SPN fic: But my head is unraveling [Sam/Dean, NC-17]
Title: But My Head Is Unraveling
Author: bloodnfire
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incestuous gay sex (hurrah!)
Summary: Prompt: Their first time and alcohol is involved, and might I especially request a morning-after that's awkward as hell?
Notes: Written for dreamlittleyo for the Fall Fandom Free-For-All. A million thank yous to blackeyedwicca for the beta. Title from Nine Inch Nails. Also available in podfic form, read by the lovely dramaqueen469
Sam picks idly at the label of his beer bottle, small flakes of paper littering the table in front of him and sticking under his thumbnail. It's an old habit, but, every time Dean sees Sam working his nail between glass and paper, he still insists on helpfully pointing out that it means Sam's sexually frustrated. Which, Sam maintains, is ridiculous because he's been doing it since he was a little kid, intently tearing strip after strip of the labels off his soda bottles. And how many sexually frustrated five year olds does Dean know? Not that Dean ever actually listens to Sam's logic. He just rolls his eyes and tells Sam, that he doesn't have to get defensive in a knowing tone that makes Sam want to throttle him.
Thankfully, Dean's busy looking to release his own sexual frustration at the moment. He's half draped over a woman at another table, his lips close to her ear and Sam imagines his brother's voice, low and intimate, his breath warm against her ear. Imagines the meaningless words he might be saying to make her duck her head and smile, brushing a lock of dark hair away from her face. It's obviously meant to look self deprecating, but, Sam's pretty sure that she's just fishing for more compliments. Watching his brother pick up girls always makes Sam feel a little uncomfortable, like something warm is unfurling and twisting in his stomach. Sam tears his eyes away and decides he needs another beer.
***
Sam's two beers past drunk and working on making it three. Dean and his girl of the night have long since moved on from beer to shots and are now nowhere to be seen. Sam can still see the Impala out window, black and sleek in the sea of beat up pick up trucks that are apparently the only thing people drive around here. He makes little paper mountains out of scraps of beer labels, placing them all white side up so he has tiny range of snowy peaks running across the scarred wood.
A chair scraping across the floor boards makes Sam look up as Dean drops into the seat across from him, exhaling loudly and sending Sam's mountains flying. Pieces of label scatter across the table, some drifting to the floor like confetti. Sam watches with vague annoyance and Dean eyes the mess and laughs at him. "Dude, you know what that means, right?"
"Yeah, yeah." Sam mutters, glancing up at his brother. Dean's appearance leaves no question as to what he's been doing. His hair sticks out all over the place. Sam imagines hands tangled in it, pulling and twisting. Dark red marks are already clearly visible on Dean's throat, bruises blooming under lipstick smudges, and Sam gets a flash of lipsteethtongue; sucking, biting, licking. The warmth in his stomach starts to burn.
He follows Dean's gaze to the door where the girl seems to be going for a dignified exit, lipstick reapplied, skirt smoothed and straightened from where Sam imagines it hiked up around her hips. She and Dean share a smile and she mouths call me before disappearing into the night. Dean just grins, glancing down at his hand. There’s a phone number scrawled there - in what Sam thinks might be eyeliner - the black lines are heavy and already starting to smudge. Yet another number that Dean will never dial. Sam doesn’t think about what he’s doing, light headed from the alcohol he feels free, like he can do anything. It just seems obvious. He reaches across the table, grabbing Dean’s hand tight with his own; thumb swiping across and reducing the numbers to a black smear. Dean looks up at him, all wide eyed surprise, starts to say “What the fuck, man?” Sam doesn’t answer, just uses his grip on Dean’s hand to jerk him closer and crushes their lips together.
Dean’s mouth is a rigid line against Sam’s but he doesn’t pull away, just freezes. Sam makes the kiss more insistent, feels Dean’s lips soften and finally yield, parting enough for Sam’s tongue to slip inside. Dean’s mouth tastes like beer and vodka and Sam imagines the traces of a stranger’s lips and tongue. He makes the kiss deeper, harder and Dean finally starts giving back as good as he’s getting, sucking Sam’s tongue like he’s trying to replace every other taste with Sam. As much as Sam likes that, it’s not enough. He wants to replace every sensation with Dean, wants to replace the world with them.
***
He’s definitely had too much to drink. Everything blurs together so Sam goes from kissing his brother across a table in a crowded bar to slamming him against the door of their motel room. Dean grunts in pain, mutters, “Fuckin’ door knob,” but he doesn’t try to move away, just tilts his head up to meet Sam’s lips. The kiss is hungry and sloppy, more like a battle of teeth and tongue. It’s far from perfect, but all Sam wants is for this to never end. Dean arches against him, his fingers tangled tight in the fabric of Sam’s shirt, holding Sam close - like he’s afraid what will happen if they break apart. Sam’s hands move all over Dean’s body, its familiar territory from years of sparring and stitching up wounds but now it feels different, like Sam’s been wandering in the dark for years and suddenly the sun’s come up.
There are too many layers between them, Sam thinks, pushing Dean’s jacket back insistently. Dean lets it fall the floor, taking his unbuttoned flannel shirt with it, lets Sam manhandle his t-shirt over his head. Dean releases his hold on Sam and starts to work on stripping him; uncoordinated from the alcohol, fingers fumbling with buttons. Sam half expects Dean to just rip it off, but, instead Dean does it slowly, almost reverently, until Sam's shirt joins the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.
Sam’s hands move down Dean’s body, Dean’s skin warm against his own. He traces his fingers over Dean’s scars, raised white lines that tell the story of his brother’s life. Most of them he can identify, but there are a couple that Sam doesn’t recognise. Old wounds his brother got because Sam wasn’t there to watch his back. Permanent reminders that Sam left him, etched into Dean’s flesh. He lets his touch linger on these ones. He feels Dean’s gaze hot on his face and when he meets his brother’s eyes he sees Dean’s wearing that closed off expression, the one that says this is one of those things they don’t talk about. Dean’s eyes tell him that Sam doesn’t get to know those stories. Sam understands, slides his hand down further, stopping at the waistband of Dean’s jeans. Dean’s hips thrust up and his eyes flutter closed. Back pressed against the door, held there by Sam’s body; he smells like liquor and sweat and sex, marks of some one else all over him and Sam can’t think of any one in the world he wants more.
Sam presses his lips against the hickey's already blossoming on Dean's throat, dark purple-red bruises left behind to declare to the world, 'I Was Here'. Sam always found them tacky, used to roll his eyes at the way Dean would wear hickeys the same way he'd wear a black eye, like a badge of honour. Sam remembers the way sixteen year old Dean would strut around, proud of himself for all the wrong reasons, apparently blind to the right ones. His brother hasn't changed much. Sam sucks and bites at the flesh of Dean's neck, covering the bruises with his own angry red marks; he doesn't want the presence of any one else lingering between them.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean groans and Sam feels it against his lips, the sound of his name vibrating low in Dean's throat. The room's spinning around them, Sam's cock is hard and aching, pressed against Dean's hip. Dean shifting against him, friction sending shivers of pleasure through his body and Sam doesn't think his legs are going to hold him up much longer.
***
They stumble across the room, limbs tangled around each other - Sam nearly tripping over his jeans in his rush to get them off. They collapse on the closest bed, Dean sprawled half on top of Sam. They’re both breathing heavily, stripped down to their boxers and Sam can feel Dean’s cock, hard and damp, against his own. Sam bucks up, grinding their hips together. His breath hitches in his throat at the way Dean’s eyes roll back, the way Dean’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips; kiss swollen and bruised red.
Their eyes meet and Dean opens his mouth but Sam crushes their lips together before Dean can speak. Flipping them over in a move that he remembers Dean teaching him, reversing their position. Sam doesn’t want words, he’s afraid that if one of them speaks this’ll stop. It works. Dean kisses him back with abandon; eyes still open, pupils blown and his body loose and pliant under Sam’s. He lets his hands wander down Dean’s body, tracing an invisible line down his chest, his hip bone, letting a finger slip over his ass, not penetrating, just circling the hole. Dean’s breath catches in his throat and his voice is barely more than wrecked whisper, already fucked out, when he says, “Lube, condoms. In my jeans.” Sam doesn’t reply, just scrambles off the bed and snatches Dean’s discarded pants off the floor, searching the pockets until he comes up with a condom and a small tube. At Sam’s raised eyebrow Dean grins, his voice slurring a little, “You know what they say about good boy scouts, Sammy.”
Sam squirts some lube onto his fingers and turns his attention back to Dean’s hole, tracing around the ring before pushing the tip of one slicked up finger in. Part of him wants to savour this, make Dean writhe and moan with just his fingers. Make him beg for Sam’s cock for hours; make him want Sam more than he’s ever wanted any one in his life. The thought of Dean strung out and desperate, begging Sam to fuck him makes Sam’s blood burn in his veins, the room seems to be spinning and he’s sure it’s not just the beer. But mostly he just wants to get off. He wants to slam into Dean, fucking him quick and hard and urgent because he doesn’t think either of them are going to last long. He pushes in two fingers to the knuckle; Dean’s hips buck up and a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper falls from his lips. The sound goes straight to Sam’s already aching cock and he needs to be inside Dean right fucking now.
He thrusts in, sharp and maybe a little harsh. Dean bites down on his bottom lip but his hips rise to meet Sam’s. Despite his suspicions that Dean’s hustled more than just pool, a thought that makes his body pulse with an uncomfortable desire for violence, Sam doesn’t know whether Dean’s done this before. He remembers a night during his first week at Stanford, a boy with green eyes and a leather jacket in the bad part of town, which, for that first couple of weeks, had still felt like home. The guy wrote his number on Sam’s wrist with a black marker and sent him off with a wink; Sam let the ink wash away and never saw him again. He buries himself balls deep and then Sam doesn’t think at all; focuses on the increasing momentum, on the way Dean’s sweat-slick skin sticks to his own and the little panting moans Dean makes with each thrust. Dean’s legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back pulling him impossibly closer, impossibly deeper, like he’s afraid Sam’s about to bolt.
He feels the pressure building up inside him, hot waves of pleasure pulsing through his body. He's not going to last much longer. Dean's cock is pressed hard and wet against his belly, Sam wraps a hand around it, fist pumping erratically, Dean's hips twitching as he tries to thrust into Sam's fist and drive Sam's cock deeper at the same time. It's like the whole world has dropped away, leaving a black hole of just their bodies moving against each other. It feels right somehow, as Sam lets go and falls over the edge; the darkness wrapping around him as he comes. Hot, sticky wetness covers Sam's stomach as Dean follows suit. Distantly he hears a cry that he thinks might be his own, and the muffled sound of his name being moaned against flesh, as his mind drifts, warm and sated, into the black.
***
Sam tentatively cracks one eye open and winces. The small slither of sunlight visible through the thin curtains is bright on his face; sharp as a knife in the eye and it feels like thousands of tiny people are kicking his brain. He turns his head towards the warm body pinning him to the bed, taking in the sticky layer of sweat and come in between their skin. Shit. Disentangling himself from Dean gently, Sam's careful not to wake him. The longer Dean sleeps the better, Sam thinks, avoiding the inevitable. He staggers into the bathroom on shaky legs and concentrates on brushing and gargling the bitter taste of last night's beer out of his mouth. Softly shutting the bathroom door he turns on the shower, closes his eyes against the hot spray pounding his skin. He tries not to think about what he's washing off himself. Apparently they're both a lot more screwed up than Sam ever thought. Well, more than he ever let himself think anyway. Normal, healthy people don't get drunk and fuck their brother for christ sake, and while neither of them are shining examples of 'normal and healthy' this is definitely a whole new low. Or high, depending how you looked at it and whether you worked for the Jerry Springer show.
Coffee, Sam thinks as he roughly towels his wet hair. Coffee would be a good idea. He leaves the room as quietly as possible and feels a twinge of guilt, it doesn't seem right sneaking out on Dean like this, even though he's coming right back. But Dean doesn't look like he's waking up any time soon and Sam needs to get out of the room. Needs to clear his head.
***
Dean's awake by the time Sam gets back. He's standing in the middle of the room with his back to the door and when he turns his eyes are wide with a kind of panicked relief that makes Sam feel guilty for not leaving a note. "Coffee?" He says lamely, holding out one of the steaming paper cups. Dean takes the offered cup, turning away and clearing his throat. It's like now that he's established Sam hasn't taken off, he can't bring himself to look at him. Sam understands but that doesn't stop the sick twisting in his gut when Dean retreats into the bathroom.
Sam surfs the web while Dean showers, hoping to find them a hunt. Preferable something messy and complicated and distracting that they can dive right into. The water finally shuts off and Dean emerges about five minutes later. He's fully dressed but Sam can see the dark purple marks on his neck, starts to imagine how he looks under his clothes. And that's a thought that needs to be shut straight down. Dean doesn't say anything, just goes about throwing things in his duffel bag, casting glances at Sam out the corner of his eye when he thinks Sam's not looking.
While Dean throws their bags in the back of the Impala, Sam returns the room key, holding the door open for a blond girl coming in behind him. The suggestive smile she throws his way makes a sharp, panicked, oh my god, she knows, flicker through his head. Which is ridiculous and stupid and paranoid, right? He leaves the office as quickly as possible, making his way back to the car and opening the passenger door before she walks passed, eyes moving appreciatively over Dean in a way that makes Sam feel a little smug; he doesn't bother trying to smother the thought. Instead of returning the look and then some like he usually would Dean flushes and turns away. Maybe Dean's thinking the same thing he did. Sam folds himself into his seat and tries not to wince when Dean slams the door. "Son of a bitch." Dean mutters and Sam's not sure if Dean's talking to him or to himself, as he examines his throat in the rear-view mirror, prodding at one of the bruises. "You might as well've just pissed on me."
"Sorry?" Sam offers awkwardly, not really sure what the appropriate response is to that and surprised that Dean's actually acknowledging what happened between them. Maybe he never will again. But, as Dean starts the engine - Metallica filling the silence that follows Sam's answer - Sam feels a flutter of something in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge as hope.
Author: bloodnfire
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incestuous gay sex (hurrah!)
Summary: Prompt: Their first time and alcohol is involved, and might I especially request a morning-after that's awkward as hell?
Notes: Written for dreamlittleyo for the Fall Fandom Free-For-All. A million thank yous to blackeyedwicca for the beta. Title from Nine Inch Nails. Also available in podfic form, read by the lovely dramaqueen469
Sam picks idly at the label of his beer bottle, small flakes of paper littering the table in front of him and sticking under his thumbnail. It's an old habit, but, every time Dean sees Sam working his nail between glass and paper, he still insists on helpfully pointing out that it means Sam's sexually frustrated. Which, Sam maintains, is ridiculous because he's been doing it since he was a little kid, intently tearing strip after strip of the labels off his soda bottles. And how many sexually frustrated five year olds does Dean know? Not that Dean ever actually listens to Sam's logic. He just rolls his eyes and tells Sam, that he doesn't have to get defensive in a knowing tone that makes Sam want to throttle him.
Thankfully, Dean's busy looking to release his own sexual frustration at the moment. He's half draped over a woman at another table, his lips close to her ear and Sam imagines his brother's voice, low and intimate, his breath warm against her ear. Imagines the meaningless words he might be saying to make her duck her head and smile, brushing a lock of dark hair away from her face. It's obviously meant to look self deprecating, but, Sam's pretty sure that she's just fishing for more compliments. Watching his brother pick up girls always makes Sam feel a little uncomfortable, like something warm is unfurling and twisting in his stomach. Sam tears his eyes away and decides he needs another beer.
***
Sam's two beers past drunk and working on making it three. Dean and his girl of the night have long since moved on from beer to shots and are now nowhere to be seen. Sam can still see the Impala out window, black and sleek in the sea of beat up pick up trucks that are apparently the only thing people drive around here. He makes little paper mountains out of scraps of beer labels, placing them all white side up so he has tiny range of snowy peaks running across the scarred wood.
A chair scraping across the floor boards makes Sam look up as Dean drops into the seat across from him, exhaling loudly and sending Sam's mountains flying. Pieces of label scatter across the table, some drifting to the floor like confetti. Sam watches with vague annoyance and Dean eyes the mess and laughs at him. "Dude, you know what that means, right?"
"Yeah, yeah." Sam mutters, glancing up at his brother. Dean's appearance leaves no question as to what he's been doing. His hair sticks out all over the place. Sam imagines hands tangled in it, pulling and twisting. Dark red marks are already clearly visible on Dean's throat, bruises blooming under lipstick smudges, and Sam gets a flash of lipsteethtongue; sucking, biting, licking. The warmth in his stomach starts to burn.
He follows Dean's gaze to the door where the girl seems to be going for a dignified exit, lipstick reapplied, skirt smoothed and straightened from where Sam imagines it hiked up around her hips. She and Dean share a smile and she mouths call me before disappearing into the night. Dean just grins, glancing down at his hand. There’s a phone number scrawled there - in what Sam thinks might be eyeliner - the black lines are heavy and already starting to smudge. Yet another number that Dean will never dial. Sam doesn’t think about what he’s doing, light headed from the alcohol he feels free, like he can do anything. It just seems obvious. He reaches across the table, grabbing Dean’s hand tight with his own; thumb swiping across and reducing the numbers to a black smear. Dean looks up at him, all wide eyed surprise, starts to say “What the fuck, man?” Sam doesn’t answer, just uses his grip on Dean’s hand to jerk him closer and crushes their lips together.
Dean’s mouth is a rigid line against Sam’s but he doesn’t pull away, just freezes. Sam makes the kiss more insistent, feels Dean’s lips soften and finally yield, parting enough for Sam’s tongue to slip inside. Dean’s mouth tastes like beer and vodka and Sam imagines the traces of a stranger’s lips and tongue. He makes the kiss deeper, harder and Dean finally starts giving back as good as he’s getting, sucking Sam’s tongue like he’s trying to replace every other taste with Sam. As much as Sam likes that, it’s not enough. He wants to replace every sensation with Dean, wants to replace the world with them.
***
He’s definitely had too much to drink. Everything blurs together so Sam goes from kissing his brother across a table in a crowded bar to slamming him against the door of their motel room. Dean grunts in pain, mutters, “Fuckin’ door knob,” but he doesn’t try to move away, just tilts his head up to meet Sam’s lips. The kiss is hungry and sloppy, more like a battle of teeth and tongue. It’s far from perfect, but all Sam wants is for this to never end. Dean arches against him, his fingers tangled tight in the fabric of Sam’s shirt, holding Sam close - like he’s afraid what will happen if they break apart. Sam’s hands move all over Dean’s body, its familiar territory from years of sparring and stitching up wounds but now it feels different, like Sam’s been wandering in the dark for years and suddenly the sun’s come up.
There are too many layers between them, Sam thinks, pushing Dean’s jacket back insistently. Dean lets it fall the floor, taking his unbuttoned flannel shirt with it, lets Sam manhandle his t-shirt over his head. Dean releases his hold on Sam and starts to work on stripping him; uncoordinated from the alcohol, fingers fumbling with buttons. Sam half expects Dean to just rip it off, but, instead Dean does it slowly, almost reverently, until Sam's shirt joins the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.
Sam’s hands move down Dean’s body, Dean’s skin warm against his own. He traces his fingers over Dean’s scars, raised white lines that tell the story of his brother’s life. Most of them he can identify, but there are a couple that Sam doesn’t recognise. Old wounds his brother got because Sam wasn’t there to watch his back. Permanent reminders that Sam left him, etched into Dean’s flesh. He lets his touch linger on these ones. He feels Dean’s gaze hot on his face and when he meets his brother’s eyes he sees Dean’s wearing that closed off expression, the one that says this is one of those things they don’t talk about. Dean’s eyes tell him that Sam doesn’t get to know those stories. Sam understands, slides his hand down further, stopping at the waistband of Dean’s jeans. Dean’s hips thrust up and his eyes flutter closed. Back pressed against the door, held there by Sam’s body; he smells like liquor and sweat and sex, marks of some one else all over him and Sam can’t think of any one in the world he wants more.
Sam presses his lips against the hickey's already blossoming on Dean's throat, dark purple-red bruises left behind to declare to the world, 'I Was Here'. Sam always found them tacky, used to roll his eyes at the way Dean would wear hickeys the same way he'd wear a black eye, like a badge of honour. Sam remembers the way sixteen year old Dean would strut around, proud of himself for all the wrong reasons, apparently blind to the right ones. His brother hasn't changed much. Sam sucks and bites at the flesh of Dean's neck, covering the bruises with his own angry red marks; he doesn't want the presence of any one else lingering between them.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean groans and Sam feels it against his lips, the sound of his name vibrating low in Dean's throat. The room's spinning around them, Sam's cock is hard and aching, pressed against Dean's hip. Dean shifting against him, friction sending shivers of pleasure through his body and Sam doesn't think his legs are going to hold him up much longer.
***
They stumble across the room, limbs tangled around each other - Sam nearly tripping over his jeans in his rush to get them off. They collapse on the closest bed, Dean sprawled half on top of Sam. They’re both breathing heavily, stripped down to their boxers and Sam can feel Dean’s cock, hard and damp, against his own. Sam bucks up, grinding their hips together. His breath hitches in his throat at the way Dean’s eyes roll back, the way Dean’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips; kiss swollen and bruised red.
Their eyes meet and Dean opens his mouth but Sam crushes their lips together before Dean can speak. Flipping them over in a move that he remembers Dean teaching him, reversing their position. Sam doesn’t want words, he’s afraid that if one of them speaks this’ll stop. It works. Dean kisses him back with abandon; eyes still open, pupils blown and his body loose and pliant under Sam’s. He lets his hands wander down Dean’s body, tracing an invisible line down his chest, his hip bone, letting a finger slip over his ass, not penetrating, just circling the hole. Dean’s breath catches in his throat and his voice is barely more than wrecked whisper, already fucked out, when he says, “Lube, condoms. In my jeans.” Sam doesn’t reply, just scrambles off the bed and snatches Dean’s discarded pants off the floor, searching the pockets until he comes up with a condom and a small tube. At Sam’s raised eyebrow Dean grins, his voice slurring a little, “You know what they say about good boy scouts, Sammy.”
Sam squirts some lube onto his fingers and turns his attention back to Dean’s hole, tracing around the ring before pushing the tip of one slicked up finger in. Part of him wants to savour this, make Dean writhe and moan with just his fingers. Make him beg for Sam’s cock for hours; make him want Sam more than he’s ever wanted any one in his life. The thought of Dean strung out and desperate, begging Sam to fuck him makes Sam’s blood burn in his veins, the room seems to be spinning and he’s sure it’s not just the beer. But mostly he just wants to get off. He wants to slam into Dean, fucking him quick and hard and urgent because he doesn’t think either of them are going to last long. He pushes in two fingers to the knuckle; Dean’s hips buck up and a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper falls from his lips. The sound goes straight to Sam’s already aching cock and he needs to be inside Dean right fucking now.
He thrusts in, sharp and maybe a little harsh. Dean bites down on his bottom lip but his hips rise to meet Sam’s. Despite his suspicions that Dean’s hustled more than just pool, a thought that makes his body pulse with an uncomfortable desire for violence, Sam doesn’t know whether Dean’s done this before. He remembers a night during his first week at Stanford, a boy with green eyes and a leather jacket in the bad part of town, which, for that first couple of weeks, had still felt like home. The guy wrote his number on Sam’s wrist with a black marker and sent him off with a wink; Sam let the ink wash away and never saw him again. He buries himself balls deep and then Sam doesn’t think at all; focuses on the increasing momentum, on the way Dean’s sweat-slick skin sticks to his own and the little panting moans Dean makes with each thrust. Dean’s legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back pulling him impossibly closer, impossibly deeper, like he’s afraid Sam’s about to bolt.
He feels the pressure building up inside him, hot waves of pleasure pulsing through his body. He's not going to last much longer. Dean's cock is pressed hard and wet against his belly, Sam wraps a hand around it, fist pumping erratically, Dean's hips twitching as he tries to thrust into Sam's fist and drive Sam's cock deeper at the same time. It's like the whole world has dropped away, leaving a black hole of just their bodies moving against each other. It feels right somehow, as Sam lets go and falls over the edge; the darkness wrapping around him as he comes. Hot, sticky wetness covers Sam's stomach as Dean follows suit. Distantly he hears a cry that he thinks might be his own, and the muffled sound of his name being moaned against flesh, as his mind drifts, warm and sated, into the black.
***
Sam tentatively cracks one eye open and winces. The small slither of sunlight visible through the thin curtains is bright on his face; sharp as a knife in the eye and it feels like thousands of tiny people are kicking his brain. He turns his head towards the warm body pinning him to the bed, taking in the sticky layer of sweat and come in between their skin. Shit. Disentangling himself from Dean gently, Sam's careful not to wake him. The longer Dean sleeps the better, Sam thinks, avoiding the inevitable. He staggers into the bathroom on shaky legs and concentrates on brushing and gargling the bitter taste of last night's beer out of his mouth. Softly shutting the bathroom door he turns on the shower, closes his eyes against the hot spray pounding his skin. He tries not to think about what he's washing off himself. Apparently they're both a lot more screwed up than Sam ever thought. Well, more than he ever let himself think anyway. Normal, healthy people don't get drunk and fuck their brother for christ sake, and while neither of them are shining examples of 'normal and healthy' this is definitely a whole new low. Or high, depending how you looked at it and whether you worked for the Jerry Springer show.
Coffee, Sam thinks as he roughly towels his wet hair. Coffee would be a good idea. He leaves the room as quietly as possible and feels a twinge of guilt, it doesn't seem right sneaking out on Dean like this, even though he's coming right back. But Dean doesn't look like he's waking up any time soon and Sam needs to get out of the room. Needs to clear his head.
***
Dean's awake by the time Sam gets back. He's standing in the middle of the room with his back to the door and when he turns his eyes are wide with a kind of panicked relief that makes Sam feel guilty for not leaving a note. "Coffee?" He says lamely, holding out one of the steaming paper cups. Dean takes the offered cup, turning away and clearing his throat. It's like now that he's established Sam hasn't taken off, he can't bring himself to look at him. Sam understands but that doesn't stop the sick twisting in his gut when Dean retreats into the bathroom.
Sam surfs the web while Dean showers, hoping to find them a hunt. Preferable something messy and complicated and distracting that they can dive right into. The water finally shuts off and Dean emerges about five minutes later. He's fully dressed but Sam can see the dark purple marks on his neck, starts to imagine how he looks under his clothes. And that's a thought that needs to be shut straight down. Dean doesn't say anything, just goes about throwing things in his duffel bag, casting glances at Sam out the corner of his eye when he thinks Sam's not looking.
While Dean throws their bags in the back of the Impala, Sam returns the room key, holding the door open for a blond girl coming in behind him. The suggestive smile she throws his way makes a sharp, panicked, oh my god, she knows, flicker through his head. Which is ridiculous and stupid and paranoid, right? He leaves the office as quickly as possible, making his way back to the car and opening the passenger door before she walks passed, eyes moving appreciatively over Dean in a way that makes Sam feel a little smug; he doesn't bother trying to smother the thought. Instead of returning the look and then some like he usually would Dean flushes and turns away. Maybe Dean's thinking the same thing he did. Sam folds himself into his seat and tries not to wince when Dean slams the door. "Son of a bitch." Dean mutters and Sam's not sure if Dean's talking to him or to himself, as he examines his throat in the rear-view mirror, prodding at one of the bruises. "You might as well've just pissed on me."
"Sorry?" Sam offers awkwardly, not really sure what the appropriate response is to that and surprised that Dean's actually acknowledging what happened between them. Maybe he never will again. But, as Dean starts the engine - Metallica filling the silence that follows Sam's answer - Sam feels a flutter of something in his chest that he refuses to acknowledge as hope.