Twist The Knife
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So, this is a birthday fic for my darling savingfaith333 , who a while ago *demanded* wall pounding wincest. Not sure it quite meets the criterior and angel, you deserve so much more than this. Thank you for always being there when I need to rant, bother you with pointless emails and for coping with my *wibbling*. You are a proper sweetheart and I don't know what I would do without you. For serious!
Happy Birthday my poppet, I love you.
Oh...its also a sequel to Tied Me Over
One more thing I swear...song rec. Download here. Neko Case, Twist The Knife. Cowardly, thoughtlessly, you walk away from me and I'll tear my heart out to save you today.
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Sam's dreaming again.
And his dreams are filled with Dean. Always with Dean. Dean drunk and pleading, pliant and warm and hard in all the right places.
Jess turns and breathes into his neck, hot sweet breath that should smell and taste like whiskey and leather, not strawberries.
Sam doesn't know when this started, can't pin point the exact moment he looked at his brother and wondered what it would feel like to kiss him, to feel his skin under his hands, feverish and slick. But since he had, kissed him that is, leant forward and pressed his lips to Dean's and felt Dean kiss him back, Sam had been running. Running towards Dean, gravitating towards him like he had no option. Then, when Sam had realised that he had fallen hard and fast in love with his brother, his brother, he had run again, run to Stanford and found a girl with soft curves and hair that smelt like fresh air when it fell around his face in waves. But even Jess hadn't been able to put Dean out of his mind for long. He would find himself yearning for hard plains of muscle under his hands, stubble rasping against his cheek.
So when Dean came through the window of his apartment and they ended up tumbling on the floor, sparring like they used to to burn off energy and lust that burned through their veins, Sam thought he was dreaming again. It had been two years since he had seen Dean, he knew that the last time, when he had rescued Dean from a drunken fight he was bound to loose and ended up fucking his brother into the mattress, leaving him wrapped in a thin sheet, that he had plunged a knife deep in his brother gut. Dean had been needy that night, needy and wanting, Sam had given and then run. Again. Twisting that knife that bit deeper with each ignored phone call. But it had been two years and Dean had been at the front of his mind pretty much the entire time. And with him in front of him, standing just that little bit too close, the emotion in his eyes hidden, Sam knew he had to put things right once and for all.
When Sam kissed Jess goodbye and slipped into the Impala, he tried desperately to ignore the feeling of coming home. It was Dean's yeah, well I don't want to that made the choice for Sam. If Dean wanted him, Sam was practically powerless to deny him. He always has been, one look from Dean and his body longed to do anything he asked. Sam had spent most of his life trying to deny himself. Trying to deny wanting to please Dean. Dean had been Sam's hero for as long as he could remember, his shield and warrior, willing to throw himself in front of a bullet, literally, to save Sam and all Sam could do in return was slip into the passengers seat of his beloved car, and try to repair their tattered relationship.
Sam ran his hands lightly over the dashboard, fondly remembering the first time he had been allowed to sit shotgun, Dean so tired he could hardly speak, crashed out on the back seat, Sammy, because he had been Sammy back then to everyone, sitting next to Dad, hands on the dash, leaning forward with bright eyes. Dad had smiled, one of his few genuine smiles that lit up his face, and ruffled his hair.
Dean had snuffled in his sleep and Sam had smiled back at Dad.
Dean was watching him now with a carefully concealed expression.
“I missed her.” Sam says and turns towards Dean. Dean glances away as if Sam's gaze burns and starts the engine with a nonchalant shrug that could mean she missed you too, or don't touch the interior, or I missed you Sammy.
The purr of the engine lulls Sam to sleep, an easy childlike sleep that he hasn't had since he left Dean alone in the motel room, hips aching with bruises the size and shape of Dean's fingers, heart trip hammering in his throat and mind screaming at him to stop, go back, kiss Dean awake and never leave him again.
When he wakes, Dean is pulling the Impala into a shitty looking car park at the back of an even shittier looking motel. Sam is plunged head first into memories of the last time he and Dean had been in a motel room together, tension so thick in the room that it had nearly choked him. Dean slips out of the car without a word and grabs his duffle from the trunk, throwing Sam's to him as he rounds the back of the car. With unspoken agreement, going back to years being on the road together, Sam leans back against the car as Dean saunters across the tarmac and into the dimly lit office. Sam takes the time alone to think. Even though he really doesn't want to. He hates thinking around Dean, when the scent of the Impala and Dean's leather jacket are still in his nostrils, because he can't help but think that he's broken his brother, ruined him for everyone else because Sam himself is ruined. And some small selfish part of him hopes that Dean is ruined, that every time he looks at a little blond girl with big breasts, he's wanting Sam.
He's pulled out of his thoughts when a set of keys comes sailing through the air and he catches them with one hand without moving anything but his arm. Dean crooks a proud eyebrow and digs into the trunk once again and pulls out the bag that contains their usual weapons and salt, lighter fluid and lighters. Just to get them through the night. Sam thinks they are going to need a hell of a lot more than salt to protect themselves from each other.
There are few words said and even fewer glances between them as they go through the motions and crawl into separate beds. Sam wants to curl up behind Dean and sleep with his nose pressed into the back of Dean's neck. But his arms are empty as he slips into a, thankfully, dreamless sleep.
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He's mid way through a job with Dean sitting close next to him typing into a computer and pursing his lips, when Sam realises that he's screwed. That he can't look at Dean without thinking about skin on skin and its too much.
When Dean is struggling with the computer, which Sam thinks is adorable, by the way, even though he would rather bite his own tongue off than admit that, he goes for the mouse and Dean slaps his hand away. Sam pushes Dean away, his chair sliding across the floor in a way that would have made Sam laugh out loud years ago. He's going for light brotherly banter and misses by a mile, because Dean chooses that moment to mutter something about Sam being a control freak and Sam's mind is immediately transported back into the bedroom. Its then that Sam realises that everything Dean says is designed to push his buttons in a way that no one else could ever get. Dean throws Sam a quick look that reads mind out of the bedroom Sammy and Sam catches it out of the corner of his eye.
All Sam wants to do is turn his head, runs his tongue along Dean's neck, but he suddenly remembers that they don't do that. Not anymore. They don't do the casual in each others space thing. It has been a long time since they did. But Dean is crowding in next to him, Dean is always, crowding in next to him, too close yet too far, in that carefully calculated way designed to drive Sam crazy, and Sam stares at the computer, willing the need running through his veins to stop. Its so far from casual. Its designed to make Sam realise what he's missing by being normal. He's missing Dean's heat, his clever hands and skilful tongue and wicked mouth spouting things that would make a prostitute blush. And it doesn't help when he keeps catching Dean glancing at him, like at the diner talking to those two girls, or right now when Sam is trying to read from the article, Dean glances at him. Sam swallows hard and carries on reading.
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The night is cool and Dean is trying so hard to be casual that Sam can't help but bite out the words he knows are going to get a rise. But he's just so tired of pretending that they are just brothers, that they both don't want the same thing. And he's pissed at himself for wanting to run to run back to Palo Alto, away from the conflicting emotions and the constant need that he feels when he's with Dean. In Palo Alto he's safe, he can't reach out whenever he wants and touch Dean. He knows it dangerous to push Dean when he's like this, on edge and in the middle of a job, but he can't help himself. They know each other too well, know which buttons to press, the secrets and words that hurt more than punches and dislocated limbs. When Dean slams him against the bridge, hard enough that Sam feels the individual rivets of the steel lintels digging into his back, he is painfully aware of the heat radiating off Dean's body. Dean was always hot, almost feverishly so and Sam would wind himself around him, legs and fingers tangled under sheets, whispering words in each others ears in voices so low they wouldn't carry to the next room where Dad lay, sleeping so lightly and ready to move at the slightest noise that they didn't move, only fingers ghosting over skin in the darkness. Him and Dean always in the darkness, curled around each other. Dean's hands are fisted in his jacket, breath hot against Sam's face and both their eyes go wide as Dean's thigh slips automatically between Sam's.
“Don't talk about her like that.”
And Sam wants to pull Dean closer, not that its possible, and wipe away those issues, Dean has so many issues that Sam has only added to. Wants to move and arch his hips against Dean. But he can't. He has Jess. Jess is at home waiting for him. Home. Nothing has felt like home since Dean had driven Sam to the bus station and pushed away his reaching hands with pain in his eyes. Dean lets him go roughly and turns away, Sam scrubs a hand over his face, trying to erase the feeling of Dean's breath across his skin.
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“Hey Dean? What I said earlier, about mum and dad...I'm sorry...” Dean holds up his hand and stops Sam's apology.
“No chick flick moments.” Sam laughs, because that's all he can do to stop himself from slamming Dean up against the wall, shoving his hands down Dean's pants and begging for his forgiveness for everything. And its so damn normal that its painful.
“Alright...jerk.”
“Bitch.”
Its said in a voice that say s'ok Sammy, I get it.
Its said in the voice that Dean used to use in the middle of the night, low and husky, full of promise, whispering filthy things in his ear as Dean stroked him gently through boxers, with Sam bucking his hips, trying to get closer, begging for more. Dean laughing low, breath hot in his ear. Memories crash over Sam in a tidal wave that threatens to pull him under and Dean grins. Sam doesn't know how he can still look completely fuckable covered head to toe in mud and smelling like a toilet, but that's the ever confusing wonder that is Dean Winchester and Sam scoffs, trying to ignore the almost painful twisting of his stomach as Dean shuts the bathroom door.
Sam has a brief moment where he considers shedding his own clothes, crowing up behind Dean in the shower, pressing him against the cool tiles and sinking to his knees.
Not any more, we don't do that anymore. Sam keeps the mantra going the whole time his feet are moving towards the bathroom without even realising it. He hears the unmistakable sound of Dean's jeans hitting the floor. Sam has heard that noise too much, he knows it, can pick it out in an instant and it shouldn't send such a vivid image into his brain, searing across his mind like a fucking cattle brand but it does. He stops himself, his hand on the door handle and rests his head against the door. He hears Dean humming under his breath in the shower and the forced normalcy of it makes Sam's skin crawl.
Sam's just about had enough of the noise of the shower and his imagination running wild about Dean's hand slipping low on his stomach and wrapping around himself when he stands and strides towards the door. He raises his fist to pound on the door when its wrenched open. Dean is standing with a towel slung low on his hips, skin pink and clean, still wet, droplets of water are running over skin that Sam had just been fantasising about and Sam swallows. Hard. His hand still raised and Dean looks startled. They stand there, inches apart with the steam from the shower curling around Dean and Sam lowers his hand slowly, trailing it down Dean's chest, fingers tracing small scars and skin and Dean shudders, unconsciously leaning closer.
The air seems to thicken around Sam and he can't breathe, could never breathe when Dean was close. He takes a half step forward and the spell seems to break.
Dean's eyes snap open.
“Don't Sam. Not unless you mean it.” He says and sidesteps Sam, his eyes pointedly hidden from him. Sam steps into the bathroom and slams the door shut like a petulant child being told no candy, hating the fact that all that separates him from a naked Dean is a couple of inches of plywood.
Even though it feels like a hell of a lot more right now.
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You can't kill me. I haven't been unfaithful. I've never been. It was a lie, he knew it was a lie. He had been unfaithful to Jess more times than he could count, imagining Dean's skin under his hands when he touched her, biting his lip against saying Dean's name when he came buried deep inside her. It was unfair to her but Sam had Dean well and truly implanted in his blood. Could practically feel Dean every time his heart beat.
You will be. Her fingers had been icy as they dug into his skin.
Dean's warm hands are on him now though, a gentle pressure against the finger shaped holes in his chest. He's being gentle in the way that Sam is used to but there's an undercurrent of something else. Its not just brotherly concern, and its not just brotherly affection that makes Sam feel like he doesn't fit his skin anymore, or the fact that Dean's fingers caress slightly whilst doing the tiny, neat stitches, fingers lingering longer than normal and Sam wants to grab him, pull him into his lap and forget everything else other than the feel of Dean.
Its always been like this with Dean though, distracting to the point of danger. Sam remembers once, when this, whatever this was between them, had only just started and the longing for each other was still a powerful force to be reckoned with and Sam had lost concentration for a second, his eyes lingering on Dean as he lifted his pistol and fired it into a spirit. Sam had stared and only realised that the spirit hadn't gone when he had been thrown into a brick wall and lost conciousness. He had woken to Dean's frantic face, his hands on Sam's face, fingers dragging through his hair and lips against his, frantic.
“Not on a job Sammy. Never again on a job. I can't lose you because of this.” He had whispered.
He's bought back to the present by Dean's hands stilling for a second, his fingers curling against Sam's chest, and his breath on his skin as he concentrates on the tiny stitches. Sam loves being the centre of Dean's concentration, it fierce and intense. And he wants to touch Dean.
Sam knows they should stop this. Should stop wanting to touch each other, but he can't seem to and he lifts his hands and covers Dean's where they're still stitching up the small circular wounds on his chest. Dean stiffens and doesn't look up, his gaze fixed on Sam's hands covering his own. Sam feels Dean's fingers shift, curling slightly again and Sam hisses as the gentle pressure edges towards pain. Dean lifts his gaze then, his pupils wide and his eyes scared, unsure. Sam wants to wipe that look away, because Dean is always so sure of everything and now he's staring at Sam like Sam's about to devour him. And maybe Sam is. Sam gives Dean's wrist an experimental tug and Dean pulls away. Sam doesn't realise that he had been leaning into the touch until he's suddenly unbalanced by the lack of Dean's hands. He teeters forward only to find Dean's hand back on him, pushing him down. Sam goes almost willingly, looking, searching Dean's face for what this means. He sees nothing, only concern.
“Rest Sammy. She did a number on you.” He says, his voice is hoarse and ragged and Jesus Sam can't get enough of that tone. Wants to hear Dean say his name like that again, writhing under him, a light sheen of sweat on his skin.
“Rest Sam. I'll get some food.” Dean has obviously forgotten how fast Sam can move because his eyes go wide when Sam sits up and reaches out, grabbing Dean roughly by the jacket that Dean didn't shed the minute they got into the room, not like he used to do, desperate to get clothes off and feel skin under his hands. Now its like he's putting, or keeping, a barrier between them.
"Stop fucking pretending that we're ok Dean, that we're normal." Sam's voice is loud in the otherwise quite room, cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter, his hands curling into Dean's lapels. And he knows its a low blow using his own word against Dean but he can't take this anymore, this not knowing what's going through his brothers head. And its just one more twist of the goddam knife that was lodged in Dean's stomach. That Sam lodged there the second he'd opened that door that Sam can't seem to shut no matter what he does. Dean's eyes are wide and open, honest, and lust flickers across them for a second before bleeding away and the hardness that Sam is used to flood back in.
"You don't have to pretend with me." The fight that was so quick to flare up dissipates leaving him sounding small. But he's still holding on, and Dean isn't pulling away and that's a good thing, right?
"I'm not the one pretending to be normal Sammy. Tell me, does Jess know what you hunt, what you've done in the dark? Does Jess know that you've fucked your brother? Does she?” Dean's tone is accusatory, violent with an edge of darkness. A tone that used to drive Sam crazy. Now all it does is make him let go of Dean so suddenly that he stumbles slightly. Sam has no answer for that. Of course Jess doesn't know that a lot of the time Sam imagines Dean when he's sliding into her, clutching at small arms instead of whipcord muscles. Of course Jess doesn't know that he knows how to kill a ghoul, or a werewolf, or how he would gladly give up his life in an instant to save Dean.
Dean laughs once, a bitter bark in the semi quite room. An 18 wheeler thunders down the road outside and they both jump slightly as the windows shake.
“Dean...” Sam begins, unsure of what to say. You will be, the voice of Constance sounds in his head and he shakes it. Dean reaches a hand up and pushes away Sam's imploring hands.
"And I do." Dean says under his breath and for a second Sam wonders what he's talking about. But the way Dean's shoulder hunch and he shoves his hands in his pockets leaves Sam with no doubt. He feels he has to pretend.
"Why?" Sam wants to reach out, touch Dean, nothing sexual about it, just needs to feel his brother under his hands. He's had the urge a million times over the past two years, a million and one times. But Dean's got that whole stay the fuck away from me stance that makes Sam twitchy and desperate to do anything but stay away. But he does, stay away, tries to make eye contact by moving around in front of Dean. Dean turns away and Sam's resolve crumbles, sliding his fingers under Dean's chin, forcing the eye contact that Dean is trying so hard to avoid.
"Because...if I don't...I'll..." Sam stops him talking, stops that broken tone of his brother voice, by slamming him against the wall of the small motel room. Dean's head makes a dull thud against the plaster and it sends a vicious thrill through Sam.
“You'll what?” Sam says it in a voice that sounds like a comeback to a threat. And he wants to force the words out of Dean so he slams him against the wall again, less harshly this time but Dean's head still thumps against the plaster. He lifts his eyes and stares at Sam, his mouth open, trying to find words and Sam has the urge to stop them before they spill, but he's forced the issue and he needs to hear it from Dean.
“I'll...want you even more than I do already.” Dean says finally. Sam's hands skitter down Dean's sides, coming to rest on his hips, holding him still, pulling him close or pushing him away he isn't sure yet. But the desire to feel Dean's skin is too much, his thumbs push under Dean's t-shirt and rub small circles into Dean's hips. Dean shuts his eyes and lets his head thump back into the wall.
You will be.
“Dean, we can't.” Sam lets him go, pushes himself away and finds that he can breathe, unaware that he had been holding his breath the entire time he had been plastered to Dean. Dean takes a deep lungful of air too, breath shaking and ragged.
“You think I don't know that Sam? You think wanting you doesn't eat me up inside? You think this is normal? If you don't want this...stop fucking starting it.” Dean spits out. Sam whirls around facing him again and Dean flinches, almost imperceptibly, but draws himself up to full height. Its still shorter than Sam but its intimidating and Dean knows it. Sam takes a step back.
“What did you want two years ago Sam?” Dean suddenly asks after what seems like hours of staring at each other. Sam shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight and tries to ignore his own voice in his head.
You can't keep doing this Dean.
“What did you want from me then Sam?” Dean demands again. Sam opens his eyes, Dean has closed the space between them and is inches from him, breathing the same air and Sam's heart stops for a second, trip hammers, then starts again. It leaves Sam feeling weightless and he pitches forward, towards Dean. And he wants to erase everything he has done to his brother. Every forbidden feeling that he made Dean feel, every hurt he caused.
He wants.
Sam wants, god does he want. Wants to draw the curtains, lock the door and re-learn his brothers body, fingering and licking old scars and new ones, each telling their own story, mapping out their dangerous lives words on a page. But its unfair to Dean, because Sam started this, Sam coaxed Dean into it with gentle kisses and promises, projecting his own sick want onto his older brother who would do anything for his Sammy and now he's trying to push him away. Its unfair to Dean to keep doing this to him. Sam hates himself. He makes himself feel sick.
“Dean...”
“Now its my turn to say this Sam so just shut the fuck up. You can't keep doing this.” Dean is still in his space. Sam looks away from Dean's intense glare and notices that his hands are fisting by his sides and Sam knows that move, knows its because he's trying not to reach out and touch.
“Doing what?” He asks without looking up. Dean scoffs and pulls his hands out of Sam's way as he reaches for them, almost without thinking, just wanting.
“You know exactly what you're doing. Make up your goddam mind already cos you're driving me crazy.” Dean sounds tired and like they are arguing over which pizza topping to get. Sam looks up at that.
“I'm making you crazy?”
“Yes.”
“You have any idea how hard the last two years have been?”
“No Sam, enlighten me. Because my life has been so fucking easy since you walked out.”
“I want you Dean.” Dean flinches at that, at the honesty. “And I can't stop it. I tried, I tried so fucking hard to be normal. But all I wanted was you. But its wrong, Jesus it's so fucked up. But god Dean...I...”
"Sammy." His name is breathed out, almost like a prayer as Sam steps closer. Part warning, part consent and all need. And it gives Sam chills that after all this time they are both on the same page, unaware of what the hell they are doing, running on base instinct.
Sam lowers his head to Dean's shoulder and breathes in. The scent of Dean that was always so calming does nothing to calm him now. Hos tongue flicks out to taste Dean's skin and he feels Dean stiffen, muscles tensing in that fight or flight manner that has become second nature to him.
The hands that shove him away and the fist that connects with his jaw are unexpected and send pain shooting through his head. Dean is breathing heavily, anger flashing in his eyes but then his hands are reaching down and hauling Sam to his feet.
“I deserve that.” Sam says, hell, he deserves a lot more than a punch in the jaw. Dean fingers curl around Sam's arms and pulls him closer.
“You don't leave again Sam.” Dean says roughly a second before his lips crash down on Sam's.
Its full of anger and says louder than words all or nothing Sammy and Sam gives in, grabs Dean's hips, pulls him roughly closer and grinds into him. Dean moans into his mouth. Sam lets him set the pace because Dean needs this. Sam does too, god, does he need this, but Dean needs to feel in control of the situation. Sam is backed up until the bed hits the back of his legs and he tumbles, unceremoniously, back on to it. Dean is on him in a second, hands trailing up Sam's sides, hard and rough, seeking skin and ghosting over the stitches and scars until he finds one of Sam's nipples, rubs it between his thumb and finger and Sam lets out a strangled moan and arches into his brother, wrapping one leg around his and pulling him down at the same time as he arches up. Their cocks collide in an almost brutal fashion and they both groan at the friction that the movement and their jeans create.
Sam's at a disadvantage, he knows this, not just because he's completely taken aback by first the punch then the kiss, but because he is already shirtless and it makes Sam feel vulnerable. Perhaps that's what Dean wants though, Sam thinks as Dean mouth leaves his and nips along his jawline, sucking hard on his pulse point, biting down on the skin between his teeth, making Sam whimper.
Dean lets out a bitter laugh against the skin of his neck.
“This is what you want little brother?” He murmurs. Sam can't answer, because god this is what he wants, this is what he needs. But now he wants more. He lifts his hands to Dean's shoulders and pushes back his jacket. Dean gets the hint and stands, shucking off the heavy leather that looks so good on him, shedding three layers in one go and he's back. Sam groans again at the feel, finally, of Dean's skin against his, hot, like always, smooth and hard and so achingly perfect that it makes Sam want to cry at all the lost chances and missed opportunities, why the hell does he run from this?
Dean is his everything. His life, his shield and protector and he fits against Sam, in a way that Jess doesn't, grooves of muscles sliding against Sam, work hardened hands skimming over his skin, lips finding ways to mark him that no one else will see.
Dean's hand snakes down between them and deftly flicks the button on Sam's jeans open. Dean's hands have always been sure and knowing, capable of making Sam's knees buckle with one touch and tonight is no exception, Dean wraps his fingers round Sam's cock, stroking once painfully slowly and swiping his thumb across the head. Sam bites his lip hard and feels, tastes warm copper on the back of his tongue. He honestly couldn't care less because Dean is doing that thing with his hand, the twisting on the upstroke that makes Sam keen and shudder under Dean's ministrations.
The anger seems to have seeped out of Dean and his movements slow to lazy rolls of his hips against Sam's in time with his strokes on Sam's cock and its going to be all over far too soon if Dean keeps this up, these slow calculated movements, his mouth hot against Sam's neck, mouthing words of ownership into Sam's skin that he can't hear, but he can feel. He's always been able to feel Dean.
“Please.” Sam manages to drag out of his dry throat. And he's not sure what he's pleading for. For Dean to stop, for them to go back to before when they were just brothers, because this is wrong, there is no way he should want this, need it like air; or for Dean to carry on, bring Sam to his knees with his hands and his mouth.
Dean takes the second option because he pushes himself off Sam, hooks his fingers into the waistband of Sam's jeans and pulls them down his hips, boxers with them and throws them over his shoulder. His own jeans come next and Sam hears the two dull thuds against the floor as Dean's boots are toed off.
Last time it was Sam who set the pace. Last time it was Sam who sunk deeply in to his brother. This time Sam needs to feel Dean inside, moving, needs to feel the snap and stutter of his hips when he looses control.
Dean crawls up Sam with a dangerous glint in his eyes, dragging his skin over Sam's and pulling Sam's bottom lip into his mouth. He pulls away again and leans sideways, digging into the duffle at the side of the bed and bringing out the ever present bottle of lube that sits in the side pocket.
The snap of the lid is all too familiar and it sends a shudder of anticipation through Sam as Dean slicks his fingers, lifts one of Sam's legs and pushes a finger inside. Sam's back arches clean off the bed and he grinds back against Dean's finger that curls inside. Another one is added all too soon and Sam knows that Dean is marking him inside and out again. Making sure that Sam doesn't forget this for a long time. As if he could, he's been trying for two years to forget the last time Dean marked him, with fingers digging into his skin. A third finger is added and Sam hisses in pain. But it soon turns to pleasure as Dean curls his fingers and hits that spot inside him, that spot that makes him see stars and sends blood straight to his already hard cock.
Dean still has that dangerous glint in his eyes as he withdraws his fingers and grabs Sam by the hips, and sinks in, almost brutally. They both groan. Sam at the unexpected speed of Dean's hips and Dean doesn't give him a chance to catch his breath before he pulls out and slams back in.
“Fuck.” Dean's voice is ragged and broken, rasping and Sam loves it. Loves hearing his brother like that.
“Harder.” Sam urges, pushing back against Dean's hips. Dean obliges, slamming into Sam with a brutal need that takes over, his eyes rolling back into his head at the sensations, pupils growing larger with each thrust.
It doesn't take them long to find their rhythm. And Sam is half blind with desperation by the time he feels Dean's hips stutter once, twice and feels the explosion of heat deep inside as Dean comes with a shout. He lets Dean catch his breath before wrapping his own hand around his cock. Dean swats his hand away and curls his fingers around him. He squeezes at the base and leans forward.
“Mine Sammy.” He says quietly, dangerously, before moving his hand. It only take a few strokes of Dean's clever hand before Sam is coming, so hard that he is almost sure he passes out for a few seconds.
Dean's breath is hot against his shoulder and Sam would give anything to stay here, freeze time and just stay.
But Dean is moving all too soon. Pushing himself off the bed, away from Sam. And Sam gets the feeling that its Dean running now. He wants to be able to assure Dean that its him that he wants. Its Dean that Sam wants to stay with, but he can't bring himself to say it. And he's pretty sure Dean wouldn't believe him anyway. Sam watches as Dean pulls his clothes back on, his movements effortless when Sam's limbs still feel like lead. He has this cold fear in the pit of his stomach that he's done more damage than good. That Dean is even more closed off and that he's twisted that knife even more.
“Dean...” He tries. But Dean's closed off. He holds up the journal.
“Gotta find Dad Sammy.”
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“If we shag ass, we should make it by morning.” He hears Dean saying as Sam looks over the map, checking the coordinates that Dean found in Dad's journal. There is a hope in his voice that Sam hasn't heard for a long time, a hope that is reflected in his eyes when he looks over at Sam. Sam looks up from the map and takes a breath. The past hour he's been thinking, wondering what the hell to do. He needs Dean, but he shouldn't. Needs to have Dean within arms reach.
"Dean...” Sam's not even sure what he is going to say but Dean seems to know. He turns towards Sam with a hurt expression.
“You're not going?” Its posed like a question but Sam knows that Dean knows he's not coming. He can't pretend to be Dean's brother. Not when all he wants to do is crawl into bed with him and forget the outside world.
“The interviews in like ten hours, I gotta be there.” The words slip out before he has a chance to stop them and he's not sure why he said it. Two seconds ago he was planning on telling Dean to drive to Colorado. But one look at Dean's face tells him that the damage is already done. His brother slumps slightly, swallows once before speaking, hiding his eyes from Sam.
“Yeah...yeah. Whatever. I'll take you home.” Sam wants to erase the last thirty seconds, wants to tell Dean that this is his home, that this is what he wants. He wants Dean. All of him. But Dean clams up, reaches for the volume and turns it up loud enough to drown out even Sam's thinking. His fingers clench on the steering wheel and Sam turns off his flashlight, plunging the car into darkness so that neither of them can see the others hurts.
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Sam has no idea what he's doing. Why the hell he's getting out of the only place that's ever felt like home to him, leaving Dean. Again. Getting out of the car and walking away. For the third time in his life when all he wants to do is stay with him.
But Sam has strived so hard for normal, strived so hard for his apple pie life, that he can't give it up, not now. Not when he's worked so hard to get where he is. And he loves Jess, he really does, she almost fills the hole that is Dean shaped.
Sam can't go with Dean, not to find dad, not to play happy families, the family that hunts together and all that crap. He wants Dean, all or nothing. He came to that conclusion with Dean's cock buried deep inside him and Dean's mouth fastened over his. And he can't tiptoe around walking on eggshells, not looking at him when Dad is around, because he wants to be able to put his hands on him whenever he wants, wants to kiss him in public, run his hand down his arm, catch his hand in his. He sounds like a fucking chick flick but he doesn't care. He can't be Dean's brother anymore.
Not when he's so far from it.
Sam turns, leans down at catches the hurt in Dean's eyes before its shoved deep down inside to fester, just like always.
“Maybe I can meet up with you later huh?”
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Dean knows that Sam is trying. He gets it. But he needs Sam with him. He doesn't want to do this alone. But Sam needs to be normal, pretend that he doesn't like being fucked by his brother in some shitty motel hours before he goes back to his perfect blond girlfriend and pretend like none of this ever happened.
“Yeah, alright.” He says, and they both know that he doesn't mean it.
“Sam. We made a hell of a team back there.” What he really wants to say sticks in his throat, chokes him and Sam nods once, almost sadly. Dean wishes he could see regret in his eyes, but he can't. And it burns in a way that only Sam could ever burn.
“Yeah.” Dean bites back whatever else he was going to say and pulls the car away, once again without Sam.
He feels empty without him. His chest feels tight and its hard to breathe.
The Impala still smells of Sam, his scent lingering in the leather and how the hell is it possible that leather holds his scent, Dean thinks. His mind working over time, he keeps going back to Sam, seeing his face as he turned and walked back towards his apartment, his and Jess's, leaving Dean to nurse a broken heart yet again.
He's turning the car around before he knows what he's doing, wrenching the steering wheel, doing a complete 180 in the middle of the road. Driving on nothing but the need to see Sam one more time, beg him to come with him, convince him that this is where he belongs, with Dean, always with Dean.
Its then that the niggling sense that something isn't quite right turns to full on panic and hits him like a tonne of bricks. They have always been hyper aware of each other, almost like twins, knowing when the other is in danger or hurting. And Dean's Sammy Sense is going into overdrive the nearer he gets to Sam's apartment.
The flicking orange light that shines through the window is enough to have Dean bolting from the car, feet slipping against the tarmac as he tries to find purchase on the ground, his body going faster than his legs. He's tripping over himself and then he finally finds his feet and is running through the front door and up the steps, taking them three at a time.
And the sight that greets him as he flings open the door makes him freeze, frozen in blind fear and his stomach bottoms out just before he's moving again, sparing a quick glance at the ceiling where Sam is staring screaming NO. He freezes again, just enough time to take in the sight, another blonde in Sam's life pinned bleeding and on fire on the ceiling above his bed and he pulls at Sam, his hands holding on as Sam struggles, tries to get away, to get to Jess. Dean is stronger right now though, fuelled by fear for his brothers life, something much stronger, he feels anyway, than Sam's fear because Sam is Dean's whole fucking life and without him, he can't breathe, doesn't want to breathe. So he hauls Sam out of the apartment and holds him whilst the place burns. Wants to fuck the memories and the images from his mind, but just holds him, fingers wrapped around Sam's arms, feeling the violent shakes wracking his brothers body.
The acrid scent of smoke fills his lungs and the heat from the burning building burns his face. He looks at Sam, his face expressionless, blank, and knows his brother is probably in shock. Sam shakes his hands off him and takes a step away, guilt flooding into his face. Dean reaches down, slides his fingers over Sam's hand giving his fingers a quick squeeze and goes to talk to the police that are milling around looking for answers. Sam spares him a quick glance of thanks before he goes back to staring at the wreck that used to be his life.
It's Dean that sorts out the mess, its Dean that calls the fire brigade and gets them far enough away that they police don't suspect them as having anything to do with it. And Dean is happy to do it. Happy to do anything for Sam right now. Sam can't watch. He sits on the hood of the Impala, one hand in his lap, hanging uselessly between his legs and the other pressing into the metal of the hood like its grounding him. Dean wants to touch him, wants to wipe away that look in his brothers eyes that's making him feel useless. Dean had always been able to make Sam no matter what, when knees were skinned, elbows banged, fingers dislocated. But this he can't wipe away with a joke, or a brush of his hand across Sam's thigh, can't even be wiped away with harsh kisses and even harsher sex.
Sam pushes himself off the hood and goes round to the trunk, opening it and taking out one of the sawed-offs like he feels he has to do something. Dean joins him, feeling helpless. Sam glances at him briefly before throwing the shot gun back in to the trunk.
“We got work to do.” He says in a voice that sounds dangerous and defeated at the same time. A tone Dean never wants to hear coming from him again.
Sam is rounding the side of the car and slipping into the passengers seat before Dean even has a chance to reply.
Dean rests his hand against Sam's thigh when he slips into the drivers seat next to him. Sam covers his hand briefly, fingers squeezing his, silently taking strength that Dean is more than happy to give right now.
And Dean hates the fact that it takes Jess dying to get Sam back where he belongs, sitting next to him in the Impala, knees touching the dash because he's so freakishly tall, hair falling into his emotionless eyes. But Dean wants to thank her. Because this is where Sam belongs, and Dean realises that only now can he breathe properly again.