Fic: Blood is Freedom's Stain -- Sam/Dean
Title: Blood is Freedom's Stain
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17ish
Warnings: incest, angst, excessive language
Word Count: ~6000
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. No profit was made from this work of fiction.
Summary: Set immediately after 5.21 (Two Minutes to Midnight). My take on what happens between Bobby's talk with Dean and the scene where Dean approaches Sam the next day.
My first ever Sam/Dean (damn, Wincest, you scary!) for my Christmas exchange with enticing_affair! I love the shit out of that girrrrrrrl. Merry Christmas!
Title's taken from the Iron Maiden song "2 Minutes to Midnight" because REASONS.
Dean’s not sure how long he stays out at Bobby’s workbench, prying the Horsemen’s rings apart only to push them together again, and again, and again, and then about sixty more times. He does know it’s late enough for the sun to barely reach out from behind the trees, bringing with it that notorious South Dakota chill that creeps through in the late evening, cooling Dean’s fingers and the tips of his ears.
There’s also the fact that his ass is numb, but that’s less to do with elapsed time and more a result of Bobby’s typical yard-sale stool. It’s a battered, leather, rolly thing that probably used to be a full-blown chair. Hard to say when the back and arms seem to have fallen off sometime before Dean was born. A wheel’s missing too, not that that matters much. Ain’t like Dean’s riding it into town. Don’t get him started on the cushion either. From the feel of it, it’s rained recently.
Atop the table, sawdust pushes imprints into his elbows through the thin sleeves of his jacket and one of those dull, deep-tissue aches spreads across the top of his back from being hunched, ignorable for only so long. Dean twists his shoulders in a backward roll until something pops, background noise compared to the tiny clink of rings magnetizing together between his hands.
He sighs through his nose, swiveling the conjoined piece around with his finger the way he’s seen disinterested women do with their keys when they’re ready to leave a bar. A bar...a bar he could use right now. His hand’s already stretching to snag his earlier beer bottle by the neck before he remembers there’s nothing but the dreggy bottom left in it. Which, no thanks.
For all of five seconds he contemplates the chance of Bobby waitressing him another one out here. With those new stems of his less than a few days old, he’d probably do it too, take any excuse to cross the yard in wide, sure-footed strides again. Though he’d be sure to gripe just to save face, the “remind me when exactly your legs stopped working” a given.
‘Cept, thing is, Dean’s not so eager to haul him back out here. Not after the bastard spilled his guts and then left Dean alone to...to do whatever.
What exactly are you afraid of? Losing? Or losing your brother?
Christ. Because it wasn’t enough just to wake up every morning and remember they’re that much closer to doomsday, now he’s got these extra self-discovery questions being sprinkled on top of Life’s Fucked Up Ice-Cream Sundae. Pick one: losing the war or losing Sam? Why even pinpoint? One’s bad. One’s worse. It all sucks.
It was a hell of a lot easier to think with a clear head knowing that particular fool’s errand was off the table, which leaves Dean honest-to-God baffled by Bobby’s shift in perspective. Two days ago Sam was the odd man out, the one getting the “are you out of your mind” and “that’s suicidal” remarks.
Fast forward and now Dean’s suddenly the one slowing them down because he’s digging his heels in the mud. All because he wants to find something else to do with these stupid rings that were supposed to be a step towards an organized plan? He’d risked his own neck lying to Death’s mug and smiling around Chicago pizza like they were best friends at a slumber party, and for what exactly?
Betrayal’s a word that never sat right with him.
Dean’s having a hard time substituting.
They’re in this together, is what Sam says, but it’s a fucked up “together” when two people are climbing aboard the crazy train whether the third likes it or not. At the end of the day, the path of free will leaves him as choiceless as any other, and he could kick his own ass for not accepting it sooner.
Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Lucifer, that son of a bitch.
Suddenly he’s ten shades of pissed, rising so quickly that the stool tips over backwards and into a shallow puddle, where it’s going to stay until someone else comes along because it’s not his problem. None of it is.
If Bobby wants to escort Sam to the entrance of Xibalba and offer him up like yesterday’s newspaper, fine. Dean’s not sticking around to watch. Grand Canyon, Bunny Ranch, a Coldplay concert--anywhere is better than here.
Choosing to leave the rings behind is a true testament to his character. After all, not wanting Sam to try is not the same as wanting Sam to fail.
However should he fail, Dean’s just angry enough to say he deserves it.
His baby’s parked only a few steps away, tires curved toward the road like she’s as ready to take off as he is. The one piece of solidarity he’s got left and he clings to it with literal fingers sliding along the dewy roofline. She’s been stripped and reassembled more times than he can count, but it’s still the same feeling every time he climbs into the driver’s seat, like his lungs can expand that extra ten percent and for those few unreal moments behind the wheel he can just breathe.
This time he barely gets the chance. Patting down his pockets--jacket, jeans, shirt, and jacket again--for keys that just aren’t there has the weight settling right back into place, welcome as ever. He sits stiff-spined in the seat, staring ahead at busted stacks of vehicles through the windshield, one leg still dangling outside the car.
Sam. Sam’s got his keys.
Getting back to Bobby’s from Chi-Town was a bitch and a half. Chatting up Granddaddy Reaper proved the equivalent of a cross-country trip with no pit stops or sleep, jackhammering away at Dean’s life force faster than an Irish he-witch with a couple of good hands. He barely remembers the drive itself, just stumbling in, chucking the keys at Sam, and face-planting into the couch. “Put the shit back in the trunk,” probably came out as garbled nonsense drooled into a frilly pillow, the type of nonsense Sam sees fit to ignore whether he understands it or not.
So with half the yard’s cars missing a transmission and the other half missing their dignity, Dean’s not getting out of here short of twisting the Impala’s wires together. And, to put things into perspective, he’d sooner say yes to Michael, Lucifer, Sam, and the South Beach Diet before hotwiring his own car again. That’s why he ends up shoving back out and slamming the door with a force that leaves the frame rocking behind him.
And the timing--it’s the type of shit you’d see in a movie: cheesy, suspiciously coincidental, and ridiculous--because across the roof of the car, Dean spots Sam walking down the driveway toward him, his gait just slow enough to look casual, but Dean’s no idiot.
Sam’s been trying to talk about this for days. He knows Dean’s gonna run, just as Dean knows his brother’s gonna hold him down the second he tries. That bottle of whiskey in his hand is just a peace offering, there to make it hurt less when Dean hits the ground.
Atop the Impala, Dean drums his fingers and purses his lips, fully prepared to set off in the other direction.
Only--something gets confused because he still manages to meet Sam halfway.
“This is what’s supposed to open the cage?” Twenty minutes later sees them both leaning against an IROC-Z with a smashed rear bumper and hood flaked with red, chipping paint. Convenient, if only for the streetlight overhead providing some much-needed light while Sam pokes gently at the cluster in his palm. “This is the key?”
Dean shrugs, lipping the whiskey’s rim and trying for the life of him not to just suck it all down. Booze for the rings; it had been an even trade. “Looks that way. Horsemen powers activate, all that jazz.”
“So War’s ring serves as the center point.” Sam’s getting bolder with his examination now, pokes turning into prods, flips, and turns now that he’s confident the thing won’t blow up in his hands. “I mean...shouldn’t it be Death’s?”
“It’s the Mustang. Car like that’ll get you pretty far in life, huh?”
Dean aims an elbow-nudge at Sam’s ribs that ends up absorbed into his brother’s arm instead. Not necessarily his best joke, but a week ago he’d have at least gotten a forced laugh, a shake of the head, something. Now Sam’s just a brick wall, strictly business and all the other things older hunters love to warn about.
Something stretches up from his gut. Dean takes a thick swig to swallow it down, upending the bottle until his mouth’s flooded and he wants to gag. He shoves it at Sam then, tip glistening with his own saliva, reaching over at the same time to swipe the rings clear out of his hand. A tradeback.
“You’re thinking too hard,” is his answer to Sam’s accusatory stare.
“Someone has to.”
Sam takes the Jim Beam. Dean pockets the rings.
“You know Bobby, he was really singing your praises out here earlier.” Dean uncrosses his ankles to stomp on a cricket skittering out from under the car. The noise was driving him nuts. Doesn’t really account for the thousands of others, though, and it leaves him wiping his shoe on the IROC’s front tire.
Sam perks up a bit from his slump. He’s not the one who spent most of today sleeping. “Yeah?”
“Said you’re the main reason people got out of there alive. Blood must’ve really been pumpin’.”
“I don’t know. I just kept thinking we couldn’t let this thing spread, not after everything. Guess I went on autopilot.” Said by anyone else, it’d be a poorly-disguised hotshot’s bravado. Dean hears it for what it really is.
You, Bobby, Cas...I'm the least of any of you.
“Alright, enough.” Dean’s got little love for conversations that repeat themselves. Last time he let Sam talk. This time he pushes him hard against the car until his back bends with the roof, leans in close just so they’re clear. “You listen to me. I am sick and tired of this self-deprecation crap, Sam! We all get it! You drank demon blood. You trusted Ruby. You broke the seal and let the devil out. Okay! But you whine and you mope and you knock yourself down expecting me to build you back up. Well I can’t, Sam! I can’t! You know why?”
Sam’s eyes are huge and bright under the street lamp’s glare, his hair knocked in every which direction. Too slack-jawed to say it, he slowly shakes his head no.
So young, he looks so young that Dean’s swarmed with the urge to backpedal, to pull him in tight, push their foreheads together and tell him it’ll be okay--everything, everything will be okay Sammy, I promise. His breath comes out a shaky mess. Sam’s shoulders lock where he grips them with an array of hooked fingers. He wants to say it. If he says it out loud maybe he’ll believe it too.
“Because we’re all just a bunch of fuck-ups.” Dean snaps backward and around the car for a much-needed piss.
Sam’s already going for the whiskey at his feet.
“I do remember the Wendigos.” Dean knows he’s pretty lit by now because he almost says Fendigos instead. And really, what the hell is a Fendigo anyway? Somewhere along the line his ass ended up planted on the hood, the car low enough that his feet hover mere inches from the ground. Good ol’ Jim rests between his spread thighs, open-topped and safe from getting kicked over by accident. “Said I didn’t, but...I think about those suckers a lot.”
“Mm,” Dean isn’t expecting Sam’s hand to reach for his lap, or the spike of adrenaline that licks up his spine when it happens. If Sam notices him stiffen, he doesn’t mention it, simply grabs the bottle, knocks one back, and keeps talking. “What about the haunted paintings?”
Dean huffs a laugh, easing up a bit. “Sh’yeah. Killer clowns. Possessed monster trucks. The whole nine. Who knew those would be considered our glory days?”
They go silent, feeling the words sink in, or possibly just letting them fall by the wayside. To Dean they’ll always be there in the back of his mind--with a treasure trove of other things best left forgotten--gnawing, eroding, and chipping away until the dam breaks and panicky realization sets in, makes him twitchy. Desperate. Until he’s on his feet and turning to face Sam head-on, head swimming with stupid things he’s just drunk enough to say.
“What if we just leave? C’mon, we’ll ditch everything. We’ll hop in the car and just drive until we end up somewhere we can’t pronounce. Green grass, pretty girls, a salad bar for you...” He’s half joking and completely serious. “Come on, Sam. Screw the apocalypse. Screw Lucifer.”
Sam blinks, voice going soft. “You know I can’t.”
Dean does. He was just hoping for an exception. What a buzzkill. “Yeah,” he sniffs, looking away and trying not to sound deflated. “Yeah I know.”
“It’s not even that I don’t want to. Part of me does.” Sam’s still staring him down, making the side of Dean’s face itch worse and worse. “Dean--there’s a huge part of me that wants to do it, wants to run away with you. But Lucifer, he...he’d just end up following me.”
Dean waves him off, suddenly way too sober to be having this conversation. “I hear you, Sam. I get it.”
“No! You don’t get it.” Apparently that’s the wrong thing to say. Sam wheels on him, the most movement Dean’s seen out of him all night, becoming this looming skyscraper lining them up chest to chest, jacket brushing jacket, words spitting from his mouth. “Because you don’t want to get it! Well guess what! I don’t get that option, Dean! I don’t get to block everything out like you do.”
A half-step backwards has the IROC’s antenna cutting a long line into Dean’s back. Sam gets any closer and he’ll have no choice but to Luke Duke across this bitch. “Sam--”
But, no. Sam bunches Dean’s jacket collar in his hands, delivering a full-body jostle, the kind Sam only gives him when he’s either beyond pissed or beyond terrified. Hard to say which it is this time; there’s a whole lot of both etched deep into the lines of his face. “Dean, I see him! Every night, in my dreams. It doesn’t matter where we are, what state we’re in. He. Is. Always. Right. There. Sometimes he’s Jessica. Sometimes he’s Mom...”
Dean’s hands flex at his sides like he should put them somewhere.
“And then sometimes...” There’s a shift then. Something changes, Dean can feel it. Sam’s chin drops to his chest like he can’t handle looking Dean in the face anymore, which is funny in the not-funny way because now Dean’s the one having a hard time looking anywhere else. Between them, Sam breathes deep. Once. Twice. And then he’s back, voice wrung tight with forced regularity. “For twenty-three nights, Dean, he’s been you--I don’t...I just can’t take anymore.”
The tremble in Sam’s hands reaches through to Dean’s core. It doesn’t make sense, how much it still hurts to watch his overgrown brother fall to pieces in front of him and not be able to do a thing about it. Dean’s too faithless to be feeling this right now. He’s supposed to be too goddamn fed up with the world to have anything Sam says actually matter.
It’s so fucking unfair. “Sammy...man, why didn’t you just say something?”
“Didn’t see the point. Wouldn’t change anything. And I know it shouldn’t make a difference whose meat suit he’s wearing--believe me, for a long time it didn’t. I ignored him and it was fine. But just lately the things he says...and because it’s you...only because you’re the one saying them...” Sam laughs caustically, raises the whiskey too fast and ends up spilling some down the side of his mouth. “He’s been looking for my weakness. Guess he found it.”
And though Sam’s released him to step back and wipe at his face, Dean’s jacket remains rumpled and disfigured. The air’s thick with the scent of alcohol. Dean’s throat clicks in answering dryness. “What’s he say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well it does to me! I wanna know exactly what he--what do I say to you?”
“Not a whole lot. Mostly that you don’t care, about anything. You talk about how the world can rot because it’s beyond saving. You tell me you can’t trust me, that I’m not your brother, not anymore...so I can rot too.”
“What? And you believe that?” Sam’s mouth stiffens and it’s answer enough. Dean shifts sideways along the car, side-stepping his brother for some much-needed air that doesn’t smell like the back parking lot of a 7-11. “Awesome. Yeah that’s really great, Sam. Tell me, when exactly did that devil on your shoulder morph into Mr. All-knowing Psychiatrist, huh?”
“Well the real you doesn’t exactly help to convince me otherwise!”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” This is it. Sam’s been waiting all night for this to happen, so fine. Dean’s ready. He’s not gonna hold back.
“You’re all about rebelling against fate, Dean, but when it really comes down to putting thought into action--”
“Okay, fine! Let’s do it! You got a plan? One that, upon success, doesn’t involve parachuting straight into Hell?”
“It’s all we have!”
“It’s suicide! Funny how I’m the only one who seems to care much about that anymore!” Jesus Christ, there it is again. Betrayal--this nasty, out-of-place thing--making him want nothing more than to throw Sam into the asphalt and swing until he’s recycled into the ground. He’s gotta be shaking now. Gotta be. “You have no idea--talking like going to Hell’s no big deal, I swear to God I could just beat your ass!”
“So do it!”
Dean lands a swift punch. Sam pops him a swifter one back.
They wind up in the wet dirt, grappling and kicking like a couple of kids scrapping over which superhero is better. Hell they still have that argument as adults, always with Dean roughing Sam up until he admits Spiderman sucks and Batman is far superior. ‘Cause deep down Sam knows.
This time’s different. This time blood trickles out from Dean’s nose, not broken but busted to all hell. His body aches where he’s forced flat on his back by Sam from above. One of his brother’s hands smashes his cheek into the gritty earth so hard that Dean’s neck threatens to snap, with Sam only letting up after Dean delivers a left-handed sock to his stomach. He knows it’s a good one because it leaves Sam curling in on himself with a grunt.
Dean clocks him with his right for the sake of symmetry, then works fast to shove Sam off of him, only it ends up being not fast enough. Next thing Dean knows he’s sufficiently pinned by every limb Sam’s got available, his brother’s weight a solid boulder atop his stomach, crushing whatever functioning insides Dean’s got left.
No more punches happen because no one’s got the free arm to throw any. Breaths mingle in the shared space between them, sticky-hot and labored, too humid to dry the collection of blood on Dean’s upper lip. Creeping down from Sam’s hairline, there’s a trail of a matching color riding the ridges in his forehead and Dean thinks good. He hopes it fucking hurts.
It’s the first they’ve stopped moving long enough for him to feel the whiskey seeped deep in the leg of his jeans. The mouth of the bottle nudges just barely against his shin, still oozing, and Dean does his best to shift away from the mess, not getting far with Sam as his anchor.
Sam’s breath stutters on the next inhale like something’s suddenly wrong. His eyes squeeze shut, thighs tensing up where they bracket Dean’s sides and Dean starts to freak out a little, starts to search out more of Sam’s face through the shadows and blood-streaked hair, starts to re-evaluate just how hard he’d hit him.
Hard enough to go down, yeah, but it’s not like he caused brain damage. Right? Right.
Only the doubt’s still there and Sam’s not moving, not moving and not opening his eyes, and Dean can’t even tell if Sam’s breathing over the rushing blood and the fucking crickets in his ears. They’re not under the streetlight anymore and Dean can’t see for shit. He tries pushing up, only to have Sam send him back down with wide eyes and a choked-up “Dean” in response.
It shocks him limp.
Dean’s heart starts pounding.
Christ Almighty, something is wrong. All kinds of wrong and triggering something buried deep and he can’t stop it, can’t block it out. He’s already drifting to that place that only exists during the safety of a shower or the early morning hours when he’s too sleep-fogged to put up a filter. Where there’s just Sam and breathing and all sorts of other things that rightfully shouldn’t exist in the same sentence. It’s got Dean’s skin sprouting goosebumps all over and his dick going half-hard against his zipper, just an inch, a fucking inch from where Sam is, and Jesus he can’t.
“Sammy.” Dean has to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth, voice scratching out from his razor-burned throat. “Sammy, we should...”
Get up. Go inside. Put on hula skirts and dance the macarena--whatever, just...
“Uh, yeah,” Sam seems to come back to himself, finally loosening his hold on Dean’s forearms. “Yeah, you’re right.”
And Dean knows Sam doesn’t nudge back for any reason other than to make it easier to stand, but all it takes is that one second. That one second where everything that shouldn’t happen just does. So when Sam nudges back, he nudges into Dean. When Sam nudges back, the shadows fall in a different way. When Sam nudges back, his shirt pulls to the side and Dean sees everything. Exposed. Unmistakable.
Sam’s more than half-hard, stiff dick raised in a fat diagonal line under his jeans.
Dean’s blood rushes--and he knows he’ll make a list of excuses later, blame the alcohol, the pent-up energy from their fight, say it’s their looming situation making him nuts--
Because outside and away from all of this he’d never, not in a million years--
He grabs Sam by the hip and does it, the dumbest thing, just goes in for the kill. Skates a hand across his brother’s lap, grips him by the cock, and pulls him down by the shirt collar before he has time to see Sam react. Dean still hears it though. Sam’s startled “oh God” shudders right beneath his ear.
Sam’s hips roll into his hand, pushing hard and desperate permission into Dean’s fingers. His breath fans heavily at Dean’s jaw and Dean stares up at the sky in a daze, trying not to think about who or what could be up there staring back at him while he squeezes his brother’s cock tighter and gives it a deliberate stroke.
“Shit,” is what Sam says this time, breathlessly dirty and causing Dean to jolt underneath him, like in some messed up way Sam’s mouth holds the pull-string to Dean’s junk. There’s still grit and dirt smeared on Dean’s cheek. Sam noses through it, sitting up to pin Dean with dark eyes and hands on his chest.
Bloody-faced, hair mangled, collar stretch-loosened so his tattoo sneaks out...Sam looks a fucking mess. It’s the best thing Dean’s ever seen.
“This is fucked up...” And Sam’s hysteria would sound so much more convincing if he wasn’t slipping back those precious few inches to bump their dicks together through their jeans. Dean feels him bear down before turning it into a slow and experimental rock. All the way forward. All the way back. Agonizing in a way that has Dean curling thumbs in Sam’s belt loops just to have it happen again. The rest of Dean’s fingers push against Sam’s ass until he moves, groaning deep. “So fucked up.”
“Yeah, well...” What isn’t at this point, Dean wants to ask. Can’t because Sam’s grabbing his face and smashing their mouths together, not even bothering to tilt his head so Dean’s destroyed nose winds up screaming all over again. He tastes blood on his tongue, even in Sam’s mouth where the whiskey still lingers. There’s spit and it’s sloppy because he can’t even breathe and it’s by far the worst kiss Dean’s ever had.
Shit if it doesn’t make him fucking leak into his underwear.
They rut against each other, nothing but frenzied half-thrusts that leave Sam pulling at Dean’s hair and Dean’s heels scraping up the earth’s layers for leverage. Dean’s breaths hitch higher and higher, wet sucking gasps under Sam’s lips, stealing every one of his brother’s exhales and locking them deep. The friction between them is something fierce. Heat spills and spreads across their laps like gasoline, seconds away from lighting them up.
Jesus, Dean could come just like this. Push up a little harder, grind a little faster and he’d be there in a matter of seconds, shooting in his pants like the time Missy Austin grabbed him under the table in ninth grade. It’d be better than that time too, knowing he’d be blowing it against Sam’s--
Dean’s balls draw upward and his pace fumbles. God, but he’s fucked in the head.
Except Sam misinterprets the disconnect. Leaning back, he wipes the blood and spit from his face with his jacket sleeve, quick and rough like he doesn’t really care if there’s some left behind, and then reaches down, fingers ghosting over his own waistband until they brush the belt buckle. Here he stops, looks to Dean.
The question hovers unsaid: how far?
Dean’s not going there. The world’s probably gonna blow up tomorrow and Sam wants to argue boundaries. Yeah, okay.
He kind of hates that Sam’s still looking to him for answers when it’s blatantly obvious Dean’s been tapped out for a long, long time. Christ, how the hell does he expect to take on Lucifer like this?
Dean’s ready to flip them, take charge and push Sam on his back so things can get moving, so that Sam will just shut up, let it go, and forget about whatever lines they’ll attempt to redraw in the morning. Dean could make it easy on himself for once.
But deep down Sam needs this, needs them exactly where they are. And deep down Dean needs to build Sam up almost as badly as Sam needs Dean to be the one to do it.
They’re still fuck-ups. Dean meant what he’d said because it’s true. But Sam’s all he’s got, he’s absolutely everything, and that’s the truth too. So he stays where he is, spread flat on the ground, and he wiggles Sam back until his lap’s freed up, until Dean’s able to show he’s got the balls to unzip his pants and keep this thing going.
A couple of thumbs and a shove later, his boxer briefs are down. Elastic catches up under his sac. Cold air hits him in places he’s not used to and Sam doesn’t even pretend not to look.
Dean folds an arm under his head, lets his bare dick flop back to kiss the lower part of his belly, right below where his shirt’s ridden up, and he flashes Sam a salacious smile because it’s familiar and every bit the reassurance he needs, even if it’s not necessarily how Dean feels. “You can’t get cold feet three minutes before the wedding, Sammy. We already paid the DJ.”
Sam’s head drops. “Jesus, just shut up.” But it works. His hands start moving, unlooping, unbuttoning, and then he has to grab inside, adjust, before he can tug it through the slit.
Dean’s so ready for it it’s disgusting.
He watches it jut out, thick and long through the open vee of Sam’s pants, wonders if Sam’s hand pulls away with the same amount of sticky-slick tacked to his palm that Dean’s had. He looks so boned-up that Dean knows, just knows that right as Sam’s cock slipped out the air got skunked with the smell of jizz. Because Dean breathes deep, swears he can taste the sour on his tongue.
And he doesn’t even care how monstrously gay it’ll sound later, because right in that moment Dean thinks about how hard he’d suck that fucking dick if it wouldn’t rupture the blood clots in his nose. It’s sickening how close he comes to doing it anyway. Dean’s ready to haul Sam up until he’s straddling his chest, ready to feel his lips stretch wide like they did during those psychotic dreams at Glenwood Springs. Another second and it’d happen, but then Sam does it, this amazing thing.
Sam drops his cock, fat and heavy, on top of Dean’s, pressing them together so completely that Dean’s stomach snaps inward and his dick pulses in a lurch that lifts them both.
Dean wants to ask if he’s the only one who suddenly feels naked all over, and if he’s the only one with his ass clenched up over the damning realization that he’s dick to dick with his brother. Dean wants to ask Sam if he knows he’s steadily drizzling between them, wants to tell him how fucking great it feels smearing down the sensitive ridge under his tip. Dean’s got a million things to say and no words except, “Fuck, Sammy, fuck...”
Because Sam’s already squeezing them both into one huge palm, locking their shafts together with long, long fleshy-callused fingers that wrap and stroke and secure. With Sam bent over him Dean’s almost entirely cast into shadow, shielded by Sam’s jacket draped on either side, trapping the heat and making Dean sweat where his legs turn into groin.
He can feel Sam’s heart beating through his dick--ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom--can feel it kick into full-on roadrunner status when Dean’s wrist comes down to skid smooth, thin skin across both fleshy heads, smearing the wet around in circles ‘til there’s no telling what came from who.
Sam makes a quietly anguished sound overhead and Dean watches Sam watching him, feels the arm next to his shoulder wobble.
The pace picks up. Dean’s hand drops down like an umbrella over their tips, massaging the best he can with Sam knocking it on every upward pump. Dean’s other arm’s reduced to a bunch of needles and pins under his head. Every time Sam squeezes just right, Dean’s neck arches back and he knows it tingles, but it pales in comparison to the pulling freefall in his stomach and the coiling tightness even lower.
“Dean please,” it’s so soft Dean can barely hear the words, “can’t do this without you.”
And God--no, just no! It’s all sorts of fucked up to try and mix that kind of shit in here, just like it’s all sorts of fucked up for Sam to keep his fist moving when he knows Dean’s so close he can’t form a complete sentence. “Damn it, Sam...”
“Wish--God--wish you’d just trust me...”
“Oh you idiot, that’s not even--” but Sam’s starting to slow and Dean catches the doubt creeping into his face, knows he’s gotta do immediate damage control even if it means saying something irreparably stupid. “Look...there’s a rubber in my wallet that says how much I trust you, Sam.”
Jesus if that’s not the biggest bluff he’s ever made in his life.
That does the trick because Sam shuts up. More than shuts up. Dean watches his eyebrows furrow, face twisting into a grimace like he’s been punched. His arm shakes harder and all at once Dean understands why. Sam’s cock goes taut against him and then he’s bursting shot after shot into the cover of Dean’s hand, oozing through his fingers and sliding down his wrist.
And then Dean’s humping up into him, swearing every filthy word he knows, name-dropping like a virgin on prom night because mother-of-fuck his brother just nutted into his hand and it’s enough to make him flood it a second time.
Sam winds up in the grass to Dean’s left, shirt stained with the gooey handprint from where Dean pushed him off.
They readjust, which mostly means tucking away their indecent parts and leaving their pants undone, so if anyone were to walk by it’d look more like they were recovering from Thanksgiving dinner than the biggest mindfuck that ever lived.
Slowly Dean’s breath evens out and he listens to Sam’s do the same. Apart from the moon’s placement, the sky’s no different than it’s been all night, cloudy with murk that blocks out the stars. Nothing special. Nothing life-altering in the least. His body hurts, his favorite pants have booze all down the leg, and he still can’t breathe unless it’s through his mouth.
Therein lies the irony because Dean already knows. He knows the next time--of course there’ll be a next time--he fucks up and finds himself knocking on heaven’s door...this is what he’ll find on the other side. This right here. The cold, hard ground of a salvage yard in South Dakota...side by side with Sam. And, well, he’d be lying if he said that didn’t take the sting out of dying just a little.
Sam shifts against the ground. Dean already knows what’s coming.
“I need you in this.”
“I know, just--give me a little more time...okay?” Dean’s purposefully vague, so tired and so dangerously close to just giving in that he can’t risk looking Sam in the eye. One more push, that’s all it’d take, and Dean doesn’t realize how anxiously he’s waiting for it until it never comes.
Sam gets up, heads inside because everything’s been said.
Eventually Dean gets up too. He goes the opposite way, back to the workbench where he fishes the stool out from the puddle and thinks about what Lucifer’s gonna say to Sam once he falls asleep.
Because it definitely is his problem, just like it’s always been.
The next day Dean doesn’t set foot outside until late afternoon. There he finds Sam looking way less bloody and holding a beer more for show than anything else. He’s sitting on the Impala with his mud-caked shoes on her hood like Dean hasn’t told him a million fucking times to cut that shit out. It’s hard not to do it again, use the excuse to fall back into the old routine and just let things reset.
Dean has to grab a beer from the cooler before he loses his nerve, so he can roll with it when Sam starts throwing questions at him.
He doesn’t waste time explaining how he stayed out here thinking until the sun came up or commit the ultimate chick-flick moment by telling Sam he’d stand with him even as the earth shatters beneath their feet. He does, however, pop the top off his beer and settle further against the car.
He does manage to say “I’m in” and make it mean just as much.
'
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17ish
Warnings: incest, angst, excessive language
Word Count: ~6000
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. No profit was made from this work of fiction.
Summary: Set immediately after 5.21 (Two Minutes to Midnight). My take on what happens between Bobby's talk with Dean and the scene where Dean approaches Sam the next day.
My first ever Sam/Dean (damn, Wincest, you scary!) for my Christmas exchange with enticing_affair! I love the shit out of that girrrrrrrl. Merry Christmas!
Title's taken from the Iron Maiden song "2 Minutes to Midnight" because REASONS.
Dean’s not sure how long he stays out at Bobby’s workbench, prying the Horsemen’s rings apart only to push them together again, and again, and again, and then about sixty more times. He does know it’s late enough for the sun to barely reach out from behind the trees, bringing with it that notorious South Dakota chill that creeps through in the late evening, cooling Dean’s fingers and the tips of his ears.
There’s also the fact that his ass is numb, but that’s less to do with elapsed time and more a result of Bobby’s typical yard-sale stool. It’s a battered, leather, rolly thing that probably used to be a full-blown chair. Hard to say when the back and arms seem to have fallen off sometime before Dean was born. A wheel’s missing too, not that that matters much. Ain’t like Dean’s riding it into town. Don’t get him started on the cushion either. From the feel of it, it’s rained recently.
Atop the table, sawdust pushes imprints into his elbows through the thin sleeves of his jacket and one of those dull, deep-tissue aches spreads across the top of his back from being hunched, ignorable for only so long. Dean twists his shoulders in a backward roll until something pops, background noise compared to the tiny clink of rings magnetizing together between his hands.
He sighs through his nose, swiveling the conjoined piece around with his finger the way he’s seen disinterested women do with their keys when they’re ready to leave a bar. A bar...a bar he could use right now. His hand’s already stretching to snag his earlier beer bottle by the neck before he remembers there’s nothing but the dreggy bottom left in it. Which, no thanks.
For all of five seconds he contemplates the chance of Bobby waitressing him another one out here. With those new stems of his less than a few days old, he’d probably do it too, take any excuse to cross the yard in wide, sure-footed strides again. Though he’d be sure to gripe just to save face, the “remind me when exactly your legs stopped working” a given.
‘Cept, thing is, Dean’s not so eager to haul him back out here. Not after the bastard spilled his guts and then left Dean alone to...to do whatever.
What exactly are you afraid of? Losing? Or losing your brother?
Christ. Because it wasn’t enough just to wake up every morning and remember they’re that much closer to doomsday, now he’s got these extra self-discovery questions being sprinkled on top of Life’s Fucked Up Ice-Cream Sundae. Pick one: losing the war or losing Sam? Why even pinpoint? One’s bad. One’s worse. It all sucks.
It was a hell of a lot easier to think with a clear head knowing that particular fool’s errand was off the table, which leaves Dean honest-to-God baffled by Bobby’s shift in perspective. Two days ago Sam was the odd man out, the one getting the “are you out of your mind” and “that’s suicidal” remarks.
Fast forward and now Dean’s suddenly the one slowing them down because he’s digging his heels in the mud. All because he wants to find something else to do with these stupid rings that were supposed to be a step towards an organized plan? He’d risked his own neck lying to Death’s mug and smiling around Chicago pizza like they were best friends at a slumber party, and for what exactly?
Betrayal’s a word that never sat right with him.
Dean’s having a hard time substituting.
They’re in this together, is what Sam says, but it’s a fucked up “together” when two people are climbing aboard the crazy train whether the third likes it or not. At the end of the day, the path of free will leaves him as choiceless as any other, and he could kick his own ass for not accepting it sooner.
Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Lucifer, that son of a bitch.
Suddenly he’s ten shades of pissed, rising so quickly that the stool tips over backwards and into a shallow puddle, where it’s going to stay until someone else comes along because it’s not his problem. None of it is.
If Bobby wants to escort Sam to the entrance of Xibalba and offer him up like yesterday’s newspaper, fine. Dean’s not sticking around to watch. Grand Canyon, Bunny Ranch, a Coldplay concert--anywhere is better than here.
Choosing to leave the rings behind is a true testament to his character. After all, not wanting Sam to try is not the same as wanting Sam to fail.
However should he fail, Dean’s just angry enough to say he deserves it.
His baby’s parked only a few steps away, tires curved toward the road like she’s as ready to take off as he is. The one piece of solidarity he’s got left and he clings to it with literal fingers sliding along the dewy roofline. She’s been stripped and reassembled more times than he can count, but it’s still the same feeling every time he climbs into the driver’s seat, like his lungs can expand that extra ten percent and for those few unreal moments behind the wheel he can just breathe.
This time he barely gets the chance. Patting down his pockets--jacket, jeans, shirt, and jacket again--for keys that just aren’t there has the weight settling right back into place, welcome as ever. He sits stiff-spined in the seat, staring ahead at busted stacks of vehicles through the windshield, one leg still dangling outside the car.
Sam. Sam’s got his keys.
Getting back to Bobby’s from Chi-Town was a bitch and a half. Chatting up Granddaddy Reaper proved the equivalent of a cross-country trip with no pit stops or sleep, jackhammering away at Dean’s life force faster than an Irish he-witch with a couple of good hands. He barely remembers the drive itself, just stumbling in, chucking the keys at Sam, and face-planting into the couch. “Put the shit back in the trunk,” probably came out as garbled nonsense drooled into a frilly pillow, the type of nonsense Sam sees fit to ignore whether he understands it or not.
So with half the yard’s cars missing a transmission and the other half missing their dignity, Dean’s not getting out of here short of twisting the Impala’s wires together. And, to put things into perspective, he’d sooner say yes to Michael, Lucifer, Sam, and the South Beach Diet before hotwiring his own car again. That’s why he ends up shoving back out and slamming the door with a force that leaves the frame rocking behind him.
And the timing--it’s the type of shit you’d see in a movie: cheesy, suspiciously coincidental, and ridiculous--because across the roof of the car, Dean spots Sam walking down the driveway toward him, his gait just slow enough to look casual, but Dean’s no idiot.
Sam’s been trying to talk about this for days. He knows Dean’s gonna run, just as Dean knows his brother’s gonna hold him down the second he tries. That bottle of whiskey in his hand is just a peace offering, there to make it hurt less when Dean hits the ground.
Atop the Impala, Dean drums his fingers and purses his lips, fully prepared to set off in the other direction.
Only--something gets confused because he still manages to meet Sam halfway.
“This is what’s supposed to open the cage?” Twenty minutes later sees them both leaning against an IROC-Z with a smashed rear bumper and hood flaked with red, chipping paint. Convenient, if only for the streetlight overhead providing some much-needed light while Sam pokes gently at the cluster in his palm. “This is the key?”
Dean shrugs, lipping the whiskey’s rim and trying for the life of him not to just suck it all down. Booze for the rings; it had been an even trade. “Looks that way. Horsemen powers activate, all that jazz.”
“So War’s ring serves as the center point.” Sam’s getting bolder with his examination now, pokes turning into prods, flips, and turns now that he’s confident the thing won’t blow up in his hands. “I mean...shouldn’t it be Death’s?”
“It’s the Mustang. Car like that’ll get you pretty far in life, huh?”
Dean aims an elbow-nudge at Sam’s ribs that ends up absorbed into his brother’s arm instead. Not necessarily his best joke, but a week ago he’d have at least gotten a forced laugh, a shake of the head, something. Now Sam’s just a brick wall, strictly business and all the other things older hunters love to warn about.
Something stretches up from his gut. Dean takes a thick swig to swallow it down, upending the bottle until his mouth’s flooded and he wants to gag. He shoves it at Sam then, tip glistening with his own saliva, reaching over at the same time to swipe the rings clear out of his hand. A tradeback.
“You’re thinking too hard,” is his answer to Sam’s accusatory stare.
“Someone has to.”
Sam takes the Jim Beam. Dean pockets the rings.
“You know Bobby, he was really singing your praises out here earlier.” Dean uncrosses his ankles to stomp on a cricket skittering out from under the car. The noise was driving him nuts. Doesn’t really account for the thousands of others, though, and it leaves him wiping his shoe on the IROC’s front tire.
Sam perks up a bit from his slump. He’s not the one who spent most of today sleeping. “Yeah?”
“Said you’re the main reason people got out of there alive. Blood must’ve really been pumpin’.”
“I don’t know. I just kept thinking we couldn’t let this thing spread, not after everything. Guess I went on autopilot.” Said by anyone else, it’d be a poorly-disguised hotshot’s bravado. Dean hears it for what it really is.
You, Bobby, Cas...I'm the least of any of you.
“Alright, enough.” Dean’s got little love for conversations that repeat themselves. Last time he let Sam talk. This time he pushes him hard against the car until his back bends with the roof, leans in close just so they’re clear. “You listen to me. I am sick and tired of this self-deprecation crap, Sam! We all get it! You drank demon blood. You trusted Ruby. You broke the seal and let the devil out. Okay! But you whine and you mope and you knock yourself down expecting me to build you back up. Well I can’t, Sam! I can’t! You know why?”
Sam’s eyes are huge and bright under the street lamp’s glare, his hair knocked in every which direction. Too slack-jawed to say it, he slowly shakes his head no.
So young, he looks so young that Dean’s swarmed with the urge to backpedal, to pull him in tight, push their foreheads together and tell him it’ll be okay--everything, everything will be okay Sammy, I promise. His breath comes out a shaky mess. Sam’s shoulders lock where he grips them with an array of hooked fingers. He wants to say it. If he says it out loud maybe he’ll believe it too.
“Because we’re all just a bunch of fuck-ups.” Dean snaps backward and around the car for a much-needed piss.
Sam’s already going for the whiskey at his feet.
“I do remember the Wendigos.” Dean knows he’s pretty lit by now because he almost says Fendigos instead. And really, what the hell is a Fendigo anyway? Somewhere along the line his ass ended up planted on the hood, the car low enough that his feet hover mere inches from the ground. Good ol’ Jim rests between his spread thighs, open-topped and safe from getting kicked over by accident. “Said I didn’t, but...I think about those suckers a lot.”
“Mm,” Dean isn’t expecting Sam’s hand to reach for his lap, or the spike of adrenaline that licks up his spine when it happens. If Sam notices him stiffen, he doesn’t mention it, simply grabs the bottle, knocks one back, and keeps talking. “What about the haunted paintings?”
Dean huffs a laugh, easing up a bit. “Sh’yeah. Killer clowns. Possessed monster trucks. The whole nine. Who knew those would be considered our glory days?”
They go silent, feeling the words sink in, or possibly just letting them fall by the wayside. To Dean they’ll always be there in the back of his mind--with a treasure trove of other things best left forgotten--gnawing, eroding, and chipping away until the dam breaks and panicky realization sets in, makes him twitchy. Desperate. Until he’s on his feet and turning to face Sam head-on, head swimming with stupid things he’s just drunk enough to say.
“What if we just leave? C’mon, we’ll ditch everything. We’ll hop in the car and just drive until we end up somewhere we can’t pronounce. Green grass, pretty girls, a salad bar for you...” He’s half joking and completely serious. “Come on, Sam. Screw the apocalypse. Screw Lucifer.”
Sam blinks, voice going soft. “You know I can’t.”
Dean does. He was just hoping for an exception. What a buzzkill. “Yeah,” he sniffs, looking away and trying not to sound deflated. “Yeah I know.”
“It’s not even that I don’t want to. Part of me does.” Sam’s still staring him down, making the side of Dean’s face itch worse and worse. “Dean--there’s a huge part of me that wants to do it, wants to run away with you. But Lucifer, he...he’d just end up following me.”
Dean waves him off, suddenly way too sober to be having this conversation. “I hear you, Sam. I get it.”
“No! You don’t get it.” Apparently that’s the wrong thing to say. Sam wheels on him, the most movement Dean’s seen out of him all night, becoming this looming skyscraper lining them up chest to chest, jacket brushing jacket, words spitting from his mouth. “Because you don’t want to get it! Well guess what! I don’t get that option, Dean! I don’t get to block everything out like you do.”
A half-step backwards has the IROC’s antenna cutting a long line into Dean’s back. Sam gets any closer and he’ll have no choice but to Luke Duke across this bitch. “Sam--”
But, no. Sam bunches Dean’s jacket collar in his hands, delivering a full-body jostle, the kind Sam only gives him when he’s either beyond pissed or beyond terrified. Hard to say which it is this time; there’s a whole lot of both etched deep into the lines of his face. “Dean, I see him! Every night, in my dreams. It doesn’t matter where we are, what state we’re in. He. Is. Always. Right. There. Sometimes he’s Jessica. Sometimes he’s Mom...”
Dean’s hands flex at his sides like he should put them somewhere.
“And then sometimes...” There’s a shift then. Something changes, Dean can feel it. Sam’s chin drops to his chest like he can’t handle looking Dean in the face anymore, which is funny in the not-funny way because now Dean’s the one having a hard time looking anywhere else. Between them, Sam breathes deep. Once. Twice. And then he’s back, voice wrung tight with forced regularity. “For twenty-three nights, Dean, he’s been you--I don’t...I just can’t take anymore.”
The tremble in Sam’s hands reaches through to Dean’s core. It doesn’t make sense, how much it still hurts to watch his overgrown brother fall to pieces in front of him and not be able to do a thing about it. Dean’s too faithless to be feeling this right now. He’s supposed to be too goddamn fed up with the world to have anything Sam says actually matter.
It’s so fucking unfair. “Sammy...man, why didn’t you just say something?”
“Didn’t see the point. Wouldn’t change anything. And I know it shouldn’t make a difference whose meat suit he’s wearing--believe me, for a long time it didn’t. I ignored him and it was fine. But just lately the things he says...and because it’s you...only because you’re the one saying them...” Sam laughs caustically, raises the whiskey too fast and ends up spilling some down the side of his mouth. “He’s been looking for my weakness. Guess he found it.”
And though Sam’s released him to step back and wipe at his face, Dean’s jacket remains rumpled and disfigured. The air’s thick with the scent of alcohol. Dean’s throat clicks in answering dryness. “What’s he say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well it does to me! I wanna know exactly what he--what do I say to you?”
“Not a whole lot. Mostly that you don’t care, about anything. You talk about how the world can rot because it’s beyond saving. You tell me you can’t trust me, that I’m not your brother, not anymore...so I can rot too.”
“What? And you believe that?” Sam’s mouth stiffens and it’s answer enough. Dean shifts sideways along the car, side-stepping his brother for some much-needed air that doesn’t smell like the back parking lot of a 7-11. “Awesome. Yeah that’s really great, Sam. Tell me, when exactly did that devil on your shoulder morph into Mr. All-knowing Psychiatrist, huh?”
“Well the real you doesn’t exactly help to convince me otherwise!”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” This is it. Sam’s been waiting all night for this to happen, so fine. Dean’s ready. He’s not gonna hold back.
“You’re all about rebelling against fate, Dean, but when it really comes down to putting thought into action--”
“Okay, fine! Let’s do it! You got a plan? One that, upon success, doesn’t involve parachuting straight into Hell?”
“It’s all we have!”
“It’s suicide! Funny how I’m the only one who seems to care much about that anymore!” Jesus Christ, there it is again. Betrayal--this nasty, out-of-place thing--making him want nothing more than to throw Sam into the asphalt and swing until he’s recycled into the ground. He’s gotta be shaking now. Gotta be. “You have no idea--talking like going to Hell’s no big deal, I swear to God I could just beat your ass!”
“So do it!”
Dean lands a swift punch. Sam pops him a swifter one back.
They wind up in the wet dirt, grappling and kicking like a couple of kids scrapping over which superhero is better. Hell they still have that argument as adults, always with Dean roughing Sam up until he admits Spiderman sucks and Batman is far superior. ‘Cause deep down Sam knows.
This time’s different. This time blood trickles out from Dean’s nose, not broken but busted to all hell. His body aches where he’s forced flat on his back by Sam from above. One of his brother’s hands smashes his cheek into the gritty earth so hard that Dean’s neck threatens to snap, with Sam only letting up after Dean delivers a left-handed sock to his stomach. He knows it’s a good one because it leaves Sam curling in on himself with a grunt.
Dean clocks him with his right for the sake of symmetry, then works fast to shove Sam off of him, only it ends up being not fast enough. Next thing Dean knows he’s sufficiently pinned by every limb Sam’s got available, his brother’s weight a solid boulder atop his stomach, crushing whatever functioning insides Dean’s got left.
No more punches happen because no one’s got the free arm to throw any. Breaths mingle in the shared space between them, sticky-hot and labored, too humid to dry the collection of blood on Dean’s upper lip. Creeping down from Sam’s hairline, there’s a trail of a matching color riding the ridges in his forehead and Dean thinks good. He hopes it fucking hurts.
It’s the first they’ve stopped moving long enough for him to feel the whiskey seeped deep in the leg of his jeans. The mouth of the bottle nudges just barely against his shin, still oozing, and Dean does his best to shift away from the mess, not getting far with Sam as his anchor.
Sam’s breath stutters on the next inhale like something’s suddenly wrong. His eyes squeeze shut, thighs tensing up where they bracket Dean’s sides and Dean starts to freak out a little, starts to search out more of Sam’s face through the shadows and blood-streaked hair, starts to re-evaluate just how hard he’d hit him.
Hard enough to go down, yeah, but it’s not like he caused brain damage. Right? Right.
Only the doubt’s still there and Sam’s not moving, not moving and not opening his eyes, and Dean can’t even tell if Sam’s breathing over the rushing blood and the fucking crickets in his ears. They’re not under the streetlight anymore and Dean can’t see for shit. He tries pushing up, only to have Sam send him back down with wide eyes and a choked-up “Dean” in response.
It shocks him limp.
Dean’s heart starts pounding.
Christ Almighty, something is wrong. All kinds of wrong and triggering something buried deep and he can’t stop it, can’t block it out. He’s already drifting to that place that only exists during the safety of a shower or the early morning hours when he’s too sleep-fogged to put up a filter. Where there’s just Sam and breathing and all sorts of other things that rightfully shouldn’t exist in the same sentence. It’s got Dean’s skin sprouting goosebumps all over and his dick going half-hard against his zipper, just an inch, a fucking inch from where Sam is, and Jesus he can’t.
“Sammy.” Dean has to pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth, voice scratching out from his razor-burned throat. “Sammy, we should...”
Get up. Go inside. Put on hula skirts and dance the macarena--whatever, just...
“Uh, yeah,” Sam seems to come back to himself, finally loosening his hold on Dean’s forearms. “Yeah, you’re right.”
And Dean knows Sam doesn’t nudge back for any reason other than to make it easier to stand, but all it takes is that one second. That one second where everything that shouldn’t happen just does. So when Sam nudges back, he nudges into Dean. When Sam nudges back, the shadows fall in a different way. When Sam nudges back, his shirt pulls to the side and Dean sees everything. Exposed. Unmistakable.
Sam’s more than half-hard, stiff dick raised in a fat diagonal line under his jeans.
Dean’s blood rushes--and he knows he’ll make a list of excuses later, blame the alcohol, the pent-up energy from their fight, say it’s their looming situation making him nuts--
Because outside and away from all of this he’d never, not in a million years--
He grabs Sam by the hip and does it, the dumbest thing, just goes in for the kill. Skates a hand across his brother’s lap, grips him by the cock, and pulls him down by the shirt collar before he has time to see Sam react. Dean still hears it though. Sam’s startled “oh God” shudders right beneath his ear.
Sam’s hips roll into his hand, pushing hard and desperate permission into Dean’s fingers. His breath fans heavily at Dean’s jaw and Dean stares up at the sky in a daze, trying not to think about who or what could be up there staring back at him while he squeezes his brother’s cock tighter and gives it a deliberate stroke.
“Shit,” is what Sam says this time, breathlessly dirty and causing Dean to jolt underneath him, like in some messed up way Sam’s mouth holds the pull-string to Dean’s junk. There’s still grit and dirt smeared on Dean’s cheek. Sam noses through it, sitting up to pin Dean with dark eyes and hands on his chest.
Bloody-faced, hair mangled, collar stretch-loosened so his tattoo sneaks out...Sam looks a fucking mess. It’s the best thing Dean’s ever seen.
“This is fucked up...” And Sam’s hysteria would sound so much more convincing if he wasn’t slipping back those precious few inches to bump their dicks together through their jeans. Dean feels him bear down before turning it into a slow and experimental rock. All the way forward. All the way back. Agonizing in a way that has Dean curling thumbs in Sam’s belt loops just to have it happen again. The rest of Dean’s fingers push against Sam’s ass until he moves, groaning deep. “So fucked up.”
“Yeah, well...” What isn’t at this point, Dean wants to ask. Can’t because Sam’s grabbing his face and smashing their mouths together, not even bothering to tilt his head so Dean’s destroyed nose winds up screaming all over again. He tastes blood on his tongue, even in Sam’s mouth where the whiskey still lingers. There’s spit and it’s sloppy because he can’t even breathe and it’s by far the worst kiss Dean’s ever had.
Shit if it doesn’t make him fucking leak into his underwear.
They rut against each other, nothing but frenzied half-thrusts that leave Sam pulling at Dean’s hair and Dean’s heels scraping up the earth’s layers for leverage. Dean’s breaths hitch higher and higher, wet sucking gasps under Sam’s lips, stealing every one of his brother’s exhales and locking them deep. The friction between them is something fierce. Heat spills and spreads across their laps like gasoline, seconds away from lighting them up.
Jesus, Dean could come just like this. Push up a little harder, grind a little faster and he’d be there in a matter of seconds, shooting in his pants like the time Missy Austin grabbed him under the table in ninth grade. It’d be better than that time too, knowing he’d be blowing it against Sam’s--
Dean’s balls draw upward and his pace fumbles. God, but he’s fucked in the head.
Except Sam misinterprets the disconnect. Leaning back, he wipes the blood and spit from his face with his jacket sleeve, quick and rough like he doesn’t really care if there’s some left behind, and then reaches down, fingers ghosting over his own waistband until they brush the belt buckle. Here he stops, looks to Dean.
The question hovers unsaid: how far?
Dean’s not going there. The world’s probably gonna blow up tomorrow and Sam wants to argue boundaries. Yeah, okay.
He kind of hates that Sam’s still looking to him for answers when it’s blatantly obvious Dean’s been tapped out for a long, long time. Christ, how the hell does he expect to take on Lucifer like this?
Dean’s ready to flip them, take charge and push Sam on his back so things can get moving, so that Sam will just shut up, let it go, and forget about whatever lines they’ll attempt to redraw in the morning. Dean could make it easy on himself for once.
But deep down Sam needs this, needs them exactly where they are. And deep down Dean needs to build Sam up almost as badly as Sam needs Dean to be the one to do it.
They’re still fuck-ups. Dean meant what he’d said because it’s true. But Sam’s all he’s got, he’s absolutely everything, and that’s the truth too. So he stays where he is, spread flat on the ground, and he wiggles Sam back until his lap’s freed up, until Dean’s able to show he’s got the balls to unzip his pants and keep this thing going.
A couple of thumbs and a shove later, his boxer briefs are down. Elastic catches up under his sac. Cold air hits him in places he’s not used to and Sam doesn’t even pretend not to look.
Dean folds an arm under his head, lets his bare dick flop back to kiss the lower part of his belly, right below where his shirt’s ridden up, and he flashes Sam a salacious smile because it’s familiar and every bit the reassurance he needs, even if it’s not necessarily how Dean feels. “You can’t get cold feet three minutes before the wedding, Sammy. We already paid the DJ.”
Sam’s head drops. “Jesus, just shut up.” But it works. His hands start moving, unlooping, unbuttoning, and then he has to grab inside, adjust, before he can tug it through the slit.
Dean’s so ready for it it’s disgusting.
He watches it jut out, thick and long through the open vee of Sam’s pants, wonders if Sam’s hand pulls away with the same amount of sticky-slick tacked to his palm that Dean’s had. He looks so boned-up that Dean knows, just knows that right as Sam’s cock slipped out the air got skunked with the smell of jizz. Because Dean breathes deep, swears he can taste the sour on his tongue.
And he doesn’t even care how monstrously gay it’ll sound later, because right in that moment Dean thinks about how hard he’d suck that fucking dick if it wouldn’t rupture the blood clots in his nose. It’s sickening how close he comes to doing it anyway. Dean’s ready to haul Sam up until he’s straddling his chest, ready to feel his lips stretch wide like they did during those psychotic dreams at Glenwood Springs. Another second and it’d happen, but then Sam does it, this amazing thing.
Sam drops his cock, fat and heavy, on top of Dean’s, pressing them together so completely that Dean’s stomach snaps inward and his dick pulses in a lurch that lifts them both.
Dean wants to ask if he’s the only one who suddenly feels naked all over, and if he’s the only one with his ass clenched up over the damning realization that he’s dick to dick with his brother. Dean wants to ask Sam if he knows he’s steadily drizzling between them, wants to tell him how fucking great it feels smearing down the sensitive ridge under his tip. Dean’s got a million things to say and no words except, “Fuck, Sammy, fuck...”
Because Sam’s already squeezing them both into one huge palm, locking their shafts together with long, long fleshy-callused fingers that wrap and stroke and secure. With Sam bent over him Dean’s almost entirely cast into shadow, shielded by Sam’s jacket draped on either side, trapping the heat and making Dean sweat where his legs turn into groin.
He can feel Sam’s heart beating through his dick--ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom--can feel it kick into full-on roadrunner status when Dean’s wrist comes down to skid smooth, thin skin across both fleshy heads, smearing the wet around in circles ‘til there’s no telling what came from who.
Sam makes a quietly anguished sound overhead and Dean watches Sam watching him, feels the arm next to his shoulder wobble.
The pace picks up. Dean’s hand drops down like an umbrella over their tips, massaging the best he can with Sam knocking it on every upward pump. Dean’s other arm’s reduced to a bunch of needles and pins under his head. Every time Sam squeezes just right, Dean’s neck arches back and he knows it tingles, but it pales in comparison to the pulling freefall in his stomach and the coiling tightness even lower.
“Dean please,” it’s so soft Dean can barely hear the words, “can’t do this without you.”
And God--no, just no! It’s all sorts of fucked up to try and mix that kind of shit in here, just like it’s all sorts of fucked up for Sam to keep his fist moving when he knows Dean’s so close he can’t form a complete sentence. “Damn it, Sam...”
“Wish--God--wish you’d just trust me...”
“Oh you idiot, that’s not even--” but Sam’s starting to slow and Dean catches the doubt creeping into his face, knows he’s gotta do immediate damage control even if it means saying something irreparably stupid. “Look...there’s a rubber in my wallet that says how much I trust you, Sam.”
Jesus if that’s not the biggest bluff he’s ever made in his life.
That does the trick because Sam shuts up. More than shuts up. Dean watches his eyebrows furrow, face twisting into a grimace like he’s been punched. His arm shakes harder and all at once Dean understands why. Sam’s cock goes taut against him and then he’s bursting shot after shot into the cover of Dean’s hand, oozing through his fingers and sliding down his wrist.
And then Dean’s humping up into him, swearing every filthy word he knows, name-dropping like a virgin on prom night because mother-of-fuck his brother just nutted into his hand and it’s enough to make him flood it a second time.
Sam winds up in the grass to Dean’s left, shirt stained with the gooey handprint from where Dean pushed him off.
They readjust, which mostly means tucking away their indecent parts and leaving their pants undone, so if anyone were to walk by it’d look more like they were recovering from Thanksgiving dinner than the biggest mindfuck that ever lived.
Slowly Dean’s breath evens out and he listens to Sam’s do the same. Apart from the moon’s placement, the sky’s no different than it’s been all night, cloudy with murk that blocks out the stars. Nothing special. Nothing life-altering in the least. His body hurts, his favorite pants have booze all down the leg, and he still can’t breathe unless it’s through his mouth.
Therein lies the irony because Dean already knows. He knows the next time--of course there’ll be a next time--he fucks up and finds himself knocking on heaven’s door...this is what he’ll find on the other side. This right here. The cold, hard ground of a salvage yard in South Dakota...side by side with Sam. And, well, he’d be lying if he said that didn’t take the sting out of dying just a little.
Sam shifts against the ground. Dean already knows what’s coming.
“I need you in this.”
“I know, just--give me a little more time...okay?” Dean’s purposefully vague, so tired and so dangerously close to just giving in that he can’t risk looking Sam in the eye. One more push, that’s all it’d take, and Dean doesn’t realize how anxiously he’s waiting for it until it never comes.
Sam gets up, heads inside because everything’s been said.
Eventually Dean gets up too. He goes the opposite way, back to the workbench where he fishes the stool out from the puddle and thinks about what Lucifer’s gonna say to Sam once he falls asleep.
Because it definitely is his problem, just like it’s always been.
The next day Dean doesn’t set foot outside until late afternoon. There he finds Sam looking way less bloody and holding a beer more for show than anything else. He’s sitting on the Impala with his mud-caked shoes on her hood like Dean hasn’t told him a million fucking times to cut that shit out. It’s hard not to do it again, use the excuse to fall back into the old routine and just let things reset.
Dean has to grab a beer from the cooler before he loses his nerve, so he can roll with it when Sam starts throwing questions at him.
He doesn’t waste time explaining how he stayed out here thinking until the sun came up or commit the ultimate chick-flick moment by telling Sam he’d stand with him even as the earth shatters beneath their feet. He does, however, pop the top off his beer and settle further against the car.
He does manage to say “I’m in” and make it mean just as much.
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