Memory Mark
Title: Memory Mark
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 3200
Rating: NC/17
Summary: When Sam's on a mission, nothing gets in his way.
A/N: My
spn_j2_xmas fic (late as usual) for the lovely majestic_duxk.
Dean slumps at the head of the bed, back leaning uncomfortably against the bunker wall. He’s not sure how long it’s been since Sam cut him loose, Cas watchful and ready in the background, but it feels like hours. Days. Sam brought him straight back to his room- arm tight around his shoulders, only that unwavering support keeping Dean on his feet. He’s exhausted but sleep is out of the question for the time being. Sam’s gone for food and Dean has to be awake when he gets back no matter how enticing the call to oblivion sounds. There’s a pit in his stomach that might be hunger and it might be horror and it’s telling him that Sam can’t come back to find his brother still and pale and silent in the middle of the bed. He’s half afraid to stretch out anyway after he’d abandoned this room without a backwards glance. The memory foam probably expanded back to factory setting after he left, erasing him as completely as if he’d never been here. The idea that it might not have is almost as frightening. It might remember his dead weight so carefully placed on it after Sam brought him back to the bunker and cleaned him up and laid him down to rest. It might remember. Dean doesn’t know which would be worse.
The memory foam might have forgotten but Sam wouldn’t have. Dean knows. Cold Oak. Stull. A hospital bed, sterile and impersonal with Sam strangely small amongst the machines tethering him to a life he’s desperate to leave. Dean remembers the number of floorboards in the cabin, could recite the epitaphs on the surrounding tombstones, can still smell the perfume his brother’s night nurse wore. Sam needs him to be awake and sitting up and one hundred percent alive. He can do that. It’s the least he can fucking do.
The track marks on his arm hold his interest for a while. He counts them- once, twice, three times. So many. He wonders vaguely how close it was. How many drops of blood were left in the bags when all was said and done. What would have happened if it hadn’t been enough. When would Sammy have called it a day and locked him in the deepest dungeon the bunker had to offer and left him there to rot.
“Never, you friggin’ moron,” Dean mutters. Sam had been willing to deal after Metatron skewered him. He’d risked everything to drag his sorry ass demon brother back home to cure him. He hadn’t slit his throat after Dean almost bashed his head in with a hammer. Sam was on a mission and when that happened he wouldn’t be put off by a little thing like needing to make another blood run.
Sam stabbed him so many times. So much effort. So much agony. The pain’s subsided, gone from brimstone and lava coursing through his veins to immolate the demon from the inside out to the dull throb of a sunburn. Contained. Manageable. So much less than he deserves.
His breath hitches as his heart beats a sudden double thump. The second one doesn’t catch him by surprise but he’s hyperaware of the pulse throbbing in his neck, his chest, his fingertips. He traces the thin blue line running from his wrist to his elbow, twisting his arm in and out of the shadows so it shades to black. The vein is flat beneath the thin layers of skin but it should be bulging, fat with syringe full after syringe full of strangers’ blood. There’s an unpleasant tingling beneath his skin as the corpuscles make their rounds, consecrated and pure and trying their holy best to light the black hole at his center. The Mark’s not having it, of course. Dean can feel it probing, questing…corrupting. The weapons are gone from their hooks on the wall. Good call by Sam because Dean would probably be opening a vein with one right now, if, you know, it wouldn’t defeat the whole purpose of Sam saving him.
Pacing seems like a better way to pass the time than considering the best method of bleeding out so Dean launches himself off the bed and tracks back and forth across the room. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror once-pale with dark rings under his eyes- and changes his trajectory to avoid the glass from then on. There are snapshots to sort through and he does, fanning them out though he’s seen them a million times. He shuffles them so there are two of him and Sam on top and drinks in Sammy’s smile. They were so damned young then, so stupidly young and so much each other’s everything that it’s almost a physical pain to remember how much has changed.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispers, rubbing a thumb along Sam’s frozen in time lips. “So fucking sorry.” The photos flutter back to the table top and his gaze skips past a pile of Busty Asian Beauty magazines because the god damned douchebag asshole he’s been to every woman he happened across since his eyes turned black makes him unworthy to even look at someone of the feminine persuasion until he’s had time to set things right. Mercifully, the door opens and Sam comes in before Dean can start alphabetizing his record collection because, no, really. Just no.
“Hey,” Sam says, eyes crinkling as he catches Dean mid-stride. “You’re supposed to be resting, not tracing a path in your floor.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, gesturing toward the bed. “I was just just…” Thinking too much. “Oh, man, that smells amazing.”
Sam hooks a gigantic foot behind the leg of a chair and pulls it out as he drops the grease stained bags onto Dean’s desk. “Take a load off, man, stop overdoing it. You need to eat.”
Dean falls into his seat and pushes the other chair in Sam’s direction. “You too,” he says, digging into the steaming bag. “I bet you didn’t take any dinner breaks the last few days.
Sam folds his length down with a sigh and plops a Styrofoam cup in front of his brother. “Strawberry,” he says, lips lifting into a tired smile as Dean greedily begins sucking on the straw. “Take it easy, dude. You’ll make yourself sick.”
Dean just grunts as he pulls a burger out of the bag. Grease drips down his chin and onions patter onto the greased wrapper as he hungrily chows down huge bites of meat and cheese. One burger’s gone, along with half the bag of fries when Dean sighs and wipes his greasy fingers down with a napkin.
“You done?” Sam shakes the fast food bag at his brother. “There’s another burger in here. You should eat.”
Dean raises his eyebrows and pointedly stares at the half a chicken salad wrap still sitting uneaten in front of Sam. “Could say the same for you.”
“Fair enough.” Sam shrugs and smiles a bare twist of his lips. “But if you’re done, you should get some rest.”
Stubborn silence reigns for a moment before Dean crumples his burger wrapper and tosses it in the trash. “Sammy,” he says, hesitating before going on. “About Crowley…”
“He couldn’t have you.”
Dean stares at Sam, taken aback by the simple declaration before his eyes dart away and he’s hyper aware of the heat flushing his cheeks. “Sam.”
“Then he wasn’t fucking keeping you.” There’s no anger in Sam’s tone, but steel girders brace his words.
A quick motion has Dean out of his chair and halfway across the room. His heart’s thudding again and his brain is increasingly fuzzy with exhaustion but this… “I was sort of kidding with Cas earlier and I asked if you wanted a divorce.” Sam snorts softly but says nothing. “And really, it’s like we’ve already been sleeping in separate rooms for a decade.”
“Except we’ve mostly been sleeping in the same room, if one of us isn’t in hell or purgatory or soulless or a demon.”
“Point taken,” Dean says. “Separate beds, then. But you can’t argue that we’ve mostly stayed together for the kids.”
“Kids?”
“Kid.” Dean allows. “Baby.” He expects Sam to say something snarky, like he’ll grant Dean full custody, but his brother only nods thoughtfully and Dean’s heart twists just a little. “Anyway, to take this stupid analogy to its conclusion, I don’t know where to go from here. Crowley and being a demon was not my finest moment, Sam. But this?” Dean rubs his hand over the Mark. “This is fucked up kill everyone shit on an epic scale.”
Sam leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees but Dean’s not fooled. The deceptively casual pose showcases taut muscles cording up Sam’s forearms. “So, what? We split up? You and your evil Mark take off? And do what? Go where?”
“I don’t know, man. Tattooine. The Crab Nebula. The fucking sun. Cas could figure it out. This thing…”
Sam rises from his seat in one smooth motion and holds up a hand, stopping Dean mid sentence. “This thing. The Mark. You listen to me, Dean.” Sam spits the words like bullets. “You listening? IT. CAN’T. HAVE. YOU. EITHER. You got that? You’re staying right here and we’re going to figure this out if I have to chain you to your bed.”
Dean just stares for a second before he snorts out a short laugh. “Haven’t done that in a while,” he mutters before he can think better of it. Sam’s eyes burn with intent the likes of which Dean hasn’t seen in years and all of a sudden it’s too much. Dean’s body flares with fire and ice; the food in his stomach shifting precariously in place. Sam’s swimming in and out of focus and Dean takes one staggering step towards his brother before Sam reaches out to steady him with hands strong against Dean’s shoulders.
“Shit,” Sam says, steering Dean backwards toward the bed. “Time to get some rest, okay?”
There’s token, weak resistance as Sam manhandles Dean down onto the mattress and Dean mumbles something incomprehensible even to himself as his brother unlaces his boots and flings them across the room. Strong fingers work open Dean’s belt and unsnap his jeans before sliding them down his legs and off. If Dean didn’t feel like a pile of newborn kittens, he’d reach up and pull Sam down on top of him, make a case for a reconciliation that’s beyond stupid, but when has he ever been anything short of idiotic when it comes to Sam? He grunts something that might be a thank you when Sam pulls the blankets over him and sighs with satisfaction as he rolls over into his normal sleeping position. “It remembered,” he murmurs sleepily and Sam huffs, hand warm and comforting against Dean’s back.
“Of course it did.” The mattress shifts as Sam stands and Dean’s just on the edge of sleep when Sam’s words float through his mind from the doorway. “Nothing could forget you.”
*
Dean sleeps through the night and wakes bleary eyed and ravenous. His dead guy robe hangs on a hook on the back of the closet door and he puts it on, tying the belt like it can keep him from flying apart. Sam’s door is open, his bed empty and neatly made. Sam himself is slumped over a table in the library, a three quarters empty bottle of Jack sitting next to a tumbler full of melted ice.
Lightweight, Dean thinks, before the level of liquor left in the bottle hits him. Sam’s not the kid who got buzzed from a single can of beer anymore than he’s the brightly smiling boy in the pictures on Dean’s bedside table. He’s a grown man with a weight on his shoulders that Dean’s adding fifty pound plates to by the second. He considers heading back to his room, packing his shit and hitting the road. Wonders how far he’d get before Sam tracked him down.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sam says without opening his eyes. “Chains, remember?”
“Uh, yeah.” Heat Dean was too tired to process last night becomes front and center this morning. “I’m, uh, going to take a shower.”
“Excellent idea,” Sam says, waving a hand in Dean’s direction, head still pillowed on his arms. “Get right on that.“
*
What the bunker’s shower room lacks in aesthetics it more than makes up for with good pressure and an unlimited supply of hot, hot water. Dean takes his time lathering and rinsing his hair before moving on to cleansing his body. When he’s squeaky clean, every bit of demon sweat and dripped spillage of consecrated blood swirled down the drain, he drops his hand between his legs and begins to stroke. He’s already half hard from thoughts of Sam and chains; two things he hasn’t allowed himself to fantasize about for years. He takes it slow and steady, in no rush to finish, blowing out a hard breath when he hears the sound of bare feet slapping on the concrete behind him. Sam doesn’t walk under a shower head half a room away like he usually does when he and Dean shower at the same time. Dean stays where he is, back to the room, until Sam slides in behind him and wraps an arm around his waist.
“Let me help you out with that,” Sam whispers in Dean’s ear, before wrapping one big hand around Dean’s and guiding it as it glides and twists across Dean’s flesh.
“Sam,” Dean groans, letting his head drop back against Sam’s shoulder. The Mark’s stirring as it always does when Sam gets too far into Dean’s space but Dean forces it down, concentrating on his brother’s solid bulk at his back and the impending explosion of pleasure from Sam’s talented touch. “Shit, man, that’s…that’s…”
“So, I still got it?”
Sam’s voice is so cocky that Dean elbows him in the gut. “Bitch.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Sam’s tone is dark with promise and with one last dip and twist of his wrist, Dean’s coming, yelling out with his release as his legs go weak beneath him.
Sam lets the water run until it’s rinsed them both clean then twists the handle, leaving them slick and wet in the humid air. Dean wriggles against Sam’s grip until his brother tightens his arms, plastering their bodies together. Dean stills as Sam’s teeth nip at his shoulder and shivers when the hard line of Sam’s cock presses against his back.
“Sammy.” Dean’s voice cracks and Sam releases him instantly, spinning him around so they’re face to face. Dean grabs Sam’s hair and pulls him down into a kiss that neither is in any hurry to break. Dean’s the one to disengage and step back, gaze flicking between Sam’s face and his thick hard cock. He licks his lips and is about to drop to his knees when Sam catches him by the shoulder, keeping him on his feet.
“Not here, man,” Sam says with a smile, tossing Dean a thick white towel. “Bedroom.”
“Thank god,” Dean mutters, quickly drying off before wrapping the towel around his waist. “My knees are too old for concrete shower floors.”
“Geezer,” Sam snarks, heading out of the shower room, towel discarded in a wet heap on the floor. Dean watches the tight arc of his brother’s ass disappear through the doorway, then darts out behind him, savoring the view all the way to the bedroom.
Sam rips Dean’s towel off as soon as they’re through the door and there’s none of the gentle touch he showed last night as he shoves Dean down onto the bed. Dean tries to roll over, to sit up, to get into position to blow Sam, but Sam’s hands are heavy on his thighs, holding him in place for the ministrations of Sam’s nimble tongue. Sam’s a talented multi-tasker so he manages to pop the top on a tube of lubricant so he can slick up his fingers while he bobs his head up and down Dean’s cock.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean groans. “Not that I’m complaining, but aren’t I supposed to be doing that?”
Sam raises his head just long enough to say “later,” before returning to his mission of driving Dean insane with his mouth. Dean’s about ready to die and go to heaven when Sam breaches his ass with one long slick finger and then a second, twisting and scissoring them until Dean’s writhing against the mattress. Sam pulls off when he knows he’s worked his brother just about as far as he can without him popping and concentrates on working a third finger into Dean’s tight hole. Dean’s left arm is draped across his belly, hand tight in Sam’s, his right flat at his side, fist tangled in the sheets in a death grip. Sam notices and his face hardens.
“Enough prep?” he asks in a tone that makes it clear it’s not actually a question.
Dean nods breathlessly. He’s always been fine with whatever Sam wants however Sam wants it. In bed, anyway.
“Good,” Sam growls, hooking his hands beneath Dean’s knees to bend him in half. He’s inside in one hard push, rotating his hips with short thrusts to work his length further and further until his balls are nestled against Dean’s ass. “Okay?” he asks, dipping to kiss Dean’s neck and this time he’s really looking for an answer.
“Yeah,” Dean whispers, because Jesus fuck, Sam’s dick inside him now is light years different from Sam’s dick inside him the last time they did this. His brother’s turned into a wall of solid muscle and Dean gasps out a groan as Sam begins to put all that conditioning to really good use.
“Crowley can’t have you,” Sam grinds out, as he pounds Dean into the mattress. His hand drops onto Dean’s right arm, palm totally obscuring the Mark. “Cain can’t have you.”
The Mark’s muttering dark imprecations but Sam’s drowning it out with his body, re-staking his claim on Dean and pushing all interlopers to the side. Bursts of white hot pleasure beat against the blackness and it’s all but submerged when Dean arches up against Sam with a hoarse cry, hot spatters of white decorating his belly. A few more forceful thrusts and Sam’s orgasm rips through him and he buries his face in Dean’s neck to muffle his cry.
Sam pulls out slowly and settles down beside Dean. He runs his fingers through Dean’s sweat soaked hair and looks around with a crooked smile. “Looks like we may have given your bed a few new things to remember.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, cracking his jaw with an enormous yawn. “Christ, I just got up and now I need a friggin’ nap.”
“That was actually a good while ago, Dean. And it was a rough couple of days.” Sam pulls one of Dean’s pillows under his head and curls up against his brother, one arm draped across Dean’s stomach. “Nap sounds pretty damn good to me.”
“Mmmm,” Dean agrees, stirring himself just enough to pull the blankets up over them. Sam’s already out, soft breaths puffing against Dean’s cheek. Dean’s eyelids are drooping too but the Mark is still there, deep inside now but searching for a way to combat this new strategy. He shivers and presses closer to Sam’s heat. They’ll figure this out like they’ve figured everything else out. Sam believes that. He does. Dean drifts off hoping that Sam can believe it enough for the both of them.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 3200
Rating: NC/17
Summary: When Sam's on a mission, nothing gets in his way.
A/N: My
spn_j2_xmas fic (late as usual) for the lovely majestic_duxk.
Dean slumps at the head of the bed, back leaning uncomfortably against the bunker wall. He’s not sure how long it’s been since Sam cut him loose, Cas watchful and ready in the background, but it feels like hours. Days. Sam brought him straight back to his room- arm tight around his shoulders, only that unwavering support keeping Dean on his feet. He’s exhausted but sleep is out of the question for the time being. Sam’s gone for food and Dean has to be awake when he gets back no matter how enticing the call to oblivion sounds. There’s a pit in his stomach that might be hunger and it might be horror and it’s telling him that Sam can’t come back to find his brother still and pale and silent in the middle of the bed. He’s half afraid to stretch out anyway after he’d abandoned this room without a backwards glance. The memory foam probably expanded back to factory setting after he left, erasing him as completely as if he’d never been here. The idea that it might not have is almost as frightening. It might remember his dead weight so carefully placed on it after Sam brought him back to the bunker and cleaned him up and laid him down to rest. It might remember. Dean doesn’t know which would be worse.
The memory foam might have forgotten but Sam wouldn’t have. Dean knows. Cold Oak. Stull. A hospital bed, sterile and impersonal with Sam strangely small amongst the machines tethering him to a life he’s desperate to leave. Dean remembers the number of floorboards in the cabin, could recite the epitaphs on the surrounding tombstones, can still smell the perfume his brother’s night nurse wore. Sam needs him to be awake and sitting up and one hundred percent alive. He can do that. It’s the least he can fucking do.
The track marks on his arm hold his interest for a while. He counts them- once, twice, three times. So many. He wonders vaguely how close it was. How many drops of blood were left in the bags when all was said and done. What would have happened if it hadn’t been enough. When would Sammy have called it a day and locked him in the deepest dungeon the bunker had to offer and left him there to rot.
“Never, you friggin’ moron,” Dean mutters. Sam had been willing to deal after Metatron skewered him. He’d risked everything to drag his sorry ass demon brother back home to cure him. He hadn’t slit his throat after Dean almost bashed his head in with a hammer. Sam was on a mission and when that happened he wouldn’t be put off by a little thing like needing to make another blood run.
Sam stabbed him so many times. So much effort. So much agony. The pain’s subsided, gone from brimstone and lava coursing through his veins to immolate the demon from the inside out to the dull throb of a sunburn. Contained. Manageable. So much less than he deserves.
His breath hitches as his heart beats a sudden double thump. The second one doesn’t catch him by surprise but he’s hyperaware of the pulse throbbing in his neck, his chest, his fingertips. He traces the thin blue line running from his wrist to his elbow, twisting his arm in and out of the shadows so it shades to black. The vein is flat beneath the thin layers of skin but it should be bulging, fat with syringe full after syringe full of strangers’ blood. There’s an unpleasant tingling beneath his skin as the corpuscles make their rounds, consecrated and pure and trying their holy best to light the black hole at his center. The Mark’s not having it, of course. Dean can feel it probing, questing…corrupting. The weapons are gone from their hooks on the wall. Good call by Sam because Dean would probably be opening a vein with one right now, if, you know, it wouldn’t defeat the whole purpose of Sam saving him.
Pacing seems like a better way to pass the time than considering the best method of bleeding out so Dean launches himself off the bed and tracks back and forth across the room. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror once-pale with dark rings under his eyes- and changes his trajectory to avoid the glass from then on. There are snapshots to sort through and he does, fanning them out though he’s seen them a million times. He shuffles them so there are two of him and Sam on top and drinks in Sammy’s smile. They were so damned young then, so stupidly young and so much each other’s everything that it’s almost a physical pain to remember how much has changed.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispers, rubbing a thumb along Sam’s frozen in time lips. “So fucking sorry.” The photos flutter back to the table top and his gaze skips past a pile of Busty Asian Beauty magazines because the god damned douchebag asshole he’s been to every woman he happened across since his eyes turned black makes him unworthy to even look at someone of the feminine persuasion until he’s had time to set things right. Mercifully, the door opens and Sam comes in before Dean can start alphabetizing his record collection because, no, really. Just no.
“Hey,” Sam says, eyes crinkling as he catches Dean mid-stride. “You’re supposed to be resting, not tracing a path in your floor.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, gesturing toward the bed. “I was just just…” Thinking too much. “Oh, man, that smells amazing.”
Sam hooks a gigantic foot behind the leg of a chair and pulls it out as he drops the grease stained bags onto Dean’s desk. “Take a load off, man, stop overdoing it. You need to eat.”
Dean falls into his seat and pushes the other chair in Sam’s direction. “You too,” he says, digging into the steaming bag. “I bet you didn’t take any dinner breaks the last few days.
Sam folds his length down with a sigh and plops a Styrofoam cup in front of his brother. “Strawberry,” he says, lips lifting into a tired smile as Dean greedily begins sucking on the straw. “Take it easy, dude. You’ll make yourself sick.”
Dean just grunts as he pulls a burger out of the bag. Grease drips down his chin and onions patter onto the greased wrapper as he hungrily chows down huge bites of meat and cheese. One burger’s gone, along with half the bag of fries when Dean sighs and wipes his greasy fingers down with a napkin.
“You done?” Sam shakes the fast food bag at his brother. “There’s another burger in here. You should eat.”
Dean raises his eyebrows and pointedly stares at the half a chicken salad wrap still sitting uneaten in front of Sam. “Could say the same for you.”
“Fair enough.” Sam shrugs and smiles a bare twist of his lips. “But if you’re done, you should get some rest.”
Stubborn silence reigns for a moment before Dean crumples his burger wrapper and tosses it in the trash. “Sammy,” he says, hesitating before going on. “About Crowley…”
“He couldn’t have you.”
Dean stares at Sam, taken aback by the simple declaration before his eyes dart away and he’s hyper aware of the heat flushing his cheeks. “Sam.”
“Then he wasn’t fucking keeping you.” There’s no anger in Sam’s tone, but steel girders brace his words.
A quick motion has Dean out of his chair and halfway across the room. His heart’s thudding again and his brain is increasingly fuzzy with exhaustion but this… “I was sort of kidding with Cas earlier and I asked if you wanted a divorce.” Sam snorts softly but says nothing. “And really, it’s like we’ve already been sleeping in separate rooms for a decade.”
“Except we’ve mostly been sleeping in the same room, if one of us isn’t in hell or purgatory or soulless or a demon.”
“Point taken,” Dean says. “Separate beds, then. But you can’t argue that we’ve mostly stayed together for the kids.”
“Kids?”
“Kid.” Dean allows. “Baby.” He expects Sam to say something snarky, like he’ll grant Dean full custody, but his brother only nods thoughtfully and Dean’s heart twists just a little. “Anyway, to take this stupid analogy to its conclusion, I don’t know where to go from here. Crowley and being a demon was not my finest moment, Sam. But this?” Dean rubs his hand over the Mark. “This is fucked up kill everyone shit on an epic scale.”
Sam leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees but Dean’s not fooled. The deceptively casual pose showcases taut muscles cording up Sam’s forearms. “So, what? We split up? You and your evil Mark take off? And do what? Go where?”
“I don’t know, man. Tattooine. The Crab Nebula. The fucking sun. Cas could figure it out. This thing…”
Sam rises from his seat in one smooth motion and holds up a hand, stopping Dean mid sentence. “This thing. The Mark. You listen to me, Dean.” Sam spits the words like bullets. “You listening? IT. CAN’T. HAVE. YOU. EITHER. You got that? You’re staying right here and we’re going to figure this out if I have to chain you to your bed.”
Dean just stares for a second before he snorts out a short laugh. “Haven’t done that in a while,” he mutters before he can think better of it. Sam’s eyes burn with intent the likes of which Dean hasn’t seen in years and all of a sudden it’s too much. Dean’s body flares with fire and ice; the food in his stomach shifting precariously in place. Sam’s swimming in and out of focus and Dean takes one staggering step towards his brother before Sam reaches out to steady him with hands strong against Dean’s shoulders.
“Shit,” Sam says, steering Dean backwards toward the bed. “Time to get some rest, okay?”
There’s token, weak resistance as Sam manhandles Dean down onto the mattress and Dean mumbles something incomprehensible even to himself as his brother unlaces his boots and flings them across the room. Strong fingers work open Dean’s belt and unsnap his jeans before sliding them down his legs and off. If Dean didn’t feel like a pile of newborn kittens, he’d reach up and pull Sam down on top of him, make a case for a reconciliation that’s beyond stupid, but when has he ever been anything short of idiotic when it comes to Sam? He grunts something that might be a thank you when Sam pulls the blankets over him and sighs with satisfaction as he rolls over into his normal sleeping position. “It remembered,” he murmurs sleepily and Sam huffs, hand warm and comforting against Dean’s back.
“Of course it did.” The mattress shifts as Sam stands and Dean’s just on the edge of sleep when Sam’s words float through his mind from the doorway. “Nothing could forget you.”
*
Dean sleeps through the night and wakes bleary eyed and ravenous. His dead guy robe hangs on a hook on the back of the closet door and he puts it on, tying the belt like it can keep him from flying apart. Sam’s door is open, his bed empty and neatly made. Sam himself is slumped over a table in the library, a three quarters empty bottle of Jack sitting next to a tumbler full of melted ice.
Lightweight, Dean thinks, before the level of liquor left in the bottle hits him. Sam’s not the kid who got buzzed from a single can of beer anymore than he’s the brightly smiling boy in the pictures on Dean’s bedside table. He’s a grown man with a weight on his shoulders that Dean’s adding fifty pound plates to by the second. He considers heading back to his room, packing his shit and hitting the road. Wonders how far he’d get before Sam tracked him down.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sam says without opening his eyes. “Chains, remember?”
“Uh, yeah.” Heat Dean was too tired to process last night becomes front and center this morning. “I’m, uh, going to take a shower.”
“Excellent idea,” Sam says, waving a hand in Dean’s direction, head still pillowed on his arms. “Get right on that.“
*
What the bunker’s shower room lacks in aesthetics it more than makes up for with good pressure and an unlimited supply of hot, hot water. Dean takes his time lathering and rinsing his hair before moving on to cleansing his body. When he’s squeaky clean, every bit of demon sweat and dripped spillage of consecrated blood swirled down the drain, he drops his hand between his legs and begins to stroke. He’s already half hard from thoughts of Sam and chains; two things he hasn’t allowed himself to fantasize about for years. He takes it slow and steady, in no rush to finish, blowing out a hard breath when he hears the sound of bare feet slapping on the concrete behind him. Sam doesn’t walk under a shower head half a room away like he usually does when he and Dean shower at the same time. Dean stays where he is, back to the room, until Sam slides in behind him and wraps an arm around his waist.
“Let me help you out with that,” Sam whispers in Dean’s ear, before wrapping one big hand around Dean’s and guiding it as it glides and twists across Dean’s flesh.
“Sam,” Dean groans, letting his head drop back against Sam’s shoulder. The Mark’s stirring as it always does when Sam gets too far into Dean’s space but Dean forces it down, concentrating on his brother’s solid bulk at his back and the impending explosion of pleasure from Sam’s talented touch. “Shit, man, that’s…that’s…”
“So, I still got it?”
Sam’s voice is so cocky that Dean elbows him in the gut. “Bitch.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Sam’s tone is dark with promise and with one last dip and twist of his wrist, Dean’s coming, yelling out with his release as his legs go weak beneath him.
Sam lets the water run until it’s rinsed them both clean then twists the handle, leaving them slick and wet in the humid air. Dean wriggles against Sam’s grip until his brother tightens his arms, plastering their bodies together. Dean stills as Sam’s teeth nip at his shoulder and shivers when the hard line of Sam’s cock presses against his back.
“Sammy.” Dean’s voice cracks and Sam releases him instantly, spinning him around so they’re face to face. Dean grabs Sam’s hair and pulls him down into a kiss that neither is in any hurry to break. Dean’s the one to disengage and step back, gaze flicking between Sam’s face and his thick hard cock. He licks his lips and is about to drop to his knees when Sam catches him by the shoulder, keeping him on his feet.
“Not here, man,” Sam says with a smile, tossing Dean a thick white towel. “Bedroom.”
“Thank god,” Dean mutters, quickly drying off before wrapping the towel around his waist. “My knees are too old for concrete shower floors.”
“Geezer,” Sam snarks, heading out of the shower room, towel discarded in a wet heap on the floor. Dean watches the tight arc of his brother’s ass disappear through the doorway, then darts out behind him, savoring the view all the way to the bedroom.
Sam rips Dean’s towel off as soon as they’re through the door and there’s none of the gentle touch he showed last night as he shoves Dean down onto the bed. Dean tries to roll over, to sit up, to get into position to blow Sam, but Sam’s hands are heavy on his thighs, holding him in place for the ministrations of Sam’s nimble tongue. Sam’s a talented multi-tasker so he manages to pop the top on a tube of lubricant so he can slick up his fingers while he bobs his head up and down Dean’s cock.
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean groans. “Not that I’m complaining, but aren’t I supposed to be doing that?”
Sam raises his head just long enough to say “later,” before returning to his mission of driving Dean insane with his mouth. Dean’s about ready to die and go to heaven when Sam breaches his ass with one long slick finger and then a second, twisting and scissoring them until Dean’s writhing against the mattress. Sam pulls off when he knows he’s worked his brother just about as far as he can without him popping and concentrates on working a third finger into Dean’s tight hole. Dean’s left arm is draped across his belly, hand tight in Sam’s, his right flat at his side, fist tangled in the sheets in a death grip. Sam notices and his face hardens.
“Enough prep?” he asks in a tone that makes it clear it’s not actually a question.
Dean nods breathlessly. He’s always been fine with whatever Sam wants however Sam wants it. In bed, anyway.
“Good,” Sam growls, hooking his hands beneath Dean’s knees to bend him in half. He’s inside in one hard push, rotating his hips with short thrusts to work his length further and further until his balls are nestled against Dean’s ass. “Okay?” he asks, dipping to kiss Dean’s neck and this time he’s really looking for an answer.
“Yeah,” Dean whispers, because Jesus fuck, Sam’s dick inside him now is light years different from Sam’s dick inside him the last time they did this. His brother’s turned into a wall of solid muscle and Dean gasps out a groan as Sam begins to put all that conditioning to really good use.
“Crowley can’t have you,” Sam grinds out, as he pounds Dean into the mattress. His hand drops onto Dean’s right arm, palm totally obscuring the Mark. “Cain can’t have you.”
The Mark’s muttering dark imprecations but Sam’s drowning it out with his body, re-staking his claim on Dean and pushing all interlopers to the side. Bursts of white hot pleasure beat against the blackness and it’s all but submerged when Dean arches up against Sam with a hoarse cry, hot spatters of white decorating his belly. A few more forceful thrusts and Sam’s orgasm rips through him and he buries his face in Dean’s neck to muffle his cry.
Sam pulls out slowly and settles down beside Dean. He runs his fingers through Dean’s sweat soaked hair and looks around with a crooked smile. “Looks like we may have given your bed a few new things to remember.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, cracking his jaw with an enormous yawn. “Christ, I just got up and now I need a friggin’ nap.”
“That was actually a good while ago, Dean. And it was a rough couple of days.” Sam pulls one of Dean’s pillows under his head and curls up against his brother, one arm draped across Dean’s stomach. “Nap sounds pretty damn good to me.”
“Mmmm,” Dean agrees, stirring himself just enough to pull the blankets up over them. Sam’s already out, soft breaths puffing against Dean’s cheek. Dean’s eyelids are drooping too but the Mark is still there, deep inside now but searching for a way to combat this new strategy. He shivers and presses closer to Sam’s heat. They’ll figure this out like they’ve figured everything else out. Sam believes that. He does. Dean drifts off hoping that Sam can believe it enough for the both of them.