Two-Headed Boy: Twenty-four
Sam wakes up because there’s rank air being breathed right against his mouth.
He wrinkles his nose as he stirs, eyes slipping open and he’s face-to-face with Dean. Dean who is dead to the world, mouth open, snoring against Sam’s lips, sleep gunk caught in his long lashes, drool dampening their shared pillow, the whole nine.
Sam smiles.
He tries to wiggle away, his full bladder calling, but the hand that he’s suddenly aware of on his ass tightens, keeps him where he is. He lets out a raw, gravelly whine, lifting a sleep-heavy hand and resting it on Dean’s scratchy cheek.
“Dean--”
“Grnn.”
“I gotta pee.”
“No.”
“Yes, actually. I do.” He pushes back against the hand that just gets more possessive, fingers slipping along his crack, ghosting over his hole. He arches his back because he can’t help it, giving a defeated sigh as he momentarily relaxes back against his brother.
“Feel good. Warm.”
“It’s burning up in here, Dean.”
“Don’t care.”
“Why are you talking like a caveman?” Sam pushes back against Dean’s grip and he wins this time, catching Dean by surprise and he sits up, every single muscle in his body hurting, his ass sore and used. He shivers.
“Cavemen don’t use contractions.” Dean turns over onto his belly right on the spot that Sam just vacated, the covers slipping down, only half-covering his ass now. Sam stands up on shaky legs, reaching up to try and smooth down his hair that is wild from Dean’s hands, his eyes on Dean’s ass as he rounds the bed toward the bathroom.
“Cover that thing up.”
“What thing?” Dean’s voice is muffled now, face half-buried in the pillow, and Sam wonders if Dean can smell him in the pillow.
“That pretty ass, Dean. You know what.”
Dean grunts, reaching down to yank the covers up to the middle of his back. “You ain’t goin’ near it again for at least a week, so don’t get any fuckin’ ideas.”
“A week, huh?”
“Hell, yeah.” Dean sounds more awake now and he lifts his head, eyes bleary and taking a minute to find Sam, but he raises his eyebrows when they do. “I can barely move, Ron Jeremy.”
“I got fucked last night, too. Twice.” Sam’s fighting to keep his grin in, but the flush on his cheeks gives him away. He leans back against the doorframe to the bathroom, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes soft and on his brother.
“Yeah, well.” Dean sighs and curls back up in bed again, voice muffled once more. “Not all of us are size queens.”
Sam lets out a surprised burst of laughter for that, pushing off from the wall to saunter back over to his brother, bringing a hand down to smack hard on the closest asscheek. Dean yelps and curls up tighter, shying away from that hand and he turns to glare at Sam for all he’s worth.
“I said stay away!”
“So that includes me eating you out, too, huh?”
Dean’s face softens into thoughtfulness, head tipping to the side as he considers. He shoves the covers back away, revealing his entire naked ass this time before he melts back into the bed, eyes slipping closed.
“That’s allowed.”
Sam smirks, sinking a knee into the mattress as he brings both hands down to frame Dean’s ass, prying the cheeks apart and showing off Dean’s slightly-puffy little hole, a shy pink and just as pretty as Sam remembered.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, leaning down and letting the flat of his tongue lick right up over it, the tip of his tongue flicking and tendering where Dean’s surely sore, aching. Dean gasps, his whole body tensing, asshole flinching under Sam’s gentle tongue. He tastes salty from come, sweaty and dirty because they both need showers still, badly.
Sam stops after a few seconds, pressing a kiss right in the middle of his now softened hole before he lifts up, licking his lips.
“I’m getting in the shower.”
“You bastard,” Dean whimpers as Sam stands up again, burying his face in the pillow and groaning. Sam grins, has to tear his eyes away or else he’ll just climb back in the bed next to Dean and suck every last drop of come he left in him out.
He showers quickly, rinsing himself as clean as he can inside and out, his insides tender but in the best way, in the way he’s always savored before from his own fingers, from when he let Jess fuck him. But this time, it’s because of Dean. It’s finally because of Dean.
He climbs out of the shower and Dean’s standing there, looking rumpled and half-asleep and adorable, and Sam can’t help but grin at him.
“You next?”
Dean just grunts a reply and shuffles past Sam to the shower, their fingers catching as they pass, forefingers curling together and not letting go until they have to. Sam has a hard time brushing his teeth because he can’t stop smiling.
He gets dressed and takes the car in search of a McDonald’s and finds one only a couple of streets over, getting them a bag of breakfast sandwiches and two giant coffees. His mind is blissfully blank, still tasting Dean on his tongue, still remembering the look in his eyes last night, all the looks.
He returns to the room, juggling all the food, to find Dean pouting on the bed.
Sam raises his eyebrows at him.
“You okay?”
“I was serious about not letting you leave for three days.”
Sam laughs, shutting the door and setting the food down on the table. “Plannin’ on holding me hostage, huh?”
“Maybe.” Dean still looks upset but he starts sniffing the air, his stomach gets the better of him. “What’d you get?”
Sam shrugs and sits down at the table, watching Dean open the bag and dig around in it. “Little of everything. Figured it’d be lunch, too. Since we’re stayin’ in.”
Dean unwraps a sandwich and takes a bite out of it, sinking down into the chair across from Sam and wincing a little as he does. He swallows and picks up his coffee, tipping it toward Sam.
“New rule: I say whoever tops the night before’s gotta get breakfast the next mornin’.”
Sam raises his eyebrows again, trying to contain his grin as he picks the bacon off his sandwich and lays it on Dean’s napkin. “What if we both topped?”
Dean hums while he chews, a flirty glint in his eyes as he swallows. “Whoever took it better is the winner.”
Sam breaks off a piece of his sandwich, blushing for the way Dean’s looking at him. “So who won last night?”
Dean winks as he sips his coffee, one of his bare feet sliding over and skating up Sam’s shin. “I think you definitely took it like you were born for it, Sammy.”
Sam ducks his head, suddenly not interested in eating breakfast, his dick fattening up like it can overhear the whole conversation. “Think you just don’t want to remember how pretty you looked on my dick last night, Dean.”
“Oh, Jesus, please don’t call me pretty. Anything but that, alright?” Dean’s face is plenty red too but he still looks pretty pleased with himself. Sam grins and turns his attention back to his sandwich, trying to ignore the way Dean’s toes are spreading, the way his foot is basically petting his leg now. It’s sweet, comforting, too perfect to be real.
Sam eats half of his sandwich before he decides he’s had enough and passes the rest to Dean. Dean looks down at it and then up at Sam, one cheek fat with food.
“You doin’ okay, Sammy?”
Sam looks up and their eyes meet, hold. The air conditioning is on, humming loudly above their heads, taking some of the humid warmth out of the room. Dean’s eyes are vivid in the morning sunlight from the window, all of him washed in gold, like he’d been posed there. Sam smiles at him, reaching over to drag a fingertip over the back of Dean’s hand, catching on the fine hairs of his knuckles.
“I’m pretty amazing, actually. I don’t really feel… different. Not really. Like, I didn’t feel different when I woke up, but. I just kind of feel like I woke up with all the answers this morning. You know?”
Dean’s fingers awaken under his own, lifting and spreading to tangle with Sam’s. He’s eaten all of his own food but hasn’t touched the rest of Sam’s yet, his fingers a little greasy from the biscuit. “That’s, uh. That’s really good to hear. Real good. Just want to make sure I know what’s going on over there.”
“Not much at the moment,” Sam replies, a grin teasing at his lips. He gives Dean’s hand a little tug. “Just trying to decide if I’m going to suck your dick now or wait thirty minutes for my food to digest.”
Dean’s eyes widen, shoulders straightening. “You don’t have to wait to suck dick. It’s not like swimming.”
Sam pushes back from the table, their hands falling apart so he can slide from the chair and shuffle over to Dean on his knees. He comes to rest on his haunches in front of him, hands resting on Dean’s knees, thumbs circling his kneecaps.
“Do you know that for sure or are you just that desperate?”
“Probably the second thing,” Dean says quietly, already sounding breathless. He reaches up, fingers tangling in the back of Sam’s hair while the other one slides down into his underwear, pulling out his dick which is already fattened up, half-hard and looking good enough to eat. Sam licks his lips.
“Gonna keep eating breakfast, Dean? While I suck you off?” Sam nuzzles at his cock, kissing at the slit, letting his lips be soft and wet and fat as he mouths at him.
“Just be a good boy and put that in your mouth,” Dean slides the head past Sam’s lips and lets out an aching sigh, like he’s been waiting on tenterhooks for Sam to do just this. Sam moans, his eyes slipping closed, his entire body relaxing, almost tranced out because he just loves doing this, loves being right here that much.
Sucking his brother’s dick at breakfast probably shouldn’t come so naturally.
“When did you first think about me like that?”
They’re curled up in the broken bed now, air on full blast so it’s freezing in the room, and they’re both in their underwear under a pile of blankets. Their legs are heavy and tangled up together, Dean’s fingers stroking through Sam’s hair, unending and slow, like he’s memorizing every strand. Sam’s hand is spread out on Dean’s back, right between his shoulderblades, enthralled with the liquid strength of Dean’s muscles there.
So this is what it’s like to be in love.
Dean’s eyes laze open and find Sam’s because they’re sharing a pillow again, faces inches away.
“Hm?”
“When did you, um,” Sam repeats, shyer now, “when was the first time you thought about me, you know. Like this?”
“You mean when was the first time I wanted to bad-touch you?”
Sam grins, eyes falling closed because he can’t hide the blush that springs up on his cheeks.
“Yeah.”
“In your bathing suit places?”
“Dean.”
“Dunno,” Dean sighs, but it’s not an unhappy sound. More like he’s just settling in, getting closer, like he’s not going to try and weasel out of the question. Sam opens his eyes again and watches him, watches Dean’s eyes searching the wall behind Sam’s head, like he’s really thinking. Like there are times to actually sift through. His heart skips.
“I feel kinda dirty talkin’ about it. Like the cops are gonna bust in the second I start tellin’ you how I wanted your cute little butt in middle school or somethin’.”
Sam edges closer to him, heart racing in his chest now, bypassing all the jokes he could say that would lead them away from the heart of this conversation to latch onto the few details Dean just gave him.
“Middle school? Really?”
“It was pro’ly earlier than that. I was a horny kid. Didn’t really know what I wanted or anything, just knew what felt good. I was like thirteen and you used to sleep in bed with me, you know. I knew what sex was and what guys and girls did together, and I’d been. Y’know. Jerkin’ off for a year or so. You were always just so warm, Sammy. Felt so good in bed at night. Woulda been so easy to. To just.”
“Yeah, it would’ve,” Sam whispers, eyes focused and locked on Dean’s, struggling to keep from sliding closer, getting their dicks all shoved up together so they can grind their way through this conversation. “When was the… the, um. I mean. Did you ever have, you know. Fantasies? About me?”
“Shit, of course,” Dean rushes out, his voice so quiet, just for Sam, like he’s still ashamed of it. Sam rubs over his back, down the long line of it, comforting and more than a little turned-on. “That one year you went to Boy Scouts for a month or so? You were like, what? Twelve?”
Sam nods, face hot. “Twelve.”
“The shorts and the little scarf and you earnin’ your badges? Christ. Nearly killed me. And every time you played soccer. Came home all sweaty and in those little shorts--”
“I’m noticing a shorts theme here, Dean.” His mind is spinning, desperately trying to rewrite his history now that he’s hearing these things, now that he knows another side of this, now that he knows that there is another side of this.
“Those are just the big ones, the ones that I still,” Dean trails off, his eyes falling closed as he moves in closer to Sam, scruffy cheek resting on Sam’s bare shoulder. Sam’s hand drifts up into Dean’s hair, petting him with the same, slow rhythm Dean’s touching him.
“You still what?”
“I’m so going to hell for this, Sammy.”
“The ones you still think about?”
Dean nods, hand pausing on the nape of Sam’s neck. “And after you turned sixteen and shot up? Jesus fucking Christ. Just had to force myself not to think about it. Just couldn’t think about it.”
“Bet you changed your mind when I lost all that weight,” Sam’s quiet, self-deprecating, head ducked down so he can bury his face in Dean’s clean hair, breathe in his shampoo. Things are quiet between them for a minute, like Dean’s working something out in his head.
“Was that ‘cause-a me, too? When you stopped eating?”
Sam sighs, arm sliding around Dean’s narrow waist, hugging up tight against him, comforted beyond all reason when Dean wraps an arm around him, hugging him right back. He feels just safe enough to answer.
“All of that stuff was because of me, because I didn’t know how to deal with anything. Not because of you, okay?”
Dean doesn’t say anything back for awhile, just keeps his grip on Sam tight, hand tucked between the mattress and Sam’s ribs.
“Was Dom because of me?”
They’re not looking any each other anymore, snuggled up too close now to be able to, but Sam can feel how hard it is for Dean to ask that question, can hear the hurt still in his voice, after all this time.
“Why did it bother you so much?”
“Answer the question, Sam.”
Sam swallows, his throat working against Dean’s temple. He nods, just a single, jerky movement.
“Yeah. It was.”
“You did all of that to piss me off? To. To hurt me?” Dean lifts up now, meeting Sam’s eyes, surprising a gasp out of him when he sees Dean’s eyes bright with tears.
“No,” Sam breathes, hand sliding up to cup Dean’s cheek, the length of it from the heel to the tips of his fingers spanning nearly the whole side of Dean’s face. “No, Dean. It wasn’t that. God, it wasn’t. I was so fucked up over you. You don’t understand. I was obsessed with you. I knew where you were at every possible second, if I could. I knew what you had for breakfast, I knew what shampoo you were using. I knew what song you were really into with on any given day. I was with you every single day, and I was obsessed with you. But I had to pretend like I wasn’t. Like I was normal. Just your brother.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why--”
“If I’d’ve ever told you and you didn’t feel the same way, I would have killed myself, Dean. You don’t understand.” There are tears in his own eyes now, and he’s too into this conversation, too desperate to make Dean understand to care. “How could I have ever guessed you’d feel the same way? I still. I still can’t believe that you’re letting me do this. That I’m getting away with this. W-with touching you and. And talking to you like this. Telling you this stuff.”
“Why Dom? Why did you. You.” Dean grits his teeth, his jaw a tight line, the tears in his eyes making them nearly glow in the low light. “Why’d you do that?”
“He just came outta nowhere, took me by surprise. I wanted you so much I could barely stand to be next to you. I couldn’t stand touching you, Dean. It nearly drove me insane. And then here comes this guy, and he just.” He shakes his head, eyes wide from the memories. “He just wanted me. The way no guy’s ever--”
“Stop,” Dean whispers, fingers pressing in so hard on Sam’s ribs that he knows they’re going to bruise. Dean’s eyes are closed again, head tucked down, and his chest is heaving. “Just. Just give me a minute. Alright?”
They fall quiet while Dean struggles, throat working as he swallows over and over, tears sliding down his cheeks but Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bring attention to them. Just strokes over the side of Dean’s face, his fingers tender across the light beard Dean’s got growing in, all along the shell of his ear. Sam just waits him out, his heart ready to burst out of his aching chest, but he waits.
“Keep goin’,” Dean finally grits out, nose all but pressed against Sam’s throat, face hidden.
“I knew I was leaving,” Sam continues, his voice soft, trying to be as respectful as he can, to tread lightly around Dean because he honestly never realized how much this hurt him. “Knew I was going to Stanford. I was trying to emotionally separate myself from you, because I had to. And I could pretend with Dom.”
“Pretend what?”
“Pretend it was you,” he says right against Dean’s ear, reminding him without words that no matter what else has happened, they’re here right now, together. “The whole time, I just pretended it was you. Until. Until I couldn’t. Which is why we never went all the way. I made him stop. I just. Couldn’t do it. Because he wasn’t really you.”
“What did he say to you? Did he tell you how amazing you are? An’ how beautiful and smart and perfect and how much he cares about you? Did he tell you that stuff, Sammy?”
Sam nods, can’t draw a breath to speak because he realizes now that Dean is crushing him against his own body, that both of Dean’s arms are around him, their chests melded together, hearts beating at each other through their ribcages. When Dean turns them, presses Sam back into the bed and covers him with the bare heat of his own body, Sam just spreads his legs for his brother, just lets him.
“Those were my things to say to you,” Dean’s voice is soft, trembling, younger than Sam has heard Dean sound in years and years. “Not his, nobody else’s. Nobody else gets to tell you those things, you hear me?”
Sam nods again, dizzy with how fast his head is moving, but he wraps himself around Dean, arms and legs hugging him down, hands petting his back, comforting him when he feels the hot fall of tears on his neck where Dean’s buried his face again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Dean’s ear, his chin trembling, every inch of them touching, wrapped around each other. “Dean, I’m sorry I hurt you. I wish it had been you. I always just wanted it to be you.”
Dean’s nodding now, over and over again as he lifts up and catches Sam’s mouth with his own, his lips soft and warm but the kiss is hungry, possessive, tongue licking into Sam’s mouth and tracing every bump and corner and molar inside. Sam moans, arms lifting to wrap around Dean’s neck, legs tightening so that they’re grinding now, Dean fucking down against Sam, both in their underwear, their dicks hot and hard and rubbing through worn cotton.
“We’re never gonna say his name again. Okay? Never again.”
“Okay, Dean,” Sam breathes into his mouth, right into the kisses Dean is licking into him now, one hand gentle and big and cupping the back of Dean’s head. He can still feel Dean’s tears, feel their wetness on his own face. “Nobody but you. Always just wanted you. Always been yours.”
“Say it again, Sammy. Tell me again.” Dean’s hands find his own while Dean keeps him distracted with his teeth chewing into Sam’s bottom lip, and Dean’s got him pinned to the mattress before he knows it, wrists caught up under Dean’s wide hands, the strength in them grinding the delicate bones in Sam’s wrists together.
Sam struggles just to feel the restraint, just to feel how trapped he is. He lets out a breathy, shivering sigh when Dean kisses down his neck, sucking bruises as he goes, their dicks thick and leaking everywhere now where they’re fucking against each other, both already so close.
“Always been yours, Dean. Always been your boy.”
“Fuck, yes,” Dean hisses, the hard lines of Dean’s teeth teasing over his neck before he bites down, sinks in hard enough to break skin, and Sam cries out, writhes under Dean, head tipped back to bare his neck for him. “Again.”
“I’m your boy, big brother,” Sam whispers, his hands going numb because no blood’s getting past Dean’s grip on his wrists, and his cheeks are flushed because of what he just said, how dirty it is, even for two brothers fucking on a motel bed. Dean growls, lifting up from where he’s making a feast of Sam’s neck and staring straight down into Sam’s eyes, looking absolutely feral, their bodies still moving together like they were born to do this, to rut and fuck each other like wild things.
Dean’s hands loosen on Sam’s wrists only to let his thumb drag over the moon-shaped scar on his left wrist, and Sam can’t hold in the stuttering cry, can’t keep his hips from flying up, humping at Dean, so desperate, so fucking close now that Dean’s touched him there, on that scar.
Dean hums, dipping down to kiss at Sam’s mouth, his legs spreading wider to get in closer, spreading Sam’s legs with them. “You like that, Sammy? Like me touchin’ you there?”
“Suck on it,” Sam gasps, eyes slipping closed, colors flying behind his eyelids, like maybe he’s dying. “Please.”
Dean’s yanking at Sam’s watch, unfastening it and tossing it off the side of the bed and fuck, his burning hot mouth, all that wet breath and his slick tongue and Dean’s doing just what Sam asked, he’s sucking on his scar like he’s trying to feed from it, like Sam’s going to give him something from it.
He comes almost immediately, still held down by Dean’s grip on him, his hips lifting straight up off the bed and Dean is grinding down into him with the dirtiest, sweetest circling fucks of his hips, shameless and perfectly humping Sam until he comes too, every growl Dean lets out during orgasm muffled from the way he’s still latched onto Sam’s wrist, sucking a bruise over the whole span of it, the scar right in the center.
They collapse down on the bed at the same time, breath heaving, their bodies shaking together, underwear sticky and ruined once again. Dean’s suckling at Sam’s scar now, tonguing it and kissing it, driving shivers up Sam’s spine with every lick.
“Sorry about that girl back in Indiana. The one I brought back to the room.” Dean’s so quiet that Sam barely hears him, barely makes out the words between the sweet kisses Dean is leaving on his now suck-bruised wrist. “Hated myself for doin’ that. I was real fucked up over everything, but I still shouldn’a done that.”
“It’s okay.” Sam cradles Dean where he is, lets him keep up his almost nursing on his wrist, all of it so serene and sweet it doesn’t feel real. He closes his eyes and smiles up at nothing. “Let’s just call a blanket apology for everything before today, okay? All is forgiven. Can we do that?”
“I dunno, Sammy. Don’t think I’m ready to forgive you for makin’ me see The Phantom Menace in theaters.”
Sam snorts for that, pushing his fingers into Dean’s hair and giving it a hard tug, enough to make Dean grunt, smile against his wrist, but he doesn’t stop his kisses on it.
“Asshole. And here I was, tryin’ to be nice. And I was ready to forgive you for killing my fish I won at the fair.”
“Sammy, that was a sad-ass, county fair goldfish. It had a lifespan of a week, tops. I just saved it from impending misery.” Dean laces his fingers with Sam’s as he slides back down until they’re face-to-face, their smiles ghosting together.
“By knocking his home off the dresser?”
“His ‘home’ was a 2-liter Pepsi bottle! And I just shut a dresser drawer! Wasn’t my fault it was on the edge. I think your fish was suicidal.”
Sam snorts. “Just because you insisted on callin’ him Eddie Van Halen.”
Dean grins against his mouth. “Better than Balki Bartokomous.”
“...I can’t believe you just said Balki Bartokomous while our dicks are touching.”
“Can’t help that I’m an expert at pillow talk.” Dean tucks his arms under the pillow Sam’s resting on, body relaxing down on top of Sam, a warm, beautiful weight. “You in love with me yet?”
Sam’s smiling so hard his face hurts.
“I don’t know what it feels like to not be in love with you.”
He closes his eyes when Dean presses a kiss to the mole on his cheek before nuzzling at his face, their mouths finding each other blindly. Perfect, every time.
Four days later, they’re driving through Benevolence, Georgia, and the rain is falling in heavy, warm sheets. The world is slate blue and wet green, and the Impala’s wipers are working overtime. Sam has his window cracked because summer rain is one of his favorite smells, the heat and wet of it. His cheeks are damp with rogue raindrops, and he can feel Dean’s eyes on him every moment or so, admiring or bemused, he doesn’t know.
“Well, shit,” Dean sighs, the car slowing down, the sound of the tires cutting through the slick roads loud over Van Morrison on the radio. Sam opens his eyes and looks forward, seeing the long line of stopped cars coming into view in front of them.
There’s a funeral procession coming towards them, headed up by a beetle-black hearse, each car in the line sporting a small orange flag, marking it as part of the entourage. They’re coming slowly, sluggish in the rain, and Sam finds himself wondering about the body in the hearse, the person who used to be in it.
Dean reaches up and shuts the radio off, filling the car with silence except for the rain pelting down from overhead. Sam is immediately reminded of Dad, of the first time they’d gotten caught up in a funeral procession in the South. Dad had turned the music off, too, told them it was a sign of respect, just like all the cars stopped as the procession passes.
“It’s showin’ respect for the dead, for the survivors, too. Most people don’t stop anymore, don’t show any respect. In too much of a hurry to care,” Dad had told them, his voice low, like it’s something to remember. They’d all three fallen quiet in this same car, watching each car as it passed them, Dean in the passenger seat, twelve years old and sullen for being chastised when he’d complained about Dad for turning off “Over the Hills and Far Away” and Sam in the back seat, eight and wide-eyed, knobby elbows on the back of the bench seat where he’d leaned forward.
Sam blinks himself out of the memory, eyes back on the moving cars, just like all those years ago. He glances over and finds Dean frowning, a fingernail digging into the steering wheel where he’s gripping it.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, keeping his voice quiet, not really wanting to interrupt Dean’s thoughts, but he can’t help but wonder.
Dean shrugs, shaking his head to snap out of his thoughts, eyes lowering to his lap. Sam’s focused on Dean completely now, forgoing respect because he cares about Dean more.
“I dunno, just thinkin’,” Dean finally offers, long lashes lifting as he eyes the seemingly endless line of cars again. “When I die, nobody’s ever gonna do this for me. You know? There wouldn’t even be three cars in the line. There’s just not enough people who’d give a shit.”
Sam swallows, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes at just the thought of Dean dying, of being stuck here, left as a survivor. He reaches over, hand cupping the back of Dean’s head before sliding down to his neck, squeezing gentle and slow.
“Dean--”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean cuts in, the tightness in his voice negating his words. “Don’t really care, I guess. Just weird thinkin’ about how there won’t be people who’ll remember me.”
“Hey.” Sam runs his thumb over the curve of Dean’s ear, fingers curling over his cheek. His throat aches, tight with emotion. “I know all the good things you’ve done in your life. Even if nobody else knows. I know your good heart, Dean, and it won’t ever be forgotten because I’ll always know. I’ll always remember. Okay?”
Dean’s looking away again, can’t seem to look over at Sam but he’s nodding, swallowing over and over as he blinks down at his lap. He takes a deep breath and glances over at Sam, just a glance, but the bright warmth in his eyes catches Sam off-guard, steals the breath right out of his body.
“Okay, Sammy. But if I go, I’m takin’ you with me, you hear me?”
“You better,” Sam whispers, his voice shaking a little but they lean forward at the same time, lips sliding together soft and warm and trembling with held-in emotion. The car behind them honks and they break apart, realizing the procession’s gone, moment’s over, traffic moving on up the road.
Dean’s hand finds Sam’s between them, clasping tight, not loose, holding on like Sam’s an anchor, his touchstone, the grip so complete that Sam can feel Dean’s heartbeat against his palm.
Two weeks later, they’re driving like two bats out of hell through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago, both of them bleeding badly, skin torn into by unseen claws.
Everything in Sam screams that they need to go back, that they need to find Dad again, that they shouldn’t have let him go. He closes his eyes and pictures him so clearly, the strange serenity in his eyes, like he’s accepted his fate, accepted his role in this whole, fucked-up game.
“Dean--”
“Sammy, just don’t.” Dean’s voice is trembling, watery, his hands in a death grip on the wheel. Dean draws in a sharp breath that he lets out in a sob, and Sam’s eyes fill with new tears. “Just. Don’t. Please.”
Sam stays quiet until they get out of the city, his torn cheek hurting so bad that he doesn’t want to touch it, doesn’t want to look at it. They get out onto the interstate and into night traffic, headlights too bright around them, out of place.
“Let’s just find a motel,” Sam finally says, keeping his voice soft, unobtrusive. “We’re both torn up. We need to get cleaned up, okay?”
Dean just nods, his mouth set in a firm line but his chin is still quivering, tears tumbling helplessly down his cheeks.
They drive for another twenty-three miles without saying a word.
Dean takes the exit into Wheaton, drives until they find a vacancy sign. He’s the less torn-up of the two, so he goes in to get the room while Sam gathers their stuff for the night.
One bed, a busted TV, and a crucifix on the wall.
“Gonna take a shower,” Dean mumbles, a pair of clean underwear clutched in his hand. Sam looks up from where he’s digging through his own bag, only finds the courage to speak when Dean turns the bathroom light on.
“Can I join you?”
Dean stops, turns to look at him, his face unreadable where he’s silhouetted in the light.
“Sure,” he finally replies, his voice quiet, tired. Sam doesn’t hesitate, just jumps up, clean briefs dangling from his fingers, a first-aid kit in his other hand.
They undress without speaking, and Dean turns the shower on as hot as it’ll go. He steps in first, leaving the curtain tugged back a little, a silent invitation for Sam. Sam turns to glance at his own reflection in the mirror, at the fresh gashes on his face, the tear tracks through all the blood.
He follows his brother into the shower.
Dean’s got his back to him and he’s holding cheap soap and a bleach-white washcloth, scrubbing them together under the spray to try and get the cloth as sudsy as he can. Sam takes it from him when the soap is half-gone, sets the soap on the shelf, draping the washcloth over his palm.
Dean keeps his back to him, his head down, the water cascading down the back of his neck, wetting his hair, the water pink as it pools around their feet from the blood on Dean’s face.
Sam washes Dean’s back first, scrubbing across his shoulders and down, following behind with his hand that just rubs the soap in, that just glides and pets over Dean’s skin, going gentle over the very worst of the bruises completely covering Dean’s body before the water washes the soap away. He washes his ass, the backs of his thighs, all the way down to his knees. He urges Dean to turn around and Dean obeys wordlessly, his eyes down, lashes long and dark and wet on his cheeks.
He washes his front now, just like Dean used to do when Sam was little, scrubbing hard at his pits and gentle over his normally ticklish ribs that are now mottled with bruises just like his back was. He cleans his smooth belly, his dick, the fronts of his tired legs. Lets the water take it all away.
He rinses the cloth out and drops it onto the shelf before he grabs the tiny shampoo, gooping half of it out onto his palm and rubbing his hands together.
“Head back,” Sam says softly, his voice almost lost under the spray of the water. They’re both so vulnerable here, so unprotected. Anything could come, anything could happen. Sam’s not scared of the thought, more just wearily accepting of it, can think of worse ways to go than being in this tiny space with Dean, hands on his warm, tired skin.
He washes his hair with as much care as he’s ever taken with anything, making sure not to get any shampoo on the gashes on Dean’s forehead, making sure to massage it into his scalp, nails dragging slow and deliberate before he guides Dean back under the water, rinsing it all out again.
Sam grabs the soap and cloth again, about to suds it up for himself when Dean takes it from him, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since they were in Chicago.
“Turn around.”
Sam’s throat hurts with trapped emotions but he turns around, head down, letting Dean wash him just like Sam had just done to him, down to the hand stroking over his skin after the washcloth.
Dean squeezes the rest of the shampoo into his palm and looks up at Sam, giving a breath of a laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re kinda too tall for this part.”
Sam laughs outright for that, his smile a little sheepish. He sinks down to his knees there in the shower, looking up at Dean with a raised eyebrow.
“Better?”
Dean smirks at him, rubbing his hands together until the shampoo is nice and bubbly.
“It’ll do.”
Dean’s hands sink into his wet hair and Sam sighs, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, his untorn cheek nestling in against Dean’s stomach. Dean takes his time, washing his hair with much more deliberation than he ever did when they were little, with more patience but just as much love. They work together to rinse it out without getting Sam’s cheek wet, and Sam’s knees ache when he stands back up.
Sam climbs out first, braving the cold bathroom to grab the first towel and hand it in to Dean who’s waiting in the warmth of the mostly-enclosed shower. They dry off, pull on their underwear nearly in tandem, toss their towels into the same corner.
Dean cleans Sam’s wounds first, rinsing them out and smearing on some Neosporin as gently as he can while Sam shifts where he’s perched on the toilet lid, trying to be tough and not flinch but it hurts.
“Think I need stitches?” Sam lifts his gaze, watches Dean’s eyes as they focus on the task at hand, applying butterfly bandage after bandage to Sam’s ripped-open cheek.
“Pro’ly,” Dean mutters, covering the whole thing with a giant Band-Aid at the end. He sighs. “We’ll keep an eye on it. That’s really deep, Sam.”
Sam just shrugs, not really worrying about it anymore because Dean fixed him up, and it’s a scientific fact that he’s always felt better when Dean was the one patching him up, skinned knees, dislocated shoulders, or claw marks from a shadow demon.
He plays nurse with Dean when it’s his turn, cleans and bandages him up, pressing a kiss over the Band-Aid when he’s done. Dean smiles at him when he stands up, one of his hands spreading out over Sam’s bare waist.
“Sap,” he accuses, pushing in close enough to rest his cheek on Sam’s shoulder, both his arms going around Sam now, hugging him, leaning on him with almost all of his weight.
Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, pulls him in all the way, their cheeks resting together, eyes closed. They don’t talk about Dad, about where he could be, but it’s there between them, aching like a loss, like the fallout of a decision they might regret for years.
“Let’s go to bed,” Sam says finally, lifting up and giving Dean a small smile when their eyes meet. They kiss just once, sweet and almost chaste before they leave the bathroom, flicking off the lights in both rooms, leaving them in darkness.
Every hair on Sam’s body stands on end when he tenses, waiting for those demons in the dark to come back, waiting for that horrific feeling of his skin being torn into by something he can’t see to fight off. He jumps when Dean’s fingers close around his wrist, tugging him toward the bed.
“You’re okay,” Dean whispers, his voice so close, so low, comforting. Sam can hear him tug the sheets back, hear the whisper of Dean’s body slipping between them. Sam follows him in, relaxing as Dean’s hands stroke over his arms while he sinks down onto the mattress, pulling the covers up over them both.
Dean’s mouth finds his own and they kiss again, slow and almost reverent, like a thank you. They pull back just enough to be able to breathe, heads resting on a shared pillow, breath warm and mingling between them. Dean’s hand slides over Sam’s back under the covers, stroking up his spine in gentle, aimless swirls, easing him down into sleep.
Dad’s gone, their family torn into pieces, but they’re here. It’s never going to be the way it was, the three of them in that car, not the way Dean wants. But he and Dean are together, the connection between them unbreakable, forged in their own blood.
He realizes, when Dean’s hand finds his own under the blankets, fingers lacing together, that this right here, the love between them, isn’t just important. It’s the most important thing, and something they will fight to keep.
And that’s more than enough.
end.
( notes and discussion.)
He wrinkles his nose as he stirs, eyes slipping open and he’s face-to-face with Dean. Dean who is dead to the world, mouth open, snoring against Sam’s lips, sleep gunk caught in his long lashes, drool dampening their shared pillow, the whole nine.
Sam smiles.
He tries to wiggle away, his full bladder calling, but the hand that he’s suddenly aware of on his ass tightens, keeps him where he is. He lets out a raw, gravelly whine, lifting a sleep-heavy hand and resting it on Dean’s scratchy cheek.
“Dean--”
“Grnn.”
“I gotta pee.”
“No.”
“Yes, actually. I do.” He pushes back against the hand that just gets more possessive, fingers slipping along his crack, ghosting over his hole. He arches his back because he can’t help it, giving a defeated sigh as he momentarily relaxes back against his brother.
“Feel good. Warm.”
“It’s burning up in here, Dean.”
“Don’t care.”
“Why are you talking like a caveman?” Sam pushes back against Dean’s grip and he wins this time, catching Dean by surprise and he sits up, every single muscle in his body hurting, his ass sore and used. He shivers.
“Cavemen don’t use contractions.” Dean turns over onto his belly right on the spot that Sam just vacated, the covers slipping down, only half-covering his ass now. Sam stands up on shaky legs, reaching up to try and smooth down his hair that is wild from Dean’s hands, his eyes on Dean’s ass as he rounds the bed toward the bathroom.
“Cover that thing up.”
“What thing?” Dean’s voice is muffled now, face half-buried in the pillow, and Sam wonders if Dean can smell him in the pillow.
“That pretty ass, Dean. You know what.”
Dean grunts, reaching down to yank the covers up to the middle of his back. “You ain’t goin’ near it again for at least a week, so don’t get any fuckin’ ideas.”
“A week, huh?”
“Hell, yeah.” Dean sounds more awake now and he lifts his head, eyes bleary and taking a minute to find Sam, but he raises his eyebrows when they do. “I can barely move, Ron Jeremy.”
“I got fucked last night, too. Twice.” Sam’s fighting to keep his grin in, but the flush on his cheeks gives him away. He leans back against the doorframe to the bathroom, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes soft and on his brother.
“Yeah, well.” Dean sighs and curls back up in bed again, voice muffled once more. “Not all of us are size queens.”
Sam lets out a surprised burst of laughter for that, pushing off from the wall to saunter back over to his brother, bringing a hand down to smack hard on the closest asscheek. Dean yelps and curls up tighter, shying away from that hand and he turns to glare at Sam for all he’s worth.
“I said stay away!”
“So that includes me eating you out, too, huh?”
Dean’s face softens into thoughtfulness, head tipping to the side as he considers. He shoves the covers back away, revealing his entire naked ass this time before he melts back into the bed, eyes slipping closed.
“That’s allowed.”
Sam smirks, sinking a knee into the mattress as he brings both hands down to frame Dean’s ass, prying the cheeks apart and showing off Dean’s slightly-puffy little hole, a shy pink and just as pretty as Sam remembered.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, leaning down and letting the flat of his tongue lick right up over it, the tip of his tongue flicking and tendering where Dean’s surely sore, aching. Dean gasps, his whole body tensing, asshole flinching under Sam’s gentle tongue. He tastes salty from come, sweaty and dirty because they both need showers still, badly.
Sam stops after a few seconds, pressing a kiss right in the middle of his now softened hole before he lifts up, licking his lips.
“I’m getting in the shower.”
“You bastard,” Dean whimpers as Sam stands up again, burying his face in the pillow and groaning. Sam grins, has to tear his eyes away or else he’ll just climb back in the bed next to Dean and suck every last drop of come he left in him out.
He showers quickly, rinsing himself as clean as he can inside and out, his insides tender but in the best way, in the way he’s always savored before from his own fingers, from when he let Jess fuck him. But this time, it’s because of Dean. It’s finally because of Dean.
He climbs out of the shower and Dean’s standing there, looking rumpled and half-asleep and adorable, and Sam can’t help but grin at him.
“You next?”
Dean just grunts a reply and shuffles past Sam to the shower, their fingers catching as they pass, forefingers curling together and not letting go until they have to. Sam has a hard time brushing his teeth because he can’t stop smiling.
He gets dressed and takes the car in search of a McDonald’s and finds one only a couple of streets over, getting them a bag of breakfast sandwiches and two giant coffees. His mind is blissfully blank, still tasting Dean on his tongue, still remembering the look in his eyes last night, all the looks.
He returns to the room, juggling all the food, to find Dean pouting on the bed.
Sam raises his eyebrows at him.
“You okay?”
“I was serious about not letting you leave for three days.”
Sam laughs, shutting the door and setting the food down on the table. “Plannin’ on holding me hostage, huh?”
“Maybe.” Dean still looks upset but he starts sniffing the air, his stomach gets the better of him. “What’d you get?”
Sam shrugs and sits down at the table, watching Dean open the bag and dig around in it. “Little of everything. Figured it’d be lunch, too. Since we’re stayin’ in.”
Dean unwraps a sandwich and takes a bite out of it, sinking down into the chair across from Sam and wincing a little as he does. He swallows and picks up his coffee, tipping it toward Sam.
“New rule: I say whoever tops the night before’s gotta get breakfast the next mornin’.”
Sam raises his eyebrows again, trying to contain his grin as he picks the bacon off his sandwich and lays it on Dean’s napkin. “What if we both topped?”
Dean hums while he chews, a flirty glint in his eyes as he swallows. “Whoever took it better is the winner.”
Sam breaks off a piece of his sandwich, blushing for the way Dean’s looking at him. “So who won last night?”
Dean winks as he sips his coffee, one of his bare feet sliding over and skating up Sam’s shin. “I think you definitely took it like you were born for it, Sammy.”
Sam ducks his head, suddenly not interested in eating breakfast, his dick fattening up like it can overhear the whole conversation. “Think you just don’t want to remember how pretty you looked on my dick last night, Dean.”
“Oh, Jesus, please don’t call me pretty. Anything but that, alright?” Dean’s face is plenty red too but he still looks pretty pleased with himself. Sam grins and turns his attention back to his sandwich, trying to ignore the way Dean’s toes are spreading, the way his foot is basically petting his leg now. It’s sweet, comforting, too perfect to be real.
Sam eats half of his sandwich before he decides he’s had enough and passes the rest to Dean. Dean looks down at it and then up at Sam, one cheek fat with food.
“You doin’ okay, Sammy?”
Sam looks up and their eyes meet, hold. The air conditioning is on, humming loudly above their heads, taking some of the humid warmth out of the room. Dean’s eyes are vivid in the morning sunlight from the window, all of him washed in gold, like he’d been posed there. Sam smiles at him, reaching over to drag a fingertip over the back of Dean’s hand, catching on the fine hairs of his knuckles.
“I’m pretty amazing, actually. I don’t really feel… different. Not really. Like, I didn’t feel different when I woke up, but. I just kind of feel like I woke up with all the answers this morning. You know?”
Dean’s fingers awaken under his own, lifting and spreading to tangle with Sam’s. He’s eaten all of his own food but hasn’t touched the rest of Sam’s yet, his fingers a little greasy from the biscuit. “That’s, uh. That’s really good to hear. Real good. Just want to make sure I know what’s going on over there.”
“Not much at the moment,” Sam replies, a grin teasing at his lips. He gives Dean’s hand a little tug. “Just trying to decide if I’m going to suck your dick now or wait thirty minutes for my food to digest.”
Dean’s eyes widen, shoulders straightening. “You don’t have to wait to suck dick. It’s not like swimming.”
Sam pushes back from the table, their hands falling apart so he can slide from the chair and shuffle over to Dean on his knees. He comes to rest on his haunches in front of him, hands resting on Dean’s knees, thumbs circling his kneecaps.
“Do you know that for sure or are you just that desperate?”
“Probably the second thing,” Dean says quietly, already sounding breathless. He reaches up, fingers tangling in the back of Sam’s hair while the other one slides down into his underwear, pulling out his dick which is already fattened up, half-hard and looking good enough to eat. Sam licks his lips.
“Gonna keep eating breakfast, Dean? While I suck you off?” Sam nuzzles at his cock, kissing at the slit, letting his lips be soft and wet and fat as he mouths at him.
“Just be a good boy and put that in your mouth,” Dean slides the head past Sam’s lips and lets out an aching sigh, like he’s been waiting on tenterhooks for Sam to do just this. Sam moans, his eyes slipping closed, his entire body relaxing, almost tranced out because he just loves doing this, loves being right here that much.
Sucking his brother’s dick at breakfast probably shouldn’t come so naturally.
“When did you first think about me like that?”
They’re curled up in the broken bed now, air on full blast so it’s freezing in the room, and they’re both in their underwear under a pile of blankets. Their legs are heavy and tangled up together, Dean’s fingers stroking through Sam’s hair, unending and slow, like he’s memorizing every strand. Sam’s hand is spread out on Dean’s back, right between his shoulderblades, enthralled with the liquid strength of Dean’s muscles there.
So this is what it’s like to be in love.
Dean’s eyes laze open and find Sam’s because they’re sharing a pillow again, faces inches away.
“Hm?”
“When did you, um,” Sam repeats, shyer now, “when was the first time you thought about me, you know. Like this?”
“You mean when was the first time I wanted to bad-touch you?”
Sam grins, eyes falling closed because he can’t hide the blush that springs up on his cheeks.
“Yeah.”
“In your bathing suit places?”
“Dean.”
“Dunno,” Dean sighs, but it’s not an unhappy sound. More like he’s just settling in, getting closer, like he’s not going to try and weasel out of the question. Sam opens his eyes again and watches him, watches Dean’s eyes searching the wall behind Sam’s head, like he’s really thinking. Like there are times to actually sift through. His heart skips.
“I feel kinda dirty talkin’ about it. Like the cops are gonna bust in the second I start tellin’ you how I wanted your cute little butt in middle school or somethin’.”
Sam edges closer to him, heart racing in his chest now, bypassing all the jokes he could say that would lead them away from the heart of this conversation to latch onto the few details Dean just gave him.
“Middle school? Really?”
“It was pro’ly earlier than that. I was a horny kid. Didn’t really know what I wanted or anything, just knew what felt good. I was like thirteen and you used to sleep in bed with me, you know. I knew what sex was and what guys and girls did together, and I’d been. Y’know. Jerkin’ off for a year or so. You were always just so warm, Sammy. Felt so good in bed at night. Woulda been so easy to. To just.”
“Yeah, it would’ve,” Sam whispers, eyes focused and locked on Dean’s, struggling to keep from sliding closer, getting their dicks all shoved up together so they can grind their way through this conversation. “When was the… the, um. I mean. Did you ever have, you know. Fantasies? About me?”
“Shit, of course,” Dean rushes out, his voice so quiet, just for Sam, like he’s still ashamed of it. Sam rubs over his back, down the long line of it, comforting and more than a little turned-on. “That one year you went to Boy Scouts for a month or so? You were like, what? Twelve?”
Sam nods, face hot. “Twelve.”
“The shorts and the little scarf and you earnin’ your badges? Christ. Nearly killed me. And every time you played soccer. Came home all sweaty and in those little shorts--”
“I’m noticing a shorts theme here, Dean.” His mind is spinning, desperately trying to rewrite his history now that he’s hearing these things, now that he knows another side of this, now that he knows that there is another side of this.
“Those are just the big ones, the ones that I still,” Dean trails off, his eyes falling closed as he moves in closer to Sam, scruffy cheek resting on Sam’s bare shoulder. Sam’s hand drifts up into Dean’s hair, petting him with the same, slow rhythm Dean’s touching him.
“You still what?”
“I’m so going to hell for this, Sammy.”
“The ones you still think about?”
Dean nods, hand pausing on the nape of Sam’s neck. “And after you turned sixteen and shot up? Jesus fucking Christ. Just had to force myself not to think about it. Just couldn’t think about it.”
“Bet you changed your mind when I lost all that weight,” Sam’s quiet, self-deprecating, head ducked down so he can bury his face in Dean’s clean hair, breathe in his shampoo. Things are quiet between them for a minute, like Dean’s working something out in his head.
“Was that ‘cause-a me, too? When you stopped eating?”
Sam sighs, arm sliding around Dean’s narrow waist, hugging up tight against him, comforted beyond all reason when Dean wraps an arm around him, hugging him right back. He feels just safe enough to answer.
“All of that stuff was because of me, because I didn’t know how to deal with anything. Not because of you, okay?”
Dean doesn’t say anything back for awhile, just keeps his grip on Sam tight, hand tucked between the mattress and Sam’s ribs.
“Was Dom because of me?”
They’re not looking any each other anymore, snuggled up too close now to be able to, but Sam can feel how hard it is for Dean to ask that question, can hear the hurt still in his voice, after all this time.
“Why did it bother you so much?”
“Answer the question, Sam.”
Sam swallows, his throat working against Dean’s temple. He nods, just a single, jerky movement.
“Yeah. It was.”
“You did all of that to piss me off? To. To hurt me?” Dean lifts up now, meeting Sam’s eyes, surprising a gasp out of him when he sees Dean’s eyes bright with tears.
“No,” Sam breathes, hand sliding up to cup Dean’s cheek, the length of it from the heel to the tips of his fingers spanning nearly the whole side of Dean’s face. “No, Dean. It wasn’t that. God, it wasn’t. I was so fucked up over you. You don’t understand. I was obsessed with you. I knew where you were at every possible second, if I could. I knew what you had for breakfast, I knew what shampoo you were using. I knew what song you were really into with on any given day. I was with you every single day, and I was obsessed with you. But I had to pretend like I wasn’t. Like I was normal. Just your brother.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why--”
“If I’d’ve ever told you and you didn’t feel the same way, I would have killed myself, Dean. You don’t understand.” There are tears in his own eyes now, and he’s too into this conversation, too desperate to make Dean understand to care. “How could I have ever guessed you’d feel the same way? I still. I still can’t believe that you’re letting me do this. That I’m getting away with this. W-with touching you and. And talking to you like this. Telling you this stuff.”
“Why Dom? Why did you. You.” Dean grits his teeth, his jaw a tight line, the tears in his eyes making them nearly glow in the low light. “Why’d you do that?”
“He just came outta nowhere, took me by surprise. I wanted you so much I could barely stand to be next to you. I couldn’t stand touching you, Dean. It nearly drove me insane. And then here comes this guy, and he just.” He shakes his head, eyes wide from the memories. “He just wanted me. The way no guy’s ever--”
“Stop,” Dean whispers, fingers pressing in so hard on Sam’s ribs that he knows they’re going to bruise. Dean’s eyes are closed again, head tucked down, and his chest is heaving. “Just. Just give me a minute. Alright?”
They fall quiet while Dean struggles, throat working as he swallows over and over, tears sliding down his cheeks but Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bring attention to them. Just strokes over the side of Dean’s face, his fingers tender across the light beard Dean’s got growing in, all along the shell of his ear. Sam just waits him out, his heart ready to burst out of his aching chest, but he waits.
“Keep goin’,” Dean finally grits out, nose all but pressed against Sam’s throat, face hidden.
“I knew I was leaving,” Sam continues, his voice soft, trying to be as respectful as he can, to tread lightly around Dean because he honestly never realized how much this hurt him. “Knew I was going to Stanford. I was trying to emotionally separate myself from you, because I had to. And I could pretend with Dom.”
“Pretend what?”
“Pretend it was you,” he says right against Dean’s ear, reminding him without words that no matter what else has happened, they’re here right now, together. “The whole time, I just pretended it was you. Until. Until I couldn’t. Which is why we never went all the way. I made him stop. I just. Couldn’t do it. Because he wasn’t really you.”
“What did he say to you? Did he tell you how amazing you are? An’ how beautiful and smart and perfect and how much he cares about you? Did he tell you that stuff, Sammy?”
Sam nods, can’t draw a breath to speak because he realizes now that Dean is crushing him against his own body, that both of Dean’s arms are around him, their chests melded together, hearts beating at each other through their ribcages. When Dean turns them, presses Sam back into the bed and covers him with the bare heat of his own body, Sam just spreads his legs for his brother, just lets him.
“Those were my things to say to you,” Dean’s voice is soft, trembling, younger than Sam has heard Dean sound in years and years. “Not his, nobody else’s. Nobody else gets to tell you those things, you hear me?”
Sam nods again, dizzy with how fast his head is moving, but he wraps himself around Dean, arms and legs hugging him down, hands petting his back, comforting him when he feels the hot fall of tears on his neck where Dean’s buried his face again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against Dean’s ear, his chin trembling, every inch of them touching, wrapped around each other. “Dean, I’m sorry I hurt you. I wish it had been you. I always just wanted it to be you.”
Dean’s nodding now, over and over again as he lifts up and catches Sam’s mouth with his own, his lips soft and warm but the kiss is hungry, possessive, tongue licking into Sam’s mouth and tracing every bump and corner and molar inside. Sam moans, arms lifting to wrap around Dean’s neck, legs tightening so that they’re grinding now, Dean fucking down against Sam, both in their underwear, their dicks hot and hard and rubbing through worn cotton.
“We’re never gonna say his name again. Okay? Never again.”
“Okay, Dean,” Sam breathes into his mouth, right into the kisses Dean is licking into him now, one hand gentle and big and cupping the back of Dean’s head. He can still feel Dean’s tears, feel their wetness on his own face. “Nobody but you. Always just wanted you. Always been yours.”
“Say it again, Sammy. Tell me again.” Dean’s hands find his own while Dean keeps him distracted with his teeth chewing into Sam’s bottom lip, and Dean’s got him pinned to the mattress before he knows it, wrists caught up under Dean’s wide hands, the strength in them grinding the delicate bones in Sam’s wrists together.
Sam struggles just to feel the restraint, just to feel how trapped he is. He lets out a breathy, shivering sigh when Dean kisses down his neck, sucking bruises as he goes, their dicks thick and leaking everywhere now where they’re fucking against each other, both already so close.
“Always been yours, Dean. Always been your boy.”
“Fuck, yes,” Dean hisses, the hard lines of Dean’s teeth teasing over his neck before he bites down, sinks in hard enough to break skin, and Sam cries out, writhes under Dean, head tipped back to bare his neck for him. “Again.”
“I’m your boy, big brother,” Sam whispers, his hands going numb because no blood’s getting past Dean’s grip on his wrists, and his cheeks are flushed because of what he just said, how dirty it is, even for two brothers fucking on a motel bed. Dean growls, lifting up from where he’s making a feast of Sam’s neck and staring straight down into Sam’s eyes, looking absolutely feral, their bodies still moving together like they were born to do this, to rut and fuck each other like wild things.
Dean’s hands loosen on Sam’s wrists only to let his thumb drag over the moon-shaped scar on his left wrist, and Sam can’t hold in the stuttering cry, can’t keep his hips from flying up, humping at Dean, so desperate, so fucking close now that Dean’s touched him there, on that scar.
Dean hums, dipping down to kiss at Sam’s mouth, his legs spreading wider to get in closer, spreading Sam’s legs with them. “You like that, Sammy? Like me touchin’ you there?”
“Suck on it,” Sam gasps, eyes slipping closed, colors flying behind his eyelids, like maybe he’s dying. “Please.”
Dean’s yanking at Sam’s watch, unfastening it and tossing it off the side of the bed and fuck, his burning hot mouth, all that wet breath and his slick tongue and Dean’s doing just what Sam asked, he’s sucking on his scar like he’s trying to feed from it, like Sam’s going to give him something from it.
He comes almost immediately, still held down by Dean’s grip on him, his hips lifting straight up off the bed and Dean is grinding down into him with the dirtiest, sweetest circling fucks of his hips, shameless and perfectly humping Sam until he comes too, every growl Dean lets out during orgasm muffled from the way he’s still latched onto Sam’s wrist, sucking a bruise over the whole span of it, the scar right in the center.
They collapse down on the bed at the same time, breath heaving, their bodies shaking together, underwear sticky and ruined once again. Dean’s suckling at Sam’s scar now, tonguing it and kissing it, driving shivers up Sam’s spine with every lick.
“Sorry about that girl back in Indiana. The one I brought back to the room.” Dean’s so quiet that Sam barely hears him, barely makes out the words between the sweet kisses Dean is leaving on his now suck-bruised wrist. “Hated myself for doin’ that. I was real fucked up over everything, but I still shouldn’a done that.”
“It’s okay.” Sam cradles Dean where he is, lets him keep up his almost nursing on his wrist, all of it so serene and sweet it doesn’t feel real. He closes his eyes and smiles up at nothing. “Let’s just call a blanket apology for everything before today, okay? All is forgiven. Can we do that?”
“I dunno, Sammy. Don’t think I’m ready to forgive you for makin’ me see The Phantom Menace in theaters.”
Sam snorts for that, pushing his fingers into Dean’s hair and giving it a hard tug, enough to make Dean grunt, smile against his wrist, but he doesn’t stop his kisses on it.
“Asshole. And here I was, tryin’ to be nice. And I was ready to forgive you for killing my fish I won at the fair.”
“Sammy, that was a sad-ass, county fair goldfish. It had a lifespan of a week, tops. I just saved it from impending misery.” Dean laces his fingers with Sam’s as he slides back down until they’re face-to-face, their smiles ghosting together.
“By knocking his home off the dresser?”
“His ‘home’ was a 2-liter Pepsi bottle! And I just shut a dresser drawer! Wasn’t my fault it was on the edge. I think your fish was suicidal.”
Sam snorts. “Just because you insisted on callin’ him Eddie Van Halen.”
Dean grins against his mouth. “Better than Balki Bartokomous.”
“...I can’t believe you just said Balki Bartokomous while our dicks are touching.”
“Can’t help that I’m an expert at pillow talk.” Dean tucks his arms under the pillow Sam’s resting on, body relaxing down on top of Sam, a warm, beautiful weight. “You in love with me yet?”
Sam’s smiling so hard his face hurts.
“I don’t know what it feels like to not be in love with you.”
He closes his eyes when Dean presses a kiss to the mole on his cheek before nuzzling at his face, their mouths finding each other blindly. Perfect, every time.
Four days later, they’re driving through Benevolence, Georgia, and the rain is falling in heavy, warm sheets. The world is slate blue and wet green, and the Impala’s wipers are working overtime. Sam has his window cracked because summer rain is one of his favorite smells, the heat and wet of it. His cheeks are damp with rogue raindrops, and he can feel Dean’s eyes on him every moment or so, admiring or bemused, he doesn’t know.
“Well, shit,” Dean sighs, the car slowing down, the sound of the tires cutting through the slick roads loud over Van Morrison on the radio. Sam opens his eyes and looks forward, seeing the long line of stopped cars coming into view in front of them.
There’s a funeral procession coming towards them, headed up by a beetle-black hearse, each car in the line sporting a small orange flag, marking it as part of the entourage. They’re coming slowly, sluggish in the rain, and Sam finds himself wondering about the body in the hearse, the person who used to be in it.
Dean reaches up and shuts the radio off, filling the car with silence except for the rain pelting down from overhead. Sam is immediately reminded of Dad, of the first time they’d gotten caught up in a funeral procession in the South. Dad had turned the music off, too, told them it was a sign of respect, just like all the cars stopped as the procession passes.
“It’s showin’ respect for the dead, for the survivors, too. Most people don’t stop anymore, don’t show any respect. In too much of a hurry to care,” Dad had told them, his voice low, like it’s something to remember. They’d all three fallen quiet in this same car, watching each car as it passed them, Dean in the passenger seat, twelve years old and sullen for being chastised when he’d complained about Dad for turning off “Over the Hills and Far Away” and Sam in the back seat, eight and wide-eyed, knobby elbows on the back of the bench seat where he’d leaned forward.
Sam blinks himself out of the memory, eyes back on the moving cars, just like all those years ago. He glances over and finds Dean frowning, a fingernail digging into the steering wheel where he’s gripping it.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, keeping his voice quiet, not really wanting to interrupt Dean’s thoughts, but he can’t help but wonder.
Dean shrugs, shaking his head to snap out of his thoughts, eyes lowering to his lap. Sam’s focused on Dean completely now, forgoing respect because he cares about Dean more.
“I dunno, just thinkin’,” Dean finally offers, long lashes lifting as he eyes the seemingly endless line of cars again. “When I die, nobody’s ever gonna do this for me. You know? There wouldn’t even be three cars in the line. There’s just not enough people who’d give a shit.”
Sam swallows, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes at just the thought of Dean dying, of being stuck here, left as a survivor. He reaches over, hand cupping the back of Dean’s head before sliding down to his neck, squeezing gentle and slow.
“Dean--”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean cuts in, the tightness in his voice negating his words. “Don’t really care, I guess. Just weird thinkin’ about how there won’t be people who’ll remember me.”
“Hey.” Sam runs his thumb over the curve of Dean’s ear, fingers curling over his cheek. His throat aches, tight with emotion. “I know all the good things you’ve done in your life. Even if nobody else knows. I know your good heart, Dean, and it won’t ever be forgotten because I’ll always know. I’ll always remember. Okay?”
Dean’s looking away again, can’t seem to look over at Sam but he’s nodding, swallowing over and over as he blinks down at his lap. He takes a deep breath and glances over at Sam, just a glance, but the bright warmth in his eyes catches Sam off-guard, steals the breath right out of his body.
“Okay, Sammy. But if I go, I’m takin’ you with me, you hear me?”
“You better,” Sam whispers, his voice shaking a little but they lean forward at the same time, lips sliding together soft and warm and trembling with held-in emotion. The car behind them honks and they break apart, realizing the procession’s gone, moment’s over, traffic moving on up the road.
Dean’s hand finds Sam’s between them, clasping tight, not loose, holding on like Sam’s an anchor, his touchstone, the grip so complete that Sam can feel Dean’s heartbeat against his palm.
Two weeks later, they’re driving like two bats out of hell through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago, both of them bleeding badly, skin torn into by unseen claws.
Everything in Sam screams that they need to go back, that they need to find Dad again, that they shouldn’t have let him go. He closes his eyes and pictures him so clearly, the strange serenity in his eyes, like he’s accepted his fate, accepted his role in this whole, fucked-up game.
“Dean--”
“Sammy, just don’t.” Dean’s voice is trembling, watery, his hands in a death grip on the wheel. Dean draws in a sharp breath that he lets out in a sob, and Sam’s eyes fill with new tears. “Just. Don’t. Please.”
Sam stays quiet until they get out of the city, his torn cheek hurting so bad that he doesn’t want to touch it, doesn’t want to look at it. They get out onto the interstate and into night traffic, headlights too bright around them, out of place.
“Let’s just find a motel,” Sam finally says, keeping his voice soft, unobtrusive. “We’re both torn up. We need to get cleaned up, okay?”
Dean just nods, his mouth set in a firm line but his chin is still quivering, tears tumbling helplessly down his cheeks.
They drive for another twenty-three miles without saying a word.
Dean takes the exit into Wheaton, drives until they find a vacancy sign. He’s the less torn-up of the two, so he goes in to get the room while Sam gathers their stuff for the night.
One bed, a busted TV, and a crucifix on the wall.
“Gonna take a shower,” Dean mumbles, a pair of clean underwear clutched in his hand. Sam looks up from where he’s digging through his own bag, only finds the courage to speak when Dean turns the bathroom light on.
“Can I join you?”
Dean stops, turns to look at him, his face unreadable where he’s silhouetted in the light.
“Sure,” he finally replies, his voice quiet, tired. Sam doesn’t hesitate, just jumps up, clean briefs dangling from his fingers, a first-aid kit in his other hand.
They undress without speaking, and Dean turns the shower on as hot as it’ll go. He steps in first, leaving the curtain tugged back a little, a silent invitation for Sam. Sam turns to glance at his own reflection in the mirror, at the fresh gashes on his face, the tear tracks through all the blood.
He follows his brother into the shower.
Dean’s got his back to him and he’s holding cheap soap and a bleach-white washcloth, scrubbing them together under the spray to try and get the cloth as sudsy as he can. Sam takes it from him when the soap is half-gone, sets the soap on the shelf, draping the washcloth over his palm.
Dean keeps his back to him, his head down, the water cascading down the back of his neck, wetting his hair, the water pink as it pools around their feet from the blood on Dean’s face.
Sam washes Dean’s back first, scrubbing across his shoulders and down, following behind with his hand that just rubs the soap in, that just glides and pets over Dean’s skin, going gentle over the very worst of the bruises completely covering Dean’s body before the water washes the soap away. He washes his ass, the backs of his thighs, all the way down to his knees. He urges Dean to turn around and Dean obeys wordlessly, his eyes down, lashes long and dark and wet on his cheeks.
He washes his front now, just like Dean used to do when Sam was little, scrubbing hard at his pits and gentle over his normally ticklish ribs that are now mottled with bruises just like his back was. He cleans his smooth belly, his dick, the fronts of his tired legs. Lets the water take it all away.
He rinses the cloth out and drops it onto the shelf before he grabs the tiny shampoo, gooping half of it out onto his palm and rubbing his hands together.
“Head back,” Sam says softly, his voice almost lost under the spray of the water. They’re both so vulnerable here, so unprotected. Anything could come, anything could happen. Sam’s not scared of the thought, more just wearily accepting of it, can think of worse ways to go than being in this tiny space with Dean, hands on his warm, tired skin.
He washes his hair with as much care as he’s ever taken with anything, making sure not to get any shampoo on the gashes on Dean’s forehead, making sure to massage it into his scalp, nails dragging slow and deliberate before he guides Dean back under the water, rinsing it all out again.
Sam grabs the soap and cloth again, about to suds it up for himself when Dean takes it from him, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since they were in Chicago.
“Turn around.”
Sam’s throat hurts with trapped emotions but he turns around, head down, letting Dean wash him just like Sam had just done to him, down to the hand stroking over his skin after the washcloth.
Dean squeezes the rest of the shampoo into his palm and looks up at Sam, giving a breath of a laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re kinda too tall for this part.”
Sam laughs outright for that, his smile a little sheepish. He sinks down to his knees there in the shower, looking up at Dean with a raised eyebrow.
“Better?”
Dean smirks at him, rubbing his hands together until the shampoo is nice and bubbly.
“It’ll do.”
Dean’s hands sink into his wet hair and Sam sighs, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, his untorn cheek nestling in against Dean’s stomach. Dean takes his time, washing his hair with much more deliberation than he ever did when they were little, with more patience but just as much love. They work together to rinse it out without getting Sam’s cheek wet, and Sam’s knees ache when he stands back up.
Sam climbs out first, braving the cold bathroom to grab the first towel and hand it in to Dean who’s waiting in the warmth of the mostly-enclosed shower. They dry off, pull on their underwear nearly in tandem, toss their towels into the same corner.
Dean cleans Sam’s wounds first, rinsing them out and smearing on some Neosporin as gently as he can while Sam shifts where he’s perched on the toilet lid, trying to be tough and not flinch but it hurts.
“Think I need stitches?” Sam lifts his gaze, watches Dean’s eyes as they focus on the task at hand, applying butterfly bandage after bandage to Sam’s ripped-open cheek.
“Pro’ly,” Dean mutters, covering the whole thing with a giant Band-Aid at the end. He sighs. “We’ll keep an eye on it. That’s really deep, Sam.”
Sam just shrugs, not really worrying about it anymore because Dean fixed him up, and it’s a scientific fact that he’s always felt better when Dean was the one patching him up, skinned knees, dislocated shoulders, or claw marks from a shadow demon.
He plays nurse with Dean when it’s his turn, cleans and bandages him up, pressing a kiss over the Band-Aid when he’s done. Dean smiles at him when he stands up, one of his hands spreading out over Sam’s bare waist.
“Sap,” he accuses, pushing in close enough to rest his cheek on Sam’s shoulder, both his arms going around Sam now, hugging him, leaning on him with almost all of his weight.
Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, pulls him in all the way, their cheeks resting together, eyes closed. They don’t talk about Dad, about where he could be, but it’s there between them, aching like a loss, like the fallout of a decision they might regret for years.
“Let’s go to bed,” Sam says finally, lifting up and giving Dean a small smile when their eyes meet. They kiss just once, sweet and almost chaste before they leave the bathroom, flicking off the lights in both rooms, leaving them in darkness.
Every hair on Sam’s body stands on end when he tenses, waiting for those demons in the dark to come back, waiting for that horrific feeling of his skin being torn into by something he can’t see to fight off. He jumps when Dean’s fingers close around his wrist, tugging him toward the bed.
“You’re okay,” Dean whispers, his voice so close, so low, comforting. Sam can hear him tug the sheets back, hear the whisper of Dean’s body slipping between them. Sam follows him in, relaxing as Dean’s hands stroke over his arms while he sinks down onto the mattress, pulling the covers up over them both.
Dean’s mouth finds his own and they kiss again, slow and almost reverent, like a thank you. They pull back just enough to be able to breathe, heads resting on a shared pillow, breath warm and mingling between them. Dean’s hand slides over Sam’s back under the covers, stroking up his spine in gentle, aimless swirls, easing him down into sleep.
Dad’s gone, their family torn into pieces, but they’re here. It’s never going to be the way it was, the three of them in that car, not the way Dean wants. But he and Dean are together, the connection between them unbreakable, forged in their own blood.
He realizes, when Dean’s hand finds his own under the blankets, fingers lacing together, that this right here, the love between them, isn’t just important. It’s the most important thing, and something they will fight to keep.
And that’s more than enough.
end.
( notes and discussion.)