fic: they shoot werewolves, don't they? 3/? (sam/dean, R)
title: they shoot werewolves, don't they? pt. 3
rating: hard R
pairing: sam/dean
summary: season 6 AU. six months later, Sam is free from hell. there's a catch. it's painful. Dean isn't dealing with the fine print very well at all.
warnings: gross and disturbing imagery, first time, hurt!Sam
A/N: this is almost finished. big thanks to zacky for the beta.
part 1
part 2
The shower's been going for 20 minutes now. If this were any other night, Dean would open the door a crack and tell his brother to leave his little soldier alone and stop hogging the bathroom, but it takes a while to get bloodstains out of your nails, and if Sam wants a good, hot shower, he's not about to bother him.
He'd pulled over at a gas station some ways up the road to grab some paper towels for Sam's face and a few other essentials (Gatorade, cheap whiskey). The cashier had directed him to a budget motel not far from there, thankfully too bored to notice the blood splotches peeking out from under Dean's jacket. It worries him a little to use his debit card - Lisa sometimes goes over his statements and he still has no idea where to even begin explaining any of this to her - but as soon as he had walked in Room 119, tossed his jacket on the bed, inhaled that Lysol-and-stale-cigarette smell, it felt like coming home, if home cost $39 a night and came with free coffee.
He wishes being back in a place like this didn't feel so goddamn right. Just sitting here with the shower running and Sam's green jacket thrown across the other bed is doing more for him than any of those therapy sessions Lisa paid for. This is a world where he knows his place, knows exactly where he stands. He's a regular here. It's hard to remember the bad times, the crippling hangovers and week-long fights where they wouldn't say a word to each other outside of "cover me" and "behind you", coming back to crumpled bedsheets, Sam pacing around, and wondering how long ago Ruby'd left, that one time he got blind drunk and watched Sam sleeping for an hour, leaned over him and said, "This is the only time when I trust you." All of that ended in Stull. That weight's not hanging on him anymore. He thinks maybe they can actually start over from here. Dean's thinking about all this with his feet up on the vinyl table by the door, taking slow, languid sips from a fifth of room-temperature Kessler still in the paper bag.
The bathroom door finally opens, and when Sam comes out he's wearing his bloodstained jeans and this sweater that's been in Dean's trunk for months, a gray button-up flannel thing that made his neck itch and that he'd forgotten to return. He's amazed it actually fit over Sam's giant head. His face is flushed pink from being scrubbed and his hair's damp, tousled, hanging over his eyes.
"How you feeling?"
Sam smiles, which catches him totally off guard, and flops down on the edge of the bed with his legs pointing toward Dean, leaning back on his hands.
"Okay, actually," he says in that energetic, too-loud-to-be-an-inside-voice voice of his. "That shower really did something for me."
"Or you were doin' something to yourself," Dean quips, raising his eyebrows. "You were in there for like a half hour, man. What gives?"
Sam shrugs, makes a bemused face. "I was just, you know. Thinking about stuff."
"Would any of that stuff happen to be, I don’t know…" Dean taps his chin. "Related to the whole back from the dead, puking, mega psychic nosebleed thing?"
He watches, immediately regretting it, as Sam's smile gets tighter and he looks down at his knees. That was a really dick move he just pulled, calling him out like that when he was looking so happy. But he hates this stupid denial game Sam likes to play - okay, he's been guilty of doing the same thing too, but they've been reunited for all of two and a half hours and it's starting up again already.
Sam rubs his damp hair, tucks it back behind his ears, still looking down, and Dean gets this horrible twinge in his chest watching him sit there like a scolded dog. Who is Dean to judge, anyway? Why can't the kid have a few secrets? God knows he's held onto a few himself.
"Got some whiskey," Dean blurts out abruptly, wincing at how lame that sounded. He holds the bottle up. "Pour you some?"
Sam looks up and a little piece of that smile is still left, thank god.
"Yeah, definitely."
Sam gets up and walks over to the cabinets above the mini-fridge, finds a stack of red plastic Dixie cups and carries two of them over. Dean gives him a generous pour, filling his cup to about an inch from the top, then pours himself one so full it's almost overflowing. He leans over it carefully and sips off the top until it's not about to spill all over him. Sam immediately goes to work on his, tilting his head back and chugging, Adam's apple working furiously.
"Okay, you might wanna slow down there, cowboy," Dean says nervously. Sam finishes with a huge exhale, his face flushed, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he cracks up, laughing like an idiot, eyes scrunched and the whiskey sloshing precariously in his cup.
The sound of it gives Dean this warm, flushed feeling that spreads down to his toes. He can't even remember the last time he heard that sound. It's making him smile reflexively just seeing his brother's face.
"Man, this feels weird," Sam says breathlessly, grinning.
"I know, right?"
"Can we - wanna watch TV or something?
Dean slings his legs off the table and grabs the remote, buzzing with stupid, drunken happiness.
"Up to you, Sammy."
* * *
The mood doesn't last long. Sam's drinking for a reason and it's not hard to figure out why. He's been talking less and less, his energy fading as they polish off the Kessler, barely five shots left in the bottle at this point. Dean feels weirdly sober. Maybe it's just the gravity of the situation, but usually after his fourth drink he'd be rambling on about nothing or doing some macho, repetitive busywork like cleaning his gun (the one Lisa doesn't know he carries). Instead, the whiskey is making him kind of emotional, especially as the night keeps going and his brother's barely moved, staring expressionlessly at the censored TV version of "True Lies" even when the commercials are on, like he's not even seeing it.
"You know, I don't get it," Sam murmurs out of nowhere, still fixed on the TV, light from the screen flashing across his face, reflecting sharply in his eyes. It's the first thing he's said in almost half an hour.
Dean mutes the TV. "Get what?"
"This … thing. It felt like a cold at first, just this - this headache, and my nose was running. And then that went away, I was fine, I was listening to you in the bar, and …" He shakes his head. His shoulders are hunched up, fingers digging into his knees. It's the most he's talked about anything all night, and Dean realizes suddenly that he's terrified to hear this, so scared of whatever Sam's hiding that he almost wants to stop him right there and go back to the uncomfortable silence.
"All of a sudden I got so sick, just in half a second. I mean, I've never felt so sick in my life. And then that went away too, and I guess I, I must have had a pretty bad nosebleed, because I saw my shirt and it was just soaked." He stops, takes a long breath and exhales through his nose like he's trying to calm himself down.
"And right now? How are you feeling right now?"
Sam looks at him, and his face is a tangle of competing emotions, twisted and unreadable. It sends a jolt through Dean. He's pretty shaken up about all this himself, the calming effects of alcohol aside, but whatever's doing this to Sam he hopes it's something with a form, something he can reach out and strangle and kill. It's funny how his thoughts always turn to violence instead of comfort when his brother's upset, probably because he's spent the last five years unable to make Sam feel any better about anything. It was so much easier when he was a kid. Man, that kid used to love him so much. All he had to do was offer to play catch, or tell him a story, or watch "The Karate Kid" on TV for the 20th time, and it was like whatever was bothering Sam would just disappear. The Sam he's looking at right now kind of terrifies him, not because Dean cares about him any less but because there's so much he doesn't know. There are no easy pathways for him anymore, nothing he really knows how to do for his brother except kill whatever unlucky son of a bitch decides to put the crosshairs on him.
"Dean." Sam's voice is thick, quiet. "When I came back. There was an angel."
A heavy, sinking feeling settles deep in his stomach. Of course it's an angel. Hell doesn't just hand out vacation time for good behavior. But still, he'd hoped it was something else, some kind of cosmic oversight, even a conjuring or something. Anything but angels. Unless-
"Was it - was it Cas?"
He hasn't seen or heard from Castiel since the shit hit the fan in Stull. It was like adding insult to injury. His brother was gone, and then he ended up losing one of the few people he's ever considered a friend. Maybe it was stupid to assume that an angel who'd betrayed his own heavenly family would be above betraying Dean.
"I don't know, I couldn't see anything. I just heard a voice. This … huge … voice."
"What did it say?"
Dean watches as his brother shifts uncomfortably, gripping his knees, and waits for an answer that he knows is going to hurt.
" 'You have been granted time to walk the earth,' " Sam says slowly. In front of him, on the muted television, there's an intense shootout going on and the reflections from the muzzle flares play over his face, flashing and bright. " 'Your time will end swiftly. God will provide the lamb for the burnt offering.' "
"That’s it? That's all the angel said?"
Sam doesn't answer, stays still for a long minute. He seems hypnotized by the gunfire on screen. Dean is tense, sick with anticipation, and without thinking he reaches for the bottle of Kessler and takes a pull, swallowing hard until he runs out of breath.
"There was something else," Sam starts, then trails off. Maybe it's the lighting, or the sudden flush of the whiskey scalding through him, but his brother looks so young all of a sudden he could be an apparition from one of Dean's memories, haunting him with guilt. Sam looks up at the ceiling and he can barely hear him when he speaks.
" 'You will die by your brother's hand or not at all.' "
Dean stands up immediately, unsteady, and leans against the wall. He feels hot and nauseous, his head swimming, trying to make sense of this and coming up with nothing except I'm cursed. We're both fucking cursed. This is never going to end, ever.
"Dean, that's why I've been getting sick." Sam sounds empty, deadened. "They brought me back on a time limit. It's going to get worse."
"You don't know that," he pleads in a pathetically tight voice, half trying to convince himself. "We can - we can work this out, try to … summon the asshole. Maybe Cas knows what's going on. I mean, that's what we do, right? We, we keep trying until-"
"No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?" It comes out way louder than he intended. He paces across the room over to the far wall, jaw clenched and sore, and just stares at it in frustration.
"We're not going to stop it," he hears Sam whisper behind him. "We're not going through that again."
A coil of anger burns through Dean like acid, and he whirls around to face his brother, livid. "Okay, Sam, you know what?" He's shouting, probably waking the neighbors, but fuck them. "Maybe you - maybe you're okay with this. Maybe you're still so freaked out from Hell that you don't even care about your own life. I get that, okay? I mean, seriously. I get it."
He walks up to Sam, puts his hands on his shoulders, and Sam twitches in surprise but doesn't look up at him. It's pointless, it's futile to even try, and it may be the definition of insanity but Dean is going to talk to his brother expecting a different result, that 1% chance that maybe he can actually get through to him, change his mind for once in his life. He is all about that 1% chance. And he's also pretty drunk.
"Here's the thing. I care. And you came to me, so maybe you're cool with laying right down and letting some angel tell you that you're about to go back downstairs, but I'm not." He tightens his grip on Sam's shoulders, feels an incredible tension there, like steel cables on a bridge. "And if he says your brother's hand is the one that's gonna do it, well. It's like I told you a long time ago. I'd rather die."
He lingers for a second, bites his lip hard. He hadn't meant to go that far. Not that he doesn't mean it - that's never going to change - but he hates putting that much of himself out there in front of Sam, never knowing how he's going to react or if he's even listening. It's embarrassing and weird, now that Sam is the one with the whole defensive front and Dean's has just broken down from too much use. He lets go of Sam's shoulders and turns around awkwardly, the sudden silence heavy, burning in his ears.
"Dean."
Sam's voice is clenched. It's almost a cough instead of a word. Dean looks over his shoulder with a pulse of worry, and Sam is actually crying, tears dripping off his nose down to his chin, hands fisted up against the mattress, fighting hard to keep his face expressionless anyway. It twists Dean up inside, always has, makes him feel like he's screwed up something major.
"It's not that I don't care," Sam says, choosing his words carefully between measured breaths. "But when I called you, I didn't know what it meant. And if this gets worse-" He cuts off, tries to get his voice under control. "When it gets worse. I don't want to put you through it. You've done enough for me. You finally have a life outside of-"
"Sam, it's okay."
"No, it's not." He drops his head, swallows hard. "You went to Hell. For me. And you'd - you'd do it again. If I asked." He's having a hard time getting the words out, even though it looks like he's stopped crying. "And that's why. I can't." His brow furrows in confusion. "Do - do you hear that?"
The only sound he's aware of is his pulse, loud and hard as a nailgun.
"I don’t hear anything."
Sam bends forward, covers his face with his hands. "Sounds like a … a drill or something … god, how do you not hear that?"
"Sam, there's - it's silent in here, man." Jesus, he's not ready for this. Not again. If this is the next stage of the whole 'swiftly ending' deal and he can't do anything about it, can't even tell what's going on-
Sam drops his head onto his knees. "Dean, I think I'm hallucinating," he hisses through his teeth.
"What - what are you …" Dean sits down on the bed next to him and touches his back, hollowed out with worry. Sam's breath is coming in short, shallow gasps now, his body totally locked up, fingers digging into his scalp.
"Talk to me, Sam. Come on." He can't even think anymore, just rubs Sam's back up and down uselessly, teeth digging into his lip. Even if this is all he can do, just stay here while it happens- whatever the fuck this is that's happening-
"It's not - it won't fit. Please," Sam begs, voice high-pitched, muffled through his hands. "Somewhere else. It won't fit."
A sick, dizzy feeling rushes through Dean, a sense of familiarity. He's heard that somewhere before. Where has he heard that? He keeps stroking Sam's back in sort of a daze. It won't fit. There was a lot of blood, wherever it was. Maybe on a hunt.
Out of nowhere, Sam screams and his legs start to fold up, heels digging into the carpet. The sound of it scorches Dean raw. Then he remembers where he's heard that before.
He wraps his arms around Sam from behind, rests his chin on his shoulder, murmuring into his ear, "It's not real. It's not real, Sam. You don't have to listen to him," his own voice coming out dazed, almost sing-song.
There's a wet, gurgling sound and Sam coughs, splutters, falls forward off the bed and onto the carpet, and Dean kneels to check on him and there's already blood everywhere, pouring out of his ears, his mouth, puddling on the carpet. Sam's lying on his side with his arms tight around his chest, knees up in an almost fetal position, and it's only because of decades of training that Dean is able to stay calm enough to hook his arms under Sam's shoulders and drag him to the bathroom, a wet streak following behind. He holds his brother steady, leans him over the bathtub, bright red spattering on the white porcelain, waits for what seems like hours before the blood stops coming, leaving sticky trails down Sam's cheek. Sam's breathing starts to even out and he coughs, and Dean lets him recover on his own, letting go and leaning back against the bathroom wall, completely exhausted.
After a minute, Sam grabs onto the rim of the bathtub and tries to stand up.
"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean says, reaching out reflexively, "take it easy."
Sam quickly realizes he can't do it, sits down heavily on the tile. The bathroom looks like a crime scene. There's one huge blood spatter right in front of the tub that trails inside, and he stares at it, blinking rapidly.
"I was back there," he mumbles, voice sticky, congested.
"I know," Dean says simply.
He sits there for a moment on his knees until he's sure everything's back to normal - normal in this case meaning absolutely nothing. Then he turns the faucet on, the pouring water sending the blood swirling around the tub and down the drain. The room feels very quiet even with the water beating down, like all the background noise, the color, has been sucked away.
Dean takes a white washcloth off the towel rack and holds it under the faucet. He sits up on his knees, leans over and cleans the blood off Sam's face with slow, steady swipes across his cheeks, over his mouth, behind his ears. It's the only thing he can think to do. Sam doesn't resist, just lets him finish. When the blood is gone, he drops the washcloth in the tub and turns the water off.
"You should rinse up," he murmurs, sounding incredibly tired.
Sam meets his gaze and there's a moment of unspoken communication, both of them screaming the same thing, the same fear. Dean looks away, a lump rising in his throat, his eyes stinging. He can't be in this room anymore.
"Yell if you need me," he says huskily, getting to his feet.
He spends the next ten minutes sitting on the edge of the bed where Sam had been, staring at the muted TV screen, trying to relax. He can hear the sink running, Sam brushing his teeth, which is good because it means he can stand up now. It's the stupidest thing, but he's remembering this one time in Ohio last year, a few days before the throwdown with War, where Sam had come down with this 24-hour stomach flu. He was miserable, feverish, sweating and freezing at the same time, and he couldn't even keep 7-Up and saltines down for more than five minutes. Dean remembers just sitting there drinking while Sam basically crawled back and forth from the bathroom to his bed and tried to act like he was fine, like nothing was going on. He remembers not even caring, even when Sam got so sick he couldn't climb out of bed anymore and just put down a pile of newspapers so he could lean over and throw up. He remembers feeling so numb and disconnected from everything, especially his brother, that it was like he was the only one in that motel room. Dean doesn't really know why he's thinking about this. Maybe because if he'd known at the time what it would feel like to lose him, lose everything, he would've gotten off his ass and done whatever he could. Maybe he's overcompensating now trying to make up for all that, all the times he was so pissed off or so dead inside that he literally wished his brother wasn't even there. Maybe he's just losing his mind.
Out of nowhere, he feels Sam sit down next to him on the bed, distracting him from that sequence of thoughts. Where his arm brushes against Dean's, there's a hot, stinging sensation almost like poison ivy.
"I'm sorry. About all this." Sam's gone quiet again. He smells like soap and toothpaste. Just having him so close is driving him crazy, pushing him off balance so he can't think straight, can't even sit still, has to start tapping his foot against the bedframe to keep from going totally unhinged.
"Don't be," he says after a minute. He tries to come up with something else to say but draws a blank. He goes with the honest truth.
"Just glad I get to see you again. Missed you so much, man."
Sam's fingers crawl against his hand, curl up into his. Dean shuts his eyes, nods, breathing deep and slow.
"Me too."
They sit there like that for a minute, both of them staring at the floor, Dean's right hand holding onto Sam's left like it's the string on a balloon. He doesn't want to let go, or his brother will float off somewhere and disappear. It's the dumbest thought in the world.
Sam laughs quietly under his breath. "You know, I didn't get to see how that movie ended."
"Well, Arnold takes over this Harrier jet to go rescue Eliza Dushku," Dean explains.
"Wait, she got kidnapped?"
"Yeah, the terrorist dude took her to Miami. So anyway, he takes out a whole bunch of 'em and she like drops down onto the Harrier, and the terrorist guy gets stuck on a missile and blows up a helicopter full of bad guys."
He hears Sam chuckling, and for a second everything feels so normal, so okay, that it seriously hurts.
"Sounds pretty awesome," he says. "Sorry I missed it."
He feels Sam shift next to him, the sound of rustling fabric, and Sam's hand slips out of his, leaving his fingers bare and cold. Dean turns and he's got the strangest look on his face, eyes wide open.
"You know," Sam starts, his tone careful, low, "there's something I always wanted to do, but I was too scared of what would happen if I ever … went through with it."
Okay, some last-day-on-earth stuff. That makes sense. The last thing he remembers wanting, other than his soul back, was a burger from Steak 'n Shake with extra onions, but that's Dean. He's a simple man. He can't imagine what Sam's thinking of. It's probably not edible.
"Skydive without a parachute?" Dean offers, raising his eyebrows.
Sam takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring a little. "Yeah. Something like that."
He leans forward and puts his mouth against Dean's. That's weird. It takes him a second before he feels Sam's hand slide against the back of his neck and realizes what this is. All of his muscles lock up, frozen, the blur of Sam's face filling up his vision. There's something like nuclear fission going on in his chest, his entire body vibrating, rattling.
Sam moves back a little, their lips separating with a small, wet sound that slices into Dean, sends reality crashing into him at 500 miles an hour. He stares at his brother, whose face is fever-bright, hand solid and soft on his neck.
"What," is all he can get out.
"I just," Sam murmurs, breath coming fast, "wanted to know. What that was like."
This is the craziest thing. This has never, ever occurred to him as a thing that could happen. He's not angry, or freaked out, or ready to puke or anything. He is just so completely confused.
"Why?"
Sam looks at him like he's asked the dumbest question imaginable.
"Because. Just …" He shakes his head. "I don't know. You."
"Sam," he hears himself saying like his voice is 1,000 miles away, blood rushing in his ears, "you serious about this?"
Sam startles. He swallows heavily, his mouth working a little.
"You're not … I thought you'd be …"
If this were any other day, any other place, any other human being on the planet, it would be over. Dean wouldn't even be sitting here, he'd be out the door. But absolutes have never really applied to the two of them. This isn't some sick, whacked out crazy person, it's just Sam. He's spent 40 years in Hell for the son of a bitch. If he wants seven minutes in heaven, how much is that to ask?
Dean licks his lips, feeling strangely okay with this even at the 11th hour. "This is what you want?"
Sam is full-on embarrassed now. His mouth is parted a little, face frozen like he's utterly unprepared for this to actually happen. His eyes dart down to Dean's mouth.
"Yeah," he whispers.
He thought there'd be some seal, some kind of invisible wall he'd hit, but when he touches Sam's feverish face, runs his thumb across his cheekbone and brushes his lips against the corner of his mouth, nothing's stopping him. There's no barrier, no lighting bolt from heaven. Dean thinks he might actually be able to do this.
He drags his mouth over to Sam's, hesitates. He can feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw. His skin is burning hot. It's funny being up this close. At this range, he could almost be about to kiss anyone. He takes that thought and runs with it, parts Sam's lips with his tongue and it's not even that weird when he gets a response, tasting his mouth, Sam still too shy to do any of the real work, just holding back and letting Dean do his thing. He can deal with that. He kisses him slow, thumb drawing circles around the hard ridge of Sam's jawbone, a little move he's discovered that most chicks love, not that that’s relevant here at all.
When it seems like it's gone on long enough, Dean breaks off, and for some reason ending this feels a lot harder than going into it, makes it real somehow. Sam's heartbeat is intense and irregular, slamming around like a pinball machine. Dean lets go, draws back to check on him and his eyes are pressed shut, almost reverent.
"So now you know what it's like," he says hoarsely, voice breaking a little on the last syllable. He doesn’t know yet if he's going to regret this, but he's positive that you don't reject a dude's dying wishes, even if they're uncomfortable, even if they make no sense.
Sam breathes in deep, then out through his nose. He's still holding onto Dean's neck.
"Can you … do it again," he whispers, voice raw.
It sends a shiver down Dean's spine. He's done this with hundreds of chicks, a handful of guys, and he's never seen anyone react like this before. This is quickly starting to go totally off the reservation, Sam staring at him with this one-track-mind expression and his own stupid, drunken willingness to go along with it, and the only thing he's sure of right now is that he'd rather be doing this than thinking about everything else that's gone on tonight.
"Yeah, okay, sure," he murmurs, and this time when he opens his mouth Sam is ready, presses back against him with a ferocity that catches him totally off guard, tongue moving insistently against his, and Dean runs a hand from his hipbone along his spine to the ticklish ends of his overgrown hair. He grabs a handful and pulls, experimentally, and Sam makes this little noise, stifled by Dean's mouth, a sound he's never heard his brother make before. It's fascinating. Dean wants to hear it again. He reaches further up into Sam's tangled hair, pulls back hard this time, and the high-pitched, muffled groan he gets in response is like magic.
Then Sam twists away out of his grip, backs up. "What are you doing," he asks in a low, almost panicked voice.
Dean doesn't know what he's doing. "Should I stop?" He honestly wants to know. He has no idea what's going on anymore.
"Don't-" Sam's throat is tensed up, all the muscles drawn tight. He looks ready to bolt. "You don't have to do this. I'm sorry."
"For what?" Now Dean's really confused. First he says he wants him to do it again, and then he freaks out. He's just doing this because Sam asked, that's all, but the signals are getting all weird.
"You seriously don't… I mean… You don't think this is…"
It's almost hysterical watching the expression on Sam's face change from fear to confusion, back to fear, and then into that strange look from before, kind of this surprised, excited thing like rattling presents on Christmas Eve. He rests his hand on Dean's thigh experimentally, and when Dean doesn't flinch he moves in and kisses him again, and it's almost a relief because now he knows what he's supposed to be doing. Dean reaches for his waist and pulls him closer, liking the way the warmth of his body feels against him, almost like a heated blanket. He feels Sam's fingers dig into his leg but it doesn't hurt. Sam is breathing hard and fast, short puffs of air against his cheek. He slides a hand back up to his neck, nestles it in his hair and Sam tenses up in anticipation, which is kind of awesome and gives him a little electric jolt that he wasn't expecting, and now he's really looking forward to what'll happen when he pulls his hair this time, so he yanks it hard and Sam whimpers and his hand scrabbles across his thigh, accidentally going further than it should and this time Dean's the one surprised, an incredible burst of static current shooting through him, and in a moment of utter shock he realizes he's actually hard. Sam moves back, breaking off the kiss, removing his hand cautiously like he's terrified he's gone too far, but Dean won't let him look away, grip still tight around his waist.
"Dean," he whispers, his face like a deer in headlights.
"You had enough?" Dean rasps. He's starting to get all worked up now, this crazy, haywire feeling ratcheting through his blood, the last thing he was expecting to feel.
Sam just stares at him for a moment, dazed.
"Keep going."
That was all he needed to hear. Dean presses his face against Sam's jaw, liking the heat and the pulse there, bites at it softly, and he almost cracks up at how quickly Sam stops hesitating and grabs his shirt, starts to lift it up, which is unexpected but makes sense, he supposes. He can't get enough of Sam's hair for some reason, his hand still buried in it, twisting it just enough to make him squirm. Sam's got Dean's shirt up to his armpits now and he pulls it over his head, feeling weirdly exposed like there are cameras in here taping them or something, just this awkward feeling, but he forgets about it pretty quickly when Sam starts pulling his body down on top of him, dragging him back until Dean's leaning over him on his elbows. Dean doesn't really know what Sam wants him to do here, so he just kisses the soft space where his ear meets his jaw, moves down to his collarbone and runs his tongue over it because it just seems like a reasonable course of action, and he feels Sam shudder underneath him, his hands scuttling over his naked back, almost giving him goosebumps. He leans in, moves his legs to a more comfortable position on either side of Sam's body, and there's a bizarre moment when he can feel his brother's hard-on pressing against him, just one of those things that you never expect to encounter in your lifetime. Sam moans at the contact, the sound ripping from his throat, and Dean's not sure when exactly his priorities changed but he gets a serious kick out of knowing that he's the one who made him do that.
"You like that, Sammy?" he finds himself saying, brushing his lips over his cheek, feeling the heat pouring off his skin in waves.
Sam's arms go slack, falling back against the mattress, and he doesn't respond.
"Hey, I'm good, but I ain't that good," Dean jokes, sitting up straight on top of his brother, who doesn't move.
"Sam?"
He picks up Sam's arm and lets go, and it drops straight down without a hint of resistance.
"Sam, don't tell me …"
Dean grabs his brother's face, shakes him around a little, and there's no response. His eyes are shut and his skin is ridiculously hot, slick and flushed, but he's still breathing. Panic swells up in Dean's throat and he climbs off the bed, stumbles to the bathroom for a wet washcloth, his vision starting to blur. He drapes the cloth over Sam's forehead, unbuttons his stupid gray shirt and pulls it out from under him and the fabric sticks to his chest with sweat. Okay, so maybe Sam just overheated for some reason. It's an improvement over bleeding all over the place, right?
He opens every window, stubborn panes almost refusing to move, and cool air starts to flood in through the curtains, prickling against his bare skin. Dean can't think of anything else to do other than take Sam's jeans off, maybe, but that's so uncomfortable now he'd never be able to do it, not without having to deal with what he's just done.
Every time something new happens to Sam, he can feel himself withdrawing from it a little more. It's something he has to do if he wants to be rational about this at all. If Dean accepts the reality of what's going to happen, lets himself actually feel the frustration, the helplessness, the total anger at the world for doing this to his family and asking the impossible of him so many times, he'd be huddled up in the corner with the rest of the whiskey, no good to anyone.
Instead, he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Sam and watches him breathe, and he's proud of how well he's keeping his emotions in check because all he feels is a blunted, cold kind of worry that fades into the background, lets him stay numb.
Sam doesn't move again until 1:36 in the morning.
part 4
rating: hard R
pairing: sam/dean
summary: season 6 AU. six months later, Sam is free from hell. there's a catch. it's painful. Dean isn't dealing with the fine print very well at all.
warnings: gross and disturbing imagery, first time, hurt!Sam
A/N: this is almost finished. big thanks to zacky for the beta.
part 1
part 2
The shower's been going for 20 minutes now. If this were any other night, Dean would open the door a crack and tell his brother to leave his little soldier alone and stop hogging the bathroom, but it takes a while to get bloodstains out of your nails, and if Sam wants a good, hot shower, he's not about to bother him.
He'd pulled over at a gas station some ways up the road to grab some paper towels for Sam's face and a few other essentials (Gatorade, cheap whiskey). The cashier had directed him to a budget motel not far from there, thankfully too bored to notice the blood splotches peeking out from under Dean's jacket. It worries him a little to use his debit card - Lisa sometimes goes over his statements and he still has no idea where to even begin explaining any of this to her - but as soon as he had walked in Room 119, tossed his jacket on the bed, inhaled that Lysol-and-stale-cigarette smell, it felt like coming home, if home cost $39 a night and came with free coffee.
He wishes being back in a place like this didn't feel so goddamn right. Just sitting here with the shower running and Sam's green jacket thrown across the other bed is doing more for him than any of those therapy sessions Lisa paid for. This is a world where he knows his place, knows exactly where he stands. He's a regular here. It's hard to remember the bad times, the crippling hangovers and week-long fights where they wouldn't say a word to each other outside of "cover me" and "behind you", coming back to crumpled bedsheets, Sam pacing around, and wondering how long ago Ruby'd left, that one time he got blind drunk and watched Sam sleeping for an hour, leaned over him and said, "This is the only time when I trust you." All of that ended in Stull. That weight's not hanging on him anymore. He thinks maybe they can actually start over from here. Dean's thinking about all this with his feet up on the vinyl table by the door, taking slow, languid sips from a fifth of room-temperature Kessler still in the paper bag.
The bathroom door finally opens, and when Sam comes out he's wearing his bloodstained jeans and this sweater that's been in Dean's trunk for months, a gray button-up flannel thing that made his neck itch and that he'd forgotten to return. He's amazed it actually fit over Sam's giant head. His face is flushed pink from being scrubbed and his hair's damp, tousled, hanging over his eyes.
"How you feeling?"
Sam smiles, which catches him totally off guard, and flops down on the edge of the bed with his legs pointing toward Dean, leaning back on his hands.
"Okay, actually," he says in that energetic, too-loud-to-be-an-inside-voice voice of his. "That shower really did something for me."
"Or you were doin' something to yourself," Dean quips, raising his eyebrows. "You were in there for like a half hour, man. What gives?"
Sam shrugs, makes a bemused face. "I was just, you know. Thinking about stuff."
"Would any of that stuff happen to be, I don’t know…" Dean taps his chin. "Related to the whole back from the dead, puking, mega psychic nosebleed thing?"
He watches, immediately regretting it, as Sam's smile gets tighter and he looks down at his knees. That was a really dick move he just pulled, calling him out like that when he was looking so happy. But he hates this stupid denial game Sam likes to play - okay, he's been guilty of doing the same thing too, but they've been reunited for all of two and a half hours and it's starting up again already.
Sam rubs his damp hair, tucks it back behind his ears, still looking down, and Dean gets this horrible twinge in his chest watching him sit there like a scolded dog. Who is Dean to judge, anyway? Why can't the kid have a few secrets? God knows he's held onto a few himself.
"Got some whiskey," Dean blurts out abruptly, wincing at how lame that sounded. He holds the bottle up. "Pour you some?"
Sam looks up and a little piece of that smile is still left, thank god.
"Yeah, definitely."
Sam gets up and walks over to the cabinets above the mini-fridge, finds a stack of red plastic Dixie cups and carries two of them over. Dean gives him a generous pour, filling his cup to about an inch from the top, then pours himself one so full it's almost overflowing. He leans over it carefully and sips off the top until it's not about to spill all over him. Sam immediately goes to work on his, tilting his head back and chugging, Adam's apple working furiously.
"Okay, you might wanna slow down there, cowboy," Dean says nervously. Sam finishes with a huge exhale, his face flushed, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he cracks up, laughing like an idiot, eyes scrunched and the whiskey sloshing precariously in his cup.
The sound of it gives Dean this warm, flushed feeling that spreads down to his toes. He can't even remember the last time he heard that sound. It's making him smile reflexively just seeing his brother's face.
"Man, this feels weird," Sam says breathlessly, grinning.
"I know, right?"
"Can we - wanna watch TV or something?
Dean slings his legs off the table and grabs the remote, buzzing with stupid, drunken happiness.
"Up to you, Sammy."
* * *
The mood doesn't last long. Sam's drinking for a reason and it's not hard to figure out why. He's been talking less and less, his energy fading as they polish off the Kessler, barely five shots left in the bottle at this point. Dean feels weirdly sober. Maybe it's just the gravity of the situation, but usually after his fourth drink he'd be rambling on about nothing or doing some macho, repetitive busywork like cleaning his gun (the one Lisa doesn't know he carries). Instead, the whiskey is making him kind of emotional, especially as the night keeps going and his brother's barely moved, staring expressionlessly at the censored TV version of "True Lies" even when the commercials are on, like he's not even seeing it.
"You know, I don't get it," Sam murmurs out of nowhere, still fixed on the TV, light from the screen flashing across his face, reflecting sharply in his eyes. It's the first thing he's said in almost half an hour.
Dean mutes the TV. "Get what?"
"This … thing. It felt like a cold at first, just this - this headache, and my nose was running. And then that went away, I was fine, I was listening to you in the bar, and …" He shakes his head. His shoulders are hunched up, fingers digging into his knees. It's the most he's talked about anything all night, and Dean realizes suddenly that he's terrified to hear this, so scared of whatever Sam's hiding that he almost wants to stop him right there and go back to the uncomfortable silence.
"All of a sudden I got so sick, just in half a second. I mean, I've never felt so sick in my life. And then that went away too, and I guess I, I must have had a pretty bad nosebleed, because I saw my shirt and it was just soaked." He stops, takes a long breath and exhales through his nose like he's trying to calm himself down.
"And right now? How are you feeling right now?"
Sam looks at him, and his face is a tangle of competing emotions, twisted and unreadable. It sends a jolt through Dean. He's pretty shaken up about all this himself, the calming effects of alcohol aside, but whatever's doing this to Sam he hopes it's something with a form, something he can reach out and strangle and kill. It's funny how his thoughts always turn to violence instead of comfort when his brother's upset, probably because he's spent the last five years unable to make Sam feel any better about anything. It was so much easier when he was a kid. Man, that kid used to love him so much. All he had to do was offer to play catch, or tell him a story, or watch "The Karate Kid" on TV for the 20th time, and it was like whatever was bothering Sam would just disappear. The Sam he's looking at right now kind of terrifies him, not because Dean cares about him any less but because there's so much he doesn't know. There are no easy pathways for him anymore, nothing he really knows how to do for his brother except kill whatever unlucky son of a bitch decides to put the crosshairs on him.
"Dean." Sam's voice is thick, quiet. "When I came back. There was an angel."
A heavy, sinking feeling settles deep in his stomach. Of course it's an angel. Hell doesn't just hand out vacation time for good behavior. But still, he'd hoped it was something else, some kind of cosmic oversight, even a conjuring or something. Anything but angels. Unless-
"Was it - was it Cas?"
He hasn't seen or heard from Castiel since the shit hit the fan in Stull. It was like adding insult to injury. His brother was gone, and then he ended up losing one of the few people he's ever considered a friend. Maybe it was stupid to assume that an angel who'd betrayed his own heavenly family would be above betraying Dean.
"I don't know, I couldn't see anything. I just heard a voice. This … huge … voice."
"What did it say?"
Dean watches as his brother shifts uncomfortably, gripping his knees, and waits for an answer that he knows is going to hurt.
" 'You have been granted time to walk the earth,' " Sam says slowly. In front of him, on the muted television, there's an intense shootout going on and the reflections from the muzzle flares play over his face, flashing and bright. " 'Your time will end swiftly. God will provide the lamb for the burnt offering.' "
"That’s it? That's all the angel said?"
Sam doesn't answer, stays still for a long minute. He seems hypnotized by the gunfire on screen. Dean is tense, sick with anticipation, and without thinking he reaches for the bottle of Kessler and takes a pull, swallowing hard until he runs out of breath.
"There was something else," Sam starts, then trails off. Maybe it's the lighting, or the sudden flush of the whiskey scalding through him, but his brother looks so young all of a sudden he could be an apparition from one of Dean's memories, haunting him with guilt. Sam looks up at the ceiling and he can barely hear him when he speaks.
" 'You will die by your brother's hand or not at all.' "
Dean stands up immediately, unsteady, and leans against the wall. He feels hot and nauseous, his head swimming, trying to make sense of this and coming up with nothing except I'm cursed. We're both fucking cursed. This is never going to end, ever.
"Dean, that's why I've been getting sick." Sam sounds empty, deadened. "They brought me back on a time limit. It's going to get worse."
"You don't know that," he pleads in a pathetically tight voice, half trying to convince himself. "We can - we can work this out, try to … summon the asshole. Maybe Cas knows what's going on. I mean, that's what we do, right? We, we keep trying until-"
"No."
"What do you mean, 'no'?" It comes out way louder than he intended. He paces across the room over to the far wall, jaw clenched and sore, and just stares at it in frustration.
"We're not going to stop it," he hears Sam whisper behind him. "We're not going through that again."
A coil of anger burns through Dean like acid, and he whirls around to face his brother, livid. "Okay, Sam, you know what?" He's shouting, probably waking the neighbors, but fuck them. "Maybe you - maybe you're okay with this. Maybe you're still so freaked out from Hell that you don't even care about your own life. I get that, okay? I mean, seriously. I get it."
He walks up to Sam, puts his hands on his shoulders, and Sam twitches in surprise but doesn't look up at him. It's pointless, it's futile to even try, and it may be the definition of insanity but Dean is going to talk to his brother expecting a different result, that 1% chance that maybe he can actually get through to him, change his mind for once in his life. He is all about that 1% chance. And he's also pretty drunk.
"Here's the thing. I care. And you came to me, so maybe you're cool with laying right down and letting some angel tell you that you're about to go back downstairs, but I'm not." He tightens his grip on Sam's shoulders, feels an incredible tension there, like steel cables on a bridge. "And if he says your brother's hand is the one that's gonna do it, well. It's like I told you a long time ago. I'd rather die."
He lingers for a second, bites his lip hard. He hadn't meant to go that far. Not that he doesn't mean it - that's never going to change - but he hates putting that much of himself out there in front of Sam, never knowing how he's going to react or if he's even listening. It's embarrassing and weird, now that Sam is the one with the whole defensive front and Dean's has just broken down from too much use. He lets go of Sam's shoulders and turns around awkwardly, the sudden silence heavy, burning in his ears.
"Dean."
Sam's voice is clenched. It's almost a cough instead of a word. Dean looks over his shoulder with a pulse of worry, and Sam is actually crying, tears dripping off his nose down to his chin, hands fisted up against the mattress, fighting hard to keep his face expressionless anyway. It twists Dean up inside, always has, makes him feel like he's screwed up something major.
"It's not that I don't care," Sam says, choosing his words carefully between measured breaths. "But when I called you, I didn't know what it meant. And if this gets worse-" He cuts off, tries to get his voice under control. "When it gets worse. I don't want to put you through it. You've done enough for me. You finally have a life outside of-"
"Sam, it's okay."
"No, it's not." He drops his head, swallows hard. "You went to Hell. For me. And you'd - you'd do it again. If I asked." He's having a hard time getting the words out, even though it looks like he's stopped crying. "And that's why. I can't." His brow furrows in confusion. "Do - do you hear that?"
The only sound he's aware of is his pulse, loud and hard as a nailgun.
"I don’t hear anything."
Sam bends forward, covers his face with his hands. "Sounds like a … a drill or something … god, how do you not hear that?"
"Sam, there's - it's silent in here, man." Jesus, he's not ready for this. Not again. If this is the next stage of the whole 'swiftly ending' deal and he can't do anything about it, can't even tell what's going on-
Sam drops his head onto his knees. "Dean, I think I'm hallucinating," he hisses through his teeth.
"What - what are you …" Dean sits down on the bed next to him and touches his back, hollowed out with worry. Sam's breath is coming in short, shallow gasps now, his body totally locked up, fingers digging into his scalp.
"Talk to me, Sam. Come on." He can't even think anymore, just rubs Sam's back up and down uselessly, teeth digging into his lip. Even if this is all he can do, just stay here while it happens- whatever the fuck this is that's happening-
"It's not - it won't fit. Please," Sam begs, voice high-pitched, muffled through his hands. "Somewhere else. It won't fit."
A sick, dizzy feeling rushes through Dean, a sense of familiarity. He's heard that somewhere before. Where has he heard that? He keeps stroking Sam's back in sort of a daze. It won't fit. There was a lot of blood, wherever it was. Maybe on a hunt.
Out of nowhere, Sam screams and his legs start to fold up, heels digging into the carpet. The sound of it scorches Dean raw. Then he remembers where he's heard that before.
He wraps his arms around Sam from behind, rests his chin on his shoulder, murmuring into his ear, "It's not real. It's not real, Sam. You don't have to listen to him," his own voice coming out dazed, almost sing-song.
There's a wet, gurgling sound and Sam coughs, splutters, falls forward off the bed and onto the carpet, and Dean kneels to check on him and there's already blood everywhere, pouring out of his ears, his mouth, puddling on the carpet. Sam's lying on his side with his arms tight around his chest, knees up in an almost fetal position, and it's only because of decades of training that Dean is able to stay calm enough to hook his arms under Sam's shoulders and drag him to the bathroom, a wet streak following behind. He holds his brother steady, leans him over the bathtub, bright red spattering on the white porcelain, waits for what seems like hours before the blood stops coming, leaving sticky trails down Sam's cheek. Sam's breathing starts to even out and he coughs, and Dean lets him recover on his own, letting go and leaning back against the bathroom wall, completely exhausted.
After a minute, Sam grabs onto the rim of the bathtub and tries to stand up.
"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean says, reaching out reflexively, "take it easy."
Sam quickly realizes he can't do it, sits down heavily on the tile. The bathroom looks like a crime scene. There's one huge blood spatter right in front of the tub that trails inside, and he stares at it, blinking rapidly.
"I was back there," he mumbles, voice sticky, congested.
"I know," Dean says simply.
He sits there for a moment on his knees until he's sure everything's back to normal - normal in this case meaning absolutely nothing. Then he turns the faucet on, the pouring water sending the blood swirling around the tub and down the drain. The room feels very quiet even with the water beating down, like all the background noise, the color, has been sucked away.
Dean takes a white washcloth off the towel rack and holds it under the faucet. He sits up on his knees, leans over and cleans the blood off Sam's face with slow, steady swipes across his cheeks, over his mouth, behind his ears. It's the only thing he can think to do. Sam doesn't resist, just lets him finish. When the blood is gone, he drops the washcloth in the tub and turns the water off.
"You should rinse up," he murmurs, sounding incredibly tired.
Sam meets his gaze and there's a moment of unspoken communication, both of them screaming the same thing, the same fear. Dean looks away, a lump rising in his throat, his eyes stinging. He can't be in this room anymore.
"Yell if you need me," he says huskily, getting to his feet.
He spends the next ten minutes sitting on the edge of the bed where Sam had been, staring at the muted TV screen, trying to relax. He can hear the sink running, Sam brushing his teeth, which is good because it means he can stand up now. It's the stupidest thing, but he's remembering this one time in Ohio last year, a few days before the throwdown with War, where Sam had come down with this 24-hour stomach flu. He was miserable, feverish, sweating and freezing at the same time, and he couldn't even keep 7-Up and saltines down for more than five minutes. Dean remembers just sitting there drinking while Sam basically crawled back and forth from the bathroom to his bed and tried to act like he was fine, like nothing was going on. He remembers not even caring, even when Sam got so sick he couldn't climb out of bed anymore and just put down a pile of newspapers so he could lean over and throw up. He remembers feeling so numb and disconnected from everything, especially his brother, that it was like he was the only one in that motel room. Dean doesn't really know why he's thinking about this. Maybe because if he'd known at the time what it would feel like to lose him, lose everything, he would've gotten off his ass and done whatever he could. Maybe he's overcompensating now trying to make up for all that, all the times he was so pissed off or so dead inside that he literally wished his brother wasn't even there. Maybe he's just losing his mind.
Out of nowhere, he feels Sam sit down next to him on the bed, distracting him from that sequence of thoughts. Where his arm brushes against Dean's, there's a hot, stinging sensation almost like poison ivy.
"I'm sorry. About all this." Sam's gone quiet again. He smells like soap and toothpaste. Just having him so close is driving him crazy, pushing him off balance so he can't think straight, can't even sit still, has to start tapping his foot against the bedframe to keep from going totally unhinged.
"Don't be," he says after a minute. He tries to come up with something else to say but draws a blank. He goes with the honest truth.
"Just glad I get to see you again. Missed you so much, man."
Sam's fingers crawl against his hand, curl up into his. Dean shuts his eyes, nods, breathing deep and slow.
"Me too."
They sit there like that for a minute, both of them staring at the floor, Dean's right hand holding onto Sam's left like it's the string on a balloon. He doesn't want to let go, or his brother will float off somewhere and disappear. It's the dumbest thought in the world.
Sam laughs quietly under his breath. "You know, I didn't get to see how that movie ended."
"Well, Arnold takes over this Harrier jet to go rescue Eliza Dushku," Dean explains.
"Wait, she got kidnapped?"
"Yeah, the terrorist dude took her to Miami. So anyway, he takes out a whole bunch of 'em and she like drops down onto the Harrier, and the terrorist guy gets stuck on a missile and blows up a helicopter full of bad guys."
He hears Sam chuckling, and for a second everything feels so normal, so okay, that it seriously hurts.
"Sounds pretty awesome," he says. "Sorry I missed it."
He feels Sam shift next to him, the sound of rustling fabric, and Sam's hand slips out of his, leaving his fingers bare and cold. Dean turns and he's got the strangest look on his face, eyes wide open.
"You know," Sam starts, his tone careful, low, "there's something I always wanted to do, but I was too scared of what would happen if I ever … went through with it."
Okay, some last-day-on-earth stuff. That makes sense. The last thing he remembers wanting, other than his soul back, was a burger from Steak 'n Shake with extra onions, but that's Dean. He's a simple man. He can't imagine what Sam's thinking of. It's probably not edible.
"Skydive without a parachute?" Dean offers, raising his eyebrows.
Sam takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring a little. "Yeah. Something like that."
He leans forward and puts his mouth against Dean's. That's weird. It takes him a second before he feels Sam's hand slide against the back of his neck and realizes what this is. All of his muscles lock up, frozen, the blur of Sam's face filling up his vision. There's something like nuclear fission going on in his chest, his entire body vibrating, rattling.
Sam moves back a little, their lips separating with a small, wet sound that slices into Dean, sends reality crashing into him at 500 miles an hour. He stares at his brother, whose face is fever-bright, hand solid and soft on his neck.
"What," is all he can get out.
"I just," Sam murmurs, breath coming fast, "wanted to know. What that was like."
This is the craziest thing. This has never, ever occurred to him as a thing that could happen. He's not angry, or freaked out, or ready to puke or anything. He is just so completely confused.
"Why?"
Sam looks at him like he's asked the dumbest question imaginable.
"Because. Just …" He shakes his head. "I don't know. You."
"Sam," he hears himself saying like his voice is 1,000 miles away, blood rushing in his ears, "you serious about this?"
Sam startles. He swallows heavily, his mouth working a little.
"You're not … I thought you'd be …"
If this were any other day, any other place, any other human being on the planet, it would be over. Dean wouldn't even be sitting here, he'd be out the door. But absolutes have never really applied to the two of them. This isn't some sick, whacked out crazy person, it's just Sam. He's spent 40 years in Hell for the son of a bitch. If he wants seven minutes in heaven, how much is that to ask?
Dean licks his lips, feeling strangely okay with this even at the 11th hour. "This is what you want?"
Sam is full-on embarrassed now. His mouth is parted a little, face frozen like he's utterly unprepared for this to actually happen. His eyes dart down to Dean's mouth.
"Yeah," he whispers.
He thought there'd be some seal, some kind of invisible wall he'd hit, but when he touches Sam's feverish face, runs his thumb across his cheekbone and brushes his lips against the corner of his mouth, nothing's stopping him. There's no barrier, no lighting bolt from heaven. Dean thinks he might actually be able to do this.
He drags his mouth over to Sam's, hesitates. He can feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw. His skin is burning hot. It's funny being up this close. At this range, he could almost be about to kiss anyone. He takes that thought and runs with it, parts Sam's lips with his tongue and it's not even that weird when he gets a response, tasting his mouth, Sam still too shy to do any of the real work, just holding back and letting Dean do his thing. He can deal with that. He kisses him slow, thumb drawing circles around the hard ridge of Sam's jawbone, a little move he's discovered that most chicks love, not that that’s relevant here at all.
When it seems like it's gone on long enough, Dean breaks off, and for some reason ending this feels a lot harder than going into it, makes it real somehow. Sam's heartbeat is intense and irregular, slamming around like a pinball machine. Dean lets go, draws back to check on him and his eyes are pressed shut, almost reverent.
"So now you know what it's like," he says hoarsely, voice breaking a little on the last syllable. He doesn’t know yet if he's going to regret this, but he's positive that you don't reject a dude's dying wishes, even if they're uncomfortable, even if they make no sense.
Sam breathes in deep, then out through his nose. He's still holding onto Dean's neck.
"Can you … do it again," he whispers, voice raw.
It sends a shiver down Dean's spine. He's done this with hundreds of chicks, a handful of guys, and he's never seen anyone react like this before. This is quickly starting to go totally off the reservation, Sam staring at him with this one-track-mind expression and his own stupid, drunken willingness to go along with it, and the only thing he's sure of right now is that he'd rather be doing this than thinking about everything else that's gone on tonight.
"Yeah, okay, sure," he murmurs, and this time when he opens his mouth Sam is ready, presses back against him with a ferocity that catches him totally off guard, tongue moving insistently against his, and Dean runs a hand from his hipbone along his spine to the ticklish ends of his overgrown hair. He grabs a handful and pulls, experimentally, and Sam makes this little noise, stifled by Dean's mouth, a sound he's never heard his brother make before. It's fascinating. Dean wants to hear it again. He reaches further up into Sam's tangled hair, pulls back hard this time, and the high-pitched, muffled groan he gets in response is like magic.
Then Sam twists away out of his grip, backs up. "What are you doing," he asks in a low, almost panicked voice.
Dean doesn't know what he's doing. "Should I stop?" He honestly wants to know. He has no idea what's going on anymore.
"Don't-" Sam's throat is tensed up, all the muscles drawn tight. He looks ready to bolt. "You don't have to do this. I'm sorry."
"For what?" Now Dean's really confused. First he says he wants him to do it again, and then he freaks out. He's just doing this because Sam asked, that's all, but the signals are getting all weird.
"You seriously don't… I mean… You don't think this is…"
It's almost hysterical watching the expression on Sam's face change from fear to confusion, back to fear, and then into that strange look from before, kind of this surprised, excited thing like rattling presents on Christmas Eve. He rests his hand on Dean's thigh experimentally, and when Dean doesn't flinch he moves in and kisses him again, and it's almost a relief because now he knows what he's supposed to be doing. Dean reaches for his waist and pulls him closer, liking the way the warmth of his body feels against him, almost like a heated blanket. He feels Sam's fingers dig into his leg but it doesn't hurt. Sam is breathing hard and fast, short puffs of air against his cheek. He slides a hand back up to his neck, nestles it in his hair and Sam tenses up in anticipation, which is kind of awesome and gives him a little electric jolt that he wasn't expecting, and now he's really looking forward to what'll happen when he pulls his hair this time, so he yanks it hard and Sam whimpers and his hand scrabbles across his thigh, accidentally going further than it should and this time Dean's the one surprised, an incredible burst of static current shooting through him, and in a moment of utter shock he realizes he's actually hard. Sam moves back, breaking off the kiss, removing his hand cautiously like he's terrified he's gone too far, but Dean won't let him look away, grip still tight around his waist.
"Dean," he whispers, his face like a deer in headlights.
"You had enough?" Dean rasps. He's starting to get all worked up now, this crazy, haywire feeling ratcheting through his blood, the last thing he was expecting to feel.
Sam just stares at him for a moment, dazed.
"Keep going."
That was all he needed to hear. Dean presses his face against Sam's jaw, liking the heat and the pulse there, bites at it softly, and he almost cracks up at how quickly Sam stops hesitating and grabs his shirt, starts to lift it up, which is unexpected but makes sense, he supposes. He can't get enough of Sam's hair for some reason, his hand still buried in it, twisting it just enough to make him squirm. Sam's got Dean's shirt up to his armpits now and he pulls it over his head, feeling weirdly exposed like there are cameras in here taping them or something, just this awkward feeling, but he forgets about it pretty quickly when Sam starts pulling his body down on top of him, dragging him back until Dean's leaning over him on his elbows. Dean doesn't really know what Sam wants him to do here, so he just kisses the soft space where his ear meets his jaw, moves down to his collarbone and runs his tongue over it because it just seems like a reasonable course of action, and he feels Sam shudder underneath him, his hands scuttling over his naked back, almost giving him goosebumps. He leans in, moves his legs to a more comfortable position on either side of Sam's body, and there's a bizarre moment when he can feel his brother's hard-on pressing against him, just one of those things that you never expect to encounter in your lifetime. Sam moans at the contact, the sound ripping from his throat, and Dean's not sure when exactly his priorities changed but he gets a serious kick out of knowing that he's the one who made him do that.
"You like that, Sammy?" he finds himself saying, brushing his lips over his cheek, feeling the heat pouring off his skin in waves.
Sam's arms go slack, falling back against the mattress, and he doesn't respond.
"Hey, I'm good, but I ain't that good," Dean jokes, sitting up straight on top of his brother, who doesn't move.
"Sam?"
He picks up Sam's arm and lets go, and it drops straight down without a hint of resistance.
"Sam, don't tell me …"
Dean grabs his brother's face, shakes him around a little, and there's no response. His eyes are shut and his skin is ridiculously hot, slick and flushed, but he's still breathing. Panic swells up in Dean's throat and he climbs off the bed, stumbles to the bathroom for a wet washcloth, his vision starting to blur. He drapes the cloth over Sam's forehead, unbuttons his stupid gray shirt and pulls it out from under him and the fabric sticks to his chest with sweat. Okay, so maybe Sam just overheated for some reason. It's an improvement over bleeding all over the place, right?
He opens every window, stubborn panes almost refusing to move, and cool air starts to flood in through the curtains, prickling against his bare skin. Dean can't think of anything else to do other than take Sam's jeans off, maybe, but that's so uncomfortable now he'd never be able to do it, not without having to deal with what he's just done.
Every time something new happens to Sam, he can feel himself withdrawing from it a little more. It's something he has to do if he wants to be rational about this at all. If Dean accepts the reality of what's going to happen, lets himself actually feel the frustration, the helplessness, the total anger at the world for doing this to his family and asking the impossible of him so many times, he'd be huddled up in the corner with the rest of the whiskey, no good to anyone.
Instead, he sits down on the edge of the bed next to Sam and watches him breathe, and he's proud of how well he's keeping his emotions in check because all he feels is a blunted, cold kind of worry that fades into the background, lets him stay numb.
Sam doesn't move again until 1:36 in the morning.
part 4