FIC: Got Me Wrong
Title: Got Me Wrong
Author:
neros_violin
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,500
Spoilers: Up to and including 5x01 (Sympathy for the Devil)
Summary: Dean's done talking, but Sam's going to make him to listen.
Warnings: Light blood play, breath play, barebacking, graphic violence
Author's Notes: Written for austen , who requested "Sam/Dean, post 'Sympathy for the Devil' - all their fighting and tension comes to a head in the form of either a knock-down drag-out or really rough sex - or both," at the Fall Fandom Free for All, generously hosted by oxoniensis . I hope this is something like what she was looking for. Thanks to everyone who is participating - I've been having a great time seeing what people come up with!
“I gotta go, Dean, pull over,” Sam says. It’s a sad commentary on the broken thing their relationship has become that Dean doesn’t tease him for having an old woman’s bladder, doesn’t reach across the arm rest to press on his abdomen, doesn’t say something to make Sam laugh. Dean only grunts, maybe in acknowledgment, maybe not, and stares at the pavement unfolding in front of him with those fucking flat eyes that remind Sam too much of blood splattered on his brother’s face, green and red and black and dead on a hardwood floor in suburban Indiana. Sam doesn’t know why Dean won’t just look at him; it’s not like Sam would be able to see anything anyway. Dean’s on lockdown, nothing getting in, nothing getting out, nothing at all for two days beyond functional interrogatories - Need to stop? Need to eat? Sleep in the back? - since the hospital parking lot.
It’s fucking agonizing, this awkward silence. They’ve had silences before, long ones, in the aftermaths of pissy bickering matches about where to go next or whether or not they should detour to see the World’s Largest Bra, of painful arguments and confessions about Dad and Hell and everything in between, of furious battles with monsters that made them face their own. But the quality of this stillness is new, so damn full it swells and aches. It leaves Sam alone with his mind, and he’s always hated that more than anything. Dean knows it, too, always used to do exactly the right thing to yank Sam out of his thoughts, something funny or annoying or infuriating or filthy, using instincts and reflexes even sharper than the ones he uses to kill things to change direction and tactics to give Sam what he needed.
Except now, Dean isn’t talking to him, or even looking at him, and Sam can’t fucking stop thinking, hearing voices that sound like Dad and Bobby and Azazel and Jess, a constant commentary that puts a physical pressure on his temples. It makes him want to scream, just to see if something breaks, throwing out the first heart in a card game.
He digs the heel of his hand into his eye as a bolt of pain bursts behind his right eyebrow, accompanying the thought that no matter how many times he runs through the maybe, what if, should have could have would have, there’s only one thing he feels like he can’t fix, can’t take back, and fucked up as it may be with the Apocalypse looming, it’s the only thing he actually cares about.
You were the one I depended on most...
You chose a demon over your own brother...
I just don’t think that we can ever be what we were, you know?
I just don’t think I can trust you.
Sam twitches with surprise when Dean steers the Impala confidently to the shoulder on a flat, open stretch of road a few minutes later. “Why’d you stop?” he asks.
Dean swings his head around, and it’s spooky, how his eyes are big pupil black and his face completely blank, like the fucking Terminator. Not the first one; the second one, the one made of that mercury-like substance that took on the shape of whatever it killed. Dean probably knows the model name and number.
“You just told me you had to pee,” Dean says. It’s the most words he’s strung together in at least twenty four hours.
Sam blinks. “Oh. Right. I’ll just-“ He reaches for the door handle, finds it unerringly in the dark from muscle memory that won’t go away until he’s dead. Suddenly he needs to get away from Dean, to breathe some air that isn’t heavy with things done and undone, spoken and unspoken between them.
Sam scrambles out of the car, takes in nothing but midnight moonlight above, gravel below and fields of wheat gilded silver on the horizon. They haven’t seen another car for at least fifteen minutes going either direction, and Sam figures it’s as good a place as any. His joints pop and his muscles practically groan with relief as he extends his body and stretches. Dean’s been pushing the pace, pushing their bodies, punishing them both.
It’s strange to be aware of his physicality after so long stuck in his head with only himself and his demons for company, the tickling pressure of a full bladder and the tingling of goose bumps up and down bits of skin exposed to the cool night breeze. Sam picks a spot with his back to the road out of habit - no one has been by here for a long time, and no one will - and relishes the simplicity of relieving a basic need.
At the edge of his awareness, he hears Dean’s boots crunch over the gravel, onto the cushion of weeds between the shoulder and the farm’s property line to the south. The opposite direction from Sam. His little pocket of peace shatters. He remembers that his brother ... well. He remembers, and he decides in that moment that the he can’t take it anymore. This has got to stop, for both their sake’s.
Sam tucks himself back into his jeans, wipes his hands on the worn denim, nerves and habit, cleaning himself up the best he can with what he’s got.
“Dean.” Reedy and thin, but that could just be from disuse.
Dean’s shoulders stiffen into his standard defensive posture, the one that makes him look bigger at the same time he’s curling in on himself. “Not now, Sam.”
“When? You’ve been putting me off for two days.”
Dean shakes off with jerky motions, more quick than angry. “Jesus fucking Christ. Can’t a guy take a piss in peace?”
“I can’t do this, Dean-“
“Well, that’s too freaking bad, Sam.” His brother’s voice is horribly calm and even, alien and awful and wrong, nothing like Dean should be. He strides to the Impala, touches her side panel like when they were kids, calling home base in a game of tag - Safe, Sammy, you can’t get me! - and that, that’s the problem exactly. Dean’s words telling Sam everything’s fine, Dean’s body telling him everything’s wrong. “I’ve already said what I’m gonna say about it. I’m done talking.”
Something cracks inside Sam, like two magnets slamming together, inexorable and hard. I’m done talking. Words are Sam’s domain, the place he owns, his house. Dean’s always better with action, physical demonstrations of affection or annoyance or awe, language of bones and blood and muscle and skin, expression rather than vocalization. Sam’s been trying, and failing, to get Dean to come to Sam’s house, on his turf, to bleed this out and Dean keeps shutting him down. Of course. Sam’s got to go where Dean lives.
Dean gets in the car without another word, hands on the steering wheel, eyes stubbornly fixed on something (nothing) far away, so he doesn’t see Sam coming around the Impala from the back. Sam rips open the driver’s door, fists a handful of Dean’s jacket and shirts, fucking yanks Dean onto the ground in a spray of gravel. Sam’s got him up and against the car before Dean’s ass can hit the ground, and he doesn’t pull his punch, not even a little bit, sharp crack of knuckle on cheekbone, spit and maybe a little blood spraying into the air like morning mist on a sunny day. Dean reacts instantly, just like Sam knew he would, arms coming up to bat Sam’s hands from his clothes, practically the same moment shifting his weight and landing two uppercuts under Sam’s ribs, high and tight, dirty boxing up close like Dad taught them. Sam’s breath expels in a wounded huff, but he doesn’t need air to bring his elbow up, a hard slam into Dean’s rotator cuff with the sharp point of bone. Dean grunts as his arm numbs, pushes hard with his other. Sam isn’t expecting it, so he trips in the rocks, loses his balance, and Dean throws a hard right hook to his jaw, teeth ripping into his cheek like the meat it is, cut and bloody. It doesn’t taste anything like demon blood, and the thought is a horrible relief, from what he’s done and what he was worried he might be.
Dean’s hands are pushing at him, not really doing any damage but not giving up either or giving Sam any room, leaning in as Sam stumbles backwards with every shove, from gravel to the softer, sounder floor of weeds. There’s anger in Dean’s hands, but his hands are on Sam’s body, on his shoulders and chest and that’s something at least. “We doing this again, Sam, huh? You gonna strangle me again?”
God, no. Sam never wants to go back to Cold Spring, hateful words and bruised knuckles and sick stomach, but Dean’s words take him there in an instant, and it’s not fair that when Dean decides to talk, it’s to fucking fight dirty. The chemical scent of motel shampoo overlays the sharp smell of fresh cut wheat, and the wild grass sinks under Sam’s boots like cheap carpet. “No, Dean, it’s not-“ He’s interrupted by a left straight jab, a quick right cross, and there are ancient stars blinking above Sam’s head, new ones twinkling in his vision.
“Fuck you, Sam, you don’t get to fucking talk. We’re done talking.” Now Dean’s hands are fisted in Sam’s jacket, and it’s a testament to his fury and fear, and Sam hopes, to whatever they have left between them, that he doesn’t go for a gun or knife. Dean’s body is his only weapon and that’s always been enough to disarm Sam, in every way.
Sam’s larger hands curl over Dean’s fists, holding them closed, no damage to be done up close like this without fists, too tight against each other for knees. He’s not going to let Dean beat the shit out of him, no matter how much he might deserve it, or want it. That’s not what this is about.
They grapple and twirl in the grass, Sam with a weight advantage, Dean with a lower center of gravity, evenly matched, or balanced at least, like they’re supposed to be. Average fight goes to the ground in ten seconds, if it lasts that long. John’s voice, this time, and it’s as true now as it was when Sam was eight and Dean was twelve in an Oklahoma asphalt parking lot that shimmered with heat and burned their bare legs every time they tried and failed to stay on their feet. Sam goes down first and Dean, dirty as expected, drops as much of his weight as he can on the way down, the shock of a temporarily frozen diaphragm causing Sam to release his death grip on Dean’s hands. Instinct and the few brain cells that aren’t trying to get his lungs to work roll Sam to the left, and Dean curses as his right fist pounds dirt instead of Sam’s face. Sam surges up as best he can, wraps his arms around Dean’s torso, and squeezes, trying to cut off Dean’s air for a fucking change. Dean twists and bucks, and immediately starts them rolling, a constant change of position in which neither has the advantage for more than a second, until Dean lands a lucky, flailing swing to Sam’s temple from the bottom. It’s just a graze, but it dazes Sam enough for Dean to get on top, knees straddling Sam’s waist, hips pinning him to the cool grass.
Two fast punches to Sam’s jaw rock him, and start an immediate ache not as bad as it should be, or could be, given Dean’s strength. Blood bubbles from Sam’s mouth anyway, smears on Dean’s knuckles as they skim across his teeth. “Is this what you wanted, Sam? Is it?” Dean screams so loud he chokes, a harsh sound that would be a sob in other circumstances. Blades of grass are caught in his sweaty, spiked hair, his cheeks are flushed with rage and adrenaline, and his green eyes show as a band of silver in the wash of moonlight. His mouth, that mouth is red, blood and spit glistening on his full lips. Dean is wild and beautiful, and alive in a way he hasn’t been since he died. “Is this what you fucking want, Sam?” Slowly, deliberately, just as Sam’s had done in Cold Spring, Dean’s strong, blunt fingers dig into Sam’s throat and squeeze.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Dean’s looking right at Sam, his hands a tight band of pressure around Sam’s neck, his eyes a welcome weight Sam feels deep in his chest.
Sam’s hands fly up to Dean’s forearms, but otherwise he doesn’t move or struggle. He can’t talk and this is the only way he can think of to show Dean that he’s not fighting anymore, but he’s not exactly giving up either. Dean restricts Sam’s air and bruises his throat, while Sam stares up into his eyes and thinks that being choked is easy compared to this, seeing so much pain and confusion and betrayal and love on his brother’s face. Sam offers the only gentle touch he can, brushing his thumbs back and forth against the unbelievably tender skin on the underside of Dean’s forearm. It’s softer than it was before Hell: new, remade, not the same stretch of flesh that Sam has licked, sucked, nipped. He resented it before, the loss of their shared history recorded on Dean’s body, another thing that split them apart. But now he knows what’s important and what’s not - Sam may have been stubborn and fucked up, probably definitely still is, but he’s not oblivious - and Sam loves it because it’s part of Dean. Dean is here, and this smooth piece of skin is a blank canvas to redraw themselves upon.
Dean startles as Sam’s thumbs continue an easy, appreciative slide into the crooks of his elbows, and Dean’s fingers loosen minutely, just enough for Sam to suck in a few inadequate gasps of air. Dean stares down at him, a different kind of focused, eyes wide and shocked. Sam tries to let everything he feels, wants, needs, what he wants to have and give - forgiveness and apology and trust - show in his face, and it’s hard, because he’s still halfway to passing out, and because he hasn’t done this for so, so long, really seen his brother and let himself be seen. Something of it must show because Dean jerks his hands away from Sam’s neck like he’s being burned.
“Sam,” Dean says, barely above a whisper. He moves, as if to get away, but even with his oxygen starved brain, Sam is faster with desperation, one hand around Dean’s wrist, one on his hip, both in a death grip. “Sam, I-“
“We’re done talking, Dean.” Sam’s voice cracks and breaks across his bruised windpipe, but he likes the sound. Dean made it.
Sam tugs on Dean’s wrist, intent obvious, and Dean doesn’t hesitate to follow his lead. He lays his hand over the fresh, red bruising on Sam’s throat, presses in enough to hurt but not enough to damage. The warm thing smoldering low in Sam’s belly flares up with heat and light, and Dean’s whimper only fuels it further. Sam rolls his hips up into his brother’s ass, cock suddenly, blindingly hard. Panic slams its way in and he tries to stop the almost involuntary motion of his body - they haven’t done that in God knows how long, Dean doesn’t want that anymore - but Dean’s mouth crashes hard against his, licking at Sam’s lips, and the adrenaline flood goes from bad-wrong-stop to good-right-yes. Sam can taste Dean’s blood on his lips, in his mouth as Dean’s tongue opens him up, slicks inside. That flavor - hot copper barely disguising the sweet tang unique to Dean - mingles with his own, and the taste and knowledge of it sends throbbing waves of want deep into his groin.
Dean flexes his hand around Sam’s throat, fingers clutching harder, thumb skimming Sam’s pounding pulse as he probes the cuts inside Sam’s cheek with the tip of his tongue. The harsh pleasure-pain dances along Sam’s nerve endings from his spine outward, along his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes, so intense his stomach clenches. They’re both groaning now, grunting, panting, rutting into each other with sharp, strong movements, hard cocks and hard muscles that remember how to find and push each other’s limits. Everything fades away but the delicious weight of his brother on top of him, choking him, mouth driving him crazy, DeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean, a total mind and body invocation.
Sam slams his head against the ground, bares his neck further as Dean breaks the kiss to bite and suck at the line of his jaw, leaving bruises and blood and saliva in the wake of his lips and teeth. He releases Sam’s throat, and the air burns the abused tissue like Dean’s hands scorching up Sam’s sides, under his shirts, hot and frantic. Sam scrambles to do the same, and he whimpers when his fingertips find Dean’s skin, soft and warm over the sharp dips and bulges of lean muscle. It’s so fucking smooth, no scars from claws or knives or burns anymore, but it’s still Dean, the familiar and long-missed curve of his ribs, hard plane of his back shifting and rolling under Sam’s hands as Dean sucks marks onto Sam’s neck and shoulders. Sam lets him, wants him to, wants to leave his own marks, so he drags his nails along Dean’s sides, furrows that must bleed lightly because moisture dampens the pads of Sam’s fingers. Dean growls in response, an approving, hungry noise. He rears up and tugs at Sam’s shirts as he sheds his own, falling onto Sam’s chest as soon as they’re off, tonguing a hot line from Sam’s nipple to his belly button, fingers working at the zipper on Sam’s jeans. Sam pants and lifts his hips, helping Dean work the loose denim and tight cotton over his aching erection, and down his legs, kicking his feet to be rid of them both. His dick throbs and jumps when it’s exposed to the air, exposed to his brother, long and thick and curving up against his stomach.
Sam looks down the length of his body, stained with his blood and Dean’s, sweat and saliva, and Dean meets his eyes, beautiful mouth hovering close enough over Sam’s cock to puff air over the heated flesh with every breath. He doesn’t look away as he opens wide, stretches those obscene pink lips over the fat breadth of Sam’s cockhead, flicks at the precome oozing out of the little slit with the point of his tongue. Sam is past words, nothing in his mind capable of processing anything but sensation, and it hurts, how much he fucking wants, wants to thrust the rest of the way into Dean’s mouth, down his throat, filling him up with his come, painting his face with hot white streaks that Sam can lick off before it cools, that he can mix with Dean’s when Sam rolls him over and worships his cock, stringing out the pleasure until they both want to scream. As if Dean can read Sam’s mind, he captures Sam’s hips, exerts bruising pressure against the jut of bone to keep Sam right where he wants him, mouth sealed just around the head of his cock, tongue riding the ridge as he sucks and sucks and sucks. Sam trembles, shakes that start in his core, fingers curled into claws that clutch at the dirt and grass, caught and pinned by Dean’s eyes boring into his while he works his mouth over that one spot, the epicentre of shocking pleasure that quakes throughout his entire body, utterly devastating. Just as Sam opens his mouth to beg and plead, to break and break the rule (done talking), Dean sinks down, letting Sam’s precome and his spit roll down the hot length of Sam’s dick, wetting and smoothing the way for his lips and tongue and oh, god the back of his throat. Over the loud rush of his pulse, Sam hears the unmistakable sound of a gag reflex being repressed, and high, keening noises that must be coming from him, and like that, so quick he’s be embarrassed if he had room for any though or feeling but yes, please, want, need, love, Dean he’s gone, all the way, reflexive swallowing motion of Dean’s throat around the head of his dick, so unbelievably tight, and it’s been so fucking long. His stomach tightens painfully, his entire body seizes up as he comes, shooting pulse after pulse into Dean’s mouth, orgasm ripped from him and sustained as Dean drinks his come, keeps gulping it down, and it’s a feedback loop that won’t stop, Sam spurting, Dean swallowing, over and over, until Sam’s vision goes dark and spotty around the edges and Dean lets Sam’s half-hard cock slip-slide over his swollen, puffy lips.
Sam is pliant as his brother’s hands turn him over, touching him with a reverence he remembers only when he realizes he’d forgotten the sensation of it, onto his stomach, and he’s dimly aware of the sound of a zipper, a tooth at a time. Sam follows the guide of Dean’s fingers on his hips, resting his weight on his elbows and knees, ass titled into the air, vulnerable and open in a way he can only be for Dean, because it doesn’t feel safe with anyone else. A moan vibrates over Sam’s numb lips as something slick and warm dribbles onto his hole, filthy sound of Dean spitting Sam’s come, Dean’s fingers chasing the wet down his crack before it can drip onto the ground, before it’s wasted. Dean makes a perfunctory, or maybe teasing, attempt at loosening his hole before he slowly, god, so slowly, sinks two fingers deep into Sam’s ass, coated with Sam’s come and Dean’s saliva, remnants of blood from both of them. Sam already feels so full of Dean, but he wants more, wants it all, and he pushes his ass back, silently asking for more. He doesn’t want prep. He wants to feel Dean for days, wants to be sore and bruised, his ass and Dean’s dick scraping each other raw, and from the way Dean groans and slaps his hand on Sam’s flank, that’s what he wants too.
The only warning Sam gets is Dean’s knees knocking his wider, spreading him. And then Dean is pressing in, hard as steel and thick, thicker than Sam, the gigantic flare of head a stretching, burning pressure that Sam feels in his fucking mouth as Dean works his way into Sam’s ass with short sawing motions of his hips. Sam’s hole flutters around the wide helmet of Dean’s cock, a throbbing pulse that sends a fresh surge of blood into his own dick. Sam drops his head, breath punched out, as Dean gets the widest part in. He waits just long enough to let Sam adjust or maybe long enough to keep himself from coming in that tight clench of heat and slick, before anchoring his hands on Sam’s hips and sliding the rest of the way home, one lingering extraordinary thrust that doesn’t stop until his balls are flush against Sam’s cheeks. Dean’s hands skate over Sam’s back, over his flanks, down his thighs, rough caresses of re-acquaintance and possession, like he isn’t buried to the hilt in Sam’s ass, like they both aren’t fucking dying for him to move. Tears pool in Sam’s eyes, catch on his eyelashes, but don’t fall until Dean finally withdraws, Sam’s walls clinging and sucking at his big cock, trying to keep that hot, full sensation as long as possible. Dean pulls almost all the way out, the head dragging at the edge of Sam’s rim, and slams back in, two, three quick, deep thrusts, and then Sam’s world is tilting, Dean’s strong arms wrapping around Sam’s torso, drawing him up and back against Dean’s sweaty chest.
Gravity and Sam’s exhausted muscles help Dean bore even deeper into Sam’s ass, head of his dick rooted in Sam’s guts, constant rub against his prostate, unrelenting pleasure that only gets better as Dean readjusts his grip, hooks his left arm around Sam’s neck, sends his right hand down to Sam’s cock. Sam can’t hold his own weight, muscles trembling with lust and exhaustion, so he sags against Dean’s forearm, restricting his breathing again as Dean palms his dick, tugs and jerks it in perfect time with the sharp thrusts of Dean’s cock in his hole, caught between two perfect points of bliss.
“Should see yourself, Sam, god, the way you look,” Dean mutters in his ear, and Sam can imagine. He’s totally naked, thighs draped over Dean’s denim-covered ones, abs painted with sweat and dried blood, dick with dried come, spread out and speared on Dean’s cock, both of them covered in each other in every way. “Want to keep you like this, so beautiful, full of my cock.”
Sam thinks he laughs, as his head swims from the lack of oxygen and the frantic build up of his second orgasm at the base of his spine, hot in his balls. “Knew you... couldn’t... not... talk.”
Dean’s thrusts lose their coherence, faster, harder, impossibly deeper but without rhythm, and Dean’s loss of control sends Sam flying over the edge, his dick straining to spurt, thin dribbles of come shooting into Dean’s hand, lubricating and easing the rough pulls that drag his orgasm into a long, screaming thing. Sam’s head falls back onto Dean’s shoulder, lolls to the side, so he can watch Dean’s face as he spasms. He is unspeakably gorgeous, with pupils blown and mouth wide open, gasping air with each quiver of his cock, shaking all over, shuddering. Dean’s come floods Sam’s insides, each hot gush against his inner walls shocking another stream out of Sam’s dick. Breath hitching in almost-sobs, Dean hides his face in Sam’s neck, not nuzzling, no, he wouldn’t do that, but he would sniff apparently, a sharp inhale that tingles along Sam’s spine.
Dean’s going soft inside Sam, but he doesn’t withdraw, keeps Sam’s ass plugged full of his come with his dick, as he rolls them both to the soft bed of grass and weeds. “Such a fucking smartass, Sammy.”
Sam’s body is covered in sweat and spit and blood and come and tears, and he hurts like he’s gone ten rounds with a Golem, but it was worth every ache and scratch and bruise. He’s going to relish each one of them, try to get Dean to remake them when they start to fade. “Jerk,” he says, a croak of sound from his ruined throat.
Dean smiles against the sensitive skin of Sam’s neck, bites at the tendon, and doesn’t disappoint. “Bitch.”
Author:
neros_violin
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,500
Spoilers: Up to and including 5x01 (Sympathy for the Devil)
Summary: Dean's done talking, but Sam's going to make him to listen.
Warnings: Light blood play, breath play, barebacking, graphic violence
Author's Notes: Written for austen , who requested "Sam/Dean, post 'Sympathy for the Devil' - all their fighting and tension comes to a head in the form of either a knock-down drag-out or really rough sex - or both," at the Fall Fandom Free for All, generously hosted by oxoniensis . I hope this is something like what she was looking for. Thanks to everyone who is participating - I've been having a great time seeing what people come up with!
“I gotta go, Dean, pull over,” Sam says. It’s a sad commentary on the broken thing their relationship has become that Dean doesn’t tease him for having an old woman’s bladder, doesn’t reach across the arm rest to press on his abdomen, doesn’t say something to make Sam laugh. Dean only grunts, maybe in acknowledgment, maybe not, and stares at the pavement unfolding in front of him with those fucking flat eyes that remind Sam too much of blood splattered on his brother’s face, green and red and black and dead on a hardwood floor in suburban Indiana. Sam doesn’t know why Dean won’t just look at him; it’s not like Sam would be able to see anything anyway. Dean’s on lockdown, nothing getting in, nothing getting out, nothing at all for two days beyond functional interrogatories - Need to stop? Need to eat? Sleep in the back? - since the hospital parking lot.
It’s fucking agonizing, this awkward silence. They’ve had silences before, long ones, in the aftermaths of pissy bickering matches about where to go next or whether or not they should detour to see the World’s Largest Bra, of painful arguments and confessions about Dad and Hell and everything in between, of furious battles with monsters that made them face their own. But the quality of this stillness is new, so damn full it swells and aches. It leaves Sam alone with his mind, and he’s always hated that more than anything. Dean knows it, too, always used to do exactly the right thing to yank Sam out of his thoughts, something funny or annoying or infuriating or filthy, using instincts and reflexes even sharper than the ones he uses to kill things to change direction and tactics to give Sam what he needed.
Except now, Dean isn’t talking to him, or even looking at him, and Sam can’t fucking stop thinking, hearing voices that sound like Dad and Bobby and Azazel and Jess, a constant commentary that puts a physical pressure on his temples. It makes him want to scream, just to see if something breaks, throwing out the first heart in a card game.
He digs the heel of his hand into his eye as a bolt of pain bursts behind his right eyebrow, accompanying the thought that no matter how many times he runs through the maybe, what if, should have could have would have, there’s only one thing he feels like he can’t fix, can’t take back, and fucked up as it may be with the Apocalypse looming, it’s the only thing he actually cares about.
You were the one I depended on most...
You chose a demon over your own brother...
I just don’t think that we can ever be what we were, you know?
I just don’t think I can trust you.
Sam twitches with surprise when Dean steers the Impala confidently to the shoulder on a flat, open stretch of road a few minutes later. “Why’d you stop?” he asks.
Dean swings his head around, and it’s spooky, how his eyes are big pupil black and his face completely blank, like the fucking Terminator. Not the first one; the second one, the one made of that mercury-like substance that took on the shape of whatever it killed. Dean probably knows the model name and number.
“You just told me you had to pee,” Dean says. It’s the most words he’s strung together in at least twenty four hours.
Sam blinks. “Oh. Right. I’ll just-“ He reaches for the door handle, finds it unerringly in the dark from muscle memory that won’t go away until he’s dead. Suddenly he needs to get away from Dean, to breathe some air that isn’t heavy with things done and undone, spoken and unspoken between them.
Sam scrambles out of the car, takes in nothing but midnight moonlight above, gravel below and fields of wheat gilded silver on the horizon. They haven’t seen another car for at least fifteen minutes going either direction, and Sam figures it’s as good a place as any. His joints pop and his muscles practically groan with relief as he extends his body and stretches. Dean’s been pushing the pace, pushing their bodies, punishing them both.
It’s strange to be aware of his physicality after so long stuck in his head with only himself and his demons for company, the tickling pressure of a full bladder and the tingling of goose bumps up and down bits of skin exposed to the cool night breeze. Sam picks a spot with his back to the road out of habit - no one has been by here for a long time, and no one will - and relishes the simplicity of relieving a basic need.
At the edge of his awareness, he hears Dean’s boots crunch over the gravel, onto the cushion of weeds between the shoulder and the farm’s property line to the south. The opposite direction from Sam. His little pocket of peace shatters. He remembers that his brother ... well. He remembers, and he decides in that moment that the he can’t take it anymore. This has got to stop, for both their sake’s.
Sam tucks himself back into his jeans, wipes his hands on the worn denim, nerves and habit, cleaning himself up the best he can with what he’s got.
“Dean.” Reedy and thin, but that could just be from disuse.
Dean’s shoulders stiffen into his standard defensive posture, the one that makes him look bigger at the same time he’s curling in on himself. “Not now, Sam.”
“When? You’ve been putting me off for two days.”
Dean shakes off with jerky motions, more quick than angry. “Jesus fucking Christ. Can’t a guy take a piss in peace?”
“I can’t do this, Dean-“
“Well, that’s too freaking bad, Sam.” His brother’s voice is horribly calm and even, alien and awful and wrong, nothing like Dean should be. He strides to the Impala, touches her side panel like when they were kids, calling home base in a game of tag - Safe, Sammy, you can’t get me! - and that, that’s the problem exactly. Dean’s words telling Sam everything’s fine, Dean’s body telling him everything’s wrong. “I’ve already said what I’m gonna say about it. I’m done talking.”
Something cracks inside Sam, like two magnets slamming together, inexorable and hard. I’m done talking. Words are Sam’s domain, the place he owns, his house. Dean’s always better with action, physical demonstrations of affection or annoyance or awe, language of bones and blood and muscle and skin, expression rather than vocalization. Sam’s been trying, and failing, to get Dean to come to Sam’s house, on his turf, to bleed this out and Dean keeps shutting him down. Of course. Sam’s got to go where Dean lives.
Dean gets in the car without another word, hands on the steering wheel, eyes stubbornly fixed on something (nothing) far away, so he doesn’t see Sam coming around the Impala from the back. Sam rips open the driver’s door, fists a handful of Dean’s jacket and shirts, fucking yanks Dean onto the ground in a spray of gravel. Sam’s got him up and against the car before Dean’s ass can hit the ground, and he doesn’t pull his punch, not even a little bit, sharp crack of knuckle on cheekbone, spit and maybe a little blood spraying into the air like morning mist on a sunny day. Dean reacts instantly, just like Sam knew he would, arms coming up to bat Sam’s hands from his clothes, practically the same moment shifting his weight and landing two uppercuts under Sam’s ribs, high and tight, dirty boxing up close like Dad taught them. Sam’s breath expels in a wounded huff, but he doesn’t need air to bring his elbow up, a hard slam into Dean’s rotator cuff with the sharp point of bone. Dean grunts as his arm numbs, pushes hard with his other. Sam isn’t expecting it, so he trips in the rocks, loses his balance, and Dean throws a hard right hook to his jaw, teeth ripping into his cheek like the meat it is, cut and bloody. It doesn’t taste anything like demon blood, and the thought is a horrible relief, from what he’s done and what he was worried he might be.
Dean’s hands are pushing at him, not really doing any damage but not giving up either or giving Sam any room, leaning in as Sam stumbles backwards with every shove, from gravel to the softer, sounder floor of weeds. There’s anger in Dean’s hands, but his hands are on Sam’s body, on his shoulders and chest and that’s something at least. “We doing this again, Sam, huh? You gonna strangle me again?”
God, no. Sam never wants to go back to Cold Spring, hateful words and bruised knuckles and sick stomach, but Dean’s words take him there in an instant, and it’s not fair that when Dean decides to talk, it’s to fucking fight dirty. The chemical scent of motel shampoo overlays the sharp smell of fresh cut wheat, and the wild grass sinks under Sam’s boots like cheap carpet. “No, Dean, it’s not-“ He’s interrupted by a left straight jab, a quick right cross, and there are ancient stars blinking above Sam’s head, new ones twinkling in his vision.
“Fuck you, Sam, you don’t get to fucking talk. We’re done talking.” Now Dean’s hands are fisted in Sam’s jacket, and it’s a testament to his fury and fear, and Sam hopes, to whatever they have left between them, that he doesn’t go for a gun or knife. Dean’s body is his only weapon and that’s always been enough to disarm Sam, in every way.
Sam’s larger hands curl over Dean’s fists, holding them closed, no damage to be done up close like this without fists, too tight against each other for knees. He’s not going to let Dean beat the shit out of him, no matter how much he might deserve it, or want it. That’s not what this is about.
They grapple and twirl in the grass, Sam with a weight advantage, Dean with a lower center of gravity, evenly matched, or balanced at least, like they’re supposed to be. Average fight goes to the ground in ten seconds, if it lasts that long. John’s voice, this time, and it’s as true now as it was when Sam was eight and Dean was twelve in an Oklahoma asphalt parking lot that shimmered with heat and burned their bare legs every time they tried and failed to stay on their feet. Sam goes down first and Dean, dirty as expected, drops as much of his weight as he can on the way down, the shock of a temporarily frozen diaphragm causing Sam to release his death grip on Dean’s hands. Instinct and the few brain cells that aren’t trying to get his lungs to work roll Sam to the left, and Dean curses as his right fist pounds dirt instead of Sam’s face. Sam surges up as best he can, wraps his arms around Dean’s torso, and squeezes, trying to cut off Dean’s air for a fucking change. Dean twists and bucks, and immediately starts them rolling, a constant change of position in which neither has the advantage for more than a second, until Dean lands a lucky, flailing swing to Sam’s temple from the bottom. It’s just a graze, but it dazes Sam enough for Dean to get on top, knees straddling Sam’s waist, hips pinning him to the cool grass.
Two fast punches to Sam’s jaw rock him, and start an immediate ache not as bad as it should be, or could be, given Dean’s strength. Blood bubbles from Sam’s mouth anyway, smears on Dean’s knuckles as they skim across his teeth. “Is this what you wanted, Sam? Is it?” Dean screams so loud he chokes, a harsh sound that would be a sob in other circumstances. Blades of grass are caught in his sweaty, spiked hair, his cheeks are flushed with rage and adrenaline, and his green eyes show as a band of silver in the wash of moonlight. His mouth, that mouth is red, blood and spit glistening on his full lips. Dean is wild and beautiful, and alive in a way he hasn’t been since he died. “Is this what you fucking want, Sam?” Slowly, deliberately, just as Sam’s had done in Cold Spring, Dean’s strong, blunt fingers dig into Sam’s throat and squeeze.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Dean’s looking right at Sam, his hands a tight band of pressure around Sam’s neck, his eyes a welcome weight Sam feels deep in his chest.
Sam’s hands fly up to Dean’s forearms, but otherwise he doesn’t move or struggle. He can’t talk and this is the only way he can think of to show Dean that he’s not fighting anymore, but he’s not exactly giving up either. Dean restricts Sam’s air and bruises his throat, while Sam stares up into his eyes and thinks that being choked is easy compared to this, seeing so much pain and confusion and betrayal and love on his brother’s face. Sam offers the only gentle touch he can, brushing his thumbs back and forth against the unbelievably tender skin on the underside of Dean’s forearm. It’s softer than it was before Hell: new, remade, not the same stretch of flesh that Sam has licked, sucked, nipped. He resented it before, the loss of their shared history recorded on Dean’s body, another thing that split them apart. But now he knows what’s important and what’s not - Sam may have been stubborn and fucked up, probably definitely still is, but he’s not oblivious - and Sam loves it because it’s part of Dean. Dean is here, and this smooth piece of skin is a blank canvas to redraw themselves upon.
Dean startles as Sam’s thumbs continue an easy, appreciative slide into the crooks of his elbows, and Dean’s fingers loosen minutely, just enough for Sam to suck in a few inadequate gasps of air. Dean stares down at him, a different kind of focused, eyes wide and shocked. Sam tries to let everything he feels, wants, needs, what he wants to have and give - forgiveness and apology and trust - show in his face, and it’s hard, because he’s still halfway to passing out, and because he hasn’t done this for so, so long, really seen his brother and let himself be seen. Something of it must show because Dean jerks his hands away from Sam’s neck like he’s being burned.
“Sam,” Dean says, barely above a whisper. He moves, as if to get away, but even with his oxygen starved brain, Sam is faster with desperation, one hand around Dean’s wrist, one on his hip, both in a death grip. “Sam, I-“
“We’re done talking, Dean.” Sam’s voice cracks and breaks across his bruised windpipe, but he likes the sound. Dean made it.
Sam tugs on Dean’s wrist, intent obvious, and Dean doesn’t hesitate to follow his lead. He lays his hand over the fresh, red bruising on Sam’s throat, presses in enough to hurt but not enough to damage. The warm thing smoldering low in Sam’s belly flares up with heat and light, and Dean’s whimper only fuels it further. Sam rolls his hips up into his brother’s ass, cock suddenly, blindingly hard. Panic slams its way in and he tries to stop the almost involuntary motion of his body - they haven’t done that in God knows how long, Dean doesn’t want that anymore - but Dean’s mouth crashes hard against his, licking at Sam’s lips, and the adrenaline flood goes from bad-wrong-stop to good-right-yes. Sam can taste Dean’s blood on his lips, in his mouth as Dean’s tongue opens him up, slicks inside. That flavor - hot copper barely disguising the sweet tang unique to Dean - mingles with his own, and the taste and knowledge of it sends throbbing waves of want deep into his groin.
Dean flexes his hand around Sam’s throat, fingers clutching harder, thumb skimming Sam’s pounding pulse as he probes the cuts inside Sam’s cheek with the tip of his tongue. The harsh pleasure-pain dances along Sam’s nerve endings from his spine outward, along his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes, so intense his stomach clenches. They’re both groaning now, grunting, panting, rutting into each other with sharp, strong movements, hard cocks and hard muscles that remember how to find and push each other’s limits. Everything fades away but the delicious weight of his brother on top of him, choking him, mouth driving him crazy, DeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean, a total mind and body invocation.
Sam slams his head against the ground, bares his neck further as Dean breaks the kiss to bite and suck at the line of his jaw, leaving bruises and blood and saliva in the wake of his lips and teeth. He releases Sam’s throat, and the air burns the abused tissue like Dean’s hands scorching up Sam’s sides, under his shirts, hot and frantic. Sam scrambles to do the same, and he whimpers when his fingertips find Dean’s skin, soft and warm over the sharp dips and bulges of lean muscle. It’s so fucking smooth, no scars from claws or knives or burns anymore, but it’s still Dean, the familiar and long-missed curve of his ribs, hard plane of his back shifting and rolling under Sam’s hands as Dean sucks marks onto Sam’s neck and shoulders. Sam lets him, wants him to, wants to leave his own marks, so he drags his nails along Dean’s sides, furrows that must bleed lightly because moisture dampens the pads of Sam’s fingers. Dean growls in response, an approving, hungry noise. He rears up and tugs at Sam’s shirts as he sheds his own, falling onto Sam’s chest as soon as they’re off, tonguing a hot line from Sam’s nipple to his belly button, fingers working at the zipper on Sam’s jeans. Sam pants and lifts his hips, helping Dean work the loose denim and tight cotton over his aching erection, and down his legs, kicking his feet to be rid of them both. His dick throbs and jumps when it’s exposed to the air, exposed to his brother, long and thick and curving up against his stomach.
Sam looks down the length of his body, stained with his blood and Dean’s, sweat and saliva, and Dean meets his eyes, beautiful mouth hovering close enough over Sam’s cock to puff air over the heated flesh with every breath. He doesn’t look away as he opens wide, stretches those obscene pink lips over the fat breadth of Sam’s cockhead, flicks at the precome oozing out of the little slit with the point of his tongue. Sam is past words, nothing in his mind capable of processing anything but sensation, and it hurts, how much he fucking wants, wants to thrust the rest of the way into Dean’s mouth, down his throat, filling him up with his come, painting his face with hot white streaks that Sam can lick off before it cools, that he can mix with Dean’s when Sam rolls him over and worships his cock, stringing out the pleasure until they both want to scream. As if Dean can read Sam’s mind, he captures Sam’s hips, exerts bruising pressure against the jut of bone to keep Sam right where he wants him, mouth sealed just around the head of his cock, tongue riding the ridge as he sucks and sucks and sucks. Sam trembles, shakes that start in his core, fingers curled into claws that clutch at the dirt and grass, caught and pinned by Dean’s eyes boring into his while he works his mouth over that one spot, the epicentre of shocking pleasure that quakes throughout his entire body, utterly devastating. Just as Sam opens his mouth to beg and plead, to break and break the rule (done talking), Dean sinks down, letting Sam’s precome and his spit roll down the hot length of Sam’s dick, wetting and smoothing the way for his lips and tongue and oh, god the back of his throat. Over the loud rush of his pulse, Sam hears the unmistakable sound of a gag reflex being repressed, and high, keening noises that must be coming from him, and like that, so quick he’s be embarrassed if he had room for any though or feeling but yes, please, want, need, love, Dean he’s gone, all the way, reflexive swallowing motion of Dean’s throat around the head of his dick, so unbelievably tight, and it’s been so fucking long. His stomach tightens painfully, his entire body seizes up as he comes, shooting pulse after pulse into Dean’s mouth, orgasm ripped from him and sustained as Dean drinks his come, keeps gulping it down, and it’s a feedback loop that won’t stop, Sam spurting, Dean swallowing, over and over, until Sam’s vision goes dark and spotty around the edges and Dean lets Sam’s half-hard cock slip-slide over his swollen, puffy lips.
Sam is pliant as his brother’s hands turn him over, touching him with a reverence he remembers only when he realizes he’d forgotten the sensation of it, onto his stomach, and he’s dimly aware of the sound of a zipper, a tooth at a time. Sam follows the guide of Dean’s fingers on his hips, resting his weight on his elbows and knees, ass titled into the air, vulnerable and open in a way he can only be for Dean, because it doesn’t feel safe with anyone else. A moan vibrates over Sam’s numb lips as something slick and warm dribbles onto his hole, filthy sound of Dean spitting Sam’s come, Dean’s fingers chasing the wet down his crack before it can drip onto the ground, before it’s wasted. Dean makes a perfunctory, or maybe teasing, attempt at loosening his hole before he slowly, god, so slowly, sinks two fingers deep into Sam’s ass, coated with Sam’s come and Dean’s saliva, remnants of blood from both of them. Sam already feels so full of Dean, but he wants more, wants it all, and he pushes his ass back, silently asking for more. He doesn’t want prep. He wants to feel Dean for days, wants to be sore and bruised, his ass and Dean’s dick scraping each other raw, and from the way Dean groans and slaps his hand on Sam’s flank, that’s what he wants too.
The only warning Sam gets is Dean’s knees knocking his wider, spreading him. And then Dean is pressing in, hard as steel and thick, thicker than Sam, the gigantic flare of head a stretching, burning pressure that Sam feels in his fucking mouth as Dean works his way into Sam’s ass with short sawing motions of his hips. Sam’s hole flutters around the wide helmet of Dean’s cock, a throbbing pulse that sends a fresh surge of blood into his own dick. Sam drops his head, breath punched out, as Dean gets the widest part in. He waits just long enough to let Sam adjust or maybe long enough to keep himself from coming in that tight clench of heat and slick, before anchoring his hands on Sam’s hips and sliding the rest of the way home, one lingering extraordinary thrust that doesn’t stop until his balls are flush against Sam’s cheeks. Dean’s hands skate over Sam’s back, over his flanks, down his thighs, rough caresses of re-acquaintance and possession, like he isn’t buried to the hilt in Sam’s ass, like they both aren’t fucking dying for him to move. Tears pool in Sam’s eyes, catch on his eyelashes, but don’t fall until Dean finally withdraws, Sam’s walls clinging and sucking at his big cock, trying to keep that hot, full sensation as long as possible. Dean pulls almost all the way out, the head dragging at the edge of Sam’s rim, and slams back in, two, three quick, deep thrusts, and then Sam’s world is tilting, Dean’s strong arms wrapping around Sam’s torso, drawing him up and back against Dean’s sweaty chest.
Gravity and Sam’s exhausted muscles help Dean bore even deeper into Sam’s ass, head of his dick rooted in Sam’s guts, constant rub against his prostate, unrelenting pleasure that only gets better as Dean readjusts his grip, hooks his left arm around Sam’s neck, sends his right hand down to Sam’s cock. Sam can’t hold his own weight, muscles trembling with lust and exhaustion, so he sags against Dean’s forearm, restricting his breathing again as Dean palms his dick, tugs and jerks it in perfect time with the sharp thrusts of Dean’s cock in his hole, caught between two perfect points of bliss.
“Should see yourself, Sam, god, the way you look,” Dean mutters in his ear, and Sam can imagine. He’s totally naked, thighs draped over Dean’s denim-covered ones, abs painted with sweat and dried blood, dick with dried come, spread out and speared on Dean’s cock, both of them covered in each other in every way. “Want to keep you like this, so beautiful, full of my cock.”
Sam thinks he laughs, as his head swims from the lack of oxygen and the frantic build up of his second orgasm at the base of his spine, hot in his balls. “Knew you... couldn’t... not... talk.”
Dean’s thrusts lose their coherence, faster, harder, impossibly deeper but without rhythm, and Dean’s loss of control sends Sam flying over the edge, his dick straining to spurt, thin dribbles of come shooting into Dean’s hand, lubricating and easing the rough pulls that drag his orgasm into a long, screaming thing. Sam’s head falls back onto Dean’s shoulder, lolls to the side, so he can watch Dean’s face as he spasms. He is unspeakably gorgeous, with pupils blown and mouth wide open, gasping air with each quiver of his cock, shaking all over, shuddering. Dean’s come floods Sam’s insides, each hot gush against his inner walls shocking another stream out of Sam’s dick. Breath hitching in almost-sobs, Dean hides his face in Sam’s neck, not nuzzling, no, he wouldn’t do that, but he would sniff apparently, a sharp inhale that tingles along Sam’s spine.
Dean’s going soft inside Sam, but he doesn’t withdraw, keeps Sam’s ass plugged full of his come with his dick, as he rolls them both to the soft bed of grass and weeds. “Such a fucking smartass, Sammy.”
Sam’s body is covered in sweat and spit and blood and come and tears, and he hurts like he’s gone ten rounds with a Golem, but it was worth every ache and scratch and bruise. He’s going to relish each one of them, try to get Dean to remake them when they start to fade. “Jerk,” he says, a croak of sound from his ruined throat.
Dean smiles against the sensitive skin of Sam’s neck, bites at the tendon, and doesn’t disappoint. “Bitch.”