The way in - Part 1
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He hardly remembers how he got there. He only wishes, in the light of what's happening to him right now, that he hadn't been stubborn enough to come without his brother.
He can't believe that after all he's been through, a simple human got the upper hand on him and that he's getting raped.
He's not sure he can take this.
The only man he has ever desired is his brother. No one else, and certainly not this ragged excuse for a human being who hasn't washed in who knows how many days and looks deep into his eyes while he's fucking him, hard and slow, blood now easing his way in. The pain is staggering, maddening, and he should be fighting with all his power to push away this scrawny man who would be no match for him normally, except that Sam is letting his rapist take him as he wishes, plunging his hard cock again and again in his ass, neither of them blinking as the hurt gets always worse while the offending pleasure diminishes.
And yet the man keeps tweaking his nipples and biting them, more and more violently. He comes back time and again to Sam's cock to strip it with a force that seems inhuman and probably is, come to think of it, keeping it at full mast and always closer to the point of ejaculation. Sam doesn't want it, but he knows already it will happen, at any moment, and it will only add to his anger and shame with himself for doing nothing against this rape, collaborating instead by grasping his own legs in his own hands to spread them as much as possible and give room to the monster to take him just like he wants. To use him like a whore and fuck him for as long as he desires.
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Two hours earlier
This is the one. The way in. It can sense it. This is the one because his body is strong and his mind even stronger.
This is Its Father. The man that will carry Its seed to make It corporeal at last, able to rule over this universe the way It's meant to, to dictate over more than one human at a time to make them do Its bidding. So It's gonna have him, take him and breed him.
But before the man realizes the honor of being The Vessel, It has to subdue him through Its current vessel, the weak thing that can hardly wear It. So It makes him pronounce the sacred words that tie everything to Its will.
That's how Its Father is brought to It, always closer, to the point that It can touch him, disrobe him and dispose him the way It wants to worship his body.
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Garth was supposed to hunt a vampire. A nasty one, who's already killed twenty-three women, after he fucked them wearing his handsome human male face.
But what Garth found had nothing to do with a vampire. The entity who now resides in him and makes him do things he disapproves of is probably not even of this world, even though its power over it is astounding. It feels too… otherworldly to be of this plane.
The man they have trapped is beautiful. The entity using Garth's body to come close to him was able to get his name. Sam. He's strong, in body and spirit. Garth knows he's probably fighting to get away, deep down inside, just like he himself is. But words were pronounced by the monster that now bind him to let Garth do as he wants.
And God, does he want. In any other circumstances, Garth would be delighted to gain the authorization to touch such a gorgeous man. But here he is, disrobing him, admiring tanned skin and taut muscles under the pads of his fingers that linger to take in the power of the other man and relish in it. Already he feels the transfer going from one to the other, and the other way around, taking and giving, meshing.
His chest is strong, his heart beating rapidly, his cock is filling, bigger and bigger, under Garth's gaze and the touch of his hand, but it's nothing compared to his fundament, so to speak. Hands splayed on the man's ass cheeks, Garth can measure the rightness of it all, know for sure already that the man will be the Vessel the entity needs. He feels his own throbbing cock ready to spear him and he loses his own clothes. Any other time, he would feel inadequate, too tall for his frame, or maybe too skinny for his height. But not now, not knowing that this dreamy creature is going to be his.
He can't even feel bad when he finally pushes inside the guy and knows he's hurting him through the whimpers escaping his sealed lips. The tightness is too good, and the entity can't wait for the moment to take form, urging him to go on.
So Garth fucks Sam, and he loves every second of it. If it's the last thing he gets to do before the monster kills him, he will take with him the memory and sight of love made man.
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Nothing in this is normal, neither Sam's seeming agreement with the rape nor the impossible time it takes for the other - drugged ? - man to fuck him.
Sam knows it's been more than two hours because of the messages he's heard in the distance announcing the trains' arrivals at the station. They're in a nearby warehouse, abandoned and yet so close to other human beings. Sam could have tried to call for help, but ever since he heard the words whispered in a strange language he's been calm and willing, giving in to everything ordered of him. That's why he thought at first he was dealing with simple magic. His will erased, he let the guy take his clothes off, piece by piece, and throw them away in the dust of the room as if they were never going to be of use again. He stood, naked and cool, in front of his aggressor, submitting to his hated touches and feeling himself go deeper into his trance-like state as more unknown words were pronounced in his ears.
He hated it, but the touches were good, instantly intimate and probing. Sam felt his ass opening to let two digits in, showing no resistance other than the fact that Dean and him have been too busy recently to do more than quick handjobs before falling asleep next to each other and Sam's ass was not prepared in any way.
He lay down, the way the other guy told him to. Half over the dusty floor, embedding splinters in his back and ass, in his feet and hands ; half over the dirty, abandoned bags, full of pointy and hard undefined objects that hurt his back even when he's not moving. He spread his legs as he was asked to, unable to restrain himself but blushing with powerless rage. He obeyed and took hold of his knees to bend his legs, offering himself in the most revealing position he had only ever used for Dean before, and the monster spent a long while staring at him, uttering words that felt like sacred vows tying Sam's soul to its will and his body to its fate.
Sam couldn't help taking a long look at the other man's bobbing cock. It was hard and long, just like the rest of his too-thin body. The meatier part of it all, but still not very big. Yet if felt huge once it pushed to enter him. Huge and hurting, impaling.
It still feels the same more than two hours later.
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Three hours now, and the rapist is still going at it. Sam's ass feels more like blood than flesh at this point, despite the ongoing, flaring pain. The more his mind screams at him to break out of this trance, to fight off his attacker, the less Sam's body seems to be able to move. A part of him, the biggest one in charge at the moment, only keeps track of the dick's movements, going in, going out, sliding in, sliding out, pushing in, pulling out. And so it goes, Sam's prostate jolted with every hit of the other man's cock, and pleasure still a very alive part of the terrible process. His nipples are raw and bloody too, and yet he likes it when the tongue soothes and laves them for a while, keeping them peaked and red. His own cock has come to such a purple-red color he would be terribly worried and seek medical assistance if he were able to. It can't be good to get there without being able to shoot your load for so long, especially as it seems to want to, but something keeps it from coming.
Sam's whole body is on the verge of something, feeling fuller minute after minute, the way it did on the rare occasions he got to stuff his face full, back when he was a kid and they went to visit Bobby or another of dad's hunter friends, before John Winchester's bad temper pushed them all away, one after the other.
Leaving only Dean and Sam to be there for each other. No wonder Sam ran away at first, futilely trying to be his own man until he realized Dean and him were the two sides of the same coin. Soul mates, no less.
Right now, his soul is screaming for his mate, crying over the hurt the rape is going to put on their bond, wondering if it will ever recover.
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The entity has managed to throw tendrils of consciousness inside Sam's mind, and Garth bears witness to the thoughts and cries for help coming from the other man.
The loudest wish goes to his brother, Dean. Love and sorrow all together, the fear that he'll never see him again, never feel the strength of his arms around him anymore, the depth of his unconditional love.
Garth realizes then who the man he's fucking really is. The infamous Sam Winchester, and his brother is the just-as-infamous Dean Winchester. He's heard about them both through the hunters' grapevine. Good things, mostly, especially from Bobby Singer.
Apart from Sam's evil blood, and now Garth knows why the entity wanted this man so badly. His blood had to be like a beacon to it, the certainty that it could do anything once inside him, possessing such a vessel.
Garth would like to know how to stop it. Another time, another place, another entity, and he thinks he would rather cut off his own dick than harm Sam. But there's nothing he can do, save for pumping his dick deep inside Sam's ass again and again, and enjoying it.
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Seven hours. They've been at it for seven hours, and his rapist shows no sign of tiring. Relentlessly fucking him like his life depends on it, frenzied, uncaring.
At times, feeling like he floats over the scene where he's raped and not fighting, Sam wonders how this is possible. How not only the other man but also himself are able to maintain an erection for so long. What's the purpose of this assault ? The man has to hurt as much as him by now, so this is not pleasure he's seeking. It might be some fucked-up ritual - pun very much intended, to the point that it's not a pun anymore - but there's no incantation, and seven hours is a really long time for nothing to happen. There has to be a supernatural goal this endless rape will achieve, so Sam searches his memory again and again, the hunts he did with Dad and Dean, with Bobby or any other hunter, anything he heard since he was old enough for his father to talk about monsters in his presence, but he doesn't have the first clue about this. He never heard about a monster raping their prey for seven hours straight, just for the sake of it, and not killing them.
Then the other man gives a particularly strong push careening into his prostate, and Sam forgets everything that isn't the hated delightful sparks rushing through his body.
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Garth doesn't know how long it's been. He's been processing pleasure, of a sort he had never known before, for hours now. Feeding on it, wallowing. That's all there is to it.
What he knows when he's conscious enough - less and less now, and for shorter spans of time - is that his self has long begun to blur, blending with the entity. The physical bliss induced by the long fucking his body is experiencing is completely inseparable from the feeling of owning, possessing Sam's offered body. It's contrary to his character to enjoy hurting another man or thinking they belong to him. But as much as he tries, he can't seem to find it in himself to care if this gorgeous man has lost his free will to obey the entity's orders. Can't fucking care that he's raping him, or that he's becoming himself something he should despise and fight. Sam's feelings matter less and less as the time passes and Garth loses himself more and more in the entity and the ecstasy that he's beginning to suspect is the unmitigated sign of his upcoming death.
He is slowly erased from the universe and at this point it's highly dubious that something will remain of his soul once the entity is done with him. Not that it makes a lot of difference to him when he can enjoy blending with Sam fucking Winchester, becoming part of him, something that will permanently reside inside him.
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Twenty-five hours. Night has come back and Sam is now sure he'll die here. Dean won't ever find his body and he'll be left to rot, eaten by rats and insects, without a chance to be cremated to avoid coming back and turning into a vengeful spirit.
At first he thinks he's hallucinating, or losing his mind after more than a day of heated sex and losing blood, and the dehydration that goes with it. His eyes are playing tricks on him in the dark, the weak light coming from the streetlamps not close enough to make the other guy's body as clear as it was all day long. Plus he's got to be very tired now, even if he doesn't feel like it and he's still alert.
But the twitching he first thought he had imagined only gets worse, as if the man's body, already frail and sickly-looking, is now turning down on itself. Its outline gets blurred, edges irregularly disappearing only to reappear one or two inches shorter, like a star shrinking down before it turns supernova on Sam. Only there's no explosion, no implosion. Just the body getting dimmer and smaller, inside already depleted, edges uneven and blurry, except for the cock, or what Sam can see of it anyway and what he can feel deep inside, the endless fucking as strong as ever.
In less than four hours, most of the body has disintegrated to Sam's horror and disgust, reducing to a truncated torso and cut off legs, but still the cock keeps moving in him. When even the stumps of the former body disappear, the cursed cock still moves on itself and keeps Sam erect, hard like granite. He feels so full, hypothesizing that the substance and energy of the man have been fed into his own body through the hated dick, that he's been raped for hours to fill him with some entity that has already taken control of his mind and will now do so from inside his own body.
He loses his train of horrifying thoughts as the pleasure grows inside him in an inversely proportional measure to the size of the cock that has now begun to shrink too. Sam lets his legs go for the first time in more than a day, oblivious to the pins and needles and the pain of changing position at last, to his knees and back protesting being bent for so long at the same angle. He ignores everything to seize the man's member to fuck himself with it, quicker and more forcefully than ever. He needs the friction, he knows it, needs the pain and the blood easing the way in, needs to feel each and every jolt of his body as his prostate screams in pleasure and asks loudly for more. So he gives it, pushing his fingers inside to compensate for the smaller dick unable to give him what he needs now, save for the feeling of belonging to someone else, someone who will reside forever within him and will never let him feel alone.
It's on this thought, as the cock at last becomes too small to be of any use and manages to embed itself high into Sam's rectum, like a fertilized seed into a woman's womb, that Sam's own cock finally explodes. There's no other word for it, the supernova finally getting off. It's a fountain, a geyser of spunk that can't seem to end for at least five full minutes. Parts of Sam's torso and face disappear under the volume of semen, some even gets into his mouth when his screams of pain get louder than his cries of pleasure. Who thought coming for that long would be so terrible, and not just more of the incredible pleasure of sex ? Not to mention that his hands took hold of his cock of their own volition, stripping it like mad to make sure the ejaculation goes on and on, that no semen will remain unreleased in the confines of his aching balls that should be shrinking by now, the way his rapist did. But his balls are still very much there, big and strong, and he can feel them when one of his hands massages them to make sure they will go on and give him still more semen.
And then it's over. His legs are still spread wide ; his hands on his cock and balls keep with the hurtful massage. He feels every bite and every hurt on his utterly violated body, he remembers how he's been used, everything that's been done to him against his will, and he smiles.
He doesn't understand why he does this, but he can't help himself. He takes on his middle finger some of the spunk lying on his torso and gets his hand at his entrance, pushing deep despite the pain to make sure the semen will get as far as possible. Then he does it again and again, till all the semen has been cleaned off his abdomen and forced past his gaping anus far inside his rectum, even that which landed on his chin and cheeks - the drops on his lips, he couldn't help but taste with his tongue, and he loved it enough to eat it all and swallow despite his throat's dryness. Now the sensation is the same in his ass and his mouth, he feels revived, even playing with his own prostate with his long fingers and triggering two other ejaculations, the results of which end up in his ass again, as if the rape was just some unpleasant moment he had to go through in order to get better than ever, to feel stronger than usual.
Because he does. He's still of two minds. One has shut down, catatonic after being ravaged by the utter violation he went through for so many hours, witnessing the horror of his rapist's fate, and refusing to imagine the unpredictable consequences of what happened today. The other feels energized and ready to take on the world, imbued with inhuman power.
He's pretty sure he's become one of the things Dean and him hunt and put down for the sake of the world and other humans.
Dean. He needs to find his brother. Dean will protect and help Him.
He takes a few steps and then comes back, remembering that he has to wear the strange fabric his kind uses to hide in front of the rest of the world. He doesn't want to hide. He wants to show his power and abilities to the face of the world, have them all lusting for him and wishing they could have him.
Let's begin with Dean.
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Try as he might, he can't remember how he got here.
He's confused. The door of this particular motel bedroom looks like any other door of any other motel room, and he's seen so many of them !
Surely, there's a good reason for his presence in this place, but it's all just thick fog and black mist in his mind.
And suddenly the door opens and the reason stands in front of him, pointing a gun right at his face.
Dean.
Dean's pissed and threatening at first, but doesn't need more than a second to turn into a mamma bear, gun forgotten to take him in his arms, clutching him against his own body, squeezing hard and awakening all kinds of bruises and aches in Sam.
But he squeezes just as hard, because something, like an unknown voice deep inside his own head, tells him he's lucky to be there and he should enjoy it while he can.
Should be glad that he's got a solid - if battered - frame for his brother to squeeze on, and that he's not a disintegrating corpse, walking around until there's nothing left of him. All puzzling thoughts that don't make a lick of sense, even considering their weird lives and the weirder beings they get to mix with.
He lets Dean take him inside the room and close the door behind him as if to shut down the world.
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Dean has thought more than once he was going right out of his mind. Sam disappeared for the better part of two days, and now he's here, confusion written all over his face.
It's kind of adorable, to be honest, but he will go fight ten vampires with his bare hands before he caves in and admits this out loud. Sam was allowed to be adorable back when he was still a tiny blob of hunger and flatulence, rinse and repeat day after day. Not that it seemed that adorable back then, not to a four-years-older kid who'd have preferred to play outside rather than changing his little brother's diapers because Dad's too busy, or too drunk, to do the job. Dolls were never a favorite pastime of Dean's and Sam, anyway, was never accommodating enough to make him a good substitute. Even at that young age, he kept on noisily reminding Dean of his will and strong personality.
Which is probably why seeing Sam like this, lost puppy impression so earnest and impressive, tears at Dean's heartstrings. Makes him feel all mushy inside, and he's quick asking Sam where he's been and what he's done, to stop right now with the heart eyes and lovey-dovey bullshit.
"What happened ?" he asks as his right hand rises up of its own accord to cup Sam's face, and Sam looks back at him with the same question in his eyes.
There're tear marks on his cheeks, pale, dry rivulets on his dirty face, and Dean imagines Sam's crying while someone / something was harming him.
There're also cobwebs in his hair and dust on his clothes. Wherever Sam has been for the last two days left long-lasting mementos on him for Dean to try and retrace his steps. An old abandoned place, not that far if Sam came back on foot, not really knowing where he was going if his confused look means anything.
The only thing that matters, really, is that Sam is alive, and seemingly not too dinged.
"I can't remember," Sam finally rasps in a voice so rusty Dean doesn't ask before he goes to the minibar and grabs a cold beer for Sam to drink.
Sam inhales the whole bottle in five gulps, and then asks for one more. Dean obliges, wondering if Sam should stick to water, or go for something definitely stronger like scotch.
"I'm hungry," Sam says next, eyeing the remnants of Dean's dinner on the table.
This time, Dean walks his brother to the remaining French fries and burger he was eating when he heard someone in front of his room. He sits Sam down and lets him have at it.
"Listen, eat this and I'm gonna run to the joint right next door for more. I'll be back in a second, don't go anywhere ! You hear me ?"
"I hear you," Sam answers, and maybe it's the food and drink but there's a touch of annoyance in his tone that makes Dean feel instantly better, out of Oz and back to normal.
Dean checks that his money is right where it should be and goes to the door.
"Don't go !" he repeats before he shuts the door and really runs to get more food for his little brother.
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It takes but a short moment for Sam to realize he's alone in the bedroom.
Even though he often doesn't mind Dean's presence next to him, he usually enjoys being alone if it means studying or doing research. He never feels really alone with a good book.
But he's got no book right now. The burger and fries are quickly swallowed, and his stomach cries for more, but still, he wishes for Dean's closeness. It's kind of a shock to be confronted with the deep-seated need for his brother he can't ignore anymore, not when the walls seem to close in on him as he watches the door and wills Dean to come back. Right now.
His brain's still foggy, even though the food made him feel a lot better. He can't find in himself the usual strength that allowed him once to leave his family behind and would help him today to fight this terrible sensation that someone's watching him, ready to pounce, closing in. His heart beats too fast, eyes darting from one spot to another, from one shadow to another.
There's no one. Not even Dean.
Sam stands up so swiftly the chair falls down. The sound echoes inside his skull, bringing back his awareness of reality, and dulls his anxiety attack a bit.
He kind of remembers the bathroom being behind him, and cold water on his face might help to clear his thoughts some more.
He marvels at the fact that Dean let him out of his sight when he takes in his appearance in the partially cracked mirror above the sink. He's a mess. Dirty and disheveled, pathetic with sorrow etched all over his face. And he doesn't even know why. Still can't remember what happened to him to get him to look like that.
Considering his history, nothing good to be sure.
The faucet shrieks for three seconds when Sam turns it on, followed by the pipes complaining in a lower key, but water finally leaks out into Sam's waiting hands. He doesn't wonder why it looks like tears to him. Instead, he rubs off the marks left by the ones that ran down his face on some occasion he can't bring back to consciousness.
He doesn't really look any better once he's done. On the contrary, the wetness makes his eyes seem to shine with new tears, little drops clinging to his eyelashes.
It's maddening, this hole in his mind when it comes to the last two days. Maddening and quite a bit frightening. He has to remember, to know what he's fighting against, make sure he's not in danger anymore, and that Dean will be safe with him once he's back. He has to.
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, using the meditation techniques one of Jess' friends taught him in the first months at Stanford, when he was too edgy to sleep and rest at night, because that normal life didn't seem so normal to him and he just couldn't let his guard down so easily. If Dean and Dad weren't there to protect him and the other people in his life, then he had to be the one in control, watching over his friends and lovers. Months later, getting with Jess had lulled him into a false sense of safety that ultimately cost them her life, and he won't ever forgive himself for that.
Being with Dean is a whole different story. They're brothers first. Soul mates, like Ash said. They fight together and have each other's back. Then, when fighting is done and time has come to be simple humans again, they can unleash this other need, this different kind of feeling they have for each other. Take the time to love, to show how much they care and want.
These feelings are the rock-like core from which Sam draws his strength. This is what he thinks about when he needs to center himself and reach for his inner strength, to keep going on and fight.
Eyes still closed, he imagines Dean smiling at him. Dean in his naked glory, making love to him. Dean singing loud and out of key, driving the Impala. Dean of the simple pleasures, happy and carefree, eating pie like he's found religion.
He opens his eyes and the reflection he sees in the mirror is not Dean's, but a tall, lanky man, frail and ghostly, who seems somewhat familiar. Maybe it's the hollowness in his eyes, the vacant stare suggesting nobody's home.
There's no one there when he turns around, but the feeling that he's not alone stubbornly remains.
And Dean doesn't come back.
He shouldn't have let him go. Eating is not that important that it couldn't wait a few hours, even when his stomach loudly complains that it needs sustenance.
There's something else crying at him now : his bladder. He can't remember the last time he relieved himself and he just drank two beers.
The relief is welcome and immediate and he feels a bit more grounded doing something so primal, so down-to-earth.
He closes his eyes again and enjoys the feeling, trying not to move to avoid making a mess he really doesn't want to have to clean afterwards. He pictures his dick in his hand, aiming for the toilet bowl, but something looks weird. The hand doesn't look like his, and the angle is all wrong, like someone in front of him is holding his cock and playing with it. And it's not Dean's strong, beautiful hands, the fingers are too long and thin. But here it is, his own hand at last, holding someone else's cock, and it doesn't look like Dean's either.
Is it possible that this memory loss is just a way to protect his relationship with Dean, to forget he cheated on him ? It's normally not in him to do something like that, but what if… ? What if he was drugged, roofied, and didn't realize he wasn't with Dean until it was too late ? This idea brings back the image of the ghost he thought he saw earlier, and the spirit is lost, naked and dirty, desperately trying to become corporeal but his transparence betrays how badly he's failing. Sam takes the ghost's dick in hand and plays with it inside of him, the angle weird once again, and he's got nothing but this cock in hand, attached to nothing but him, fucking him hard and fast.
He passes out.
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Dean finds Sam lying on the floor and his heart skips at least two beats.
It takes only seconds to make sure Sam just fainted, nothing worse, but still, he berates himself for a long while and wonders what possessed him to leave his brother alone, even for a short moment, after he disappeared for two days and came back not having a clue about what had happened to him during that time.
He's shaking Sam and calling him, ready to shake rougher if need be to wake him up, when he sees it for the first time. He thinks Sam's shivering from resting on the cold white tiles of the bathroom but there's no tremor under his fingers where they hold Sam's bare forearms. He's still inert, warm and solid… and then it dawns on him that as solid as Sam is, for a few seconds there, Dean's been able to see his own fingers through Sam's flesh and bones. Like Sam's losing substance. Like a non-corporeal ghost who's but a mere reflection of his past human appearance.
He himself does shiver at the thought of his baby brother turned ghost, and he has to squeeze harder on Sam's warm arms and shake rougher on his whole body to make sure he's really here. Not a ghost.
He almost succeeds in convincing himself he imagined it all because Sam then opens his eyes and smiles at him, confused again.
Even if the constant smiling is a bit out of character, Dean easily dismisses it and settles for relief. Sam manages to stand up, says he's feeling good but dirty, that a shower would be great, especially one with Dean. To make sure his backside is real clean, you know. And he says it with a naughty grin that has Dean's heart beating faster this time and his dick already responding to the undisguised invitation.
Sam doesn't wait for Dean's answer to begin shedding his clothes. It's sexy, willingly so, and Dean keeps reacting to the ever-present attraction his brother represents for him, but his arousal is dulled by the bruises that appear here and there over Sam's whole body as more of it is revealed. Bruises that tell a story Dean would like to ignore but he just can't. If someone - something - did to his brother what he's suspecting, they're dead.
Sam's unaware of all the thoughts passing through Dean's mind and, once naked, stands unmoving in front of his brother to convey his rapidly growing need ; then he turns around, showing off the magnificent ass he knows Dean would follow to the end of the Earth, and turns the shower on. Dean's unable to resist the lure even as he catalogs all the new bruises and red marks on Sam's backside. What the hell happened out there if Sam wasn't raped ?! They each get their fair share of bruises during hunts, but never so localized that Dean feels ill and wants to tear the world apart.
Yet Sam in this moment looks more like a siren seducing a doomed sailor than a rape victim, his head thrown back to let the water sluice over his whole body, soaked mane clinging to his skull. He never looks as gigantic like that, nakedness showcasing how thin he is nowadays, not bulked up the way he used to be back when he was drinking demon blood. But he's just all the more beautiful, the most beautiful thing to Dean's eyes, and Dean can't help coming closer to admire his lover.
The dirt he collected God knows where drains away, restoring Sam's skin to its usual healthy color. Dean's hands need to help, reaching for the soap Sam's passing to him. He's still fully clothed but he doesn't mind getting wet as he washes Sam's back. Again and again, he makes sure every square inch of Sam's skin is clean, rid of any trace any person or monster might have put on his brother. He reminds Sam's body who he belongs to.
Considering all the abuse Sam visibly sustained, Dean approaches Sam's ass with great trepidation. Touching the reddened skin doesn't seem to hurt him and after a few gentle washing caresses, he dares going further, spreading Sam's ass cheeks to check on him. He contorts himself to get a clear view and finds traces of what is surely blood, but once water and soap have diluted it, there's no particular sign of ill treatment, and everything still looks just as dubious to him.
Plus Sam's attitude is not the one of someone who survived a rape, confusing Dean even more. Sam certainly doesn't shy away from Dean's touch in the slightest. On the contrary, he pushes his ass back in Dean's hands when he feels he's not getting enough attention.
"Am I boring you ?" he asks, brooding and irresistible.
Indeed, Dean can't resist giving a little slap to that beautiful bottom in response.
"Jerk !" Sam cries, but he looks too delighted with the game to take it seriously.
"Don't be stupid, bitch ! You never bore me… not like this anyway."
Sam moans when Dean's fingers find his hole and push in. The slide inside is easy, Sam's ass opening for him as if it had been prepared beforehand. Dean never stops watching Sam's face, checking for any kind of reaction, but the only feeling he witnesses is bliss, highlighted by Sam's moans of pleasure as Dean rotates his fingers and plays with his prostate. Sam soon leans on the wall and spreads his legs, silently asking for more. Dean is too far gone to object, awash in Sam's scent, the warmth of his wet skin, just as needy as Sam by now. So he steps into the shower stall, getting soaked in his turn and not caring in the slightest while he takes his hard-on out to spear Sam with it.
Sam cries out, melting under Dean's hands as he welcomes his lover's cock inside him with the most ravenous hunger, asking for more and harder as Dean's just bottomed out.
"Easy, love," Dean murmurs in his ear.
He wants Sam to enjoy this, he wants them joined again as if Sam had never disappeared and Dean wasn't still worried about him. He wants them to have a long moment where only they matter, the rest of the world forgotten for a few blissful minutes.
So he goes slow at first, the way he loves it, to make sure his lover can only think of him and how good it feels to have him inside, deeper and deeper. He slides in quicker and quicker as time goes, a gift to Sam for not pushing him, for allowing Dean to love him so thoroughly. He makes sure Sam knows how much he wants him, how beautiful he is to his eyes by stroking every inch of his body, caring and feverish at the same time, taking possession of Sam and giving himself in the same moves, and if someone ever tried to take Sam from him, that is over now, because together there's nothing they won't achieve, and Dean's ready to be Sam's crutch for as long as he'll need it.
Sam's wet hair drips on his shoulder, his head still thrown back and his mouth open to let heavy moans get out. Dean knows he has to stop thinking and start fucking in earnest. He shuts his mind and looks at Sam while he takes his cock and balls in hands. With a cry of his own, he lets go of his fears and puts all his strength in his thrusts, pushing Sam against the wall again and again. One of Sam's hands, the one not holding him against the wall, slips behind, looking for Dean's hip as if to encourage him to go even faster.
So Dean obliges him, setting a pace that will not last for long, hard and fast, in the same rhythm his hands play with Sam's groin. They both feel the tension between them coming to a climax, and then it happens, this moment of ecstasy when all is white behind closed eyelids and everything's so good. Sam goes first, his semen covering the bluish tiles of the wall, and Dean follows shortly after, emptying his balls inside Sam.
For the longest moment, Dean refuses to open his eyes again, for fear he will see Sam's body losing substance again.
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They hunt. They save some people. They lose some others. Sam's okay with it, tells Dean it's par for the course and all that jazz.
Sometimes, it feels as though he doesn't give a fuck at all, and he doesn't understand why. Or maybe that's because he's always feeling out of sorts. Days are blurry, colliding into each other. Nights feel like a war zone. He dreams bad dreams, disturbing images he can't really remember. Dean's grumpy when Sam's thrashing and moaning awaken him, and even more when he thinks Sam refuses to answer his questions.
But they keep having glorious sex. Sam's constantly horny, and even if he wanted to, Dean's never known how to say no to him. So they fuck, as soon as they can, sometimes even when they shouldn't. Sam feels like he has to make the most of their time together, make sure Dean knows he's loved, so deeply.
There's also this knowledge, coming from God knows where, that he has to have sex. Lots and lots of it. Like it's the only way for him to remain whole. It's more than the feeling of being alive when Dean's buried deep inside of him. It's linked, directly, to the fear he experienced one morning while shaving. Seeing your own hand and the razor pushing inside your jaw, like it's not really here anymore, is the stuff of nightmares.
Next time it happens almost costs him his life, but also saves him miraculously. The pipslet they're hunting - a sub-species of wendigos, to believe Dad's journal - manages to take advantage of Sam's terror at feeling himself disappear once again, coming so close it should be able to crush Sam under its weight. Only the fact that Sam isn't exactly there anymore allows him to step away from its grip and give Dean time to shoot the monster.
It's not until he's had time to get his breath back that his body regains complete solidity and firmness, and he becomes very attentive after that to not exhausting himself so much during hunts, the way he ran and fought to catch the pipslet.
He keeps watching his reflection in mirrors after that. Doesn't dare touch himself, for fear it will happen again, that his chest will give way to his hand if he pokes it a little too long or too hard.
Dean doesn't have this problem. On the contrary, his hands never leave him for long, making sure to remind Sam where he belongs, tying him to this plane. Dean touching and taking him is the proof that nothing's changed, that he's not disintegrating, breaking off in layers, his essence becoming one again with the universe before his death. Maybe that's what happened to him during those two days he disappeared, and it scares him too much to bear thinking about it.
He knows Dean has seen something too, because he keeps looking at Sam with the kind of attention you reserve for someone who's sick and could turn for the worse any time. But they don't talk much. What would they say ? That Sam still doesn’t remember what happened to him ? That his nightmares don't make much sense but scare the fuck out of him ? That he's pretty sure he's been raped, but every time he begins to freak about it, something deep inside him seems to tell him to calm down, soothing, until the fear morphs once again into horniness and Sam grabs the first opportunity to get his pants down and Dean inside him.
This is the same feeling he gets when he finally decides to open up. Even if he doesn't really know what to say, Sam thinks he owes Dean an explanation. He doesn't want him to worry endlessly when Sam feels, in fact, quite good despite it all. But as soon as his mouth opens to speak, a tendril of arousal sneaks its way from his groin to his brain, and Sam loses track of what he was supposed to say.
He notices a strange correlation. The more Dean fucks him, the less Sam feels himself waning. He's become addicted to the feeling of Dean shooting his load inside him, and though he's clearly not at the top of his game in the thinking department, it's not long before he comes to the conclusion that Dean's semen is what's keeping him alive, or at least healthy. It's like his body is eating itself and needs more sustenance than a simple meal to keep working. And with such a big body as his, he probably needs a lot to not consume itself. If he's right, he's lucky to be in a relationship at all, and that horny is Dean's default setting.
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It’s Dean who thinks of a solution to try and understand what happened to him.
They have to use the dream root on a hunt to reach the mind of the victims and get them out of their deep trance. Dean volunteers to delve into all those minds while Sam tends to the bodies, making sure no harm comes to them during their sleep.
After the hunt, once all the people are saved and Sam and Dean are back to their motel bedroom, Dean sits Sam down and tells him they have to do it again, together this time.
"What you relive every night - yes, I'm quite aware of your nightly bad dreams - those memories you can’t remember consciously, I guess they come to you more easily in your sleep, so that's where I need to go to help you. And if I have to, I'll remember for the both of us. Will tell you again and again what happened, until your mind has no choice but to deal with your... ordeal."
It’s not like Dean to pull his punches, not when he’s talking to Sam anyway. They’ve been brothers for too long before they became lovers to change that. So it’s really weird to see him talking round to him choosing his words carefully, just like he feels unsettled now that Dean has stopped playing pranks on him. As if he’s too fragile to take it.
Sam never thought the day would come for him to say that, and he will probably regret it if things go back to normal, but he misses the stupid pranks now.
And something in him really doesn't want to know. Something very vocal, louder and louder, that makes him nasty.
"I don't remember you ever wanting to talk when you don't feel that good. And yet you think I have to, so you decide for me. Again."
Dean's face closes under the attack, but he stands his ground, ready to go to battle. Sam doesn't even know where those words came from, since he agrees with Dean on principle. To fight this weird thing that's making him transparent at times, ghost-like, he has to learn everything he can. But this voice, deep down inside him, insists that he has to remain blissfully ignorant.
Which is what helps him decide to go with Dean's idea, however frightening it might be to let the person closest to him in his mind. If it's come to the point where a part of him has been screwed enough to imagine ignorance is ever a good solution, then it means his thinking process is compromised. He has to rely on Dean as long as they don't know what he's dealing with.
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Part 2