Knocking On Heaven's Door (But No One's Ever Home)
Author:kelios
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: The Trials are taking a heavy toll on Sam, and Dean thinks he's found something that will help him feel better.
Warnings; Wincest, shotgunning, drug use
A/N; Written for this http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/ prompt:
Sam knows the trials are taking a toll on his body. He's thinner, weaker, and he hurts all the time. When Dean starts to pull away physically out of concern for Sam's health, Sam assumes it's because he looks rundown. Dean realizes what Sam's thinking and makes sure Sam knows nothing could be further from the truth.
Top!Sam or Dean, either is fine (though I'd love Dean riding Sam since Sam isn't up the physical exertion of really topping).
Dean finds the box when he's fixing up his room. It's on the top shelf of the closet, way in the back, and a jolt of...something...tingles halfway up his arm when his fingers brush against it. He pulls it down cautiously and studies it carefully. It's intricately carved and inlaid with different colored wood and shell; now that he's touching it with both hands it's practically vibrating psychically.
Naturally, he opens it.
"Sam! Hey, Sam come look at this!"
Sam groans and lifts his head. He was only resting his eyes, really--which is why he carefully avoids looking at the clock to see how long he'd been asleep. He needs to believe he's not falling apart as fast as he thinks he is.
Dean comes bounding into the room, grinning happily--until he sees Sam. His smile falters, and Sam hates it--hates how he looks, how he feels, how Dean is treating him like he's made of glass.
Dean hasn't touched him in weeks; he always has an excuse and Sam has given up trying. Sam didn't even object when Dean suggested he might be more comfortable in his own bed rather than sharing the narrow double in Dean's room. After all, he could barely stand to look at himself, how could be blame Dean for feeling the same way?
"Hey, Sammy, you alright?" Dean's hand hovers over his shoulder, not quite touching. Sam wishes he dared force the issue, lean back into that comforting touch that he'd been able to count on for most of his life. But he doesn't. He's not sure he could deal with the pain if Dean pulled away, so he just smiles wearily at his brother and lies.
"I'm fine, Dean. What did you find?"
Dean's smile returns, nearly as blinding as Sam remembers. "Looks like Grandpa Winchester’s Men of Letters buddies weren't as tightlaced as we thought," he says smugly, and puts the open box down on the table in front of Sam.
It takes a moment for Sam to register what he's seeing, either because the Trials are affecting his brain or because it's just so...bizarre. He looks up at Dean, puzzled. "Is that a...?"
"I think the word you're looking for is 'bong'," Dean says helpfully. "And yes, it is. Also, at least three ounces of perfectly preserved weed, two hand rolled Cubans--" Dean picks one up and inhales deeply--"and a couple of magic mushrooms. Maybe literally."
Sam picks through the box, absently noting the same tingle Dean had felt when he brushes the side and finds rolling papers and a small pouch of tobacco as well. He looks up to find Dean watching him speculatively.
"You know..." Dean says, too casually. "I hear there's something to that medical marijuana thing. Eases pain, gives you the munchies." He picks up the papers and the bag of weed. "What do you say, Sam, wanna give it a try? It can't hurt." He's smiling hopefully, a little desperately, and the very last thing Sam wants is to get high.
"Dean...."
"C'mon, man. You've been pushing yourself way too hard. And if this will let you eat and maybe get some real sleep..." Dean smooths his hand over Sam's hair where it's standing up from his impromptu nap, thumb gently stroking Sam's cheek, and Sam's objections die unspoken.
They move to the kitchen, because Sam refuses to light anything on fire in the library, especially a mind altering substance. Dean rolls his eyes but follows him willingly down the hall anyway, wondering aloud what they might have that qualifies as snack food. Sam just lets him ramble, not really holding out much hope that he'll be able to eat anything and keep it down, but willing to try if it makes Dean this happy.
Dean rummages around in the pantry and the fridge while Sam lays out the rolling paper on the counter and attempts to roll a joint with stupid, clumsy, tired fingers. When Dean comes back he doesn't comment on Sam's handiwork, just reshapes it carefully and licks it closed.
"You remember the first time we did this, Sammy?" he asks, voice low and heavy, and Sam flushes because oh yes, he remembers. Remembers the revelation of Dean's lips pressed to his for the first time, the shudder that had run through both of them at the maybe not so sudden shock of desire that neither of them tried to chalk up to the pot.
"Yeah," he says hoarsely. He clears his throat and hitches himself up to sit on the counter, spreading his legs in open invitation. "Yeah, I remember."
Dean steps close, right into the v of his legs. He can feel Dean's warmth, so close and solid, and Sam's shaking a little now because he needs this, needs what he thinks Dean's offering, more than he needs food or sleep, more than he knows how to say. He watches, lips already parted, breath coming a little faster, as Dean lights the joint and takes a deep drag, eyes falling closed as the drug hits his system. He opens them again, still holding the smoke, and Sam leans forward to meet him, sealing his mouth over Dean's eagerly.
Dean's other hand comes up to tangle in Sam's hair, holding him steady as he releases the smoke into Sam's mouth. Sam inhales deeply, quietly thrilled at the intimacy of taking the breath straight from Dean lungs into himself. The drug hits hard, mellow warmth flowing slowly through him, and he dares to slide his tongue over Dean's lower lip. Desire turns the warmth into heat, and he nips Dean's lip gently.
Dean goes still for a moment, then he pulls back slowly, hand still caught in Sam's hair. He runs his tongue over his lower lip slowly--tasting me, Sam thinks giddily. Dean's eyes never leave Sam's as he takes another hit and pulls Sam down with agonizing slowness, brushing closed lips over Sam's gently before pushing the smoke into Sam's mouth. He kisses Sam tentatively before allowing him to release the smoke in his lungs, and Sam doesn't even realize there are tears on his cheeks until Dean leans in to kiss them away.
"Hey, hey, Sammy, talk to me, did I hurt you?" The distress in Dean's voice breaks through the haze in Sam's brain and he shakes his head. Dean cups his face in huge, rough hands, so familiar and warm.
"No. No!" That's the last thing Sam wants Dean to think. "I just--I didn't think--you never touch me anymore," he says finally, miserably. He thinks dimly that he would be mortified by this any other time, but he can't bring himself to care at the moment.
Dean looks stricken. "Sam...man, you've been so sick. I didn't want you to worry about me, I just wanted you to feel better." He hesitates. "You have no idea how much I've wanted--but I know you aren't up to anything...strenuous."
"I feel better when you touch me," Sam says, voice wavering a little. "I didn't even realize how much better until you weren't anymore." He doesn't let himself think, just wraps himself around his brother, sliding forward until they're pressed together as tightly as he can hold on. He feels a sigh shudder through Dean as Dean relaxes and hugs him back--carefully, but still so good.
Sam lets his head rest on Dean's shoulder and just luxuriates in the feel of Dean's hands on him, stroking his back and his hair. Dean's crooning in his ear, half spoken words and endearments, and sleepy warmth spreads through him. He already feels better than he has in weeks, Dean's touch and the pot soothing away some of the constant ache that's grown steadily worse since he began the Trials. He turns his head, lets his lips find that spot right under Dean's jaw that always drives him crazy. Dean's hands and words falter as a shiver runs through him, and Sam smiles. He shifts just a little, until he can latch onto Dean's ear, sucking gently. Dean's hands stop moving altogether, just clenched tightly in Sam's shirt.
"Sam," he says in a strangled voice. "Sam, come on, man, that's not fair." He shifts his hips with a groan. Sam can feel how hard Dean is, and it makes him reckless. He pushes forward, grinding against his brother, catching Dean's mouth with his own. He can taste the smoky sweetness of the pot, and Dean underneath it even sweeter.
"I need you," Sam whispers against Dean's lips. He kisses him again, letting Dean feel his urgency and longing. The noise Dean makes is delicious, and Sam shudders with the heat of it, grappling with Dean's belt, fumbling in his haste. Dean breaks their kiss, pulling back for a moment.
"Wait, wait," Dean says quickly. He takes a step back and then, noting the sudden doubt in his brother's eyes he grabs Sam's hand and pulls him forward til Sam slides off the counter. "Wanna do this right," he says softly. He smiles at Sam and pulls him down the hallway toward his room, pausing outside the door. "I hate having you so far away," he admits gruffly, not looking at Sam. "I can't sleep right without you snoring in the next bed."
That surprises a laugh out of Sam. "My snoring? You sound like a chainsaw brigade!"
Dean scoffs, pulling Sam into the room. "Yeah, well, neither of us is sleeping right now." He lifts Sam's sweater up over his head, teasing him a little when the static turns his hair into something from a Jim Henson movie. Sam can feel his eyes lingering on where Sam's muscles used to be, on his chest, counting Sam's ribs. He doesn't flinch though, meeting Sam's eyes and letting Sam see the hunger there.
The look in Dean's eyes takes Sam's breath away. He can't help kissing Dean then, letting his brother's body dispel the chill that seems to live permanently under his skin these days. Dean sighs and opens for him, hands roaming restlessly over Sam's body as though he can't get enough, making up for lost time.
"I missed you, Sammy," Dean whispers. He steps back just far enough to strip down to his boxers and tshirt, never taking his eyes off his brother. Dean's attention pours over him like a balm, and Sam feels like he could bask in it for the rest of his life and be content even as he feels tears threatening again.
"Missed you too," he says, throat painfully tight. He steps forward into Dean’s arms again, needing his warmth as a chill wracks him.
“Let’s get you into bed,” Dean murmurs against his skin. Sam shivers again as Dean works open the button on Sam’s jeans and lets them drop to the floor along with his boxers. It’s always cool and damp in the bunker, and Sam’s failing body simply can’t fight the chill. Dean tucks him under the covers with orders to stay right there while he strips down himself and rummages around for the bottle of lube in the nightstand before slipping under the warm blankets with Sam.
“You sure you’re up to this, Sam?” Dean asks gently. He’s curled around Sam, one arm wrapped around Sam’s chest, one leg thrown over Sam’s, face tucked into Sam’s shoulder. Sam can feel that he’s still hard, that he’s struggling not to move against Sam’s hip. Every place he’s touching feels warm--alive--and Sam craves that feeling everywhere.
“Never been more sure,” Sam promises, feeling needy and a little desperate, because he can’t lose this now. “Please, Dean. I need you.” He ends his plea with a kiss, even more effective than puppy eyes, and much more enjoyable under the circumstances. Dean responds eagerly, opening for Sam and drawing him in, pulling Sam onto his side so they are facing each other in the circle of Dean’s arms. They kiss and touch for long minutes, relearning each other after what seems like far too long, before Dean’s hand slides down to dip between Sam’s cheeks and rub gently over his hole. Sam sighs, arching languidly into the touch, rocking forward against Dean’s hip and back against his fingers.
“Gonna have to open you up nice and slow,” Dean says, voice like gravel. He pulls Sam’s leg up over his, giving himself room to work. “Been too long, you’ll be so tight…” He catches Sam’s mouth for another kiss as one finger just breaches his brother’s body, then pulls away to retrieve the bottle of lube he’d found earlier. He pours a little into his hand, rubbing it between his fingers to warm, then finds the sensitive skin of Sam’s opening again. He pushes in slowly, just one finger to start, and Sam moans against his lips, the feel of being penetrated, of being filled, driving the sound out of him. Dean fingerfucks him slowly as they kiss, until Sam can’t take it anymore.
“Dean--” Sam twists against his brother, looking for more, trying to push him deeper. “‘m not gonna break, you know.” Dean just huffs a soft laugh against his neck.
“Maybe I’m going slow because I want to,” he argues, teasing, and the easy familiarity of it warms Sam just as much as the growing heat of Dean’s body. But he adds a second finger, pushing in slow but steady, as deep as he can before spreading them and stretching Sam wide around him. He watches Sam’s face for any sign of discomfort, and Sam loves him for it, but what he really wants is for Dean to stop treating him like he’s going to fall apart at any moment.
“Don’t know if I can take slow,” Sam returns, letting want heat his voice as he pulls Dean closer to him. Dean makes a pained sound deep in his throat as they slide against each other hot and slick, both of them leaking and hard now. Sam smiles a little wickedly, and reaches behind himself to push his own finger in alongside Dean’s. It burns, too much and not enough, but Sam wants. He feels like he’s been on edge forever, and as much as he loves Dean’s teasing concern, he needs Dean inside him now.
“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean breathes against his mouth, fingers working hard and fast inside Sam. He touches that spot deep inside Sam, sparks dancing along his nerves as he clenches tight around their fingers. “So tight, God. Can’t wait to feel you squeeze tight around my dick.”
“That--that’s the idea,” Sam says, breathing a little harder with the strain. He kisses Dean hard, begging with his mouth and his body and his eyes, and he feels it in every inch when Dean finally gives in.
Dean pulls his fingers out--still carefully but Sam doesn't mind now that he's finally getting what he wants--what he needs. He lets Dean push him onto his back, legs falling open wantonly, both hands gripping Dean's hips as Dean slots himself between Sam's legs.
“You sure about this, Sammy?” he asks again, searching Sam's face for any signs of discomfort and Sam groans underneath him, feels like he’s drowning in desire and need.
“Dean, please ,” he says in frustration. “Do I really have to beg?”
“Mmmmm maybe next time,” Dean says, teasing again. He slicks himself up, leaning down to kiss Sam again as he pushes in. Sam tenses involuntarily--it’s been too long, and Dean’s big.
“Relax, Sammy,” Dean whispers, hips moving in tiny jerks that are driving Sam slowly insane. “Gotta let me in, little brother.” Sam takes a deep breath, breathing Dean’s air, and lets it out with a sigh, relaxing into the familiar warmth and comfort. Dean kisses him slow and deep as he finally bottoms out in one hard, aching push.
Once he’s finally inside, Dean barely pauses to give Sam time to catch his breath, pulling out slowly and pushing back in harder and faster. It’s exactly what Sam wants, exactly what he needs. He feels like he’s melting, finally warm all the way through, pain and pleasure surging hot inside him. He knows he's not going to last long, heat pooling in his belly, white hot sparks crackling along every nerve as Dean moves inside him deep and deeper, like they can become one if they try hard enough.
“Dean--” Sam gasps, twisting, arching, needing. He wraps himself around Dean, desperate to bring him closer, needing every touch, every every sound, every breath. “Dean, I need--”
“Shh, Sammy I got you,” Dean pants, voice like gravel and smoke, smearing the words hot and wet across Sam's collarbone. He drives in deep, hitting Sam's sweet spot again and Sam arches against him with a choked off cry. The feel of Sam tightening around him, spilling hot and sticky between them, is all it takes to push Dean over the edge--he comes with a shout and a snap of his hips that feels like it could break Sam in half. He fucks Sam through their it, little stuttering thrusts that drag the pleasure out, keep the current racing crazily along Sam’s shattered, sparking nerves until Dean finally collapses, exhausted.
“Missed you, missed this, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, kissing Sam lazily. He’s warm and blissed out, and Sam decides to delay the moment when Dean remembers how weak and fragile Sam is and tries to move for as long as possible. He pulls Dean even closer, and Dean sighs, nosing contentedly at Sam's jaw, painting his skin with nonsense words and kisses.
Finally Sam gives in to his need for air and pushes gently at Dean's shoulder. Dean moves away reluctantly, sliding free of Sam's body with a slight wince. He doesn't go far, pulling Sam half on top of him, stroking his back and hair, seemingly needing to touch Sam as much as Sam needs to be touched. Sam sighs, warmer and happier than he’s felt in months. His eyes slip closed as he relaxes into the pleasure of being surrounded by everything he’s ever needed.
“How you feeling, Sam?” Dean asks after a few blissfully peaceful moments. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Warm. Good. Love you, De.” Sam hears the slur in his voice as he burrows against Dean’s chest, but he doesn’t care. Dean’s arms tighten around him and he presses a kiss to Sam’s temple, but Sam is already asleep when his voice cracks on Love you, too.