Fanfic: Cornerstone (Wincest, NC-17)
Title: Cornerstone
Author: sparseparsley
Rating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: Porn, Angst, Sam/Dean, Leviathan!Sam/Leviathan!Dean
Wordcount: 4.7k
Spoilers: Yes, fic takes place after episode 7.06, "Slash Fiction"
Warnings: Rough sex, Doppelganger sex, Public sex (Sort of. More like sex made public.)
Summary: After Sam leaves and the asshats wearing their faces are dealt with, Dean finds a video online. A security camera recording from the Leviathans' second bank hit.
Author's Note: Originally posted at Tiptoe's Evil Sam & Dean Commentfic Meme, in response to the prompt 'The security cameras catch the Evils having sex. It's really hot.' Thank you to Bindaroonie for a quick, thorough and awesome beta job. I ended up rewriting a lot of the ending because of some points she made and trust me, the world is happier for it. And thank you to tiptoe39 and a bunch of others for enabling me and each other in our love of Evil Winchesters.
**********
Dean Winchester knows torture. Inside and out, he knows it. From Hell, sure, yeah, but even before that he knew just how to break someone. You take something they love, and you make it hurt them. Dean’s been torturing himself with porn for years now.
Sam’s been gone for four days when Dean finally starts bringing out the big guns. The fantasies that curl in his stomach like black-sludge oil, the websites that he’s never, ever bookmarked and yet never failed to forget the names of. SistersBehavingBadly.com. AllInTheFamily.com. Fingers hard on the keyboard like it’s punishment.
All things considered, Dean supposes there are worse secrets the Leviathan could have spilled. Maybe it just hadn’t bothered to look underneath all the other crap rolling around in his head. Lazy.
Sam’s been gone for another three days when Dean finds the video. It’s from the second bank robbery, black and white footage from a security camera, grainy but still clear. Looks like it had been taken down almost immediately after it went up but, well, it’s the internet. What goes there stays there, if you know where to look.
And he does look. Eventually. Hunched down in a threadbare motel chair, his face colorless in the cold light of the laptop, he watches.
Over and over again he watches the view behind the bank’s tall counter. Grey desks, grey carpets, papers and office supplies spilled all over the floor from the panicked fleeing of the poor bastards who worked there. He watches the Leviathan wearing Sam’s face walk into view and catch sight of the camera. Sees it smile slowly, cold glee lighting its eyes. His eyes. Dean’s long since stopped thinking of either of them as ’it’.
The Sam on the screen calls out, voice distant and distorted in the low quality audio. Apparently even banks will go for the shittier security systems if they’re cheap enough. He waves a hand, beckoning until the one wearing Dean appears from the side, wiping dark stained hands on his jeans and leaving black smudges behind.
(Dean doesn’t need Technicolor to see it, he knows what human blood looks like on his own clothes, the exact shade it turns when it’s soaked into that particular pair of jeans.)
The Sam one nods his chin at the camera as he walks over, his steps light with excitement. Whatever he’s saying isn’t really audible beyond a random mumble but Dean looks up too, spotting the camera. The smile he gives as his brother leans down and whispers something into his ear is a near mirror to Sam’s earlier grin; slow, bright and cruel.
The angle of the camera makes it easy to see the moment when the whispering turns to something else, when Dean nods and Sam’s lips stop talking and start mouthing at the shell of his brother’s ear, tongue flicking out against the lobe, sucking at it. Biting. Dean winces but tilts his head for it none the less, inviting the teeth.
(It shouldn’t have shocked Dean the first time he watched this, considering where he found the video, but it did. Shocked him breathless, stopped his heart and then set it going again, double time.)
On the screen, Sam gives the camera a wicked look and moves behind Dean, turning them to face it head on. One arm slides in from behind, low and intimate around Dean’s stomach. The other presses fingers under Dean’s chin, pulling his head back against a wide, muscled shoulder as Sam leans down to nose at the exposed length of his neck. He moves up, face turning almost beatific as he nuzzles and sniffs into the hair behind Dean’s ear.
(Dean knows it’s fake, just a show. With how disgusted the Leviathans had been with humanity in general and them in particular, there’s no way they’re enjoying this as more than an exercise in destruction. But it’s a very convincing show. Probably all that porn they have rattling around in their stolen heads, giving them something to imitate.)
Dean mirrors his brother again, one hand curling on top of the arm around his torso, the other lifting, fingers running up the side of Sam’s face and into his hair where they grip tight, pulling them closer. His head twists against the drag of Sam’s fingers, angles up, and then they’re kissing.
It’s dirty, first. Mouths wide and fighting against each other as Sam’s fingers press dimples into Dean’s jaw, holding it tight. Tongues flash as they slide and tangle, leaving their lips slick and shining. Then it turns nasty, with Sam’s teeth digging in, yanking at Dean’s bottom lip in a way that leaves them both snarling and panting, bodies rocking against each other in unmistakable lust.
The hand at Dean’s stomach digs in and drags his shirt up before clawing under it, nails biting at the soft flesh of his waist. Above, they break apart. Barely. Hot breaths are panted into each other’s mouths, lips catching against lips with every exhale. Sam hitches Dean up against him harder, tighter, back to chest so his hips angle out wantonly. The position makes his pants pull awkwardly, leaving a narrow gap at the front that Sam eagerly slides his hand into.
The crude, shifting bulge of Sam’s hand on Dean’s cock inside his jeans would be ridiculous if not for the effect it has on Dean. His face is slack, rolling against Sam’s shoulder as he shoves into the hand. He spreads his thighs apart for it and his hands whip back to clutch at Sam as he lifts himself up on his toes again and again. The noises he’s making, hard gravel grunts in time with the lifting of his hips, are finally loud enough to hear through the camera’s sound system.
(This is the part where, after maybe a dozen viewings, Dean’s last, limping denials had given out. This is the part where he put his hand on himself for the first time.)
With a deep, denting bite into the tensed muscle of Dean’s shoulder, Sam pulls free and wraps both arms around his waist, half shoving and half lifting. He turns them both towards a desk on the right side of the screen, nearer to the camera. Dean twists around to face him and leans back on the desk, arms angled out behind him, legs spread. He tosses a look to the camera, winking.
Sam is on him in a second, attacking his pants and tearing the zipper down hard enough that Dean’s whole body jerks forward. His jeans get shoved down and off, with the underwear following after a quick tug-of-war with his shoes. It leaves him naked from the navel down, legs spread wide and cock stiffening in the open air. Sam takes it in hand and crouches between his knees, turning himself so that the camera has a clear view before he licks it from root to tip in one long motion. He does it again and Dean’s head falls back. Another time and Dean leans back onto one elbow, hand reaching out to pet his hair. He crowds closer, nose and mouth pressing under and up, snug into the humid dark behind Dean’s cock.
It’s impossible to see what he does there, but the throaty yell that leaps past Dean’s lips is telling enough.
Sam, this Sam, is apparently not big on taking things slow. He leaves Dean’s cock behind and stands, pulling Dean up by his coat collar and twisting him around, turning him to face the desk. Then one wide palm settles between his shoulder blades and presses down in a steady, relentless push; a vice that doesn’t stop until Dean is held down against the surface of the desk, cheek flat against the cheap, woodgrain laminate.
(This is the part that’s playing the first time Dean comes. It’s not the tease of a blowjob before it, or the inevitable moments after that get him. No, it’s the sight of his brother. Of Sam towering behind him with one arm holding him down. The clear dip of Sam’s hand against his coat that says it’s not just for show, the way his own shoulders bunch as a sign that he is trying to get up, but can’t. This is where he comes for the first time with his hand almost cramping around his cock and his eyes squeezed shut so tight he thinks he might go blind. Hopes, even.)
The work of getting Sam’s own pants down takes a handful of seconds, the time it takes to spit on his palm and slick up the length of his cock, spreading the little left over between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, another handful. At the touch on his ass, Dean spreads himself wider, feet so far apart that the only thing really holding him up on the desk is Sam.
With no lube and no preamble, Sam lines himself up, head of his cock nudging against Dean’s hole. He looks up, shakes the sweaty strands of hair from his face, and waves at the camera. Then he shoves in dry.
The sound the Dean on the video makes when Sam pushes home can’t really be described. Part howl and part grinding groan, harsh and ringing with a touch of something so old that it shivers through the minds of every person who hears it. They convince themselves it’s some distortion in the recording since it can’t possibly be human.
(Hard to say if it actually hurt or if he’s just going a little overboard with the show, it’s not like Dean can ask him now. And even if he could, well, his tongue would have a visit with a pair of garden shears before he’d ask that.)
Sam starts out fast and rough, the friction between them so harsh at first that Dean is pulled back with him when he pulls out. It’s Dean himself who wets his fingers in his mouth, coughing grunts escaping around them, and reaches back to try and ease the intrusion a little. Sam grabs at his hand, pressing it to his lower back so he has two arms holding him down now. He spares a little more spit before his hips snap viciously forward.
It eases a little after that, either from the spit or... well, they do bleed even if it’s not, strictly speaking, blood. Either way, the twist of pain on Dean’s face quickly morphs into a greedy, hungry snarl. He drags his hand out of his brother’s rigid grip and finds some form of leverage on the desk, shoving back onto his cock so hard that the heavy slap of it can be heard over the camera audio.
Sam is talking now, though it only comes through as an indecipherable rumble. Whatever he says has him smiling meanly and laughing as Dean twists his head to growl something back. His words can’t be heard either but it’s easy enough to read at least the “fuck you” on his lips.
The rest, the unreadable part, has Sam shoving Dean forward and hauling his leg up so it rests on the table, thigh to knee. The position opens him up and leaves his other leg scrabbling off the edge of the desk. Sam crawls up behind him, long thighs spread out around Dean’s hips as he sinks his cock in again.
It’s slower now, Sam moving without the full power of his legs underneath him, but hotter, closer as he leans over Dean and fucks him with shallow, grinding thrusts. Sam’s rears back as he gets closer, hands moving from clawing grips at hip and shoulder to tender caresses down Dean’s spine and back again. Near the end, Dean turns to face the camera, eyes hooded and mouth hanging wide as he yells out Sam’s name. His feet go taut and his toes spread wide, the shudder of orgasm clear in the way his torso squirms against the surface and his hands curl into shaking fists.
(Even if it wasn’t clear, Dean would know it. He can recognize it in the half-second of mindless bliss on the face in the video. And he can see that body slumping down and going loose in just the same way his did a few seconds before, lax with a post-orgasmic haze. He doesn’t stop the video, even though he finished. He never does.)
Above him, Sam pauses for a moment, likely enjoying the fluttering pleasure of muscles contracting around him. He starts up again as the tremors fade from Dean’s relaxed form, the pounding of his cock faster than before, shoving the sweat-slick body underneath him forward along the desk with every thrust.
He digs a hand into Dean’s hair to hold him steady, pulling back so Dean’s neck is a painful, beautiful curve. His last few thrusts are wracking, shaking the desk itself as he throws his head back with a roar, wild and off-pattern until he stops, shaking, rigid, and buried to the root in Dean’s ass, panting out high moans in time with the last twitches of his orgasm.
Slowly, he relaxes and sinks down against his brother, nosing at the hair behind his ear again and kissing the flushed skin at his throat. It’s tender and intimate, achingly deceptive until the thing wearing Sam shifts a few inches over and sinks his teeth into the meat of the other one’s shoulder. Black ooze spills out around a gnawing mouth as the one wearing Dean jerks in shock. In the grainy black-and-white footage, it may as well be blood.
The Sam one lifts away, black-stained teeth bared in a hiss as he pulls his cock free.
Still stretched over the desk, the one shaped like Dean turns his head to the camera and lifts his fingers to his lips, then towards the viewer in the unmistakable gesture of a blown kiss. At the same time, the other one hitches up his pants and pulls a gun out. He follows the other’s lead, blowing a mocking kiss before he raises the gun, aim centered on the camera.
The last few seconds of video are nothing but a bang and a distorted flash of fuzz before it all goes dark.
Dean sits, staring blindly forward as his heartbeat calms and his stomach churns. Soon, it comes to him that the traffic outside seems louder than before. And the room weirdly brighter considering it’s the middle of the night. He’s about to turn around when something, some noise or a movement of shadows stops him.
There’s someone behind him.
He goes goes cold and still. If there’s anything, any force left in the world that still listens to prayers like they mean something, the thing behind him will be a monster. A demon or a vampire or some spleen eating thing bent on revenge. But he knows it’s not. If it was, his instincts would have been screaming at him long before now. Plus it wouldn’t have had a key.
“... Sam?” His voice shakes, desperate for any answer but yes.
Behind him, something scuffs against the carpet.
“Dean.”
No.
His face collapses for one moment of total, cringing despair, eyes falling shut.
Not happening.
“Dean.”
Sam’s voice, low, sombre.
No.
But there’s no point. He can’t stop this from happening. And hell, why break such a long winning streak? He stands up with slow, halting movements and turns to face his brother.
Sam is standing in the open doorway of the motel room, grimy yellow light from the street lamps spilling in behind him. He looks... shocked isn’t the right word. Neither is heartbroken. It’s like... if Dean spoke in geek terms, he would say Sam is rebooting. Full mental restart. Except the restart seems to get stalled every time his eyes move from Dean’s face to the glowing screen of the laptop.
The flash of changing light that is the screensaver switching on is enough to get Dean’s tongue moving. “Thought you were gone.” It’s stupid, inane but it’s all he has. Stupid words in a dead voice.
“Not... not permanently.” It’s eerie, Sam’s voice, somehow thick and breathy at the same time.
A line creases between his eyebrows as his eyes flick to something on the table. Dean looks back, seeing the crumpled tissues he’d cleaned himself off with not minutes before. Guess he saw everything, then. Saw Dean watching... that. Them. Oh, should’ve stayed away, Sammy.
“How’d you get in?” It’s weird, you’d think in a moment like this he could muster up some kind of emotion in his voice. Even if it’s just the thin defence of bravado that’s seen him through so many other things. But all he has is this barren growl.
“... charmed the lady in the office into giving me a key.” Sam walks, or more shuffles the few steps forward needed to close the door behind him and stands, knapsack dangling loose and forgotten from his fingers. “Dean.”
“Don’t.”
Sam stops from where he’d been about to move forward, bag slipping out of his fingers as his hands rise in a calming motion.“I just-”
“Don’t, Sam!” Oh, there it is. There’s a little emotion. Dean turns away fast and leans on the table, one hand to the dusty surface as the other rubs roughly against his face, blocking his view. He can feel the panic bubbling up inside him under this cold acceptance. Just one thing, he’d thought, maybe just this one thing he could keep locked up solid. This twist in him that has shit all to do with Hell or death or demons, just something born bad. Something charred and buried but never dead. But no. Fucking of course not, no. Pain startles him, the pull of his own fist clenched in his hair.
Fingers wrap around his wrist and he jolts back and away, leg catching at the corner of the bed and nearly tripping him. “Fuck!”
Sam stands in the middle of the room, hands still raised where Dean had torn out of his grip, a hurt look on his face, like making sure he doesn’t have to touch Dean is a bad thing.
“Dean, we have to talk about this.”
He has to be fucking joking. “What? No. What is there to talk about, Sam? I know what you saw. You know what you saw. There’s no- there’s no talking here, fuck! You know, seriously, if you were any kind of smart you’d be gone already.” He’s shaking, breathing hard, fists clenching in the need to fight against something that can’t be fought.
The look Sam gives him is pissed off and frustrated, every inch the younger brother. It’s salt in Dean’s wounds. “Then I guess I’m just a big, dumb fuck because I’m not going and we are talking-”
“No.” It’s a crack of desperate sound more than a word. The panic is at the top now, and under that a toxic mixture of remorse and disgust that drives him back, away from his brother. “No, Sam. We are not. We are fucking never.” His hand slashes through the air like a butcher’s knife.
“Dean.” Sam stands in the center of the room, arms spread out low near his hips, imploring.
“No.” The wall is against his back now and he turns his shoulder into it, other arm rising in warning, keeping Sam back. “No, you know what we do with this. We bury it. I know, I fucking know I’ve said that before, but this?” His voice breaks and his hand pulls back to scour over his mouth. “This we fucking bury. I mean it. You pick up everything else, every god damn bit of shit that you’ve got shoved down and you put this underneath it all and you bury it! You understand me?” His face turns towards the wall, trembling, hiding. “Because I cannot- Sam- I- Fuck.” The rattling impact of his fist against the paneled wall echoes through the room. “This is it, Sam. This, I can’t. Please.”
Please.
After a long pause, empty except for the sound of Dean’s harsh breathing, Sam settles down onto the corner of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees and his hands hang low between them, exhaustion clear in the curve of his back and the bent angle of his neck. Another long minute later, he looks up, eyes clear and focused. “How long has this been on you?”
“What?” It’s so far out of what Dean’s expecting that he forgets he’s melting down for a second. “Did your hair finally grow a brain of its own and block your fucking ears? I said-”
“Been fourteen years for me. Not counting the cage. Which I don’t count, not for this.” His face, his voice, everything about Sam is straight forward to the point that it’s impossible to believe he means what he’s implying.
Because he can’t mean what he’s implying.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean glares at him, confusion driving him to anger. “What, so, fourteen years of what? Of knowing about m-” He stops, swallowing hard. “About this? If you’ve left it alone for that long then why the fuck can’t you now?”
“No. I didn’t know about you.” Sam sighs, deep and even like he’s letting something go. He leans back on his hands and turns his face towards the ceiling, eyes shut. “Fourteen years since you brought Rachel Thorne back to our room one night and fucked her against the door.” His legs stretch out, making him into one long line, powerful but vulnerable in that way that’s infected Dean since... since a long damn time. He goes on. “You kept telling her that it was okay, that I slept like a bear. But I wasn’t asleep. And when you turned her against the door and neither one of you could see me, I...” He shrugs, a small, self-directed motion that tells Dean exactly what he did. “Yeah. And the whole time I tried to think about her as hard as I could, about being with her. But it didn’t help. Because I was wishing I was her. With you. And that was the night I couldn’t deny it any more.” He sits up, rubbing a palm against his thigh like he’s wiping away the memory. “It was a long night.”
Dean is silent as Sam stands. He can’t be anything but silent. Years press on him, press and press, more years than he should rightfully have, leaving no room for anything else. Fourteen years, Sam says. So easy. How can it be so easy for him? How can he just...
But it’s Sam. He’s always been able to flip the world over, like it’s as simple as breathing.
Sam moves towards him, stopping a few feet away, gaze searching. “Dean, close your eyes, okay?”
He refuses, crowding against the wall like it’s the back bars of a cage. He can’t. He can’t just give up the fucking bedrock of all the crap inside him. Just because it turns out Sam’s been building on the same thing? No. It’ll fall apart, it’ll all fall apart. And then what?
Sam steps closer. “Dean. Close your eyes.”
He turns his head away, breathing hard. Then what?
Sam barely gets his name out again before his eyes flinch shut.
In the dark, every sound goes sharp. The scuff of boots against carpet, the shift of the layers of Sam’s clothes against each other, the terror-thud of his own heart. The barely there breath of his name on his brother’s lips, so close he can feel the tickle of air against his cheek.
It’s over quickly, so fast that he might believe it hadn’t happened if he couldn’t still feel the ghost-burn of a mouth against his own. He could believe it was innocent, too, just the moist press of shaking lips to the corner of his mouth, a fingertip of pressure. He could believe that, but he doesn’t.
Sam steps away again. “I, um.” He stops and Dean hears the long breath out his nose. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet. “That’s all I’ve got so far. Dean, I’m... I can’t have anything else yet, can’t give you- I’m still- shit.” Dean hears more sounds of feet on the carpet and when he opens his eyes, it’s to a view of Sam’s tense back. “I’m still pretty messed up over- over Amy, Dean. And how you- I just... I don’t understand-” He stops and starts, shoulders working as he swallows down his words. “I’m not okay. I thought I might be ready to talk, but...”
“But then I went and sprung a little more on you?” Dean’s voice is a hoarse rasp. Funny, it sounds like he hasn’t used it in years.
“No.” Sam turns back around but keeps his distance. Not out of disgust, Dean would be able to tell, but possibly sensing Dean’s need for a little space right now. And his own. “Well, yeah. But no. This is... different.” It’s almost a question, like Sam himself isn’t sure what he means. “No, not... no. I mean it’s separate. It’s us.”
It should sound stupid, cliched, an exaggerated moment in some shitty matinee movie. But it doesn’t, not when Sam says it. It sounds real.
“Look, Dean.” Sam backs off, gathering his bag from where it fell forgotten on the carpet. “I talked to Bobby, I know where you’re headed.” He stops by the table, contemplating something as he frowns down at the laptop. “I want you to stay here. For a few days, just take some time, okay? For yourself. I’ll go on ahead and when, when you’re ready... you come find me.” His fingers trail over the edge of the screen, smooth against the shining surface. “I’ll be there.” The screen closes with a click, Sam’s fingers firm against the back of it for a long moment before he moves away.
He’s almost gone and Dean hasn’t moved, has barely spoken. He has to say something. Anything. Everything. “Sam.”
Sam stops, looking over his shoulder. His face is at odds, bunched frown of his eyebrows playing against the shiver of a smile on his lips. “I know. Dean.” He turns back once more, sincerity in every awkward bone of him. “I’ll be there.”
Dean closes his eyes and nods, once.
At the door, Sam pauses once more and nods at the dark rectangle of the laptop. “So that’s, uh, it’s on the internet huh?”
Dean can’t help the sour smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Yup.”
“Awesome. Well, I guess we’re dead, evil, mass-murdering criminals anyway. What’s another descriptor?”
It pulls a laugh out of Dean. A pathetic, cynical sound that’s more of a fast exhale, really, but a laugh all the same.
Sam’s smile spreads a little wider before it fades away. “Don’t watch it again, okay? It’s not what we are.” He waits for Dean’s nod before heaving the knapsack over his shoulder. “See you later.” And then he’s gone.
After a while, Dean pushes away from the wall and drops himself onto the same corner of the bed that Sam had taken. The mattress sags down as he lays back on it, old springs creaking shrilly.
He doesn’t know if this means they’re both okay, he and Sam. Okay for them any way. Or if it means they’re both so fucked up that they’ve gone straight past dysfunctional and broken through the other side. He doesn’t know if it matters or if it matters that it doesn’t matter.
But, for now, he knows where he’s headed, and he knows Sam will be there, waiting. And then...
**********
Author: sparseparsley
Rating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: Porn, Angst, Sam/Dean, Leviathan!Sam/Leviathan!Dean
Wordcount: 4.7k
Spoilers: Yes, fic takes place after episode 7.06, "Slash Fiction"
Warnings: Rough sex, Doppelganger sex, Public sex (Sort of. More like sex made public.)
Summary: After Sam leaves and the asshats wearing their faces are dealt with, Dean finds a video online. A security camera recording from the Leviathans' second bank hit.
Author's Note: Originally posted at Tiptoe's Evil Sam & Dean Commentfic Meme, in response to the prompt 'The security cameras catch the Evils having sex. It's really hot.' Thank you to Bindaroonie for a quick, thorough and awesome beta job. I ended up rewriting a lot of the ending because of some points she made and trust me, the world is happier for it. And thank you to tiptoe39 and a bunch of others for enabling me and each other in our love of Evil Winchesters.
**********
Dean Winchester knows torture. Inside and out, he knows it. From Hell, sure, yeah, but even before that he knew just how to break someone. You take something they love, and you make it hurt them. Dean’s been torturing himself with porn for years now.
Sam’s been gone for four days when Dean finally starts bringing out the big guns. The fantasies that curl in his stomach like black-sludge oil, the websites that he’s never, ever bookmarked and yet never failed to forget the names of. SistersBehavingBadly.com. AllInTheFamily.com. Fingers hard on the keyboard like it’s punishment.
All things considered, Dean supposes there are worse secrets the Leviathan could have spilled. Maybe it just hadn’t bothered to look underneath all the other crap rolling around in his head. Lazy.
Sam’s been gone for another three days when Dean finds the video. It’s from the second bank robbery, black and white footage from a security camera, grainy but still clear. Looks like it had been taken down almost immediately after it went up but, well, it’s the internet. What goes there stays there, if you know where to look.
And he does look. Eventually. Hunched down in a threadbare motel chair, his face colorless in the cold light of the laptop, he watches.
Over and over again he watches the view behind the bank’s tall counter. Grey desks, grey carpets, papers and office supplies spilled all over the floor from the panicked fleeing of the poor bastards who worked there. He watches the Leviathan wearing Sam’s face walk into view and catch sight of the camera. Sees it smile slowly, cold glee lighting its eyes. His eyes. Dean’s long since stopped thinking of either of them as ’it’.
The Sam on the screen calls out, voice distant and distorted in the low quality audio. Apparently even banks will go for the shittier security systems if they’re cheap enough. He waves a hand, beckoning until the one wearing Dean appears from the side, wiping dark stained hands on his jeans and leaving black smudges behind.
(Dean doesn’t need Technicolor to see it, he knows what human blood looks like on his own clothes, the exact shade it turns when it’s soaked into that particular pair of jeans.)
The Sam one nods his chin at the camera as he walks over, his steps light with excitement. Whatever he’s saying isn’t really audible beyond a random mumble but Dean looks up too, spotting the camera. The smile he gives as his brother leans down and whispers something into his ear is a near mirror to Sam’s earlier grin; slow, bright and cruel.
The angle of the camera makes it easy to see the moment when the whispering turns to something else, when Dean nods and Sam’s lips stop talking and start mouthing at the shell of his brother’s ear, tongue flicking out against the lobe, sucking at it. Biting. Dean winces but tilts his head for it none the less, inviting the teeth.
(It shouldn’t have shocked Dean the first time he watched this, considering where he found the video, but it did. Shocked him breathless, stopped his heart and then set it going again, double time.)
On the screen, Sam gives the camera a wicked look and moves behind Dean, turning them to face it head on. One arm slides in from behind, low and intimate around Dean’s stomach. The other presses fingers under Dean’s chin, pulling his head back against a wide, muscled shoulder as Sam leans down to nose at the exposed length of his neck. He moves up, face turning almost beatific as he nuzzles and sniffs into the hair behind Dean’s ear.
(Dean knows it’s fake, just a show. With how disgusted the Leviathans had been with humanity in general and them in particular, there’s no way they’re enjoying this as more than an exercise in destruction. But it’s a very convincing show. Probably all that porn they have rattling around in their stolen heads, giving them something to imitate.)
Dean mirrors his brother again, one hand curling on top of the arm around his torso, the other lifting, fingers running up the side of Sam’s face and into his hair where they grip tight, pulling them closer. His head twists against the drag of Sam’s fingers, angles up, and then they’re kissing.
It’s dirty, first. Mouths wide and fighting against each other as Sam’s fingers press dimples into Dean’s jaw, holding it tight. Tongues flash as they slide and tangle, leaving their lips slick and shining. Then it turns nasty, with Sam’s teeth digging in, yanking at Dean’s bottom lip in a way that leaves them both snarling and panting, bodies rocking against each other in unmistakable lust.
The hand at Dean’s stomach digs in and drags his shirt up before clawing under it, nails biting at the soft flesh of his waist. Above, they break apart. Barely. Hot breaths are panted into each other’s mouths, lips catching against lips with every exhale. Sam hitches Dean up against him harder, tighter, back to chest so his hips angle out wantonly. The position makes his pants pull awkwardly, leaving a narrow gap at the front that Sam eagerly slides his hand into.
The crude, shifting bulge of Sam’s hand on Dean’s cock inside his jeans would be ridiculous if not for the effect it has on Dean. His face is slack, rolling against Sam’s shoulder as he shoves into the hand. He spreads his thighs apart for it and his hands whip back to clutch at Sam as he lifts himself up on his toes again and again. The noises he’s making, hard gravel grunts in time with the lifting of his hips, are finally loud enough to hear through the camera’s sound system.
(This is the part where, after maybe a dozen viewings, Dean’s last, limping denials had given out. This is the part where he put his hand on himself for the first time.)
With a deep, denting bite into the tensed muscle of Dean’s shoulder, Sam pulls free and wraps both arms around his waist, half shoving and half lifting. He turns them both towards a desk on the right side of the screen, nearer to the camera. Dean twists around to face him and leans back on the desk, arms angled out behind him, legs spread. He tosses a look to the camera, winking.
Sam is on him in a second, attacking his pants and tearing the zipper down hard enough that Dean’s whole body jerks forward. His jeans get shoved down and off, with the underwear following after a quick tug-of-war with his shoes. It leaves him naked from the navel down, legs spread wide and cock stiffening in the open air. Sam takes it in hand and crouches between his knees, turning himself so that the camera has a clear view before he licks it from root to tip in one long motion. He does it again and Dean’s head falls back. Another time and Dean leans back onto one elbow, hand reaching out to pet his hair. He crowds closer, nose and mouth pressing under and up, snug into the humid dark behind Dean’s cock.
It’s impossible to see what he does there, but the throaty yell that leaps past Dean’s lips is telling enough.
Sam, this Sam, is apparently not big on taking things slow. He leaves Dean’s cock behind and stands, pulling Dean up by his coat collar and twisting him around, turning him to face the desk. Then one wide palm settles between his shoulder blades and presses down in a steady, relentless push; a vice that doesn’t stop until Dean is held down against the surface of the desk, cheek flat against the cheap, woodgrain laminate.
(This is the part that’s playing the first time Dean comes. It’s not the tease of a blowjob before it, or the inevitable moments after that get him. No, it’s the sight of his brother. Of Sam towering behind him with one arm holding him down. The clear dip of Sam’s hand against his coat that says it’s not just for show, the way his own shoulders bunch as a sign that he is trying to get up, but can’t. This is where he comes for the first time with his hand almost cramping around his cock and his eyes squeezed shut so tight he thinks he might go blind. Hopes, even.)
The work of getting Sam’s own pants down takes a handful of seconds, the time it takes to spit on his palm and slick up the length of his cock, spreading the little left over between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, another handful. At the touch on his ass, Dean spreads himself wider, feet so far apart that the only thing really holding him up on the desk is Sam.
With no lube and no preamble, Sam lines himself up, head of his cock nudging against Dean’s hole. He looks up, shakes the sweaty strands of hair from his face, and waves at the camera. Then he shoves in dry.
The sound the Dean on the video makes when Sam pushes home can’t really be described. Part howl and part grinding groan, harsh and ringing with a touch of something so old that it shivers through the minds of every person who hears it. They convince themselves it’s some distortion in the recording since it can’t possibly be human.
(Hard to say if it actually hurt or if he’s just going a little overboard with the show, it’s not like Dean can ask him now. And even if he could, well, his tongue would have a visit with a pair of garden shears before he’d ask that.)
Sam starts out fast and rough, the friction between them so harsh at first that Dean is pulled back with him when he pulls out. It’s Dean himself who wets his fingers in his mouth, coughing grunts escaping around them, and reaches back to try and ease the intrusion a little. Sam grabs at his hand, pressing it to his lower back so he has two arms holding him down now. He spares a little more spit before his hips snap viciously forward.
It eases a little after that, either from the spit or... well, they do bleed even if it’s not, strictly speaking, blood. Either way, the twist of pain on Dean’s face quickly morphs into a greedy, hungry snarl. He drags his hand out of his brother’s rigid grip and finds some form of leverage on the desk, shoving back onto his cock so hard that the heavy slap of it can be heard over the camera audio.
Sam is talking now, though it only comes through as an indecipherable rumble. Whatever he says has him smiling meanly and laughing as Dean twists his head to growl something back. His words can’t be heard either but it’s easy enough to read at least the “fuck you” on his lips.
The rest, the unreadable part, has Sam shoving Dean forward and hauling his leg up so it rests on the table, thigh to knee. The position opens him up and leaves his other leg scrabbling off the edge of the desk. Sam crawls up behind him, long thighs spread out around Dean’s hips as he sinks his cock in again.
It’s slower now, Sam moving without the full power of his legs underneath him, but hotter, closer as he leans over Dean and fucks him with shallow, grinding thrusts. Sam’s rears back as he gets closer, hands moving from clawing grips at hip and shoulder to tender caresses down Dean’s spine and back again. Near the end, Dean turns to face the camera, eyes hooded and mouth hanging wide as he yells out Sam’s name. His feet go taut and his toes spread wide, the shudder of orgasm clear in the way his torso squirms against the surface and his hands curl into shaking fists.
(Even if it wasn’t clear, Dean would know it. He can recognize it in the half-second of mindless bliss on the face in the video. And he can see that body slumping down and going loose in just the same way his did a few seconds before, lax with a post-orgasmic haze. He doesn’t stop the video, even though he finished. He never does.)
Above him, Sam pauses for a moment, likely enjoying the fluttering pleasure of muscles contracting around him. He starts up again as the tremors fade from Dean’s relaxed form, the pounding of his cock faster than before, shoving the sweat-slick body underneath him forward along the desk with every thrust.
He digs a hand into Dean’s hair to hold him steady, pulling back so Dean’s neck is a painful, beautiful curve. His last few thrusts are wracking, shaking the desk itself as he throws his head back with a roar, wild and off-pattern until he stops, shaking, rigid, and buried to the root in Dean’s ass, panting out high moans in time with the last twitches of his orgasm.
Slowly, he relaxes and sinks down against his brother, nosing at the hair behind his ear again and kissing the flushed skin at his throat. It’s tender and intimate, achingly deceptive until the thing wearing Sam shifts a few inches over and sinks his teeth into the meat of the other one’s shoulder. Black ooze spills out around a gnawing mouth as the one wearing Dean jerks in shock. In the grainy black-and-white footage, it may as well be blood.
The Sam one lifts away, black-stained teeth bared in a hiss as he pulls his cock free.
Still stretched over the desk, the one shaped like Dean turns his head to the camera and lifts his fingers to his lips, then towards the viewer in the unmistakable gesture of a blown kiss. At the same time, the other one hitches up his pants and pulls a gun out. He follows the other’s lead, blowing a mocking kiss before he raises the gun, aim centered on the camera.
The last few seconds of video are nothing but a bang and a distorted flash of fuzz before it all goes dark.
Dean sits, staring blindly forward as his heartbeat calms and his stomach churns. Soon, it comes to him that the traffic outside seems louder than before. And the room weirdly brighter considering it’s the middle of the night. He’s about to turn around when something, some noise or a movement of shadows stops him.
There’s someone behind him.
He goes goes cold and still. If there’s anything, any force left in the world that still listens to prayers like they mean something, the thing behind him will be a monster. A demon or a vampire or some spleen eating thing bent on revenge. But he knows it’s not. If it was, his instincts would have been screaming at him long before now. Plus it wouldn’t have had a key.
“... Sam?” His voice shakes, desperate for any answer but yes.
Behind him, something scuffs against the carpet.
“Dean.”
No.
His face collapses for one moment of total, cringing despair, eyes falling shut.
Not happening.
“Dean.”
Sam’s voice, low, sombre.
No.
But there’s no point. He can’t stop this from happening. And hell, why break such a long winning streak? He stands up with slow, halting movements and turns to face his brother.
Sam is standing in the open doorway of the motel room, grimy yellow light from the street lamps spilling in behind him. He looks... shocked isn’t the right word. Neither is heartbroken. It’s like... if Dean spoke in geek terms, he would say Sam is rebooting. Full mental restart. Except the restart seems to get stalled every time his eyes move from Dean’s face to the glowing screen of the laptop.
The flash of changing light that is the screensaver switching on is enough to get Dean’s tongue moving. “Thought you were gone.” It’s stupid, inane but it’s all he has. Stupid words in a dead voice.
“Not... not permanently.” It’s eerie, Sam’s voice, somehow thick and breathy at the same time.
A line creases between his eyebrows as his eyes flick to something on the table. Dean looks back, seeing the crumpled tissues he’d cleaned himself off with not minutes before. Guess he saw everything, then. Saw Dean watching... that. Them. Oh, should’ve stayed away, Sammy.
“How’d you get in?” It’s weird, you’d think in a moment like this he could muster up some kind of emotion in his voice. Even if it’s just the thin defence of bravado that’s seen him through so many other things. But all he has is this barren growl.
“... charmed the lady in the office into giving me a key.” Sam walks, or more shuffles the few steps forward needed to close the door behind him and stands, knapsack dangling loose and forgotten from his fingers. “Dean.”
“Don’t.”
Sam stops from where he’d been about to move forward, bag slipping out of his fingers as his hands rise in a calming motion.“I just-”
“Don’t, Sam!” Oh, there it is. There’s a little emotion. Dean turns away fast and leans on the table, one hand to the dusty surface as the other rubs roughly against his face, blocking his view. He can feel the panic bubbling up inside him under this cold acceptance. Just one thing, he’d thought, maybe just this one thing he could keep locked up solid. This twist in him that has shit all to do with Hell or death or demons, just something born bad. Something charred and buried but never dead. But no. Fucking of course not, no. Pain startles him, the pull of his own fist clenched in his hair.
Fingers wrap around his wrist and he jolts back and away, leg catching at the corner of the bed and nearly tripping him. “Fuck!”
Sam stands in the middle of the room, hands still raised where Dean had torn out of his grip, a hurt look on his face, like making sure he doesn’t have to touch Dean is a bad thing.
“Dean, we have to talk about this.”
He has to be fucking joking. “What? No. What is there to talk about, Sam? I know what you saw. You know what you saw. There’s no- there’s no talking here, fuck! You know, seriously, if you were any kind of smart you’d be gone already.” He’s shaking, breathing hard, fists clenching in the need to fight against something that can’t be fought.
The look Sam gives him is pissed off and frustrated, every inch the younger brother. It’s salt in Dean’s wounds. “Then I guess I’m just a big, dumb fuck because I’m not going and we are talking-”
“No.” It’s a crack of desperate sound more than a word. The panic is at the top now, and under that a toxic mixture of remorse and disgust that drives him back, away from his brother. “No, Sam. We are not. We are fucking never.” His hand slashes through the air like a butcher’s knife.
“Dean.” Sam stands in the center of the room, arms spread out low near his hips, imploring.
“No.” The wall is against his back now and he turns his shoulder into it, other arm rising in warning, keeping Sam back. “No, you know what we do with this. We bury it. I know, I fucking know I’ve said that before, but this?” His voice breaks and his hand pulls back to scour over his mouth. “This we fucking bury. I mean it. You pick up everything else, every god damn bit of shit that you’ve got shoved down and you put this underneath it all and you bury it! You understand me?” His face turns towards the wall, trembling, hiding. “Because I cannot- Sam- I- Fuck.” The rattling impact of his fist against the paneled wall echoes through the room. “This is it, Sam. This, I can’t. Please.”
Please.
After a long pause, empty except for the sound of Dean’s harsh breathing, Sam settles down onto the corner of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees and his hands hang low between them, exhaustion clear in the curve of his back and the bent angle of his neck. Another long minute later, he looks up, eyes clear and focused. “How long has this been on you?”
“What?” It’s so far out of what Dean’s expecting that he forgets he’s melting down for a second. “Did your hair finally grow a brain of its own and block your fucking ears? I said-”
“Been fourteen years for me. Not counting the cage. Which I don’t count, not for this.” His face, his voice, everything about Sam is straight forward to the point that it’s impossible to believe he means what he’s implying.
Because he can’t mean what he’s implying.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean glares at him, confusion driving him to anger. “What, so, fourteen years of what? Of knowing about m-” He stops, swallowing hard. “About this? If you’ve left it alone for that long then why the fuck can’t you now?”
“No. I didn’t know about you.” Sam sighs, deep and even like he’s letting something go. He leans back on his hands and turns his face towards the ceiling, eyes shut. “Fourteen years since you brought Rachel Thorne back to our room one night and fucked her against the door.” His legs stretch out, making him into one long line, powerful but vulnerable in that way that’s infected Dean since... since a long damn time. He goes on. “You kept telling her that it was okay, that I slept like a bear. But I wasn’t asleep. And when you turned her against the door and neither one of you could see me, I...” He shrugs, a small, self-directed motion that tells Dean exactly what he did. “Yeah. And the whole time I tried to think about her as hard as I could, about being with her. But it didn’t help. Because I was wishing I was her. With you. And that was the night I couldn’t deny it any more.” He sits up, rubbing a palm against his thigh like he’s wiping away the memory. “It was a long night.”
Dean is silent as Sam stands. He can’t be anything but silent. Years press on him, press and press, more years than he should rightfully have, leaving no room for anything else. Fourteen years, Sam says. So easy. How can it be so easy for him? How can he just...
But it’s Sam. He’s always been able to flip the world over, like it’s as simple as breathing.
Sam moves towards him, stopping a few feet away, gaze searching. “Dean, close your eyes, okay?”
He refuses, crowding against the wall like it’s the back bars of a cage. He can’t. He can’t just give up the fucking bedrock of all the crap inside him. Just because it turns out Sam’s been building on the same thing? No. It’ll fall apart, it’ll all fall apart. And then what?
Sam steps closer. “Dean. Close your eyes.”
He turns his head away, breathing hard. Then what?
Sam barely gets his name out again before his eyes flinch shut.
In the dark, every sound goes sharp. The scuff of boots against carpet, the shift of the layers of Sam’s clothes against each other, the terror-thud of his own heart. The barely there breath of his name on his brother’s lips, so close he can feel the tickle of air against his cheek.
It’s over quickly, so fast that he might believe it hadn’t happened if he couldn’t still feel the ghost-burn of a mouth against his own. He could believe it was innocent, too, just the moist press of shaking lips to the corner of his mouth, a fingertip of pressure. He could believe that, but he doesn’t.
Sam steps away again. “I, um.” He stops and Dean hears the long breath out his nose. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet. “That’s all I’ve got so far. Dean, I’m... I can’t have anything else yet, can’t give you- I’m still- shit.” Dean hears more sounds of feet on the carpet and when he opens his eyes, it’s to a view of Sam’s tense back. “I’m still pretty messed up over- over Amy, Dean. And how you- I just... I don’t understand-” He stops and starts, shoulders working as he swallows down his words. “I’m not okay. I thought I might be ready to talk, but...”
“But then I went and sprung a little more on you?” Dean’s voice is a hoarse rasp. Funny, it sounds like he hasn’t used it in years.
“No.” Sam turns back around but keeps his distance. Not out of disgust, Dean would be able to tell, but possibly sensing Dean’s need for a little space right now. And his own. “Well, yeah. But no. This is... different.” It’s almost a question, like Sam himself isn’t sure what he means. “No, not... no. I mean it’s separate. It’s us.”
It should sound stupid, cliched, an exaggerated moment in some shitty matinee movie. But it doesn’t, not when Sam says it. It sounds real.
“Look, Dean.” Sam backs off, gathering his bag from where it fell forgotten on the carpet. “I talked to Bobby, I know where you’re headed.” He stops by the table, contemplating something as he frowns down at the laptop. “I want you to stay here. For a few days, just take some time, okay? For yourself. I’ll go on ahead and when, when you’re ready... you come find me.” His fingers trail over the edge of the screen, smooth against the shining surface. “I’ll be there.” The screen closes with a click, Sam’s fingers firm against the back of it for a long moment before he moves away.
He’s almost gone and Dean hasn’t moved, has barely spoken. He has to say something. Anything. Everything. “Sam.”
Sam stops, looking over his shoulder. His face is at odds, bunched frown of his eyebrows playing against the shiver of a smile on his lips. “I know. Dean.” He turns back once more, sincerity in every awkward bone of him. “I’ll be there.”
Dean closes his eyes and nods, once.
At the door, Sam pauses once more and nods at the dark rectangle of the laptop. “So that’s, uh, it’s on the internet huh?”
Dean can’t help the sour smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Yup.”
“Awesome. Well, I guess we’re dead, evil, mass-murdering criminals anyway. What’s another descriptor?”
It pulls a laugh out of Dean. A pathetic, cynical sound that’s more of a fast exhale, really, but a laugh all the same.
Sam’s smile spreads a little wider before it fades away. “Don’t watch it again, okay? It’s not what we are.” He waits for Dean’s nod before heaving the knapsack over his shoulder. “See you later.” And then he’s gone.
After a while, Dean pushes away from the wall and drops himself onto the same corner of the bed that Sam had taken. The mattress sags down as he lays back on it, old springs creaking shrilly.
He doesn’t know if this means they’re both okay, he and Sam. Okay for them any way. Or if it means they’re both so fucked up that they’ve gone straight past dysfunctional and broken through the other side. He doesn’t know if it matters or if it matters that it doesn’t matter.
But, for now, he knows where he’s headed, and he knows Sam will be there, waiting. And then...
**********