Your Favourite Innocence (Sam/Dean Dean/OMCs, 2966 words, nc17)
Your Favourite Innocence
(Sam/Dean and Dean/OMCs, nc-17, 2966 words)
Oh these boys porn and they angst and then they porn some more and then it's time for angst again. Really, I just wanted to write some angsty porn. Title from Depeche Mode. Did I mention this was really very porny? And angsty?
These days, the only people Dean fucks around with are the ones he thinks Sam'll enjoy seeing him with. Sam doesn't know how Dean's figured out which people they are but he's right, they are the ones Sam would choose to see fucking his brother.
Maybe it was trial and error. Maybe Dean paid attention to all those little signs that Sam didn't realise he was making, ever the good big brother, finding out exactly what his Sammy wants. Maybe he registered that when he's got some diner waitress up against the wall, her legs hooked about his back and her peach-pink nipple poking from between his splayed fingers on her breast, Sam takes one look and walks away.
On the other hand, when some trucker's got Dean on his knees in a dirty bathroom and is forcing his cock down his throat, so intent on the sensation he's beyond noticing - or caring - that Dean's eyes are streaming and his spine's arched back like it's gonna break, Sam presses to the wall and stays to watch the show.
His breath hitches and there's that thumping of so-much-wrong in his head that the pounding of his blood blocks out the sound of trucker's grunted curses and Dean's choking. He watches Dean struggle to breathe as he's gagged on the trucker's cock, doesn't even think about going to help because Dean's hands are gripping the guy's hips like he needs this to live.
And afterwards, after Dean's licked his lips and got shakily to his feet, after he's stumbled past him in the direction of the Impala, Sam leans against the wall and stares at his bloody fingertips, scraped raw from clinging to the brick.
So yeah, Dean knows what works for his brother.
:::
In Boise, after Dean's spent the evening hustling pool, a guy Dean's taken for a few hundred catches Dean's arm as he's heading out the door and slams him up against the wall, hands pinning him there by the shoulders. There's a scuffle, a push and shove of bodies, harsh angry breaths.
"Take it outside, boys," says the bartender.
Sam follows them out and watches the guy - a big guy with eyes as blue as Dean's are green - drag Dean across the parking lot to his truck. There's a second, as Sam trails after them in the shadows, when Dean throws a look over his shoulder and Sam thinks, just maybe, he's looking back at Sam.
Then Dean's flung face first over the front seat of the guy's truck. His jeans are yanked down about his thighs and Sam steadies himself on his feet because there's nothing to brace himself against like he needs. He hears the smack of wet skin on skin as the guy strokes a spit-slick hand over his cock then pushes between Dean's spread thighs. Sam hears Dean's furious swearing cut off into panting the second he's penetrated.
All he can see from where he stands is the flex and thrust of the guy's buttocks as he drives into Dean over and over. He doesn't need more - this man, this time, they're only one in a long line. Memory and imagination are enough to fill in the blanks of Dean's face, his expression, the look in his eyes as he's fucked.
The guy slurs out a litany of filthy endearments that Sam's heard a million times before - take it, bitch… fuck, you love it, don't you? Love having cock in you, yeah… that's right, take it all, dirty whore… He's not gentle, not considering he's riding Dean with nothing but spit to smooth his way. It doesn't stop Dean from pushing back into each shove.
When it's over, there's a rough red stain on Dean's cheek from where his face has been ground into the truck's upholstery. The mark's faded by morning.
:::
In Jamestown, while Sam's in the public library, flicking through sun-bleached newspapers that smell of coffee and dust, Dean sends a picture message to his phone.
The angle's crazy but the photo's the colour of flesh, of sex. It's abstract pornography. Like a Rorschach test to see how much of a pervert you really are - can you piece your brother's body together from this?
Sam can.
He can see the cleft in Dean's stubbled chin in one corner of the picture, and another man's face in the lower corner, his hand on Dean's cock. Sam knows it's Dean's cock even though the angle doesn't show quite how the bodies are arranged. He knows it's Dean's cock.
A few hours later, when Dean drops into the seat beside him, Sam pushes a pile of records in front of him and doesn't say anything about the picture, about the hand that was on Dean's cock. But he fetches him some coffee to drink while they research and when he sets it down in front of him, Dean leans closer, on pretence of stretching aching muscles, and brushes against his shoulder.
They don't talk about the picture just like they don't talk about the way Sam jerks away from the shoulder nudge.
:::
In Pikesville, Dean gets caught up in a card game with a couple of local businessmen. What their business involves, and whether it's legal, is made clear by the way no one actually gives a straight answer when he asks. It's not a problem, Dean's only there for the alcohol and the cards and the brutal light of hunger in their eyes when they look at him, a light refracted into something multi-stranded and complex in Sam.
The game's played in an apartment with windows so huge the whole room seems nothing but glass and smoke.
After the game, or maybe somewhere between, certainly after Sam's shifted from the centre circle to linger at the expanse of windows, Dean gets passed between them, fucking and sucking, one at a time, two at a time, urging them to use him yeah, just like that, I can take it, c'mon, yeah, fuck me fuck me fuck me, his voice hoarse with vodka shots and come.
Dean's skin flashes sweat-slick and bright in the glare of the lights as he twists and moans, one thick cock between his lips and another plunging into his spread ass. Sam slides his cheek against the window, the pane of glass cool against his blood-hot face, while Dean stretches out between them, bent to whatever shape they want him.
The noises that spill from his kiss-swollen lips are all lies. The whimpers and whining say that Dean hasn't been fucked like this, so well and so thoroughly, ever before. They make him sound high and desperate, they make him sound like this is what he wants.
Afterwards, Sam hauls Dean back to their rented room and dumps him in the shower, the spray of water washing away the smoke and the sweat, and the glistening strands of come that leak from his ass and rope over his stomach and throat.
"You having fun yet, Sammy?" says Dean.
They've left bruises on Dean's hips from where they held him down and fucked him, and Sam looks down at his own hand, through the rising steam of the shower, and thinks of the marks he'd leave.
:::
From town to city and diner to motel, Sam watches his brother get fucked and fisted, watches him get bent over the hoods of cars and slammed up against walls. He watches men put their tongues in him, their cocks, their fingers. He seen Dean handcuffed, blindfolded, gagged. He sees him bruised and bitten and throttled. He sees men fall in love with his brother and he's seen men get that calculating look on their face, like they're working out the logistics of keeping him forever and ever, there for fucking whenever they want.
Sam's seen it all. Dean's laid it out before him and he's watched it all.
:::
In Havre, a wendigo almost takes out Dean's stomach and Sam gets him on the motel bed, the sheets beneath his body steadily turning scarlet, as he tries to stitch the gaping wound closed.
There's a sheen of sweat on Dean's brow, gathering moisture along his upper-lip. His pupils are blown and his eyes keep rolling back in his head. Sam's injected him with enough painkiller and sedative to take down a buffalo. It doesn't seem to be enough because as the burnt point of Sam's needle pierces the ragged edge of flesh, Dean's still conscious, still watching Sam.
He's got the lights in the motel on dim and Dean's eyes are the brightest things in the room. He's shivering and Sam lays his palm on his chest to still him. The beat of Dean's heart shudders beneath the skin.
"You gotta tell me what I'm doin' wrong," he says in a slurred, thick voice.
Sam lifts his hand away and rests it instead on the warm cotton of Dean's t-shirt over his shoulder. The needle swims in and out of the bloodied flesh. The sheets are sodden beneath them.
"Know there's gotta be more."
Sam glances at him, sees Dean's lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks, but ignores him beyond saying, "Almost done."
After he's done and Dean's innards are safely tucked back into his stomach, Sam starts to rise but Dean's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. His fingers close about him and he tries to pull himself into a sitting position to better catch Sam's gaze but his stitches strain and Sam pushes him back down.
"Why're you doin' this to me?"
Sam stays implacable as he looks at him. He watches Dean's face crumple, like he's taken a blow to the head. He feels Dean's grip on his wrist slacken as he passes out, his fingers slip-sliding over Sam's when his hand falls. Carefully, Sam untangles himself from Dean and settles him back on the bed.
Then he goes to the bathroom, strips and jerks off in the shower, fucking his fist fiercely and biting down on his lip so hard he thinks it's going to burst.
:::
In Pensacola, they take a guy back to their motel together. While Dean peels his t-shirt off, powerful muscle flexing beneath scarred, golden skin, Sam turns the chair to face the bed and sits down on it. The guy - Alex, Sam thinks he said his name was - manages to tear his eyes off Dean and gives him a look.
Dean cuts in before the question can be asked.
"Sam only wants to watch."
His voice is warm and sensual. The bitterness in it is an aftertaste it takes years of familiarity to register. Alex is easily swayed back to the bed by Dean's red, whore's mouth. He kisses Dean over and over while Dean tugs him out of his clothes.
Sam isn't sure how it's managed - he's too busy watching his brother be touched and kissed, rubbed against and spread out - but somehow, Alex and Dean are perfectly arranged for him to watch. He has an unobstructed view of them both naked. Nothing serious happens; just teasing and touching, hands over skin and hips grinding against hips. And there's Dean's mouth too, perfect lush lips moving over the hollows and angles of Alex's body while Alex pets him helplessly, unable to let his hands settle.
It's arranged for Sam. Just like every other fuck has been for him, just as Dean is for him right down to his lost little boy soul, this is for Sam.
In the briefest second before he's damn near knocked out by arousal, Sam feels that same panic that's been chasing him for miles. Then it passes because Sam is in control and Sam knows the limits.
He doesn't speak to Dean, even when Dean gazes at him with heavy-lidded green eyes, half-dazed with lust. Sam directs his commands to Alex and Alex must know too that this is for Sam because he obeys instantly and without protest. It's not like Sam is telling him to do anything he hasn't been thinking of since he first laid eyes on Dean.
Kiss him, bite his lips, put him down on all fours, fuck his mouth, harder, harder, come on his face, turn him over, give him your fingers to suck, finger him open, fuck him, don't let him come, make him beg.
He keeps his voice level, keeps it even. There's not even so much as a tremor in his breathing when Alex's cock finally slips free of Dean's hole and Dean is finally allowed to sag onto the bed, when he looks over his shoulder, straight at Sam as Sam sits there stroking his cock.
Sam comes without a word.
:::
When Dean breaks it's for all the wrong reasons.
Sam's been sitting in the Impala, drawing circles around obituaries, underlining freak accidents and disappearances for almost an hour. His pen's almost run out and he's pushing down so hard to get the ink he's scoring holes through the cheap newspaper.
He looks up when he hears the sudden blast of music from the roadhouse but he's looking back down at his scribbles when the car door slams closed behind Dean and his brother settles behind the wheel. He can smell the sweetness of alcohol on Dean's breath and the cloying stench of cigarette smoke.
"Think I've found something," says Sam. "Family of five slaughtered in their beds. Only the youngest kid left alive and he says it was 'a floating head' that did it."
When Dean doesn't answer, Sam looks up at him. Dean's staring right back through the black and silver gloom. Moonlight glints off the rear-view mirror and the spark of Dean's teeth, his lips pulled back into a grimacing smile. Sam frowns when he sees Dean's red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and the high flush in his cheeks.
"Just how much did you have to drink, dude?"
"Enough."
Slowly, deliberately, Dean raises his hand and grips Sam's chin. Sam watches him move, breath caught in his throat. Dean leans towards him and he doesn't even blink. He's focused entirely on Sam, watching him like he thinks he's going to flicker out of existence at any moment. His breath is light and warm on Sam's skin. His eyes finally sink shut and he hesitates, just for a second, then closes the distance, a faint smile tugging at the his lips.
At the last moment, Sam turns his face away and Dean's kiss lands on the corner of his mouth.
Dean lets out a quiet, rough noise and slumps back in his seat. He wipes his hands over his face then slams them down on the steering wheel, the whole car juddering at the impact. Sam jumps, even though he knows Dean would never hurt him. Dean would serve his own heart up on a plate with salad garnish if Sam said he had a craving for human flesh. Dean's a soldier for his daddy but a slave for his brother.
"Why are you doing this to me?" says Dean. "What- what am I meant to do? Isn't this what you want?"
Sam looks at him sharply. He sees him perfectly, even in the darkness. He sees the fading bruises and the scars, the sweat pooling in the elegant dip of his collarbone that cries out for Sam to run his tongue over it. He sees the rage and the open anguish.
"You've done too much…"
It's not all of it but the words are too big to speak. I've let too much be done to you, done too much myself. I won't do this too.
Dean's lips curl into a snarl but it's a weak, self-loathing thing, all broken edges and teeth.
"What, am I too dirty for you? Not good enough for you?" He chokes a little on that, trips over his words but doesn't shut up. "This not normal enough for you? Is this not frigging apple-pie enough for you? You think I'd have done all that shit if I didn't think that it was what you wanted?"
He's drunk and tearful, and he's missing the point entirely.
:::
When he sleeps Dean doesn't have nightmares. Sam's fairly sure of that because he's watched Dean sleep plenty of times when his own nightmares have woken him, and Dean's face is too smooth, too serene for him to be dreaming of anything other than starlight and rainbows.
Even tonight, after that brutal, ugly argument, Dean's lying on his belly, face turned towards the window where a shaft of dull pre-dawn light slices across the room, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. The thought that he's probably shattered from drinking too much and the onslaught of all that emotion doesn't stop Sam thinking of him as innocent.
He hopes that when Dean wakes, he'll be rested, soothed. He'll be feeling better. He doubts it somehow.
He sits on the side of his bed and studies the tearstains that still track down Dean's cheeks. The lines etched in his face from the constant readiness to smirk or frown have evened out in unconsciousness. From the way he's sprawled out, Sam can see the edge of a bruise where his neck sweeps into his shoulder. Trawling back through the last hunt and then through the sexual encounters in diner bathrooms and parking lots since, Sam tries to pinpoint the origin of the mark.
He can't. It's lost in the sludge of a million fights and fucks, the monsters that have thrown Dean across the room and the men that have slammed Dean down onto beds.
Struck by a rush of pure, sweet affection, Sam reaches out to run his fingers through his brother's cropped hair. His hand stops just inches from contact.
Sometimes, Dean needs saving from himself.
~end.
(Sam/Dean and Dean/OMCs, nc-17, 2966 words)
Oh these boys porn and they angst and then they porn some more and then it's time for angst again. Really, I just wanted to write some angsty porn. Title from Depeche Mode. Did I mention this was really very porny? And angsty?
These days, the only people Dean fucks around with are the ones he thinks Sam'll enjoy seeing him with. Sam doesn't know how Dean's figured out which people they are but he's right, they are the ones Sam would choose to see fucking his brother.
Maybe it was trial and error. Maybe Dean paid attention to all those little signs that Sam didn't realise he was making, ever the good big brother, finding out exactly what his Sammy wants. Maybe he registered that when he's got some diner waitress up against the wall, her legs hooked about his back and her peach-pink nipple poking from between his splayed fingers on her breast, Sam takes one look and walks away.
On the other hand, when some trucker's got Dean on his knees in a dirty bathroom and is forcing his cock down his throat, so intent on the sensation he's beyond noticing - or caring - that Dean's eyes are streaming and his spine's arched back like it's gonna break, Sam presses to the wall and stays to watch the show.
His breath hitches and there's that thumping of so-much-wrong in his head that the pounding of his blood blocks out the sound of trucker's grunted curses and Dean's choking. He watches Dean struggle to breathe as he's gagged on the trucker's cock, doesn't even think about going to help because Dean's hands are gripping the guy's hips like he needs this to live.
And afterwards, after Dean's licked his lips and got shakily to his feet, after he's stumbled past him in the direction of the Impala, Sam leans against the wall and stares at his bloody fingertips, scraped raw from clinging to the brick.
So yeah, Dean knows what works for his brother.
:::
In Boise, after Dean's spent the evening hustling pool, a guy Dean's taken for a few hundred catches Dean's arm as he's heading out the door and slams him up against the wall, hands pinning him there by the shoulders. There's a scuffle, a push and shove of bodies, harsh angry breaths.
"Take it outside, boys," says the bartender.
Sam follows them out and watches the guy - a big guy with eyes as blue as Dean's are green - drag Dean across the parking lot to his truck. There's a second, as Sam trails after them in the shadows, when Dean throws a look over his shoulder and Sam thinks, just maybe, he's looking back at Sam.
Then Dean's flung face first over the front seat of the guy's truck. His jeans are yanked down about his thighs and Sam steadies himself on his feet because there's nothing to brace himself against like he needs. He hears the smack of wet skin on skin as the guy strokes a spit-slick hand over his cock then pushes between Dean's spread thighs. Sam hears Dean's furious swearing cut off into panting the second he's penetrated.
All he can see from where he stands is the flex and thrust of the guy's buttocks as he drives into Dean over and over. He doesn't need more - this man, this time, they're only one in a long line. Memory and imagination are enough to fill in the blanks of Dean's face, his expression, the look in his eyes as he's fucked.
The guy slurs out a litany of filthy endearments that Sam's heard a million times before - take it, bitch… fuck, you love it, don't you? Love having cock in you, yeah… that's right, take it all, dirty whore… He's not gentle, not considering he's riding Dean with nothing but spit to smooth his way. It doesn't stop Dean from pushing back into each shove.
When it's over, there's a rough red stain on Dean's cheek from where his face has been ground into the truck's upholstery. The mark's faded by morning.
:::
In Jamestown, while Sam's in the public library, flicking through sun-bleached newspapers that smell of coffee and dust, Dean sends a picture message to his phone.
The angle's crazy but the photo's the colour of flesh, of sex. It's abstract pornography. Like a Rorschach test to see how much of a pervert you really are - can you piece your brother's body together from this?
Sam can.
He can see the cleft in Dean's stubbled chin in one corner of the picture, and another man's face in the lower corner, his hand on Dean's cock. Sam knows it's Dean's cock even though the angle doesn't show quite how the bodies are arranged. He knows it's Dean's cock.
A few hours later, when Dean drops into the seat beside him, Sam pushes a pile of records in front of him and doesn't say anything about the picture, about the hand that was on Dean's cock. But he fetches him some coffee to drink while they research and when he sets it down in front of him, Dean leans closer, on pretence of stretching aching muscles, and brushes against his shoulder.
They don't talk about the picture just like they don't talk about the way Sam jerks away from the shoulder nudge.
:::
In Pikesville, Dean gets caught up in a card game with a couple of local businessmen. What their business involves, and whether it's legal, is made clear by the way no one actually gives a straight answer when he asks. It's not a problem, Dean's only there for the alcohol and the cards and the brutal light of hunger in their eyes when they look at him, a light refracted into something multi-stranded and complex in Sam.
The game's played in an apartment with windows so huge the whole room seems nothing but glass and smoke.
After the game, or maybe somewhere between, certainly after Sam's shifted from the centre circle to linger at the expanse of windows, Dean gets passed between them, fucking and sucking, one at a time, two at a time, urging them to use him yeah, just like that, I can take it, c'mon, yeah, fuck me fuck me fuck me, his voice hoarse with vodka shots and come.
Dean's skin flashes sweat-slick and bright in the glare of the lights as he twists and moans, one thick cock between his lips and another plunging into his spread ass. Sam slides his cheek against the window, the pane of glass cool against his blood-hot face, while Dean stretches out between them, bent to whatever shape they want him.
The noises that spill from his kiss-swollen lips are all lies. The whimpers and whining say that Dean hasn't been fucked like this, so well and so thoroughly, ever before. They make him sound high and desperate, they make him sound like this is what he wants.
Afterwards, Sam hauls Dean back to their rented room and dumps him in the shower, the spray of water washing away the smoke and the sweat, and the glistening strands of come that leak from his ass and rope over his stomach and throat.
"You having fun yet, Sammy?" says Dean.
They've left bruises on Dean's hips from where they held him down and fucked him, and Sam looks down at his own hand, through the rising steam of the shower, and thinks of the marks he'd leave.
:::
From town to city and diner to motel, Sam watches his brother get fucked and fisted, watches him get bent over the hoods of cars and slammed up against walls. He watches men put their tongues in him, their cocks, their fingers. He seen Dean handcuffed, blindfolded, gagged. He sees him bruised and bitten and throttled. He sees men fall in love with his brother and he's seen men get that calculating look on their face, like they're working out the logistics of keeping him forever and ever, there for fucking whenever they want.
Sam's seen it all. Dean's laid it out before him and he's watched it all.
:::
In Havre, a wendigo almost takes out Dean's stomach and Sam gets him on the motel bed, the sheets beneath his body steadily turning scarlet, as he tries to stitch the gaping wound closed.
There's a sheen of sweat on Dean's brow, gathering moisture along his upper-lip. His pupils are blown and his eyes keep rolling back in his head. Sam's injected him with enough painkiller and sedative to take down a buffalo. It doesn't seem to be enough because as the burnt point of Sam's needle pierces the ragged edge of flesh, Dean's still conscious, still watching Sam.
He's got the lights in the motel on dim and Dean's eyes are the brightest things in the room. He's shivering and Sam lays his palm on his chest to still him. The beat of Dean's heart shudders beneath the skin.
"You gotta tell me what I'm doin' wrong," he says in a slurred, thick voice.
Sam lifts his hand away and rests it instead on the warm cotton of Dean's t-shirt over his shoulder. The needle swims in and out of the bloodied flesh. The sheets are sodden beneath them.
"Know there's gotta be more."
Sam glances at him, sees Dean's lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks, but ignores him beyond saying, "Almost done."
After he's done and Dean's innards are safely tucked back into his stomach, Sam starts to rise but Dean's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. His fingers close about him and he tries to pull himself into a sitting position to better catch Sam's gaze but his stitches strain and Sam pushes him back down.
"Why're you doin' this to me?"
Sam stays implacable as he looks at him. He watches Dean's face crumple, like he's taken a blow to the head. He feels Dean's grip on his wrist slacken as he passes out, his fingers slip-sliding over Sam's when his hand falls. Carefully, Sam untangles himself from Dean and settles him back on the bed.
Then he goes to the bathroom, strips and jerks off in the shower, fucking his fist fiercely and biting down on his lip so hard he thinks it's going to burst.
:::
In Pensacola, they take a guy back to their motel together. While Dean peels his t-shirt off, powerful muscle flexing beneath scarred, golden skin, Sam turns the chair to face the bed and sits down on it. The guy - Alex, Sam thinks he said his name was - manages to tear his eyes off Dean and gives him a look.
Dean cuts in before the question can be asked.
"Sam only wants to watch."
His voice is warm and sensual. The bitterness in it is an aftertaste it takes years of familiarity to register. Alex is easily swayed back to the bed by Dean's red, whore's mouth. He kisses Dean over and over while Dean tugs him out of his clothes.
Sam isn't sure how it's managed - he's too busy watching his brother be touched and kissed, rubbed against and spread out - but somehow, Alex and Dean are perfectly arranged for him to watch. He has an unobstructed view of them both naked. Nothing serious happens; just teasing and touching, hands over skin and hips grinding against hips. And there's Dean's mouth too, perfect lush lips moving over the hollows and angles of Alex's body while Alex pets him helplessly, unable to let his hands settle.
It's arranged for Sam. Just like every other fuck has been for him, just as Dean is for him right down to his lost little boy soul, this is for Sam.
In the briefest second before he's damn near knocked out by arousal, Sam feels that same panic that's been chasing him for miles. Then it passes because Sam is in control and Sam knows the limits.
He doesn't speak to Dean, even when Dean gazes at him with heavy-lidded green eyes, half-dazed with lust. Sam directs his commands to Alex and Alex must know too that this is for Sam because he obeys instantly and without protest. It's not like Sam is telling him to do anything he hasn't been thinking of since he first laid eyes on Dean.
Kiss him, bite his lips, put him down on all fours, fuck his mouth, harder, harder, come on his face, turn him over, give him your fingers to suck, finger him open, fuck him, don't let him come, make him beg.
He keeps his voice level, keeps it even. There's not even so much as a tremor in his breathing when Alex's cock finally slips free of Dean's hole and Dean is finally allowed to sag onto the bed, when he looks over his shoulder, straight at Sam as Sam sits there stroking his cock.
Sam comes without a word.
:::
When Dean breaks it's for all the wrong reasons.
Sam's been sitting in the Impala, drawing circles around obituaries, underlining freak accidents and disappearances for almost an hour. His pen's almost run out and he's pushing down so hard to get the ink he's scoring holes through the cheap newspaper.
He looks up when he hears the sudden blast of music from the roadhouse but he's looking back down at his scribbles when the car door slams closed behind Dean and his brother settles behind the wheel. He can smell the sweetness of alcohol on Dean's breath and the cloying stench of cigarette smoke.
"Think I've found something," says Sam. "Family of five slaughtered in their beds. Only the youngest kid left alive and he says it was 'a floating head' that did it."
When Dean doesn't answer, Sam looks up at him. Dean's staring right back through the black and silver gloom. Moonlight glints off the rear-view mirror and the spark of Dean's teeth, his lips pulled back into a grimacing smile. Sam frowns when he sees Dean's red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes and the high flush in his cheeks.
"Just how much did you have to drink, dude?"
"Enough."
Slowly, deliberately, Dean raises his hand and grips Sam's chin. Sam watches him move, breath caught in his throat. Dean leans towards him and he doesn't even blink. He's focused entirely on Sam, watching him like he thinks he's going to flicker out of existence at any moment. His breath is light and warm on Sam's skin. His eyes finally sink shut and he hesitates, just for a second, then closes the distance, a faint smile tugging at the his lips.
At the last moment, Sam turns his face away and Dean's kiss lands on the corner of his mouth.
Dean lets out a quiet, rough noise and slumps back in his seat. He wipes his hands over his face then slams them down on the steering wheel, the whole car juddering at the impact. Sam jumps, even though he knows Dean would never hurt him. Dean would serve his own heart up on a plate with salad garnish if Sam said he had a craving for human flesh. Dean's a soldier for his daddy but a slave for his brother.
"Why are you doing this to me?" says Dean. "What- what am I meant to do? Isn't this what you want?"
Sam looks at him sharply. He sees him perfectly, even in the darkness. He sees the fading bruises and the scars, the sweat pooling in the elegant dip of his collarbone that cries out for Sam to run his tongue over it. He sees the rage and the open anguish.
"You've done too much…"
It's not all of it but the words are too big to speak. I've let too much be done to you, done too much myself. I won't do this too.
Dean's lips curl into a snarl but it's a weak, self-loathing thing, all broken edges and teeth.
"What, am I too dirty for you? Not good enough for you?" He chokes a little on that, trips over his words but doesn't shut up. "This not normal enough for you? Is this not frigging apple-pie enough for you? You think I'd have done all that shit if I didn't think that it was what you wanted?"
He's drunk and tearful, and he's missing the point entirely.
:::
When he sleeps Dean doesn't have nightmares. Sam's fairly sure of that because he's watched Dean sleep plenty of times when his own nightmares have woken him, and Dean's face is too smooth, too serene for him to be dreaming of anything other than starlight and rainbows.
Even tonight, after that brutal, ugly argument, Dean's lying on his belly, face turned towards the window where a shaft of dull pre-dawn light slices across the room, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. The thought that he's probably shattered from drinking too much and the onslaught of all that emotion doesn't stop Sam thinking of him as innocent.
He hopes that when Dean wakes, he'll be rested, soothed. He'll be feeling better. He doubts it somehow.
He sits on the side of his bed and studies the tearstains that still track down Dean's cheeks. The lines etched in his face from the constant readiness to smirk or frown have evened out in unconsciousness. From the way he's sprawled out, Sam can see the edge of a bruise where his neck sweeps into his shoulder. Trawling back through the last hunt and then through the sexual encounters in diner bathrooms and parking lots since, Sam tries to pinpoint the origin of the mark.
He can't. It's lost in the sludge of a million fights and fucks, the monsters that have thrown Dean across the room and the men that have slammed Dean down onto beds.
Struck by a rush of pure, sweet affection, Sam reaches out to run his fingers through his brother's cropped hair. His hand stops just inches from contact.
Sometimes, Dean needs saving from himself.
~end.