Behind the Scenes
There used to be this 70K fic on AO3 called Behind The Scenes which I finished then deleted within 24 hours. It was somewhat unpleasant, not just because of the noncon/dubcon content but for other, personal reasons. Anyway, this is a single chapter from that fic, or I should say my favorite chapter. The only chapter I opted to keep, anyway.
Title: All we are
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Warnings: barely there reference to past attempted rape, angsty fluff up the wazoo
Word Count: 4,705
Summary: set after Born Under A Bad Sign episode, basically Sam/Dean first time
“You okay? Sam? Is that you in there?”
Sam wanted to reach over and smack him. Except that Dean was still bruised from his encounter with the demon, from his encounter with Sam’s fist. But what a fucking time to joke about it. Leave it to Dean to try and make light of everything.
“I was awake for some of it, Dean. I watched myself kill Wandell with my own two hands; I saw the light go out in his eyes.”
The guy was hunter, he had a life, a daughter; he’d been someone’s friend, someone’s father. It wasn’t something to joke about, it wasn’t something Sam could take lightly.
“That must have been awful,” Dean said, and Sam was sure he meant it.
In his own way.
It was said in the ‘Dean tone’ that Sam was more than familiar with. Life sucks, shit happens, now it’s over and it’s time to move on. Sam would never accuse him of being heartless, of not caring for other people. But for Dean, the hierarchy of important things in life had always been different than Sam’s. First came family, then came family, and then after family came friends, then after that everyone else. In some way, he was so much like dad, who would have hit the roof after Dean wasted a bullet from the Colt to save Sam’s life, would have ripped Dean a new asshole, would have been fucking furious. Yet, when the time came to make a decision, he’d sold the Colt and the last bullet and even his own life just to get Dean back. They had been cut from the same cloth, the two of them, and Sam never understood why dad used to infuriate him so much and Dean... he could always find a way to forgive Dean anything. Why, even when Dean provoked him to the point where he wanted to beat the living crap out of him, Sam loved him so much that the intensity of it scared him shitless.
“That’s not my point,” he said, “I almost carved up Jo too. But no matter what I did, you wouldn’t shoot.”
“It was the right move, Sam, it wasn’t you.”
“Yeah, this time. What about next time?”
How far did he have to go, what did he have to do, for Dean to give up on him, to finally realize that Sam was wrong, that he was a freak, that he was dangerous? He’d watched the demon hit Dean over and over again, watched it through his own two eyes, trapped inside. He’d heard her tell Dean that he was worthless, that he couldn’t save dad, and that he wouldn’t be able to save Sam. He’d seen her dig her fingers, Sam’s fingers, into Dean’s wound and locked inside his own body he’d screamed, he’d fought her with everything he had. It had felt like trying to push a boulder uphill. Worse, he heard the part that Bobby hadn’t, the part she’d whispered so close next to Dean’s face that Sam had seen the green ring around Dean’s irises, had seen his brother’s eyes flood in pain.
“I know what Sam knows,” she’d said, “and Sam’s skin crawls every time you touch him. He thinks that next time you won’t stop when he begs you to, that you’ll rape your little brother no matter what he says or how hard he fights you. He remembers the pain, Dean,” he felt her smile, felt his own lips stretch, and that part was somehow as horrifying as the things she was saying, “and he’s afraid of you. And you dare call me an abomination?”
“Sam, when dad told me that I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn’t save you. Now, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to save you.”
Sam barely heard him. He couldn’t just let it sit, all those things the demon said, he couldn’t just let them fester. The last time Dean had touched him had been weeks ago, the day Sam had almost gotten himself killed. He’d recalled every second of it countless times since then, Dean’s hands shaping his face, fingers brushing over Sam’s cheekbones, over his jaw. It had been so sweet, so out of the blue. He’d been sure that Dean had meant to forget that morning in the woods, to pretend like it never happened. He’d been sure that nothing like that would ever happen between them again. But as Dean’s fingers traced his cheek, Sam had seen that same look in his eyes, something more, something bigger, so vast that it would have been terrifying from anyone else. He’d spent most of his life hoping that one day Dean would look at him like that. Even as a teenager, when the whole reality of how wrong it all was, of how utterly unacceptable it was, had crashed on him, he’d still wanted it. And if Dean had only looked at him like that back then, Sam wouldn’t have cared what other people think, he wouldn’t have cared if everyone else in the world had called it an abomination. But Dean had never shown him an ounce more affection than a brother should. And it had fucking hurt. It had hurt, and it had been confusing and scary and unbearable, loving him in a way that Sam could barely admit to himself under the cover of darkness, loving him so much that he’d felt it killing him day in and and day out. And Dean being Dean; random nameless girls parading through, their shiny lips and long legs, their tight skirts and clouds of sickening perfume. Sam hated them. Sometimes he was sure that he’d hated Dean too. But most of all he’d hated himself because he couldn’t stop feeling the way he did, he couldn’t just rip it out and throw it away, stomp on it, make it go away.
“Pull over,” he said.
“What? Why? Don’t tell me you’re gonna barf.”
“Just pull the fucking car over Dean, out of the road.”
Dean glanced at him and something in Sam’s face must have been deadly fucking serious, because he turned his gaze back to the road and put his blinker on. There wasn’t enough of a shoulder to pull over properly and Sam practically vibrated until Dean found a dirt road to turn into.
His brain screamed that this could go horribly wrong, that he was about to make an enormous mistake. But the moment the car was stopped, he was already moving across the seat, grabbing the back of Dean’s head, pulling him closer. His mouth crashed against Dean’s with so much force that they would probably both be bruised later. As it was, the cut on Dean’s lip broke open, and the first kiss Sam shared with his brother tasted of copper and salt. Dean never even made a sound. His hands tangled in Sam’s hair, his mouth immediately opening for Sam’s as if he’d been expecting it, as if he’d waited for it all these years. He tasted like home. Like that cocky, infuriating smile Sam had wanted to slap off his face countless times. Like blood and tears and pain. Like early mornings in the Impala, driving though the unknown, like the sense of adventure Sam used to love, like the childhood that had been so sweet and confusing. His mouth was everything Sam had imagined and an entire universe of more, of some veiled, exquisite mystery that Sam could have never imagined. He tasted like Dean. Sam’s Dean.
He broke the kiss and saw Dean’s pupils had expanded, had grown dark and bottomless.
“In the back seat. Right now,” Sam said.
And if Dean said another word, if he put in one single syllable of complaint, Sam was gonna grab the first weapon he could get his hands on and cheerfully kill him.
---
It was like a bizarre deja-vu. The back seat of Impala under the cover of the night sky, awkward fumbling, moving jackets and bags aside to free up more space. Except that this time, Dean was the one whose hands were shaking, who felt like he couldn’t breathe. He’d never felt like this with any of the girls. And there had been so many, their smooth legs and breathless giggles saturating every inch of those seats, leaving their stamp on him and the car. Tall, short, skinny, plum, dark haired, blonde, funny, sweet, sarcastic, more girls than he could count. Every single one of them had writhed in that seat, had let Dean take whatever he wanted. And every single time he’d been the confident one, the smooth one, the talker, the lover, he’d been what they’d needed him to be.
What was he now? Anxious. A ridiculous bundle of quivering nerves. He didn’t know this dance; he didn’t know the steps, he couldn’t even recognize the music. He had nothing to compare to. Maybe Sam didn’t either, but at least Sam was the one who appeared confident, who moved with a purpose.
Sam’s jacket flew towards the windshield and the sleeve caught on the review mirror. Then he was crawling on top of Dean, pushing him down into the seat, his hands sliding under Dean’s shirt, his mouth latching on to the soft spot under Dean’s jaw. His hands were freezing cold and his mouth searing hot, the combination startling and unexpected. Dean hissed at the contact, his hands gripping the hips above him, pulling Sam down, arching his own body to meet him. Sam’s weight on top of him, Sam’s thigh in between his own, Sam’s lips finding his with ease. Sam’s tongue battling with his, breath hot against Dean’s cheek, his teeth scraping roughly over Dean’s lip. And against his thigh, Sam painfully hard, pressing down. He fumbled with Dean’s shirt for a few seconds then pulled until the buttons popped, some of the cloth tearing in the process.
Suddenly nothing mattered more than getting Sam’s shirts off, feeling Sam’s skin against his own. They both struggled with them, elbows slamming against the seats, legs straining against the doors, both already gasping for air. Dean wanted to laugh. Sam wore so many layers it was like peeling an onion; every time he thought he would get his hands on skin, another shirt appeared underneath. He yanked the last two over Sam’s head and managed to push them over his shoulders but now both of Sam’s arms were trapped behind him in a clusterfuck of a shirts and it was the cutest goddamned thing Dean had ever seen.
“What the fuck,” Sam grumbled breathlessly, but he sounded on the verge of laughing too.
Dean pulled him down and reached around him, trying to feel his way to the shirt tangle. He found both of Sam’s arms from the elbows down swathed in material. But instead of pushing the shirts down, he found himself holding Sam’s wrists through them, Sam stretched out on top of him, his body pressed against Dean, unable to move an inch. And having him there, knowing Sam could go nowhere without Dean loosening his grip on the shirts, knowing that Sam was, at that moment at least, completely under his control, it was intoxicating. It was the sort of thing that only crossed Dean’s mind in the darkest corners, in the most forbidden places. Without a conscious thought he tightened his grip on Sam’s wrists and thrust up, the bulge in Sam’s pants grinding against his own, and even though two layers of jeans it was like an electric shot in his spine, it was so intense that his vision flickered.
Sam moaned, the tone raw and throaty, bordering on painful. Dean froze.
No. Not like this. It was too much like the thing that happened before. This was Sam’s blood on the cement floor, his face bruised, this was pain. Wrong. It should never be like this.
“What,” Sam whispered, his eyes glazed, “what is it? What’s wrong?”
Shaking his head, Dean went on to pull at the material, to untangle it from Sam’s arms.
“No Dean, leave it.”
Four simple words, so quietly spoken, four words that could mean anything. They sucked all the air out of Dean’s lungs, made him lightheaded, made him momentarily stupid.
Sam had no clue what he was saying here. He couldn’t.
“Sam--“
“Leave it,” Sam whispered, his lips brushing over Dean’s jaw, “or I swear, the moment you free me I will fucking beat you senseless.”
“Jesus, Sam,” his voice cracked.
Sam pushed against him again, his breath on Dean’s cheek hot, sweet like grace, like a blessing.
“Leave it. I like it. It feels... “ he shuddered above him, hips grinding, “It feels so...”
Dean had heard enough. His brain had stopped processing words anyway.
He gripped Sam’s wrists tight and lifted them both up into a sitting position, Sam straddling his lap, those long legs on either side of him, trapping him in. Sam let out a small sound of surprise then chuckled.
“I can’t get my pants off like this,” he said breathlessly.
“You won’t need to,” Dean said, yanking on the button, pulling the zipper down, freeing him from the material just enough so he can wrap his hand around the flesh. Sam groaned, his head falling back, white throat glowing in the gloom, his collar bones anchors in the darkness, like a sculpture meant to take your breath away, meant to break your heart, to tear your soul into pieces. He drove his hips forward, trembling stomach muscles brushing against Dean’s fist, knees spreading further, arms twisted behind him, and he was so fucking beautiful at that moment that Dean felt lost, destroyed, like nothing in the world would ever be the same after this, nothing would ever awe him or amaze him or make him feel.
“Kiss me,” he said desperately, one hand tightening around the tangle of the shirts, locking Sam’s wrists in place, the other already slick from Sam, slippery, and he didn’t even have to move, because Sam was rocking into his hand, grinding his ass into Dean’s lap, shamelessly chasing release.
Still, he found Dean’s mouth without hesitation, his tongue frantic, his throat forming sounds that Dean could have never imagined, not even in those darkest corners of his mind, not in his most forbidden fantasies.
His pants still on and tightly buttoned, Dean was now in actual pain but he liked it; it helped him stay grounded, helped him stay focused on Sam, on Sam’s mouth, Sam’s body vibrating against him. Because everything was about Sam, everything was for Sam, Sam was the first thing that mattered in this world and others, Sam was the only thing that had ever mattered. He let go of Sam’s wrists and slipped his hand past the gap in the jeans, working beneath the elastic of the underwear to grip the smooth skin of his ass, desperate to feel everything right now, to not miss an inch, a moment, to feel every shudder.
“Yes,” Sam whimpered against his mouth, leaning forward, shifting to give him more space, his cock now trapped in Dean’s hand and in between their bodies, and still he thrust forward, the rhythm now senseless, primeval, frenzied. Pulse wildly beating in his eyelids, his ears, his throat, Dean slid his fingers in between the cheeks, brushing against that secret place he’d tried to take by force before, wanting to be gentle, wishing he didn’t feel clumsy and stupid with need. Sam inhaled sharply, sucking the breath out of him, trembled against him, all hard muscles loosening, melting.
“Dean,” his mouth formed the words against Dean’s lips, echoed in the back of Dean’s throat, filled him with light. He buried his face in Dean’s neck as if hiding, hips still moving forward, and Dean could feel his heart beating against his own, a furious beat.
“Please...” Sam whispered, “please.”
God, he hadn’t planned this, he hadn’t prepared for it. He’d done research at one point, after that morning in the woods, he wanted to know what he was missing, what he would need if they ever.. if they ever... and somewhere in the car there was a pack of condoms and a packet of lubricant, but right now at this moment, he had nothing and he wanted to scream.
“Dean,” Sam whimpered, and now it sounded demanding, desperate.
Jesus, he’d wanted so much to be careful the first time, to do everything right, to do everything slowly, but he’d forgotten what it felt like because he hadn’t wanted to think about it, he hadn’t wanted to remember. How incredibly tight it was, incredibly hot, nothing like touching a girl, not even close. He didn’t want to cause any pain, any discomfort, he wanted Sam to enjoy it. Sam was the one who pushed back against Dean’s hand, the one who opened up for him, and then Dean’s fingers were inside of him, and Jesus, it must have hurt, it must have burned like hell because there was nothing there to slick the way. Sam’s teeth sank into Dean’s shoulder and he moaned, hips never pausing, but now pushing back as hard as he was pushing forward. If he felt any pain Dean couldn’t tell, he couldn’t even think, couldn’t feel anything but Sam pressed against him, Sam’s cock rock hard in his hand and still trapped between them, Sam’s face buried in his neck, Sam mumbling, begging, repeating Dean’s name. It was too much for Dean to handle. He’d wanted this first time to last forever but he was already so close that his back was arching, his hips lifting forward, his hand tightening around Sam, causing him to cry out. He pressed his cheek against Sam’s hair, surrounded by Sam, drowning in him, knowing that between the heat of him, the scent of him, the sheer fucking magnificence that is Sam thrusting furiously against him, shamelessly pushing back against his fingers, he would last only moments longer.
But it was Sam who came first, shuddering in his lap, pulsing in his hand, around his fingers, his open mouthed cries pressed against Dean’s shoulder.
His Sam. His beautiful fucking Sam, his brother, his heart.
Face still hidden in Sam’s hair, he came seconds behind him, quietly, clenching his teeth, not wanting to ruin the beauty of Sam’s cries with his own, not wanting to interrupt those soft little gasps of his, not wanting to attract attention to himself. Because everything inside of him at that moment was so raw, so painful, so afraid that this would be the first and last time, the only time he got to hold Sam like this, got to listen to his breathing like this, got to feel him and touch him and kiss him like this.
Long seconds passed with nothing but their labored breathing echoing through the car. Dean withdrew his hand carefully and Sam still hissed at the friction.
“Sorry,” he said, wondering if he’d hurt him, wondering if there was any part of what just happened that Sam would regret.
With numb fingers, he tugged at the shirts until Sam’s hands were finally untangled, because now it was all up to Sam. He almost expected him to move away the moment he was free, to treat this the same way Dean had treated all of his other encounters on this same back seat, as if they were nothing but pleasurable distractions, gone from his mind as soon as they ended. And Sam did shift, he straightened up enough that Dean wondered how he could live though something like that, how he could go on as if nothing happened.
But Sam only rested his hands on Dean’s chest, over his heart, and kissed him again. Dean closed his eyes and felt tears burning his eyelids, wishing he had the nerve to tell him how much it all meant, that the only reason his heart beat beneath Sam’s palms was because Sam was there with him, that nothing in his life had ever mattered more, had been more beautiful than these moments right now with Sam’s mouth on his.
He didn’t say anything though; everything felt like too much or not enough. When faced with all the beauty that was Sam kissing him, Sam in his lap, everything between them slick and slippery, the air around them smelling like sex, all the words Dean could come up with were shallow and pointless and they could never compare, they could never truly come close to everything he felt. So he just kissed Sam, kissed his brother with everything he had, his fingers gently cupping the back of his head, caressing all that hair that never behaved, that was just as stubborn as the man himself. And he thought, now it would be ok to die, it would be all right, because this world could have nothing more to offer him. These few moments with Sam, right here and now, had to be what heaven would have felt like, if he were ever worthy of it.
---
Sam felt peaceful. Head resting on the back of the seat and all of his limbs completely useless, he felt content for the first time in years.
Dean’s breath was soothing next to him; outside the car, the wind rose up and died down. It was warm and comfortable. They had turned the car into a small sauna, steaming up the windows and turning the seats slippery with sweat.
Sam reached over lazily and wiped his hand across the glass, clearing a small area so he could see the darkness beyond. There was a moon in the sky somewhere but he couldn’t see it through the trees. He closed his eyes so he could see Dean’s face as it was only a few minutes ago, lips wet, eyes dark with pleasure. He wanted to sear every line, every inch of it across his memory. He wanted to keep that image forever.
Twisting his head, he saw Dean in the same position, head resting on the back of the seat, eyes closed. How often had Sam studied the line of Dean’s throat? How many times had he snuck glances at it over the years? He could reach over and touch it now, trace the curve of it with his fingers. He could lean over and lick his way from the collar bone to the ear then back down again. He could. He told himself he could. But he didn’t. Did Dean feel the same peace, the same contentment? It was hard to tell. The whole thing happened kind of fast; not exactly what Sam had in mind for their first time. For one, he’d intended to do it in a bed, even if it was a lumpy motel room bed with creaky headboard and suspicious pillows. Also, he’d sort of planned on Dean’s pants being off. He’d actually planned a lot of things. Some of them he would never admit to anyone. He couldn’t even admit them to himself without blushing like a fucking school girl. Still, he’d wanted... he’d gone to the store a few weeks ago and bought the basics, just in case. Then he’d put them away in the pocket of his backpack. And when the time came, his brain had stopped working. He’d actually told Dean to leave his arms trapped, that he’d liked it that way.
He closed his eyes again, feeling his face heat up. Who knew he’d had it in him? To throw himself at Dean like that? To say all those... God, he’d actually begged. He’d begged. And Dean, Dean had hit all the right spots, had held Sam in all the right ways. Dean’s hand around him, fingers inside of him, tongue exploring Sam’s mouth, and all the while looking at him like Sam was something beautiful. Coming seconds behind Sam without making a sound, his pants still tightly buttoned, coming for no other reason than Sam sliding in his lap, Sam riding him through two layers of clothes. It was so much more powerful, so much more scary than Sam had imagined. And yet, he still felt unsure.
Dean hadn’t moved an inch since Sam had slithered off his lap. His eyes were still closed, his breaths now calm and even. Was he asleep?
What if he was?
Sam looked away and closed his eyes again. Listened to the wind pick up again, shaking the branches of the trees overhead. Could this whole thing have been just about sex? Sam didn’t know. That part of Dean hadn’t been his to know. But he remembered all the girls, always leaving satisfied. They all had one thing in common; afterwards, they all looked like Dean had shown them the face of God. Like Dean WAS God, like he could do no wrong. Sam was suddenly sure that his face at that moment bore a very close resemblance to theirs. And it was not a comforting thought. Had Dean looked at them the same way he’d looked at Sam? Was this why Dean had pulled him into his lap, why he hadn’t bothered taking his pants off? Because this was just another ‘make Sammy happy’ thing? ‘Give Sammy what he wants?’ He was over thinking again. Wasn’t he? Would Dean have even taken his shirt off had Sam not ripped it off his shoulders? Would Dean have ever initiated something like this?
The warmth he felt earlier disappeared and he shivered. He should get dressed. He fumbled for the pile of shirts that had found their way to the floor. ‘Leave it,’ he heard himself say again, ‘I like it.’ Who says stuff like that? His face felt like it was on fire. And still, he wanted Dean to grab his wrists again, to lock them behind his back. He wanted Dean to tie him down hand and foot. He wanted... Jesus, but there was something seriously wrong with him.
“Sammy?”
Sam flinched. So Dean hadn’t been sleeping. He fought the urge to crawl back into his lap. He fought the urge to hide.
“Sammy? You okay?”
“Yeah,” he managed a smile, “Just cold.”
And God, it sounded fake. Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew that they were wrong.
Dean studied him for a second, something in his face shifting slightly. The new expression was like a heavy weight, settling on Sam’s chest. A wall had just gone up. Sam wasn’t sure why, but he had an idea. Either Dean had just figured out what exactly happened between them and had no intention of dealing with it, or it was Sam’s fault. It was Sam’s fault because Sam had a tendency to over think everything, over analyze everything, instead of just leaving things well enough alone. A few moments ago, he might have been able to crawl back into Dean’s lap and kiss him again. Now, judging by Dean’s expression, nothing of the sort will be happening. A part of his mind was insisting that he’d been right. That this had all been about sex, about getting off, about Dean giving Sam what he wanted with the added benefit of an orgasm. But even as he was thinking it, he knew he was being stupid. Stupid and unfair to Dean. He didn’t know what this had meant to Dean, if anything. He didn’t ask. Instead, he’d gone and made stupid assumptions based on his own fucking insecurities and God knew what else. And now, Dean’s face looked like would answer no questions.
He got dressed in silence.
Dean didn’t bother putting his shirt back on; half the buttons seemed to be missing anyway. There was a bruise on his throat where Sam’s teeth had sunk in. His hands were shaking. Sam could clearly see them tremble as he was zipping the jacket up. His throat tightened. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He wanted to say something but everything seemed either inappropriate or lame. In the end, they ended up driving out of there in silence.
The silence lasted about a mile. Then Dean turned the music on.
Loud.
AO3 link
Title: All we are
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Warnings: barely there reference to past attempted rape, angsty fluff up the wazoo
Word Count: 4,705
Summary: set after Born Under A Bad Sign episode, basically Sam/Dean first time
“You okay? Sam? Is that you in there?”
Sam wanted to reach over and smack him. Except that Dean was still bruised from his encounter with the demon, from his encounter with Sam’s fist. But what a fucking time to joke about it. Leave it to Dean to try and make light of everything.
“I was awake for some of it, Dean. I watched myself kill Wandell with my own two hands; I saw the light go out in his eyes.”
The guy was hunter, he had a life, a daughter; he’d been someone’s friend, someone’s father. It wasn’t something to joke about, it wasn’t something Sam could take lightly.
“That must have been awful,” Dean said, and Sam was sure he meant it.
In his own way.
It was said in the ‘Dean tone’ that Sam was more than familiar with. Life sucks, shit happens, now it’s over and it’s time to move on. Sam would never accuse him of being heartless, of not caring for other people. But for Dean, the hierarchy of important things in life had always been different than Sam’s. First came family, then came family, and then after family came friends, then after that everyone else. In some way, he was so much like dad, who would have hit the roof after Dean wasted a bullet from the Colt to save Sam’s life, would have ripped Dean a new asshole, would have been fucking furious. Yet, when the time came to make a decision, he’d sold the Colt and the last bullet and even his own life just to get Dean back. They had been cut from the same cloth, the two of them, and Sam never understood why dad used to infuriate him so much and Dean... he could always find a way to forgive Dean anything. Why, even when Dean provoked him to the point where he wanted to beat the living crap out of him, Sam loved him so much that the intensity of it scared him shitless.
“That’s not my point,” he said, “I almost carved up Jo too. But no matter what I did, you wouldn’t shoot.”
“It was the right move, Sam, it wasn’t you.”
“Yeah, this time. What about next time?”
How far did he have to go, what did he have to do, for Dean to give up on him, to finally realize that Sam was wrong, that he was a freak, that he was dangerous? He’d watched the demon hit Dean over and over again, watched it through his own two eyes, trapped inside. He’d heard her tell Dean that he was worthless, that he couldn’t save dad, and that he wouldn’t be able to save Sam. He’d seen her dig her fingers, Sam’s fingers, into Dean’s wound and locked inside his own body he’d screamed, he’d fought her with everything he had. It had felt like trying to push a boulder uphill. Worse, he heard the part that Bobby hadn’t, the part she’d whispered so close next to Dean’s face that Sam had seen the green ring around Dean’s irises, had seen his brother’s eyes flood in pain.
“I know what Sam knows,” she’d said, “and Sam’s skin crawls every time you touch him. He thinks that next time you won’t stop when he begs you to, that you’ll rape your little brother no matter what he says or how hard he fights you. He remembers the pain, Dean,” he felt her smile, felt his own lips stretch, and that part was somehow as horrifying as the things she was saying, “and he’s afraid of you. And you dare call me an abomination?”
“Sam, when dad told me that I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn’t save you. Now, if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to save you.”
Sam barely heard him. He couldn’t just let it sit, all those things the demon said, he couldn’t just let them fester. The last time Dean had touched him had been weeks ago, the day Sam had almost gotten himself killed. He’d recalled every second of it countless times since then, Dean’s hands shaping his face, fingers brushing over Sam’s cheekbones, over his jaw. It had been so sweet, so out of the blue. He’d been sure that Dean had meant to forget that morning in the woods, to pretend like it never happened. He’d been sure that nothing like that would ever happen between them again. But as Dean’s fingers traced his cheek, Sam had seen that same look in his eyes, something more, something bigger, so vast that it would have been terrifying from anyone else. He’d spent most of his life hoping that one day Dean would look at him like that. Even as a teenager, when the whole reality of how wrong it all was, of how utterly unacceptable it was, had crashed on him, he’d still wanted it. And if Dean had only looked at him like that back then, Sam wouldn’t have cared what other people think, he wouldn’t have cared if everyone else in the world had called it an abomination. But Dean had never shown him an ounce more affection than a brother should. And it had fucking hurt. It had hurt, and it had been confusing and scary and unbearable, loving him in a way that Sam could barely admit to himself under the cover of darkness, loving him so much that he’d felt it killing him day in and and day out. And Dean being Dean; random nameless girls parading through, their shiny lips and long legs, their tight skirts and clouds of sickening perfume. Sam hated them. Sometimes he was sure that he’d hated Dean too. But most of all he’d hated himself because he couldn’t stop feeling the way he did, he couldn’t just rip it out and throw it away, stomp on it, make it go away.
“Pull over,” he said.
“What? Why? Don’t tell me you’re gonna barf.”
“Just pull the fucking car over Dean, out of the road.”
Dean glanced at him and something in Sam’s face must have been deadly fucking serious, because he turned his gaze back to the road and put his blinker on. There wasn’t enough of a shoulder to pull over properly and Sam practically vibrated until Dean found a dirt road to turn into.
His brain screamed that this could go horribly wrong, that he was about to make an enormous mistake. But the moment the car was stopped, he was already moving across the seat, grabbing the back of Dean’s head, pulling him closer. His mouth crashed against Dean’s with so much force that they would probably both be bruised later. As it was, the cut on Dean’s lip broke open, and the first kiss Sam shared with his brother tasted of copper and salt. Dean never even made a sound. His hands tangled in Sam’s hair, his mouth immediately opening for Sam’s as if he’d been expecting it, as if he’d waited for it all these years. He tasted like home. Like that cocky, infuriating smile Sam had wanted to slap off his face countless times. Like blood and tears and pain. Like early mornings in the Impala, driving though the unknown, like the sense of adventure Sam used to love, like the childhood that had been so sweet and confusing. His mouth was everything Sam had imagined and an entire universe of more, of some veiled, exquisite mystery that Sam could have never imagined. He tasted like Dean. Sam’s Dean.
He broke the kiss and saw Dean’s pupils had expanded, had grown dark and bottomless.
“In the back seat. Right now,” Sam said.
And if Dean said another word, if he put in one single syllable of complaint, Sam was gonna grab the first weapon he could get his hands on and cheerfully kill him.
---
It was like a bizarre deja-vu. The back seat of Impala under the cover of the night sky, awkward fumbling, moving jackets and bags aside to free up more space. Except that this time, Dean was the one whose hands were shaking, who felt like he couldn’t breathe. He’d never felt like this with any of the girls. And there had been so many, their smooth legs and breathless giggles saturating every inch of those seats, leaving their stamp on him and the car. Tall, short, skinny, plum, dark haired, blonde, funny, sweet, sarcastic, more girls than he could count. Every single one of them had writhed in that seat, had let Dean take whatever he wanted. And every single time he’d been the confident one, the smooth one, the talker, the lover, he’d been what they’d needed him to be.
What was he now? Anxious. A ridiculous bundle of quivering nerves. He didn’t know this dance; he didn’t know the steps, he couldn’t even recognize the music. He had nothing to compare to. Maybe Sam didn’t either, but at least Sam was the one who appeared confident, who moved with a purpose.
Sam’s jacket flew towards the windshield and the sleeve caught on the review mirror. Then he was crawling on top of Dean, pushing him down into the seat, his hands sliding under Dean’s shirt, his mouth latching on to the soft spot under Dean’s jaw. His hands were freezing cold and his mouth searing hot, the combination startling and unexpected. Dean hissed at the contact, his hands gripping the hips above him, pulling Sam down, arching his own body to meet him. Sam’s weight on top of him, Sam’s thigh in between his own, Sam’s lips finding his with ease. Sam’s tongue battling with his, breath hot against Dean’s cheek, his teeth scraping roughly over Dean’s lip. And against his thigh, Sam painfully hard, pressing down. He fumbled with Dean’s shirt for a few seconds then pulled until the buttons popped, some of the cloth tearing in the process.
Suddenly nothing mattered more than getting Sam’s shirts off, feeling Sam’s skin against his own. They both struggled with them, elbows slamming against the seats, legs straining against the doors, both already gasping for air. Dean wanted to laugh. Sam wore so many layers it was like peeling an onion; every time he thought he would get his hands on skin, another shirt appeared underneath. He yanked the last two over Sam’s head and managed to push them over his shoulders but now both of Sam’s arms were trapped behind him in a clusterfuck of a shirts and it was the cutest goddamned thing Dean had ever seen.
“What the fuck,” Sam grumbled breathlessly, but he sounded on the verge of laughing too.
Dean pulled him down and reached around him, trying to feel his way to the shirt tangle. He found both of Sam’s arms from the elbows down swathed in material. But instead of pushing the shirts down, he found himself holding Sam’s wrists through them, Sam stretched out on top of him, his body pressed against Dean, unable to move an inch. And having him there, knowing Sam could go nowhere without Dean loosening his grip on the shirts, knowing that Sam was, at that moment at least, completely under his control, it was intoxicating. It was the sort of thing that only crossed Dean’s mind in the darkest corners, in the most forbidden places. Without a conscious thought he tightened his grip on Sam’s wrists and thrust up, the bulge in Sam’s pants grinding against his own, and even though two layers of jeans it was like an electric shot in his spine, it was so intense that his vision flickered.
Sam moaned, the tone raw and throaty, bordering on painful. Dean froze.
No. Not like this. It was too much like the thing that happened before. This was Sam’s blood on the cement floor, his face bruised, this was pain. Wrong. It should never be like this.
“What,” Sam whispered, his eyes glazed, “what is it? What’s wrong?”
Shaking his head, Dean went on to pull at the material, to untangle it from Sam’s arms.
“No Dean, leave it.”
Four simple words, so quietly spoken, four words that could mean anything. They sucked all the air out of Dean’s lungs, made him lightheaded, made him momentarily stupid.
Sam had no clue what he was saying here. He couldn’t.
“Sam--“
“Leave it,” Sam whispered, his lips brushing over Dean’s jaw, “or I swear, the moment you free me I will fucking beat you senseless.”
“Jesus, Sam,” his voice cracked.
Sam pushed against him again, his breath on Dean’s cheek hot, sweet like grace, like a blessing.
“Leave it. I like it. It feels... “ he shuddered above him, hips grinding, “It feels so...”
Dean had heard enough. His brain had stopped processing words anyway.
He gripped Sam’s wrists tight and lifted them both up into a sitting position, Sam straddling his lap, those long legs on either side of him, trapping him in. Sam let out a small sound of surprise then chuckled.
“I can’t get my pants off like this,” he said breathlessly.
“You won’t need to,” Dean said, yanking on the button, pulling the zipper down, freeing him from the material just enough so he can wrap his hand around the flesh. Sam groaned, his head falling back, white throat glowing in the gloom, his collar bones anchors in the darkness, like a sculpture meant to take your breath away, meant to break your heart, to tear your soul into pieces. He drove his hips forward, trembling stomach muscles brushing against Dean’s fist, knees spreading further, arms twisted behind him, and he was so fucking beautiful at that moment that Dean felt lost, destroyed, like nothing in the world would ever be the same after this, nothing would ever awe him or amaze him or make him feel.
“Kiss me,” he said desperately, one hand tightening around the tangle of the shirts, locking Sam’s wrists in place, the other already slick from Sam, slippery, and he didn’t even have to move, because Sam was rocking into his hand, grinding his ass into Dean’s lap, shamelessly chasing release.
Still, he found Dean’s mouth without hesitation, his tongue frantic, his throat forming sounds that Dean could have never imagined, not even in those darkest corners of his mind, not in his most forbidden fantasies.
His pants still on and tightly buttoned, Dean was now in actual pain but he liked it; it helped him stay grounded, helped him stay focused on Sam, on Sam’s mouth, Sam’s body vibrating against him. Because everything was about Sam, everything was for Sam, Sam was the first thing that mattered in this world and others, Sam was the only thing that had ever mattered. He let go of Sam’s wrists and slipped his hand past the gap in the jeans, working beneath the elastic of the underwear to grip the smooth skin of his ass, desperate to feel everything right now, to not miss an inch, a moment, to feel every shudder.
“Yes,” Sam whimpered against his mouth, leaning forward, shifting to give him more space, his cock now trapped in Dean’s hand and in between their bodies, and still he thrust forward, the rhythm now senseless, primeval, frenzied. Pulse wildly beating in his eyelids, his ears, his throat, Dean slid his fingers in between the cheeks, brushing against that secret place he’d tried to take by force before, wanting to be gentle, wishing he didn’t feel clumsy and stupid with need. Sam inhaled sharply, sucking the breath out of him, trembled against him, all hard muscles loosening, melting.
“Dean,” his mouth formed the words against Dean’s lips, echoed in the back of Dean’s throat, filled him with light. He buried his face in Dean’s neck as if hiding, hips still moving forward, and Dean could feel his heart beating against his own, a furious beat.
“Please...” Sam whispered, “please.”
God, he hadn’t planned this, he hadn’t prepared for it. He’d done research at one point, after that morning in the woods, he wanted to know what he was missing, what he would need if they ever.. if they ever... and somewhere in the car there was a pack of condoms and a packet of lubricant, but right now at this moment, he had nothing and he wanted to scream.
“Dean,” Sam whimpered, and now it sounded demanding, desperate.
Jesus, he’d wanted so much to be careful the first time, to do everything right, to do everything slowly, but he’d forgotten what it felt like because he hadn’t wanted to think about it, he hadn’t wanted to remember. How incredibly tight it was, incredibly hot, nothing like touching a girl, not even close. He didn’t want to cause any pain, any discomfort, he wanted Sam to enjoy it. Sam was the one who pushed back against Dean’s hand, the one who opened up for him, and then Dean’s fingers were inside of him, and Jesus, it must have hurt, it must have burned like hell because there was nothing there to slick the way. Sam’s teeth sank into Dean’s shoulder and he moaned, hips never pausing, but now pushing back as hard as he was pushing forward. If he felt any pain Dean couldn’t tell, he couldn’t even think, couldn’t feel anything but Sam pressed against him, Sam’s cock rock hard in his hand and still trapped between them, Sam’s face buried in his neck, Sam mumbling, begging, repeating Dean’s name. It was too much for Dean to handle. He’d wanted this first time to last forever but he was already so close that his back was arching, his hips lifting forward, his hand tightening around Sam, causing him to cry out. He pressed his cheek against Sam’s hair, surrounded by Sam, drowning in him, knowing that between the heat of him, the scent of him, the sheer fucking magnificence that is Sam thrusting furiously against him, shamelessly pushing back against his fingers, he would last only moments longer.
But it was Sam who came first, shuddering in his lap, pulsing in his hand, around his fingers, his open mouthed cries pressed against Dean’s shoulder.
His Sam. His beautiful fucking Sam, his brother, his heart.
Face still hidden in Sam’s hair, he came seconds behind him, quietly, clenching his teeth, not wanting to ruin the beauty of Sam’s cries with his own, not wanting to interrupt those soft little gasps of his, not wanting to attract attention to himself. Because everything inside of him at that moment was so raw, so painful, so afraid that this would be the first and last time, the only time he got to hold Sam like this, got to listen to his breathing like this, got to feel him and touch him and kiss him like this.
Long seconds passed with nothing but their labored breathing echoing through the car. Dean withdrew his hand carefully and Sam still hissed at the friction.
“Sorry,” he said, wondering if he’d hurt him, wondering if there was any part of what just happened that Sam would regret.
With numb fingers, he tugged at the shirts until Sam’s hands were finally untangled, because now it was all up to Sam. He almost expected him to move away the moment he was free, to treat this the same way Dean had treated all of his other encounters on this same back seat, as if they were nothing but pleasurable distractions, gone from his mind as soon as they ended. And Sam did shift, he straightened up enough that Dean wondered how he could live though something like that, how he could go on as if nothing happened.
But Sam only rested his hands on Dean’s chest, over his heart, and kissed him again. Dean closed his eyes and felt tears burning his eyelids, wishing he had the nerve to tell him how much it all meant, that the only reason his heart beat beneath Sam’s palms was because Sam was there with him, that nothing in his life had ever mattered more, had been more beautiful than these moments right now with Sam’s mouth on his.
He didn’t say anything though; everything felt like too much or not enough. When faced with all the beauty that was Sam kissing him, Sam in his lap, everything between them slick and slippery, the air around them smelling like sex, all the words Dean could come up with were shallow and pointless and they could never compare, they could never truly come close to everything he felt. So he just kissed Sam, kissed his brother with everything he had, his fingers gently cupping the back of his head, caressing all that hair that never behaved, that was just as stubborn as the man himself. And he thought, now it would be ok to die, it would be all right, because this world could have nothing more to offer him. These few moments with Sam, right here and now, had to be what heaven would have felt like, if he were ever worthy of it.
---
Sam felt peaceful. Head resting on the back of the seat and all of his limbs completely useless, he felt content for the first time in years.
Dean’s breath was soothing next to him; outside the car, the wind rose up and died down. It was warm and comfortable. They had turned the car into a small sauna, steaming up the windows and turning the seats slippery with sweat.
Sam reached over lazily and wiped his hand across the glass, clearing a small area so he could see the darkness beyond. There was a moon in the sky somewhere but he couldn’t see it through the trees. He closed his eyes so he could see Dean’s face as it was only a few minutes ago, lips wet, eyes dark with pleasure. He wanted to sear every line, every inch of it across his memory. He wanted to keep that image forever.
Twisting his head, he saw Dean in the same position, head resting on the back of the seat, eyes closed. How often had Sam studied the line of Dean’s throat? How many times had he snuck glances at it over the years? He could reach over and touch it now, trace the curve of it with his fingers. He could lean over and lick his way from the collar bone to the ear then back down again. He could. He told himself he could. But he didn’t. Did Dean feel the same peace, the same contentment? It was hard to tell. The whole thing happened kind of fast; not exactly what Sam had in mind for their first time. For one, he’d intended to do it in a bed, even if it was a lumpy motel room bed with creaky headboard and suspicious pillows. Also, he’d sort of planned on Dean’s pants being off. He’d actually planned a lot of things. Some of them he would never admit to anyone. He couldn’t even admit them to himself without blushing like a fucking school girl. Still, he’d wanted... he’d gone to the store a few weeks ago and bought the basics, just in case. Then he’d put them away in the pocket of his backpack. And when the time came, his brain had stopped working. He’d actually told Dean to leave his arms trapped, that he’d liked it that way.
He closed his eyes again, feeling his face heat up. Who knew he’d had it in him? To throw himself at Dean like that? To say all those... God, he’d actually begged. He’d begged. And Dean, Dean had hit all the right spots, had held Sam in all the right ways. Dean’s hand around him, fingers inside of him, tongue exploring Sam’s mouth, and all the while looking at him like Sam was something beautiful. Coming seconds behind Sam without making a sound, his pants still tightly buttoned, coming for no other reason than Sam sliding in his lap, Sam riding him through two layers of clothes. It was so much more powerful, so much more scary than Sam had imagined. And yet, he still felt unsure.
Dean hadn’t moved an inch since Sam had slithered off his lap. His eyes were still closed, his breaths now calm and even. Was he asleep?
What if he was?
Sam looked away and closed his eyes again. Listened to the wind pick up again, shaking the branches of the trees overhead. Could this whole thing have been just about sex? Sam didn’t know. That part of Dean hadn’t been his to know. But he remembered all the girls, always leaving satisfied. They all had one thing in common; afterwards, they all looked like Dean had shown them the face of God. Like Dean WAS God, like he could do no wrong. Sam was suddenly sure that his face at that moment bore a very close resemblance to theirs. And it was not a comforting thought. Had Dean looked at them the same way he’d looked at Sam? Was this why Dean had pulled him into his lap, why he hadn’t bothered taking his pants off? Because this was just another ‘make Sammy happy’ thing? ‘Give Sammy what he wants?’ He was over thinking again. Wasn’t he? Would Dean have even taken his shirt off had Sam not ripped it off his shoulders? Would Dean have ever initiated something like this?
The warmth he felt earlier disappeared and he shivered. He should get dressed. He fumbled for the pile of shirts that had found their way to the floor. ‘Leave it,’ he heard himself say again, ‘I like it.’ Who says stuff like that? His face felt like it was on fire. And still, he wanted Dean to grab his wrists again, to lock them behind his back. He wanted Dean to tie him down hand and foot. He wanted... Jesus, but there was something seriously wrong with him.
“Sammy?”
Sam flinched. So Dean hadn’t been sleeping. He fought the urge to crawl back into his lap. He fought the urge to hide.
“Sammy? You okay?”
“Yeah,” he managed a smile, “Just cold.”
And God, it sounded fake. Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew that they were wrong.
Dean studied him for a second, something in his face shifting slightly. The new expression was like a heavy weight, settling on Sam’s chest. A wall had just gone up. Sam wasn’t sure why, but he had an idea. Either Dean had just figured out what exactly happened between them and had no intention of dealing with it, or it was Sam’s fault. It was Sam’s fault because Sam had a tendency to over think everything, over analyze everything, instead of just leaving things well enough alone. A few moments ago, he might have been able to crawl back into Dean’s lap and kiss him again. Now, judging by Dean’s expression, nothing of the sort will be happening. A part of his mind was insisting that he’d been right. That this had all been about sex, about getting off, about Dean giving Sam what he wanted with the added benefit of an orgasm. But even as he was thinking it, he knew he was being stupid. Stupid and unfair to Dean. He didn’t know what this had meant to Dean, if anything. He didn’t ask. Instead, he’d gone and made stupid assumptions based on his own fucking insecurities and God knew what else. And now, Dean’s face looked like would answer no questions.
He got dressed in silence.
Dean didn’t bother putting his shirt back on; half the buttons seemed to be missing anyway. There was a bruise on his throat where Sam’s teeth had sunk in. His hands were shaking. Sam could clearly see them tremble as he was zipping the jacket up. His throat tightened. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He wanted to say something but everything seemed either inappropriate or lame. In the end, they ended up driving out of there in silence.
The silence lasted about a mile. Then Dean turned the music on.
Loud.
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