FIC: Virgin Sacrifice (2/2)
This story is complete, but I had to split it up into two parts because it's too long for one post.
Title: Virgin Sacrifice
Author: Rushlight
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest, semi-consensual sex
Summary: Dean and Sam have to reenact an ancient Aztec ritual in order to stop a curse.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to amothea for a thorough beta-reading and for helping me get over my angst about writing in a new fandom.
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Virgin Sacrifice (2/2)
by, Rushlight
Part 1
The shadows around them were getting restless, their low whispering taking on an agitated edge that rasped along Dean's nerves. Swallowing hard, he touched a palm to Sam's hip and nudged him, urging him to turn over. He knew from experience that this would be less painful with Sam lying on his stomach.
"Dean..." Sam set his jaw and refused to turn, looking up at him with pleading eyes. And okay, if Sam wanted to be fucked by his brother while lying on his back, seeing full well who was doing it to him, then by god that's what Dean would do. As much as Dean's hands sweated and his body chilled at the thought, it was what Sammy wanted that mattered tonight.
He stretched out on his side again, his heart pounding, and tentatively leaned down to touch their foreheads together. They lay like that for a long minute, just touching and breathing, and then Sam's eyes fluttered closed as he tipped his face up toward Dean's, parting his lips as Dean's mouth closed over his.
Dean clenched a hand in the blanket beside them as they kissed, slow and easy, trying to shake off the disturbing impression that he was ransacking a church. Sam seemed fragile now without the cloth of their shirts between them, more vulnerable, and oh god, skin. Sam's chest felt fever-hot where it pressed against him, the rapid thudding of his heart echoing through Dean's ribs.
"It's okay," he breathed, brushing light kisses over Sam's jaw, "if it feels good. It's supposed to feel good. It doesn't matter if... if it's me." Which was a pretty stupid fucking thing to say, now that he thought about it. Of course it mattered that it was him.
Sam's eyes were so wide, filled with emotions Dean couldn't read, and Dean refused to look at his face now, because doing that would break him. Another pause, and then he slid his hand down Sam's side to brush his fingers across the button of his jeans.
The murmuring of the shadow demons rose in volume abruptly, then settled down into its previous frenzied whisper. Sam bit into his lower lip briefly before setting his jaw and reaching down to yank his fly open, nudging Dean's hand out of the way. Dean jerked his hand back as if it'd been slapped and turned his attention to shedding the rest of his own clothes. The room had been cold earlier, but he felt hot now, feverish, like he was burning up from the inside out.
Seeing Sam naked was nothing new to him. They were brothers, after all, and they'd spent their childhood growing up in a variety of motel rooms that didn't offer a lot in the way of privacy. But this -- seeing Sam naked and lying on top of a cursed altar, waiting for Dean to do things to him -- was so beyond Dean's experience that he didn't even know where to start dealing with it.
There was lube in his jacket pocket (he'd come prepared, of course, like a fucking boy scout). Keeping his gaze down, he reached for the tube with a shaking hand and popped the cap with his thumb. Sam twitched at that, his eyes pinching shut, and Dean froze, feeling once again that he was defiling something sacred. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned down to kiss Sam on the mouth, dipping in lightly with his tongue.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered, and yeah, this was something he knew how to do. A touch here, a caress there, light scrape of teeth along the collarbone, testing to see which touches made Sam's body tense the hardest, made him squirm and twitch and sigh in ways that made it near impossible for Dean to think straight.
He squeezed some lube onto his fingers and reached down between Sam's legs, the constriction in his chest easing slightly when Sam's thighs parted for him. Dean's heart was thundering now; it shouldn't be as hot as this, feeling Sam's body move beneath him, seeing Sam's legs open for him, and god, what the hell was wrong with him?
He couldn't meet Sam's eyes when he slid the first finger inside, and Sam clenched up around him. "You've got to relax," he instructed, his voice breaking, and Sam made an obvious effort to do just that, trusting him even in this.
He prepared Sam slowly, using just the one finger, while Sam's eyes fluttered closed and his breath hitched and his hips began to move in a slow rise and fall that matched the achingly careful strokes of Dean's finger into his ass. Dean whispered to him again to relax, to just accept it, not knowing if it was making things better or worse for him to keep talking like this, if maybe Sam wouldn't prefer to have this happen in silence, and pretend it was someone else doing this to him.
There was a tight line between Sam's tightly closed eyelids that cut into Dean's heart because he didn't know if it meant Sam was in pain or what. "Sam," he said in a whisper, his voice shaking, "talk to me. Tell me if I'm hurting you."
Sam bit hard into his lower lip before peeling open his eyes and looking up at Dean with a dazed expression. "Doesn't hurt," he whispered, his voice dry. "Keep going."
Dean didn't know whether to believe him or not, but he kept going. Two fingers now, and damn, Sam was tight in there. This was a familiar rhythm for him, even though it'd been over a year since he'd done this. He was so hard it hurt now, his cock apparently unable or unwilling to tell the difference between his brother and any other warm, naked body. Three fingers, and that was obviously uncomfortable for Sam but he just closed his eyes and rode it out, nodding jerkily when Dean whispered again that everything was going to be okay.
Dean was sweating now, and aching, and he wished he'd taken off the amulet hanging around his neck because it was starting to itch him, right where the knot sat at the back of his neck. He blinked the burning out of his eyes that had to be sweat (couldn't be anything else, couldn't possibly) and took comfort from the fact that Sam was hard too, dammit. So it couldn't be all bad for him.
Finally Dean reached the point where he couldn't take anymore, and he reluctantly pulled his fingers out of Sam's body. Reluctantly because he knew what had to happen next, and Sam seemed to know it, too, because he made a small sound in the back of his throat when Dean's hands left him. His eyes were closed again.
Dean shushed him gently, his whole body vibrating like he'd stuck his thumb in a light socket. He felt charged, he felt fucking wired, like he wanted to leap off this rock and start shooting at anything that looked even vaguely like one of those shadow bastards, screaming at the top of his lungs until they tore him down. He held himself still for a moment, trembling, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the urge to go down in a blaze of fucking glory rather than turn into this, his brother's rapist. He couldn't do this. He'd thought he could but he couldn't.
The feel of a hand on his thigh made him open his eyes again with a low gasp. Sam was looking up at him, his eyes large and liquid in the lamplight, his expression so impossibly tender it made Dean's chest cramp even more than it already was. Neither one of them said a word, but slowly, the panic in Dean's chest unfurled. He saw what he needed to see, there in his brother's eyes -- forgiveness, and permission, and love.
Love. It was odd, feeling this much emotional connection to someone he was having sex with. Sex had always been about bodies to him, warm mouths and tight asses and slick pussies, frenzied gropes grabbed in the dark. Maybe that was what was shaking him, making him lose his resolve. Because this wasn't about sex anymore -- at least not any kind of sex he'd ever known. It was more than bodies. This was Sam lying underneath him, waiting for his touch. Sam the dweeb, Sam the dork, Sam the kid brother always fighting against the obvious and making life so much more difficult than it had to be. Sam who stood with him against the darkness and fought with him, struggled with him, who hurt when he hurt and went against every fucking odd to save him, over and over again. His partner and confessor and confidant and savior, every day of their lives.
He leaned down to kiss Sam again, slow and deep, and went on instinct as he hooked his elbows under Sam's knees. He felt Sam tense at that, but he smoothed a hand over Sam's belly, calming him, and Sam let out a deep, shuddering breath and just let it happen. Dean squashed the feverish whisper of accusation singing through his mind and moved into position, still kissing Sam with light whisper-licks across his mouth, keeping them both on edge, feeding the fire he'd stoked in them both. Around them, a deep, near-subliminal hum was starting up from the shadow demons, so low and dark it was more vibration than sound, trembling deep in his bones. He ignored that, too, tuning out their audience, forcing himself to forget everything but Sam.
It hurt when he first pushed inside -- he knew it did, could tell from the way Sam's eyes pinched tighter shut, a low hiss escaping from between his teeth. Dean felt clammy now, numb, and he froze, his heart thundering. He crumpled down to rest his forehead on Sam's and breathed out heavily, feeling ill. He didn't want to hurt Sammy -- would rather tear out his own heart than hurt Sammy -- but he couldn't stop now or else the spell they were building would be broken.
He could feel a cold breath on the back of his neck, a suggestion of icy lips pressing against one of his vertebrae -- the demons were around them, and they were hungry. Worked up as they were now, they might not be content merely to kill them if the spell were broken. The other deaths connected to this altar hadn't been clean by any means, and Dean knew -- the way he knew his own name -- that if they stopped now his and Sam's death would be a thing of nightmares, even compared to the other deaths he'd seen in his lifetime. And it was that thought -- of Sammy naked and bleeding and dying and screaming for Dean to help him, god help him, that made him reach for Sam's cock and stroke it slowly, determinedly back to full erection.
Sam sighed against his lips and relaxed in stages, the skin between his eyes smoothing. Dean slid in just a little bit more, and Sam gasped, but it sounded more like surprise than pain.
"That's it, Sammy," Dean whispered, unable to help himself. "Just breathe for me." And whatever was going on in Sam's head, it worked, because the words acted like a talisman, easing the knot of tension between them. Sam pulled in a slow, shuddering breath and opened his eyes to look up at Dean's face from just inches away, his lips parting.
Dean was trapped now, lost, as he stared into his brother's eyes. There was no hiding from this, no pretending it wasn't happening, and he realized Sam was right, that they had to do it this way. Facing one another, accepting full responsibility for what was being done, as he flexed his hips -- carefully, so fucking carefully -- and slid the rest of the way inside.
"Dean," Sam said, curling one hand over Dean's knee. The word sounded pained, but his face was calm, open now for perhaps the first time since they'd climbed up onto this altar.
Dean grit his teeth and began to move, sinking his fingers into Sam's hip. He held Sam's gaze because Sam seemed to want it that way, seemed to need that connection between them. And he'd give Sam that -- he'd give Sam anything he wanted right now, even if it ripped his goddamn heart out -- because while it couldn't make up for what Dean was taking away from him, it had to mean something. Had to make this easier for him, somehow.
It shouldn't feel as good as this. Sam's body was tight around his cock, so damn tight and hot and god, he was sweating now and it wasn't from fear anymore. It felt good, like a warm, liquid hand had grabbed hold at the base of his spine and squeezed, sending pure pleasure vibrating through him. And how fucked up was that, that he could get any kind of pleasure out of this? He felt raw inside, aching and soiled and spun thin like glass, like the slightest breath of air might irretrievably shatter him. But he kept moving, kept fucking, because it was all he knew how to do. It was all he was good for, after all -- Dean Winchester, the gods' own whore, doling out his life in bits and pieces to save the lives of anonymous masses who most of the time never knew what he'd done for them, or cared. It wasn't just his body he sacrificed on a day to day basis; it was his whole fucking life, and how fucked up was it that he couldn't even care?
His face was wet when he felt Sammy's hand curl around the back of his neck. Sam pulled his head down, touching their foreheads together, and breathed out soft and warm across his face. "Dean," he whispered, just for the two of them. "It's okay."
Except it wasn't okay, not by any stretch of the imagination. How could any of this be any kind of fucking okay? He felt a sudden vicious urge to grab Sam's wrists and hold him down, to thrust in hard and deep without a care for who he was hurting, who he was wounding. To make Sam see once and for all who he really was, deep inside. A whore, a worn-out loser who spent his life saving others because he didn't have any kind of a fucking life on his own. The instant the thought crossed his mind it was gone -- do violence against Sammy? Never! -- but the damage had been done. He choked, feeling nauseous and afraid, disgusted by himself and ashamed to be living inside his own skin.
Dean finished first, unable to help himself -- and wasn't that the story of his life right there -- and he squeezed Sam's cock hard, stroking as fast as his wrist could move to make sure Sammy stayed right there on the edge with him. Then Sam was crying out and hugging him tight and pressing his heels so hard into Dean's back that Dean knew there would be bruises later, but he didn't care, didn't care, because the pleasure that rolled through him felt so wrong but so irresistibly right that it made him want to scream.
The shadow demons were spinning around them now, their voices raised in a subhuman howl of pleasure as if they somehow felt the echo of the brothers' shared orgasm. Dean covered Sam with his body, shielding him as an icy wind whipped up around them, spinning around and around with enough force to knock the flares off the altar. He curled an arm around Sam's head to shield both their faces as he groped for the mingled puddle of their come between Sam's legs and on his stomach and reached up to paint the warding symbols blindly on the stone of the altar over their heads.
As soon as he drew the last stroke, the wind died as if it had never been, the sudden cessation of violence leaving behind a silence so loud it echoed. There was a flare of white light so bright Dean half-believed he could see it inside his eyes, and then there was nothing.
He raised his head cautiously, still shielding Sam's face with his arm. The room around them was empty and still, lit only by the dimming glow of the flares. The sight of it made him feel suddenly exposed in a way he couldn't describe, and he pulled away from Sam's body as quickly as he could without hurting him.
"Dean..." Sam said hesitantly. His voice sounded lost and broken and vulnerable, and Dean just couldn't deal with this right now.
"It's over," he said shortly, pulling his shirt on over his head with a sharp, jerky motion. "Let's get out of here."
Sam lay unmoving for another moment before sighing, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Yeah," he said, and reached for his jeans.
* * * *
The drive back to the motel was silent and awkward. Dean stared hard at the road in front of them, his hand clenched so hard over the steering wheel his knuckles were white.
Sam didn't try to speak to him, which was a good thing, because if he had Dean was sure he'd break apart, just shatter into a billion fucking pieces right there in the seat of the Impala. And that would just be a mess, and he didn't want to leave that with Sammy on top of everything else.
He pulled into the parking lot in front of their motel room and shoved open the car door before the engine stopped idling. He snatched up his backpack and stalked inside without once looking at his brother.
It was several minutes before Sam followed him.
* * * *
"So," Sam said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pen on the edge of the laptop. "There are some unexplained deaths at a theater in Hampton, a haunted house in Rockford, and what might be a hellhound sighting outside of Detroit."
Dean nodded without looking up from the gun he was cleaning. He'd just cleaned it that morning, but hell, he needed something to do with his hands. "That's good," he said, meaning it. "We can leave as soon as I'm finished with this."
Sam nodded absently, turning back to the computer screen.
Something inside Dean sat back on its haunches and howled at the façade of normalcy they were attempting to project. It had been three days now since they'd left New Jersey, and they hadn't said more than a handful of words to each other during that time. Dean could count the number of times Sam had looked at him on one hand.
He could count the number of times he'd looked at Sam on none.
"I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly, dropping the gun onto the mattress in front of him.
He didn't wait for a reply from Sam as he stepped outside, shrugging his jacket on as he went. The evening was overcast, and a thin fog twined around the trunks of the trees at the edge of the parking lot. He didn't even know the name of the motel they'd crashed in this time, but he liked the seclusion it offered them.
He wasn't in the mood to face anyone right now, unless it was on a hunt.
The sound of the door opening behind him made him scowl, his shoulders tightening. It was a few moments before he could gather up the courage to brace himself and turn around.
Sam was standing in front of the motel room door, looking at him through that ridiculous mop of hair he called his bangs. His jaw had the stubborn set Dean remembered all too well from when they were kids, equal parts determination and sheer mulish pigheadedness.
"We need to talk, Dean."
Dean smiled wryly, feeling anything but amused. "No, Sam. We really don't."
"How can you say that?" Sam's voice was incredulous. Whatever gift of fate had kept him from pressing the matter for the past few days, Dean's leeway had apparently found its end. To be honest, Dean was surprised it had lasted as long as it had.
"Because it's true." Dean shrugged. "I don't know what you want me to say here, Sammy. Now if you don't mind, we've got a hunt to start preparing for."
Sam wet his lips, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his eyes, and Dean curled his fists at his sides, feeling a twinge of bitter satisfaction at the pain that speared through him. This was it. This was the moment he'd been dreading, been expecting, for the past three days.
The moment when Sam was going to leave him.
He had to, after all. This thing between them was too weird, too complex. Sam had to leave for his own good, because Dean was fucked in the head and suspected he had been for a very long time.
"Dean," Sam said, and stopped there, like he didn't have anything else left to say.
Dean's chest hurt. His heart was pounding so hard he was half-afraid it might break right out through his ribs. He wondered if he was going to survive this, watching Sam walk out on him for yet another time. He wondered if there was a limit to the number of times he could be expected to endure it.
Sam's expression softened. "It wasn't your fault."
The absolution was unexpected, and entirely unwelcome. "Like hell," he breathed, forcing the words out through his constricted throat. "Like hell it wasn't my fault."
"Dean..."
"Are you stupid, Sam? Do you have no idea at all what happened?"
"Yeah, I know what happened." Sam sounded annoyed now. "There were evil things killing people and we did what we had to do to stop it."
Oh, if it were only that simple. "You stupid prick."
"Sticks and stones, Dean. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
The comment made Dean pause, because he hadn't realized his fear that Sam would leave him had been so obvious. What else had Sam noticed about him? The thought was not a comforting one.
"Fine," he said simply, and turned around to head back inside.
Sam followed not half a second behind him, like a damn dog barking at his heels. "Why are you being such a jerk about this? You think any of this is easy for me? You're not the only one who's hurting here, Dean."
The words made Dean's jaw clench. "I know that," he said gruffly, tossing his weapons back into his duffel bag with sharp, angry motions.
"Bullshit." Sam's voice always shook when he lost his temper like this. "Just bullshit, okay? This isn't something you get to go through on your own. This isn't something you get to lock me out of. Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm a part of this, too."
That was too much. Dean shoved the duffel bag onto the floor and turned to face Sam, anger clawing at his chest like it was a living thing trying to dig its way out of him. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I know what I did?"
"What you did?" Sam looked honestly confused by the words. "It's what we did, Dean. Us. The two of us." He paused, his expression softening. "It wasn't just you."
"Fuck you, Sam," Dean said. He was shaking now, he was literally shaking, too numbed by fury to think straight. "You think you understand everything, but you don't."
It had all seemed simple enough at first -- screw his brother on top of a cursed altar -- seemed pretty straightforward, didn't it? But he'd forgotten that Aztec magic was always life-changing. There on the altar at the end of it all, after he'd stopped thinking about doing and was actually doing, what had felt so very wrong was that it hadn't felt wrong at all.
Only now, when it was too late, did he realize that the spell had never been about sex. It was about trust, and love, and betrayal, and need. What he was willing to take and what he was willing to give. He'd like to think that it was the spell that had awoken these feelings in him, but it wasn't. Oh god, it wasn't. These feelings were a part of him now, and some dark part of him wondered if maybe they hadn't always been there.
"Dean." Sam shook his head, his own anger gone. "It wasn't your fault."
"Like hell." His voice was hoarse. "I'm the older brother, Sam. It's my job to protect you. And I can't... I can't protect you from this."
"I consented to what happened, Dean."
"Because you had to."
"I gave you permission. You didn't do anything I didn't let you do."
"Because you’re a selfless fucking bastard who puts other people's lives in front of his own."
"So are you."
"But I'm not!" Why the fuck couldn't Sam understand? Dean felt strung out, stretched thin and so fucking brittle he wanted to scream. Folding in on himself, he started to turn away.
"Dean. Talk to me."
There was an entreaty in Sam's voice that Dean couldn't not respond to, no matter how much he wanted to. He raised his gaze reluctantly, feeling something hard and sharp settle down in the backs of his eyes.
"You don't want to hear what I have to say," he said quietly. And that, like everything else that had passed between them, was nothing less than god's honest truth.
Sam's jaw clenched. "I do, Dean. I really do. Whatever it is -- whatever you're feeling -- I need to hear it."
There was no way Dean could fight against that kind of heartfelt plea.
As if there were anything he'd be able to deny Sam tonight.
"I need you," Dean hissed, and stopped, because that wasn't entirely accurate. "I want you," he tried again, and that was closer, but still not quite what he wanted to say. He saw the questioning in Sam's eyes, the trust, and closed his eyes against it.
"What is it?" Sam said, his voice achingly soft.
Dean sighed. "Don't you understand, Sammy? I don't fucking exist without you."
And that was it, the shameful hard truth right there. Because Sam was all he had. Day in and day out he devoted his life to helping strangers, but none of it mattered so much as having Sam here by his side. Sam was the only family he had, now that Dad was missing. Sam was the only constant, the only thing that gave his life meaning, because Dean wasn't the type who could do more than go through the motions of living unless he had someone to live for.
Sam's eyes darkened, and Dean stood tautly in front of him, waiting for him to get it. Waiting for him to understand that this was all he could think about now -- the skin of his brother's chest glowing smooth and crimson in the fading flarelight, the way his ribs had shivered and jumped when Dean's hand touched him, the sharp exhalation of his breaths.
The tenderness in Sam's expression was so poignant it hurt. "It's all right, Dean."
"It's not all right. It's never going to be all right." He didn't know what he was saying, didn't know if Sam understood or if he was simply being naïve.
"It will. It is." Sam huffed in what might have been amusement, or frustration, or both. "You're my brother, Dean. I care about you. God... you think you're not the only good thing I have left, too?"
Dean stared at him, not understanding. He felt slow, stupid with shock and with lack of sleep. Sam's only good thing? Surely one of them had to be tripping.
"It wasn't your fault, either," he said, wishing he'd said it from the start.
Sam's mouth curled, more bitter than amused. "You sound so sure of that."
And that was just too much. That Sam would in any way feel responsible for what had happened between them was just unacceptable. "Damn it, Sam. If I'm not to blame, then you sure as hell aren't."
Uncertainty flickered across Sam's eyes again, like ripples chasing each other across a pond. "I was the one who suggested it."
Sam's sense of personal responsibility could power a small nation. "You said it yourself. You weren't the one who carved the damn symbols."
"No, but I was the one who suggested it." Sam's voice was strained, earnest, like he was trying to make a point that Dean just wasn't getting.
"Bullshit." Dean shook his head, annoyed. "This whole conversation is stupid."
"So it's your fault, then? How does that make sense? You think you're the one responsible for what happened just because you like guys?"
"And you don't, Sam." How could Sam possibly not understand the importance of that? "At least it was something I'd done before, but you... you never would have chosen that."
Something in Sam's eyes flickered, darkened. "Are you sure about that?"
The question brought Dean up short. "You told me--"
"I told you I'd never had sex with a guy before. Not that I never wanted to."
This revelation was unexpectedly flummoxing. Not that Dean cared one way or the other whether Sam liked girls, guys, or hell, fucking sheep, but this was something Dean had never suspected about him. There'd been no signs, which meant it was something Sam had felt the need to hide from him -- really hide from him -- and that just made no sense at all.
Dean stared at him, trying to read what he saw in Sam's eyes and failing. It made him nervous, not being able to tell what his brother was thinking. "That doesn't make it your fault."
"It doesn't make it yours."
"Dammit, Sam..."
"How can it not be my fault?" There was a strain in Sam's voice that Dean didn't know what to make of. "Because I wanted it. Because I'd thought about it..."
Dean hesitated before making another hot retort, struck by the uncomfortable impression that they were talking about two entirely different things. I wanted it, Sam was telling him. I'd thought about it...
For the first time, it occurred to Dean that maybe it wasn't just him. That maybe he hadn’t been the only one lying awake these past few nights remembering what it had been like to have his brother's naked body stretched out beside him... and castigate himself for not being as repulsed by the image as he should be. You're the only good thing I have left, Sam had said; how was that any different from Dean's own frenzied justifications?
Sam stepped closer -- slowly, cautiously, like he sensed just how close Dean was to turning and bolting. He lifted a hand and touched Dean's shoulder, stroking lightly with his thumb.
"Sam..." Dean couldn't finish the sentence if his life depended on it, couldn't look away from his brother's ridiculously earnest eyes.
"Tell me if I'm reading you wrong," Sam said, his voice wavering. "God, Dean, tell me right now."
Dean stared up at him and didn't say anything, because honestly? He was beginning to suspect that Sam's evaluation of the situation was pretty much spot on.
The first brush of Sam's mouth over his was soft, fleeting, but nothing resembling chaste. Dean moved his lips under it, chasing the elusive taste he'd grown addicted to there on the altar. The kiss was exactly as he remembered it -- chapped lips, warm breath, stubbled chin brushing against his own. Only this time there was no guilt attached to the action because this was Sam kissing him -- Sam kissing him -- and Sam wanted it, too.
Sam's hand was heavy on his shoulder, fingers gripping tight to the leather of his jacket. "Dean," he breathed, right next to Dean's ear, and Dean slid a hand up his arm to cup the back of his neck and whispered, "Yeah. Yeah."
The next kiss was deeper, harder, growing more confident as their bodies moved closer together. Dean moved his hand up to tangle in Sam's hair, shuddering as the thick strands clung to his fingers. It felt good, it felt fucking hot, in a way that had him racing from zero to sixty in about two seconds flat.
Now that it was happening, now that it was here between them, and no longer hiding, Dean couldn't feel surprised by this at all. He thought that Sam had to feel pretty much the same way -- there was acceptance in the sigh he trailed along Dean's jaw, angling back to lap at the soft skin underneath his ear.
"God," Sam panted, hands tightening in Dean's shirt and holding him in place as if he honestly thought Dean might try to get away. Dean bucked against him, fingers digging into Sam's biceps, and wondered if he'd ever gotten hard this fast in his life. He sincerely doubted it; this might be all kinds of fucked up crazy, but it was Sam, and nothing in his life had ever felt as right.
Sam's hands were warm on his chest now, burrowing under his jacket and shirt until they found skin. Dean buried his face in Sam's shoulder and exhaled roughly when the pads of Sam's fingers brushed over his nipples, pinching as they went. "I've wanted..." Sam said unevenly. He pressed his face against the side of Dean's neck and breathed in raggedly, like he was memorizing the scent of Dean's skin. "God, Dean... can I...?"
"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasped, unable to come up with anything more coherent. "You can do whatever you want to me."
Sam's fingers tightened over his ribs, blunt nails digging into his skin, but then they softened, smoothing in long sweeps down Dean's sides until they found the clasp of his jeans. Dean grunted his approval and pushed his hips forward, biting down hard on his lip when Sam fumbled open the front of his jeans and shoved a hand inside.
This was what he wanted, what he'd been needing, for longer than he cared to admit to himself. This right here -- the feel of Sam's hand on him, Sam's hard body against him, breath panting hot and dirty next to his ear, the heat of it racing through his veins, burning him up from the inside out with the knowledge of Sam, Sam, Sam chanting like an incantation through every thought in his head.
Sam slid a knee in between Dean's legs and pressed him back against the wall, making a sound that Dean had never heard from him before but that he sure as hell wanted to hear again, as often as possible. Dean bit down on Sam's jaw, tasting stubble and sweat and Sam and god, he must have done something extremely right in a previous life to deserve this. He ground his hips hard against Sam's thigh, against Sam's hand, his own hands clenching tight in Sam's clothes, refusing to let him go. Sam held him just as tightly, clinging to him, shuddering as he whispered things like Go for it and Take it, Dean and It'll be all right and I've wanted this for so fucking long. Dirty words, necessary words, that hit Dean right in the gut and held on tight in a way he didn't think would ever let him go.
Dean came with a low gasp, muffling the sound against Sam's shoulder. Pleasure unlike anything he had ever known before, because this was more than sex, more than bodies, and he wasn't sure what it was but he knew he'd been hunting for it all of his life.
There were still tremors moving through him when he fisted his hands in Sam's shirt and spun him around, pressing him back against the wall. Sam looked startled for one amusing moment before his eyes darkened and his mouth curled upward, and he dipped his head to breathe out hard across Dean's face.
Dean kissed him, and Sam returned it with interest, all tongue and hot breath and teeth. Dean's nerves were still singing from the force of his orgasm, his head spinning as he gave Sam's lower lip a final sharp nip and sank down slowly onto his knees.
"Dean," Sam said shakily, staring down at him with a look of naked vulnerability that made Dean want to kiss him absolutely senseless.
"Shh," Dean said. "Let me do this."
Sam was achingly hard; Dean could feel it as he cupped him through his jeans. Sam let his head fall back against the wall as Dean opened his fly and pulled down his shorts and just went for it, taking him all the way in. Sam's hands clenched hard over his shoulders, scrabbling at the back of his head, grasping at his hair like they wanted to grab hold of it but it was too short, and Dean considered the thought that he might be willing to let it grow out a little in the future so Sam would have something to hold onto.
It didn't take long. Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the cock sliding between his lips, hot and heavy on his tongue and damn, why hadn't they ever done this before? He was shaking as hard as Sam now, bracing one hand on Sam's hip while the other moved inside Sam's pants, fondling his balls and stroking hard across the smooth skin behind them, using every trick he'd ever learned to make this as good and hard and hot as he possibly could.
Sam shouted out loud when he came, the sound cutting off into a strangled whimper as Dean swallowed, coaxing the last trembling aftershocks of it out of him. There was a sound of Sam's head thumping against the wall behind his head, which made Dean grin with what he felt was well-deserved smugness as he rose up unsteadily to his feet.
"This is not normal, Sam," he said, resting his forehead against Sam's, open-mouthed and panting. "You know that?"
There was a low expulsion of breath against Dean's lips that sounded like laughter. "Yeah. Yeah, I really do."
Dean glanced up finally, meeting Sam's eyes. "One of us should really be freaking out about this right now."
"We've never been normal, Dean." Sam looked shaken now, apprehensive but resolute. "Our family... this is about as normal as it gets for us."
The comment made Dean laugh unexpectedly, because damn. When had the Winchesters ever been normal? Or wanted to be?
"I won't hurt you," was all he could think of to say.
Sam moistened his lips, looking anxious and determined and so fucking beautiful Dean wanted to drag him to the bed and start kissing him all over again. "You won't, Dean. You couldn't."
"Damn straight."
The corner of Sam's mouth curled upward. His thumb traced Dean's shoulder. "Are we okay, then?"
Dean wasn't sure he would ever be okay again -- or if he even knew the meaning of the word, or cared -- but he was reasonably certain it wouldn't matter so long as Sam kept touching him, just like this.
Because Sam wasn't afraid to touch him.
Wanted to touch him.
Wanted him.
"Yeah," Dean said with a wry smile. "We're okay."
He surprised himself by actually meaning it.
The End
1/4/07
Title: Virgin Sacrifice
Author: Rushlight
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest, semi-consensual sex
Summary: Dean and Sam have to reenact an ancient Aztec ritual in order to stop a curse.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to amothea for a thorough beta-reading and for helping me get over my angst about writing in a new fandom.
-----------------------------
Virgin Sacrifice (2/2)
by, Rushlight
Part 1
The shadows around them were getting restless, their low whispering taking on an agitated edge that rasped along Dean's nerves. Swallowing hard, he touched a palm to Sam's hip and nudged him, urging him to turn over. He knew from experience that this would be less painful with Sam lying on his stomach.
"Dean..." Sam set his jaw and refused to turn, looking up at him with pleading eyes. And okay, if Sam wanted to be fucked by his brother while lying on his back, seeing full well who was doing it to him, then by god that's what Dean would do. As much as Dean's hands sweated and his body chilled at the thought, it was what Sammy wanted that mattered tonight.
He stretched out on his side again, his heart pounding, and tentatively leaned down to touch their foreheads together. They lay like that for a long minute, just touching and breathing, and then Sam's eyes fluttered closed as he tipped his face up toward Dean's, parting his lips as Dean's mouth closed over his.
Dean clenched a hand in the blanket beside them as they kissed, slow and easy, trying to shake off the disturbing impression that he was ransacking a church. Sam seemed fragile now without the cloth of their shirts between them, more vulnerable, and oh god, skin. Sam's chest felt fever-hot where it pressed against him, the rapid thudding of his heart echoing through Dean's ribs.
"It's okay," he breathed, brushing light kisses over Sam's jaw, "if it feels good. It's supposed to feel good. It doesn't matter if... if it's me." Which was a pretty stupid fucking thing to say, now that he thought about it. Of course it mattered that it was him.
Sam's eyes were so wide, filled with emotions Dean couldn't read, and Dean refused to look at his face now, because doing that would break him. Another pause, and then he slid his hand down Sam's side to brush his fingers across the button of his jeans.
The murmuring of the shadow demons rose in volume abruptly, then settled down into its previous frenzied whisper. Sam bit into his lower lip briefly before setting his jaw and reaching down to yank his fly open, nudging Dean's hand out of the way. Dean jerked his hand back as if it'd been slapped and turned his attention to shedding the rest of his own clothes. The room had been cold earlier, but he felt hot now, feverish, like he was burning up from the inside out.
Seeing Sam naked was nothing new to him. They were brothers, after all, and they'd spent their childhood growing up in a variety of motel rooms that didn't offer a lot in the way of privacy. But this -- seeing Sam naked and lying on top of a cursed altar, waiting for Dean to do things to him -- was so beyond Dean's experience that he didn't even know where to start dealing with it.
There was lube in his jacket pocket (he'd come prepared, of course, like a fucking boy scout). Keeping his gaze down, he reached for the tube with a shaking hand and popped the cap with his thumb. Sam twitched at that, his eyes pinching shut, and Dean froze, feeling once again that he was defiling something sacred. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned down to kiss Sam on the mouth, dipping in lightly with his tongue.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered, and yeah, this was something he knew how to do. A touch here, a caress there, light scrape of teeth along the collarbone, testing to see which touches made Sam's body tense the hardest, made him squirm and twitch and sigh in ways that made it near impossible for Dean to think straight.
He squeezed some lube onto his fingers and reached down between Sam's legs, the constriction in his chest easing slightly when Sam's thighs parted for him. Dean's heart was thundering now; it shouldn't be as hot as this, feeling Sam's body move beneath him, seeing Sam's legs open for him, and god, what the hell was wrong with him?
He couldn't meet Sam's eyes when he slid the first finger inside, and Sam clenched up around him. "You've got to relax," he instructed, his voice breaking, and Sam made an obvious effort to do just that, trusting him even in this.
He prepared Sam slowly, using just the one finger, while Sam's eyes fluttered closed and his breath hitched and his hips began to move in a slow rise and fall that matched the achingly careful strokes of Dean's finger into his ass. Dean whispered to him again to relax, to just accept it, not knowing if it was making things better or worse for him to keep talking like this, if maybe Sam wouldn't prefer to have this happen in silence, and pretend it was someone else doing this to him.
There was a tight line between Sam's tightly closed eyelids that cut into Dean's heart because he didn't know if it meant Sam was in pain or what. "Sam," he said in a whisper, his voice shaking, "talk to me. Tell me if I'm hurting you."
Sam bit hard into his lower lip before peeling open his eyes and looking up at Dean with a dazed expression. "Doesn't hurt," he whispered, his voice dry. "Keep going."
Dean didn't know whether to believe him or not, but he kept going. Two fingers now, and damn, Sam was tight in there. This was a familiar rhythm for him, even though it'd been over a year since he'd done this. He was so hard it hurt now, his cock apparently unable or unwilling to tell the difference between his brother and any other warm, naked body. Three fingers, and that was obviously uncomfortable for Sam but he just closed his eyes and rode it out, nodding jerkily when Dean whispered again that everything was going to be okay.
Dean was sweating now, and aching, and he wished he'd taken off the amulet hanging around his neck because it was starting to itch him, right where the knot sat at the back of his neck. He blinked the burning out of his eyes that had to be sweat (couldn't be anything else, couldn't possibly) and took comfort from the fact that Sam was hard too, dammit. So it couldn't be all bad for him.
Finally Dean reached the point where he couldn't take anymore, and he reluctantly pulled his fingers out of Sam's body. Reluctantly because he knew what had to happen next, and Sam seemed to know it, too, because he made a small sound in the back of his throat when Dean's hands left him. His eyes were closed again.
Dean shushed him gently, his whole body vibrating like he'd stuck his thumb in a light socket. He felt charged, he felt fucking wired, like he wanted to leap off this rock and start shooting at anything that looked even vaguely like one of those shadow bastards, screaming at the top of his lungs until they tore him down. He held himself still for a moment, trembling, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the urge to go down in a blaze of fucking glory rather than turn into this, his brother's rapist. He couldn't do this. He'd thought he could but he couldn't.
The feel of a hand on his thigh made him open his eyes again with a low gasp. Sam was looking up at him, his eyes large and liquid in the lamplight, his expression so impossibly tender it made Dean's chest cramp even more than it already was. Neither one of them said a word, but slowly, the panic in Dean's chest unfurled. He saw what he needed to see, there in his brother's eyes -- forgiveness, and permission, and love.
Love. It was odd, feeling this much emotional connection to someone he was having sex with. Sex had always been about bodies to him, warm mouths and tight asses and slick pussies, frenzied gropes grabbed in the dark. Maybe that was what was shaking him, making him lose his resolve. Because this wasn't about sex anymore -- at least not any kind of sex he'd ever known. It was more than bodies. This was Sam lying underneath him, waiting for his touch. Sam the dweeb, Sam the dork, Sam the kid brother always fighting against the obvious and making life so much more difficult than it had to be. Sam who stood with him against the darkness and fought with him, struggled with him, who hurt when he hurt and went against every fucking odd to save him, over and over again. His partner and confessor and confidant and savior, every day of their lives.
He leaned down to kiss Sam again, slow and deep, and went on instinct as he hooked his elbows under Sam's knees. He felt Sam tense at that, but he smoothed a hand over Sam's belly, calming him, and Sam let out a deep, shuddering breath and just let it happen. Dean squashed the feverish whisper of accusation singing through his mind and moved into position, still kissing Sam with light whisper-licks across his mouth, keeping them both on edge, feeding the fire he'd stoked in them both. Around them, a deep, near-subliminal hum was starting up from the shadow demons, so low and dark it was more vibration than sound, trembling deep in his bones. He ignored that, too, tuning out their audience, forcing himself to forget everything but Sam.
It hurt when he first pushed inside -- he knew it did, could tell from the way Sam's eyes pinched tighter shut, a low hiss escaping from between his teeth. Dean felt clammy now, numb, and he froze, his heart thundering. He crumpled down to rest his forehead on Sam's and breathed out heavily, feeling ill. He didn't want to hurt Sammy -- would rather tear out his own heart than hurt Sammy -- but he couldn't stop now or else the spell they were building would be broken.
He could feel a cold breath on the back of his neck, a suggestion of icy lips pressing against one of his vertebrae -- the demons were around them, and they were hungry. Worked up as they were now, they might not be content merely to kill them if the spell were broken. The other deaths connected to this altar hadn't been clean by any means, and Dean knew -- the way he knew his own name -- that if they stopped now his and Sam's death would be a thing of nightmares, even compared to the other deaths he'd seen in his lifetime. And it was that thought -- of Sammy naked and bleeding and dying and screaming for Dean to help him, god help him, that made him reach for Sam's cock and stroke it slowly, determinedly back to full erection.
Sam sighed against his lips and relaxed in stages, the skin between his eyes smoothing. Dean slid in just a little bit more, and Sam gasped, but it sounded more like surprise than pain.
"That's it, Sammy," Dean whispered, unable to help himself. "Just breathe for me." And whatever was going on in Sam's head, it worked, because the words acted like a talisman, easing the knot of tension between them. Sam pulled in a slow, shuddering breath and opened his eyes to look up at Dean's face from just inches away, his lips parting.
Dean was trapped now, lost, as he stared into his brother's eyes. There was no hiding from this, no pretending it wasn't happening, and he realized Sam was right, that they had to do it this way. Facing one another, accepting full responsibility for what was being done, as he flexed his hips -- carefully, so fucking carefully -- and slid the rest of the way inside.
"Dean," Sam said, curling one hand over Dean's knee. The word sounded pained, but his face was calm, open now for perhaps the first time since they'd climbed up onto this altar.
Dean grit his teeth and began to move, sinking his fingers into Sam's hip. He held Sam's gaze because Sam seemed to want it that way, seemed to need that connection between them. And he'd give Sam that -- he'd give Sam anything he wanted right now, even if it ripped his goddamn heart out -- because while it couldn't make up for what Dean was taking away from him, it had to mean something. Had to make this easier for him, somehow.
It shouldn't feel as good as this. Sam's body was tight around his cock, so damn tight and hot and god, he was sweating now and it wasn't from fear anymore. It felt good, like a warm, liquid hand had grabbed hold at the base of his spine and squeezed, sending pure pleasure vibrating through him. And how fucked up was that, that he could get any kind of pleasure out of this? He felt raw inside, aching and soiled and spun thin like glass, like the slightest breath of air might irretrievably shatter him. But he kept moving, kept fucking, because it was all he knew how to do. It was all he was good for, after all -- Dean Winchester, the gods' own whore, doling out his life in bits and pieces to save the lives of anonymous masses who most of the time never knew what he'd done for them, or cared. It wasn't just his body he sacrificed on a day to day basis; it was his whole fucking life, and how fucked up was it that he couldn't even care?
His face was wet when he felt Sammy's hand curl around the back of his neck. Sam pulled his head down, touching their foreheads together, and breathed out soft and warm across his face. "Dean," he whispered, just for the two of them. "It's okay."
Except it wasn't okay, not by any stretch of the imagination. How could any of this be any kind of fucking okay? He felt a sudden vicious urge to grab Sam's wrists and hold him down, to thrust in hard and deep without a care for who he was hurting, who he was wounding. To make Sam see once and for all who he really was, deep inside. A whore, a worn-out loser who spent his life saving others because he didn't have any kind of a fucking life on his own. The instant the thought crossed his mind it was gone -- do violence against Sammy? Never! -- but the damage had been done. He choked, feeling nauseous and afraid, disgusted by himself and ashamed to be living inside his own skin.
Dean finished first, unable to help himself -- and wasn't that the story of his life right there -- and he squeezed Sam's cock hard, stroking as fast as his wrist could move to make sure Sammy stayed right there on the edge with him. Then Sam was crying out and hugging him tight and pressing his heels so hard into Dean's back that Dean knew there would be bruises later, but he didn't care, didn't care, because the pleasure that rolled through him felt so wrong but so irresistibly right that it made him want to scream.
The shadow demons were spinning around them now, their voices raised in a subhuman howl of pleasure as if they somehow felt the echo of the brothers' shared orgasm. Dean covered Sam with his body, shielding him as an icy wind whipped up around them, spinning around and around with enough force to knock the flares off the altar. He curled an arm around Sam's head to shield both their faces as he groped for the mingled puddle of their come between Sam's legs and on his stomach and reached up to paint the warding symbols blindly on the stone of the altar over their heads.
As soon as he drew the last stroke, the wind died as if it had never been, the sudden cessation of violence leaving behind a silence so loud it echoed. There was a flare of white light so bright Dean half-believed he could see it inside his eyes, and then there was nothing.
He raised his head cautiously, still shielding Sam's face with his arm. The room around them was empty and still, lit only by the dimming glow of the flares. The sight of it made him feel suddenly exposed in a way he couldn't describe, and he pulled away from Sam's body as quickly as he could without hurting him.
"Dean..." Sam said hesitantly. His voice sounded lost and broken and vulnerable, and Dean just couldn't deal with this right now.
"It's over," he said shortly, pulling his shirt on over his head with a sharp, jerky motion. "Let's get out of here."
Sam lay unmoving for another moment before sighing, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Yeah," he said, and reached for his jeans.
* * * *
The drive back to the motel was silent and awkward. Dean stared hard at the road in front of them, his hand clenched so hard over the steering wheel his knuckles were white.
Sam didn't try to speak to him, which was a good thing, because if he had Dean was sure he'd break apart, just shatter into a billion fucking pieces right there in the seat of the Impala. And that would just be a mess, and he didn't want to leave that with Sammy on top of everything else.
He pulled into the parking lot in front of their motel room and shoved open the car door before the engine stopped idling. He snatched up his backpack and stalked inside without once looking at his brother.
It was several minutes before Sam followed him.
* * * *
"So," Sam said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pen on the edge of the laptop. "There are some unexplained deaths at a theater in Hampton, a haunted house in Rockford, and what might be a hellhound sighting outside of Detroit."
Dean nodded without looking up from the gun he was cleaning. He'd just cleaned it that morning, but hell, he needed something to do with his hands. "That's good," he said, meaning it. "We can leave as soon as I'm finished with this."
Sam nodded absently, turning back to the computer screen.
Something inside Dean sat back on its haunches and howled at the façade of normalcy they were attempting to project. It had been three days now since they'd left New Jersey, and they hadn't said more than a handful of words to each other during that time. Dean could count the number of times Sam had looked at him on one hand.
He could count the number of times he'd looked at Sam on none.
"I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly, dropping the gun onto the mattress in front of him.
He didn't wait for a reply from Sam as he stepped outside, shrugging his jacket on as he went. The evening was overcast, and a thin fog twined around the trunks of the trees at the edge of the parking lot. He didn't even know the name of the motel they'd crashed in this time, but he liked the seclusion it offered them.
He wasn't in the mood to face anyone right now, unless it was on a hunt.
The sound of the door opening behind him made him scowl, his shoulders tightening. It was a few moments before he could gather up the courage to brace himself and turn around.
Sam was standing in front of the motel room door, looking at him through that ridiculous mop of hair he called his bangs. His jaw had the stubborn set Dean remembered all too well from when they were kids, equal parts determination and sheer mulish pigheadedness.
"We need to talk, Dean."
Dean smiled wryly, feeling anything but amused. "No, Sam. We really don't."
"How can you say that?" Sam's voice was incredulous. Whatever gift of fate had kept him from pressing the matter for the past few days, Dean's leeway had apparently found its end. To be honest, Dean was surprised it had lasted as long as it had.
"Because it's true." Dean shrugged. "I don't know what you want me to say here, Sammy. Now if you don't mind, we've got a hunt to start preparing for."
Sam wet his lips, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his eyes, and Dean curled his fists at his sides, feeling a twinge of bitter satisfaction at the pain that speared through him. This was it. This was the moment he'd been dreading, been expecting, for the past three days.
The moment when Sam was going to leave him.
He had to, after all. This thing between them was too weird, too complex. Sam had to leave for his own good, because Dean was fucked in the head and suspected he had been for a very long time.
"Dean," Sam said, and stopped there, like he didn't have anything else left to say.
Dean's chest hurt. His heart was pounding so hard he was half-afraid it might break right out through his ribs. He wondered if he was going to survive this, watching Sam walk out on him for yet another time. He wondered if there was a limit to the number of times he could be expected to endure it.
Sam's expression softened. "It wasn't your fault."
The absolution was unexpected, and entirely unwelcome. "Like hell," he breathed, forcing the words out through his constricted throat. "Like hell it wasn't my fault."
"Dean..."
"Are you stupid, Sam? Do you have no idea at all what happened?"
"Yeah, I know what happened." Sam sounded annoyed now. "There were evil things killing people and we did what we had to do to stop it."
Oh, if it were only that simple. "You stupid prick."
"Sticks and stones, Dean. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
The comment made Dean pause, because he hadn't realized his fear that Sam would leave him had been so obvious. What else had Sam noticed about him? The thought was not a comforting one.
"Fine," he said simply, and turned around to head back inside.
Sam followed not half a second behind him, like a damn dog barking at his heels. "Why are you being such a jerk about this? You think any of this is easy for me? You're not the only one who's hurting here, Dean."
The words made Dean's jaw clench. "I know that," he said gruffly, tossing his weapons back into his duffel bag with sharp, angry motions.
"Bullshit." Sam's voice always shook when he lost his temper like this. "Just bullshit, okay? This isn't something you get to go through on your own. This isn't something you get to lock me out of. Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm a part of this, too."
That was too much. Dean shoved the duffel bag onto the floor and turned to face Sam, anger clawing at his chest like it was a living thing trying to dig its way out of him. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I know what I did?"
"What you did?" Sam looked honestly confused by the words. "It's what we did, Dean. Us. The two of us." He paused, his expression softening. "It wasn't just you."
"Fuck you, Sam," Dean said. He was shaking now, he was literally shaking, too numbed by fury to think straight. "You think you understand everything, but you don't."
It had all seemed simple enough at first -- screw his brother on top of a cursed altar -- seemed pretty straightforward, didn't it? But he'd forgotten that Aztec magic was always life-changing. There on the altar at the end of it all, after he'd stopped thinking about doing and was actually doing, what had felt so very wrong was that it hadn't felt wrong at all.
Only now, when it was too late, did he realize that the spell had never been about sex. It was about trust, and love, and betrayal, and need. What he was willing to take and what he was willing to give. He'd like to think that it was the spell that had awoken these feelings in him, but it wasn't. Oh god, it wasn't. These feelings were a part of him now, and some dark part of him wondered if maybe they hadn't always been there.
"Dean." Sam shook his head, his own anger gone. "It wasn't your fault."
"Like hell." His voice was hoarse. "I'm the older brother, Sam. It's my job to protect you. And I can't... I can't protect you from this."
"I consented to what happened, Dean."
"Because you had to."
"I gave you permission. You didn't do anything I didn't let you do."
"Because you’re a selfless fucking bastard who puts other people's lives in front of his own."
"So are you."
"But I'm not!" Why the fuck couldn't Sam understand? Dean felt strung out, stretched thin and so fucking brittle he wanted to scream. Folding in on himself, he started to turn away.
"Dean. Talk to me."
There was an entreaty in Sam's voice that Dean couldn't not respond to, no matter how much he wanted to. He raised his gaze reluctantly, feeling something hard and sharp settle down in the backs of his eyes.
"You don't want to hear what I have to say," he said quietly. And that, like everything else that had passed between them, was nothing less than god's honest truth.
Sam's jaw clenched. "I do, Dean. I really do. Whatever it is -- whatever you're feeling -- I need to hear it."
There was no way Dean could fight against that kind of heartfelt plea.
As if there were anything he'd be able to deny Sam tonight.
"I need you," Dean hissed, and stopped, because that wasn't entirely accurate. "I want you," he tried again, and that was closer, but still not quite what he wanted to say. He saw the questioning in Sam's eyes, the trust, and closed his eyes against it.
"What is it?" Sam said, his voice achingly soft.
Dean sighed. "Don't you understand, Sammy? I don't fucking exist without you."
And that was it, the shameful hard truth right there. Because Sam was all he had. Day in and day out he devoted his life to helping strangers, but none of it mattered so much as having Sam here by his side. Sam was the only family he had, now that Dad was missing. Sam was the only constant, the only thing that gave his life meaning, because Dean wasn't the type who could do more than go through the motions of living unless he had someone to live for.
Sam's eyes darkened, and Dean stood tautly in front of him, waiting for him to get it. Waiting for him to understand that this was all he could think about now -- the skin of his brother's chest glowing smooth and crimson in the fading flarelight, the way his ribs had shivered and jumped when Dean's hand touched him, the sharp exhalation of his breaths.
The tenderness in Sam's expression was so poignant it hurt. "It's all right, Dean."
"It's not all right. It's never going to be all right." He didn't know what he was saying, didn't know if Sam understood or if he was simply being naïve.
"It will. It is." Sam huffed in what might have been amusement, or frustration, or both. "You're my brother, Dean. I care about you. God... you think you're not the only good thing I have left, too?"
Dean stared at him, not understanding. He felt slow, stupid with shock and with lack of sleep. Sam's only good thing? Surely one of them had to be tripping.
"It wasn't your fault, either," he said, wishing he'd said it from the start.
Sam's mouth curled, more bitter than amused. "You sound so sure of that."
And that was just too much. That Sam would in any way feel responsible for what had happened between them was just unacceptable. "Damn it, Sam. If I'm not to blame, then you sure as hell aren't."
Uncertainty flickered across Sam's eyes again, like ripples chasing each other across a pond. "I was the one who suggested it."
Sam's sense of personal responsibility could power a small nation. "You said it yourself. You weren't the one who carved the damn symbols."
"No, but I was the one who suggested it." Sam's voice was strained, earnest, like he was trying to make a point that Dean just wasn't getting.
"Bullshit." Dean shook his head, annoyed. "This whole conversation is stupid."
"So it's your fault, then? How does that make sense? You think you're the one responsible for what happened just because you like guys?"
"And you don't, Sam." How could Sam possibly not understand the importance of that? "At least it was something I'd done before, but you... you never would have chosen that."
Something in Sam's eyes flickered, darkened. "Are you sure about that?"
The question brought Dean up short. "You told me--"
"I told you I'd never had sex with a guy before. Not that I never wanted to."
This revelation was unexpectedly flummoxing. Not that Dean cared one way or the other whether Sam liked girls, guys, or hell, fucking sheep, but this was something Dean had never suspected about him. There'd been no signs, which meant it was something Sam had felt the need to hide from him -- really hide from him -- and that just made no sense at all.
Dean stared at him, trying to read what he saw in Sam's eyes and failing. It made him nervous, not being able to tell what his brother was thinking. "That doesn't make it your fault."
"It doesn't make it yours."
"Dammit, Sam..."
"How can it not be my fault?" There was a strain in Sam's voice that Dean didn't know what to make of. "Because I wanted it. Because I'd thought about it..."
Dean hesitated before making another hot retort, struck by the uncomfortable impression that they were talking about two entirely different things. I wanted it, Sam was telling him. I'd thought about it...
For the first time, it occurred to Dean that maybe it wasn't just him. That maybe he hadn’t been the only one lying awake these past few nights remembering what it had been like to have his brother's naked body stretched out beside him... and castigate himself for not being as repulsed by the image as he should be. You're the only good thing I have left, Sam had said; how was that any different from Dean's own frenzied justifications?
Sam stepped closer -- slowly, cautiously, like he sensed just how close Dean was to turning and bolting. He lifted a hand and touched Dean's shoulder, stroking lightly with his thumb.
"Sam..." Dean couldn't finish the sentence if his life depended on it, couldn't look away from his brother's ridiculously earnest eyes.
"Tell me if I'm reading you wrong," Sam said, his voice wavering. "God, Dean, tell me right now."
Dean stared up at him and didn't say anything, because honestly? He was beginning to suspect that Sam's evaluation of the situation was pretty much spot on.
The first brush of Sam's mouth over his was soft, fleeting, but nothing resembling chaste. Dean moved his lips under it, chasing the elusive taste he'd grown addicted to there on the altar. The kiss was exactly as he remembered it -- chapped lips, warm breath, stubbled chin brushing against his own. Only this time there was no guilt attached to the action because this was Sam kissing him -- Sam kissing him -- and Sam wanted it, too.
Sam's hand was heavy on his shoulder, fingers gripping tight to the leather of his jacket. "Dean," he breathed, right next to Dean's ear, and Dean slid a hand up his arm to cup the back of his neck and whispered, "Yeah. Yeah."
The next kiss was deeper, harder, growing more confident as their bodies moved closer together. Dean moved his hand up to tangle in Sam's hair, shuddering as the thick strands clung to his fingers. It felt good, it felt fucking hot, in a way that had him racing from zero to sixty in about two seconds flat.
Now that it was happening, now that it was here between them, and no longer hiding, Dean couldn't feel surprised by this at all. He thought that Sam had to feel pretty much the same way -- there was acceptance in the sigh he trailed along Dean's jaw, angling back to lap at the soft skin underneath his ear.
"God," Sam panted, hands tightening in Dean's shirt and holding him in place as if he honestly thought Dean might try to get away. Dean bucked against him, fingers digging into Sam's biceps, and wondered if he'd ever gotten hard this fast in his life. He sincerely doubted it; this might be all kinds of fucked up crazy, but it was Sam, and nothing in his life had ever felt as right.
Sam's hands were warm on his chest now, burrowing under his jacket and shirt until they found skin. Dean buried his face in Sam's shoulder and exhaled roughly when the pads of Sam's fingers brushed over his nipples, pinching as they went. "I've wanted..." Sam said unevenly. He pressed his face against the side of Dean's neck and breathed in raggedly, like he was memorizing the scent of Dean's skin. "God, Dean... can I...?"
"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasped, unable to come up with anything more coherent. "You can do whatever you want to me."
Sam's fingers tightened over his ribs, blunt nails digging into his skin, but then they softened, smoothing in long sweeps down Dean's sides until they found the clasp of his jeans. Dean grunted his approval and pushed his hips forward, biting down hard on his lip when Sam fumbled open the front of his jeans and shoved a hand inside.
This was what he wanted, what he'd been needing, for longer than he cared to admit to himself. This right here -- the feel of Sam's hand on him, Sam's hard body against him, breath panting hot and dirty next to his ear, the heat of it racing through his veins, burning him up from the inside out with the knowledge of Sam, Sam, Sam chanting like an incantation through every thought in his head.
Sam slid a knee in between Dean's legs and pressed him back against the wall, making a sound that Dean had never heard from him before but that he sure as hell wanted to hear again, as often as possible. Dean bit down on Sam's jaw, tasting stubble and sweat and Sam and god, he must have done something extremely right in a previous life to deserve this. He ground his hips hard against Sam's thigh, against Sam's hand, his own hands clenching tight in Sam's clothes, refusing to let him go. Sam held him just as tightly, clinging to him, shuddering as he whispered things like Go for it and Take it, Dean and It'll be all right and I've wanted this for so fucking long. Dirty words, necessary words, that hit Dean right in the gut and held on tight in a way he didn't think would ever let him go.
Dean came with a low gasp, muffling the sound against Sam's shoulder. Pleasure unlike anything he had ever known before, because this was more than sex, more than bodies, and he wasn't sure what it was but he knew he'd been hunting for it all of his life.
There were still tremors moving through him when he fisted his hands in Sam's shirt and spun him around, pressing him back against the wall. Sam looked startled for one amusing moment before his eyes darkened and his mouth curled upward, and he dipped his head to breathe out hard across Dean's face.
Dean kissed him, and Sam returned it with interest, all tongue and hot breath and teeth. Dean's nerves were still singing from the force of his orgasm, his head spinning as he gave Sam's lower lip a final sharp nip and sank down slowly onto his knees.
"Dean," Sam said shakily, staring down at him with a look of naked vulnerability that made Dean want to kiss him absolutely senseless.
"Shh," Dean said. "Let me do this."
Sam was achingly hard; Dean could feel it as he cupped him through his jeans. Sam let his head fall back against the wall as Dean opened his fly and pulled down his shorts and just went for it, taking him all the way in. Sam's hands clenched hard over his shoulders, scrabbling at the back of his head, grasping at his hair like they wanted to grab hold of it but it was too short, and Dean considered the thought that he might be willing to let it grow out a little in the future so Sam would have something to hold onto.
It didn't take long. Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of the cock sliding between his lips, hot and heavy on his tongue and damn, why hadn't they ever done this before? He was shaking as hard as Sam now, bracing one hand on Sam's hip while the other moved inside Sam's pants, fondling his balls and stroking hard across the smooth skin behind them, using every trick he'd ever learned to make this as good and hard and hot as he possibly could.
Sam shouted out loud when he came, the sound cutting off into a strangled whimper as Dean swallowed, coaxing the last trembling aftershocks of it out of him. There was a sound of Sam's head thumping against the wall behind his head, which made Dean grin with what he felt was well-deserved smugness as he rose up unsteadily to his feet.
"This is not normal, Sam," he said, resting his forehead against Sam's, open-mouthed and panting. "You know that?"
There was a low expulsion of breath against Dean's lips that sounded like laughter. "Yeah. Yeah, I really do."
Dean glanced up finally, meeting Sam's eyes. "One of us should really be freaking out about this right now."
"We've never been normal, Dean." Sam looked shaken now, apprehensive but resolute. "Our family... this is about as normal as it gets for us."
The comment made Dean laugh unexpectedly, because damn. When had the Winchesters ever been normal? Or wanted to be?
"I won't hurt you," was all he could think of to say.
Sam moistened his lips, looking anxious and determined and so fucking beautiful Dean wanted to drag him to the bed and start kissing him all over again. "You won't, Dean. You couldn't."
"Damn straight."
The corner of Sam's mouth curled upward. His thumb traced Dean's shoulder. "Are we okay, then?"
Dean wasn't sure he would ever be okay again -- or if he even knew the meaning of the word, or cared -- but he was reasonably certain it wouldn't matter so long as Sam kept touching him, just like this.
Because Sam wasn't afraid to touch him.
Wanted to touch him.
Wanted him.
"Yeah," Dean said with a wry smile. "We're okay."
He surprised himself by actually meaning it.
The End
1/4/07