’s hands, kneading Dean’s shoulders after drills. Dean drops his hand to his straining erection and groans remembering. Remembering that summer when he’d put his shoulder out one too many times and Sam had spent hours splayed over Dean’s naked back.
Sam’s teenaged, muscular thighs pressed tight against Dean’s ribs, hands pushing hard into the muscles. Sweat dripping down on him as Sam slid lower and lower down the curve of his ass to reach the muscles below his shoulder blade.
Dean’s dick twitches hard and he thinks fuck it and does what he’d sworn never to do again. Back against the slippery tile wall, hands hot and tight around his dick, he pulls out the never-fail memory from the deepest, most repressed part of his go-to list. Sixteen year old Sam straddling Dean’s thighs. Both of them shirtless, in cut-off denim shorts. The pilled sheets on the rickety double bed they’d shared that summer. The throb in his dick when he’d realized Sam’s hands had stopped massaging and were now just running up and down Dean’s back.
Sweat eased the way as they slid up either side of his spine, squeezed gently against his neck, fingers scratching against his scalp. Then back down again just to the waistband of his shorts, fingertips lingering at the place his spine started to curve back up to his tailbone. Up and down and up and over his skin, Sam just making these tiny rocking motions against him like he couldn’t stop himself. Dean was barely breathing. Skin goosebumping as he strained to hear every breath, every pant and whine Sam tried to hold in. His dick ached where it pressed against his zipper, pressed into the mattress. And every time Sam rocked into him, pressing his hard length into Dean, Dean rocked back. His heart was pounding like he’d run ten miles and he wanted to run and he wanted to stay and he wanted to flip Sam over, slam their bodies together and just ravage that sweet pink mouth. He drew a ragged breath in, body shuddering, and Sam surged forward, hands gripping and sliding over Dean’s back, up his arms where they were crossed under his head.
More than a decade later, Dean cries out like he’d done then; remembering the feel of Sam’s hard cock against his ass, and Sam’s bare chest slick against his back. His legs are trembling now and he slows his hand down, fighting to hold off until the end of the memory. Let it build higher and sweeter like it had then.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, echoing the way then-Sam had cursed into his ear.
“Jesus, fuck. Oh, god. Dean.” Sam’s whisper was as ragged and slippery as Dean’s thoughts and he bucked down against Dean’s body for real now. Dean just pushed up on his forearms, head hanging down, and held on. Sam’s mouth was on the back of his neck, on his shoulders, hot lips and tongue sucking and biting and Dean knew it was going to leave a mark and didn’t give a single fuck. His need to kiss Sam clawed up his throat and his mouth watered to be on some part of Sam. Sam’s breath was loud in his ear and neither one of them heard the rumbling of the Impala as it pulled up the driveway. Sam drove into Dean, gasped an inhale and tensed, trembling. In the sudden silence, they both heard the heavy slam of the car door. “Fuck. Dad!” Dean pushed up more but Sam clamped down, trapping him against the bed as he came with a wail. Sam’s fingers bruising Dean’s wrists, his cock pulsing against him, warm and wet over the small of Dean’s back, and it was too much. Dean bit deep into his own arm as he came, pressed between his baby brother and a crappy used mattress.
Here and now, Dean can’t hold back a moan that sounds way too close to Sam. His prayers that Sam didn’t hear his slip go apparently unanswered (no surprise) and the bathroom door slams open, banging against the wall with a dull thud before bouncing back into Sam. Naked, hard as a rock, cock slicked up and straining from his body. So he did go for the lube, Dean thinks wildly before flinging a hand out in warning. “Sam!” To Dean’s surprise, Sam stops.
He stops, but the bathroom is really small and Sam is really big. The shower is just a stall with a crappy curtain that doesn’t even cover half the opening. Sink to the right, toilet to the left. There’s no way for Dean to get out without Sam moving. And by the way his eyes are raking up and down Dean’s body, and the way his hand is sliding up and down his cock (just like in Dean’s imagination), there is no way Sam is moving.
Dean’s laugh sounds false, even to him, but he has to try. “Jeez, Sam,” he chokes out. “A little privacy. What where doing? Standing at the door?” It hits him that yeah, that is what Sam was doing. Standing outside the door, hand on his cock while he listened to Dean shower and jerk off.
“I heard you.” Sam’s eyes are dark as he takes one step into the room. “I heard you say my name.”
Dean fishes for something to say to that, anything. He’s got nothing. “Sam, I…”
“Don’t lie, Dean. Not to me. Please. God, Dean.” And Sam is reaching out to touch him, and Dean can’t let that happen. He grabs Sam’s wrist. “Don’t.”
Sam lets his hand drop back down to his own cock. Dean can’t look away as Sam strokes up and down. “Come on. I know you want this,” Sam is saying, breath heavy and deep. “I’m so close already just listening to you, just picturing you. You’re so fucking hot.”
The sweat and the steam and the water in the air are coating Sam, carving out his muscles and Dean can see the tendons in his neck tightening. This is so wrong. Sam came back wrong and this is just more proof. Dean’s mouth is desert-dry and he tilts his face to the spray to get some water so he can explain this. He swallows once and Sam’s hand is splayed out around his throat. Eyes wide, he sees Sam half in the shower now, chest heaving. Sam crowds against him, hard cock rubbing against Dean’s thigh, and for the first time, Dean is almost scared of his brother. But Sam’s not squeezing hard, or pressing further into the shower. He’s just standing there, feeling Dean swallow.
“Sam.” Dean didn’t dare move. He wasn’t sure what he would do. Drag Sam closer, press their bodies together, mouths and chest and cocks, or push Sam away. Sam makes the decision for them and steps completely into the shower, his cock like a brand on Dean’s skin. His hand slides around Dean’s neck, curving around the base of his skull and pulls down, tilting Dean’s head up.
Dean slides an arm around Sam’s hips, pulling him closer, and another on his chest, holding him away. And doesn’t that just sum it all up. Sam’s breath is hot on Dean’s mouth. “Dean,” he begs and his lips move over Dean’s.
Dean shakes his head, mouth brushing against Sam’s, hand opening and closing around Sam’s hip. “Something is seriously wrong with you, man.”
“I know.” Sam leans his forehead against Dean’s, blocking the water completely and Dean feels it flow like a river down Sam’s perfect back. “I know something’s wrong. But not this, right?” Sam presses deep into Dean’s mouth, and Dean opens for it.
Sam moves against Dean, pushing him into the wall, his lips and tongue strong and alive, and he’s bending his knees and thrusting up, and up and against Dean, over and over, dick dragging up Dean’s body hot and hard. He pulls off, panting, one huge hand cupping Dean’s face as he searches Dean’s eyes for something. “This isn’t wrong, is it? I remember this. I remember, from before. You wanted this. I wanted it. Right? Before?” And Sam looks like he has so many times, like he needs Dean to make it all right, make everything okay. And right then, he’s almost certain it’s one hundred percent Sam.
Dean has to close his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy. I want it.”
“I knew you did.” And Sam pulls away, pupils dark with lust. He reaches behind him and shuts off the water. “Out.” He tugs Dean out of the shower but Dean doesn’t want to go. If it had happened in the shower, if they’ fucked in the shower, it would have just happened, something slow, inevitable, something they couldn’t stop. If they go somewhere else, if they stop and then start again, then it’s premeditated. It’s something they might have to talk about. Something they might do again.
Sam manhandles him against the cold porcelain of the sink, back first, and that’s gonna bruise, but he’ll worry about that when Sam doesn’t have a hand around his dick and his tongue in Dean’s mouth. Sam’s hand just barely keeps Dean’s head from cracking against the mirror. Sam is just attacking his mouth, tongue pushing in and sucking the air out of Dean’s lungs. His hand flies over Dean’s cock, slick with the lube from his own body, and the way Sam’s cock slides against his when Sam holds them together makes Dean shudder.
Sam stops moving, pulls his mouth off of Dean’s with one last bite on his bottom lip, and stills his hands on their cocks. Dean’s chest heaves as much it can with how far Dean is bent backwards over the sink. His hands are clenched against the thin edge, his head tight against the wet glass. He can feel both heartbeats where they are pressed together in Sam’s hand. Sam’s cock is huge and pulsing against Dean’s. Sam’s heartbeat. Sam is alive. Sam is alive and here and wants Dean.
Sam’s fingers tighten on the back of Dean’s head as he bends in, mouth on Dean’s ear, nipping at the lobe, around the edges. “I want to fuck you. You want that. You want me to fuck you.”
And Dean would argue with the certainty in Sam’s voice but the fucker is squeezing their dicks together, just squeeze and release, squeeze and release, and Dean can feel the precome sliding down his length, feel Sam dripping down, too, just as wet as Dean and he really really wants to come right now. Surging up off the sink, he forces Sam to step back. Goddamn it if Sam isn’t smiling at him like he thinks is funny. Dean knocks Sam’s hand off his cock and it’s his turn to get his hands in Sam’s hair. That fucking hair should be good for something. It’s his turn to ravage Sam’s mouth, finally get to bite those pink lips like he wanted to so many years ago.
It feels like heaven. Better than heaven and Dean would know. The taste of him as Dean slicks his tongue around, learning Sam from the inside out. Sam’s hands are on his ass now, kneading and caressing and generally feeling awesome. He vaguely registers it when Sam pulls a hand off and reaches for something behind them. Licking the water drops off of Sam’s neck seems like the best idea he’s had in months, years. Sam moans and curses when he does.
“God, Dean. Your fucking mouth.” His skin shivers when Dean bites hard and Sam pulls his head up. “Fucker.” His glance flickers between Dean’s eyes and his mouth. “You won’t bite so hard when my dick is down your throat.” He bites his lower lip and Dean feels the weight on his head, and he knows Sam is thinking about just pushing Dean down the floor, imaging Dean’s lips wrapped around his cock. Dean’s knees bend a little thinking about it. Sam’s hand just slips into the crack of his ass with that little movement. Dean feels something slippery and Sam’s eyes go dark, that scary not-quite-Sam smile on his face again, and Dean stills. “But not tonight.” Sam grabs his hips and twists Dean around. He yanks his hips back and pushes Dean down with a hand between his shoulder blades so fast that only Dean’s quick grab on the sink stops him from a bloody nose.
“What the fuck, Sam?” He looks into the mirror at Sam’s reflection, seeing as he does a small container of Vaseline. That must have been what Sam was grabbing at before.
Sam’s finger slips between his ass cheeks, sliding right against Dean’s hole like Sam had a fucking road map to Dean’s body. He leans over Dean’s back, eyes meeting in the mirror. “Ready?” And he forces that lubed up finger inside while Dean is still trying to figure out the answer.
The sound that comes out of Dean’s throat is somewhere between a moan and a yell, and his knuckles are white around the edge of the porcelain. Sam’s chuckle is dark and molasses thick as he leans his long body over Dean’s back, one hand deep in Dean’s ass, the other reaching around to fist Dean’s cock. Dean is surrounded, owned by his little brother, and all he can do it twitch and shudder at the heat and chills that chase up and down his body. Sam thrusts in and out as he caresses the weeping head of Dean’s cock. Though Dean’s brain may be screaming that everything about this is wrong, his body is right on board and it seems to be in control right now.
Dean yelps as Sam bites the side of his neck.
“Focus, Dean.” Dean feels the tip of finger against him as Sam pulls out. “You’ve done this before,” Sam says as Dean exhales and bears down as Sam’s second finger pushes in slowly but steadily.
“Yeah,” he says, head hanging down as he feels Sam’s palm slide up flush against his ass.
“I knew it,” Sam laughs and keeps pumping in and out hard, giving a little twist at the end of the upstroke that scrapes against Dean’s prostate. Dean groans and pushes back. “Shut up.” He bends lower, elbows on the wet, slippery porcelain. His back is cold without Sam blanketed across it. His dick slaps against the sink when Sam lets go of it. Dean looks up, complaint dying on his lips as he sees Sam reaching into the small open tub of Vaseline wedged behind the faucet. He pushes back up to look over his shoulder, watching as Sam’s hand disappears between his legs. The fingers in his ass keep up their thrusting and twisting as Sam slicks up his cock. “Yeah, god.” Dean turns to meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror.
“Ready?” Sam asks again.
“I was ready before. Just fuck me already.”
Sam slides his lub- slippery hand quickly up and down Dean’s cock, a twist at the top to match the evil twist of his fingers inside Dean, and he just keeps doing it and doing it until Dean is panting, legs trembling, arms weak. Dean can’t stop thrusting back and forth now, Sam behind him and Sam in front of him until he doesn’t know which sensation to chase. “Oh fuck. Shit.” His hips snap forward and back and he really wants Sam to fuck him but he can’t stop now. Sam slides in a third finger and Dean yells. “Fuck! Goddamn.” He pushes back up on to his hands. In the mirror, his eyes are wide, wild, green swallowed up by the black. He is face flushed, and his lips are red-bitten and swollen, and Sam is grinning like a maniac over his shoulder. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, fuck me. Fuck me now.”
Sam’s smile - oh god - Dean has seen less evil smiles in hell. “Now you’re ready,” he purrs. He lets go of Dean’s dick and slides out of his ass, and Dean gasps at the loss of sensation. Sam’s eyes are locked onto Dean’s as he guides his cock in, other hand tight on Dean’s hip. Dean can see his own cock, hard and swollen, greasy with Vaseline and dripping into the sink. It’s obscene, wrong, and so fucking good Dean is a little afraid of the orgasm he can feel building up at the base of his spine and in his balls.
At the first push of Sam’s cock, so much wider than his fingers, Dean goes up his toes and Sam’s hands tighten on his hips, drag him back down and onto Sam. Dean is panting, harsh breaths through his teeth, and he can’t stop staring at Sam’s face in the mirror. His teeth are clenched and eyebrows drawn together almost in pain. “Fuck. Dean. You’re so fucking tight.” They both exhale roughly and Dean’s feet drop back down to the floor as Sam pulls back just a little, still holding Dean open. He runs his hands over Dean’s back gently, drops down and kisses between his shoulders, down the bumps of his spine, all the while just pulsing his hips in and out, circling them as he kisses the cheek Dean turns up for him. He kisses the top of Dean’s head and their eyes meet in the mirror one more time. “Ready?” Dean breathes in deeply, lets it out, relaxing every muscle under his voluntary control, even his fingers loosen around the sink. He nods. “Ready.”
Sam’s hands on his hips lift him up just a bit and Sam bends his knees slightly and their groans echo against the tiled walls as Sam slides all the way into Dean. Dean slams one hand down on the sink. “Oh, oh, fuck.” He can feel Sam’s hands trembling. “Dean…I gotta. I gotta move.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. It’s okay, Sammy.”
Dean braces himself and he thought he was ready but he’s not. He’s so not ready for the way Sam just slams into him. He’s so full and Sam is touching every place inside of him. The pull and the drag and his hands grabbing and slipping and grabbing again for purchase on Dean’s sweaty skin. The bathroom is a sauna, their sweat and the heat and the steam from the showers has nowhere to go. Dean struggles to drag in the sultry air as Sam’s cock slides into him, pushing out all the air in his lungs.
Grunts and curses and he has to come now. He can’t take any more, every slide of Sam’s cock inside him, sparking and shorting out Dean’s brain. His cock slides through the puddle of precome slicking up the lip of the sink. Dean tries to grab his own dick but he can’t keep his balance with Sam slamming into him over and over. Shameless with need, he starts begging though clenched teeth. “Sam, Sam, touch me. Oh, god, please. Please.” His arms are starting to give out and his legs are trembling, head brushing into the mirrored cabinet with every thrust. “Please, Sam, I gotta come.” His balls are so tight against his body they almost hurt.
“Yeah, yeah. Dean. Okay, okay.” Sam’s hand slide off Dean’s hip, leaving bruises behind, and scratches up his body. “Yeah.” He reaches up Dean’s chest, pinching and twisting his nipple until Dean yells with it. He can’t tell what hurts and what feels good and if there is any difference between the two right now. One hard tweak that leaves Dean panting and Sam hooks his arm under Dean’s thigh and shoves his knee up on the thin ledge of the sink.
The press of his kneecap into the porcelain does hurt but Dean could give a fuck as Sam’s dick punches in to his prostate over and over. Dean scrabbles for a hold, one hand grabbing onto the edge of cabinet, the other in a death grip on the edge of the sink. He can barely keep his eyes open but the sight of them in the mirror has him riveted. Turned like they are, Dean can see darkness and light between their bodies and Sam pulls in and out, he can see his cock and balls hanging brazenly over the edge, tight and gleaming with sweat and lube. Sam’s thrusts are getting jerky, his hips stuttering as he curses and begs. “Yeah. Fuck. So perfect. Fucking gorgeous. I’m gonna…gonna come right inside you. And you just love it, don’t you?”
Dean grunts when Sam’s hand tightens on his hip and around his thigh. Sam stops moving and Dean can feel the pulsing of his dick inside him. He thrusts once, hard, and stops. “You do right? You love it.”
Dean groans, trembling, he’s right on the edge and going to lose his fucking mind. He tries to thrust back but Sam is a sequoia, an immovable object behind him, and Dean has zero leverage in this position. “Love your brother’s cock in you? Love me coming in you?”
“Fuck Sam!” he yells, cock shooting, once, twice. Almost coming, but not quite. Sam is filthy, this is dirty porn sex in a pay-by-the hour motel. It’s so not how Dean pictured this happened and he is one second away from coming harder than he can remember.
Sam grips him warningly, pushes in deep, not thrusting, just owning. Pushing in as deep as he can. “Tell me, Dean. Tell me if you love it. Because I’ll stop. I can stop right now.”
Dean whimpers at the thought of it. “No, god, Sammy. Sam, don’t stop.” Jesus Christ, Sam really was going to be the death of him. “Stop and I’ll kill you.”
Sam laughs and reaches with the hand hooked under Dean’s knee to just graze the top of his dick. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Dean can feel Sam throbbing, can feel his balls pulled up tight and hard where they’re crushed into Dean, and how the fuck is he holding still. Dean clenches his ass as tightly as he can around Sam and is rewarded with a hissed curse and three quick, hard fucks until Sam gets himself back under control. Now Dean can feel the trembling in Sam’s arms, in the stretch of his groin, and they are at the top of this cliff together. The fall might kill them both.
Sam starts pushing in and pulling out slowly, so slowly, moaning, and he drags Dean out of his mind with each slide. “Feel me, Dean? Do you feel me?”
“God, yeah. Sammy, I feel you. Feel so good, little brother.”
Sam’s thrust is less controlled after that. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Tell me. Tell me you love it, your little brother fucking you.”
And why the fuck not? Dean’s gone to hell for less. He exhales and gives in to all of it. “Fucking love it, Sammy. Love knowing it’s you, love feeling you. So do it, Jesus. Come already. Give it to me.”
“Dean!” Sam yells his name like he has a thousand times in their lives, pleading, searching for something only Dean can give him and he’s shooting deep into Dean, muscles locked up tight. With a shout, Dean falls right over that cliff with him. Stomach muscles, heart, mind and soul locked up around Sam as he shoots all over himself, the sink, into the air, cock pulsing up and down. It takes ages for Dean to come back to his body, for their breathing to even out some, hearts pounding.
Dean groans as Sam pulls out, groans again as he drops his leg down with a thump and pries his fingers from the edge of the sink. “Damn,” he laughs, shaky but good. He straightens up, wincing a little as he feels Sam’s come starting to slide down his thigh. He’s going to be sore in a dozen places later. He feels Sam against his back, hand tracing over what Dean knows must be bruises on his hips. Deep breath in, and he lifts up to meets Sam’s eyes in the mirror, looking for reassurance that this wasn’t a mistake. That Sam is still okay, that they’re still okay.
But Sam’s not looking in the mirror; he’s looking down with a wry smirk. Dean jolts at a loud slap on his ass. “Damn that was amazing,” Sam chuckles. “Should have been doing that for years.” He pats Dean on the ass again and turns away, reaching for the shower. “Hope there’s still some hot water. We’re gross. Vaseline’s a bitch to get off.”
Dean’s orgasm-muddled mind can’t even process anything Sam is saying or doing. His mouth open and closes soundlessly. They’ve just crossed this huge barrier, gave into a decade’s worth of sexual tension, gay, incestuous, sexual tension, and Sam’s big concern is washing up? Dean closes his eyes, hides his face behind one hand, and blinks back the tears. “Hey,” Sam calls cheerily from the shower. “Go get that towel, would you? I think it was the only one.”
Dean doesn’t answer for a moment, wiping his t-shirt ineffectually at the come on his stomach, between his legs, before throwing it back on the floor with a sigh. “Dean? The towel?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Hold your horses, I got it.” He turns, pausing at the doorway, watching Sammy almost whistling in the shower. Not really how he thought they would be after. He’s been with strangers with more post-sex warmth. He pictures Sam’s big warm hands, strong chest, imagines how it would feel to be held against them and closes his eyes.
Fuck what anyone else thinks. There is something seriously wrong with Sam.