After the End - Chapter 2
After Sam showers, washes his hair, tries to shave (his hands are too shaky so he gives up), and dresses in the only clean clothes he can find -- black tee-shirt and jeans that are a little too tight and a little too short and he realizes they're Dean's, mixed up somehow with his in his drawers from back before, back when things were normal and they were sharing laundry duty and it must have been Dean's day because Dean was paying less and less attention to everyday chores like cleaning and cooking and laundry as the effects of the Mark of Cain obsessed him more and more.
Sam kicks himself now for all the times he didn't notice what was happening. He should have seen the signs of dangerous addiction earlier. Sam, better than a lot of people, understands addiction, especially addiction with a distinct supernatural dimension. He should have seen how Dean was lying about the Mark, should have recognized the need to lie for what it was -- the shame mingled with the excitement of having the blade in his hand, doing what it wanted him to do.
Sam remembers that feeling, the surge of power and control the Blood made him feel. How Sam rationalized drinking more and more of the stuff to make him stronger so he could protect Dean and avenge his brother's brutal death and time in Hell. Kicking that habit, beating that need, had taken Sam over a hundred years in Hell and the purification process of the trials, which had nearly killed him.
And that, of course, was what led Dean to do what he did to try to save Sam, so that Sam ended up possessed -- again, which was all kinds of wrong, especially since it led to Kevin's death.
But Sam was over his anger about that now. Really he was. He understood Dean for doing what he did. Even if he'd been so hurt and angry he'd told Dean he wouldn't save him if their positions were reversed. He'd said that to hurt Dean, needed to hurt him at the time, and nobody knew like Sam how to push Dean's buttons, how to stick the knife in where it cut the deepest.
So if Sam didn't see this thing with the Mark happening to Dean earlier, it was only because he was so reluctant to recall his own failures, to face how he was at least partly responsible for pushing Dean over the edge. And then after Dean's death, after Crowley had obeyed Sam's summons only to tell him that Dean had already risen and left -- had tried to kill Crowley -- to kill him! in a moment of vengeful rage --
The memories flood back in a rush -- the hours after Dean's death, when he'd summoned Crowley in the dungeon where Dean had summoned him the day before.
"You're too late," Crowley said, appearing before Sam with a look of something almost like human regret in his eyes.
"What d'ya'mean, too late?" Sam demanded, still worked up with grief and alcohol. He'd driven for nearly twelve hours with Dean's body in the back seat -- carefully covering the seat with a blanket first so when Dean came back he wouldn't find blood on his beloved car -- then carried him into the bunker, washed his face, removed his jacket and laid his body on his bed. Sam was shaking with exhaustion, with sobbing for hours off and on during the drive, and now his fury with Crowley was threatening to overwhelm him.
"So, sorry, Moose, he's gone," Crowley shook his head. "And something tells me you won't be seeing him again, at least not for a very long time."
"What?" Sam was shocked. "What are you talking about? I just left him upstairs on his bed. How can he be gone? Where is he?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Sam," Crowley shook his head. "And given the fact that he tried to kill me for the favor of saving him, I'd say I'd rather not have to see him at the moment."
"You brought him back?" Sam cried, hope playing against grief now. "For free? No deal?"
Then Sam realized it was just too good to be true. This was Crowley, after all.
"Why?" he demanded, angry again. "Why would you do that?"
"What can I say?" Crowley shrugged. "I have a soft spot for the little squirrel. After all, he did destroy my arch enemy. Every good turn deserves a beating, as they say."
"You're lying," Sam growled. "There's something you're not telling me."
Crowley frowned, his gaze turning shrewd and calculating, clearly considering the value of bargaining with a Winchester. Again.
Then he shook his head. "I wish I could help you, Sam, I really do. I could use a favor from you, although something tells me you'd just as soon kill me as deal with me."
"Damn straight," Sam agreed furiously. "Now tell me where he is. Damn it, Crowley, tell me what happened to him. You know! I know you know!"
But Crowley just shook his head again, looking pained.
"That's for Dean to tell, Sam," he said. "If he chooses to. If he figures out what's happened to him without me to help him. He's a fool for going off without me, I'll let you know. Bloody stupid Winchesters."
Sam was confused. Why would Dean go off like that? What would make him just leave without telling Sam he was back? Without letting Sam know he was alive?
And now Sam knows. He gets it. Even without Crowley to spell it out for him.
Because Dean's back, new and improved. And Sam needs to know what's happened -- no, it's obvious what's happened, but he needs to know what it means. How can he fix it?
Sam knows, better than most, what it's like to come back from Hell with only part of yourself intact.
The question now is, how much of Dean is still Dean?
When Sam gets to the kitchen Dean's at the stove, making something that smells like Heaven. It makes Sam's belly rumble, and he realizes he's starving. He can't remember when he last ate, and then he realizes he can't remember the last time he bought food, either, and that whatever it is Dean's making must've arrived with him.
And Dean does not look like he's been grocery shopping any time recently.
"I can hear you thinking, Sam," Dean announces, his back still turned, but when Sam feels himself go numb with shock Dean turns slightly, his hands still occupied with the pan of food and spatula -- he's frying something with meat and onions and it smells incredible -- and lifts an eyebrow at Sam.
"Not like that," he assures his brother. "I don't read minds. I just know you."
"Know me?" Sam huffs. "Dean, I can't even tell if you're really you any more. How can you say you know me?"
Dean purses his lips, lowers his eyes, turns back to the pan for a minute like he's making an effort to control his temper.
"You need to eat," he announces, scooping the delicious-smelling mixture onto the toasted whole-wheat bun on a plate next to the stove. He puts the pan down, turns off the stove, turns with the plate in his hand and offers it up to Sam, all in one smooth choreographed move that seems almost seductive.
No, it's definitely seductive. especially since the movement manages to pull Dean's shirt up a little, exposing a sliver of bare skin across his middle.
And now he's standing so close Sam can feel his heat, and he's looking up at Sam with those bottle-green eyes that seem almost translucent, like sunlight through sea water.
"What happened to your eyes?" Sam muses out loud, and Dean frowns.
"What's wrong with my eyes?" but Dean looks a little spooked for a minute, like he had accidentally given something away, something he'd been trying hard to hide.
"They just look different," Sam says. "Brighter, maybe."
"Maybe it's all the iridium I've been inhaling in Hell," Dean jokes. "Makes my eyes glow."
"Dean," Sam feels his face tense as he frowns. "I'm serious. You're different."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean nods. "Now eat."
And God help him, Sam is so hungry he doesn't even care if Dean's making him feel that way for his own nefarious reasons. Sam takes the plate and -- yes, his fingers touch Dean's and it's like electric fireworks and suddenly way too hot in here -- he sits at the table and takes a bite of the burger and it's unbelievably good, like nectar of the gods, really.
Dean sits down opposite and watches him eat, and it's not creepy at all because it's Dean and Sam is starving in more ways than one and now he's got his brother back and life can begin again.
But it does bother Sam a little that Dean isn't eating or drinking anything. It feels pretty freakin' weird, actually, to be the one stuffing his face while Dean sits there all cool and -- smirking.
Is he smirking?
Sam takes a swig of the beer Dean put in front of him -- cold, incredibly good beer that goes down so perfectly with this infernally delicious burger -- and finally manages to stuff the last of the food in his mouth, chews and swallows and takes another long pull on the beer, putting it down with a sharp tap on the table.
"So I take it you don't eat now," Sam comments.
Dean is still smirking, seems so proud of himself because he's made Sam eat his demonically fabulous home-cooked meal, and he doesn't answer right away, just lowers his eyes and shrugs.
"Not hungry at the moment," he says, then raises his eyes and gives Sam a look Sam has seen him give a thousand times. It's hungry and predatory and intended to cause intense blushing.
"Not hungry for food, anyway," he drawls meaningfully.
Sam's eyes go wide, and he can feel the tell-tale heat building in his cheeks, sees Dean noticing it and fighting down a full-on grin of triumph for getting the response he was obviously going for.
But Sam is so not going there.
"Dude, seriously?" he scoffs. "You're hitting on me?"
Dean shrugs, lowers his eyes, still grinning. "Maybe," he acknowledges, and Sam can't help the warm feeling that fills his chest. Dean's happy, he realizes. Sam can't remember the last time he saw his brother genuinely happy.
It hurts Sam to think it took becoming a demon to make Dean happy. Hurts to think that their life together had become so miserable, so messed up, that they had lost this -- these simple moments when they could just be themselves, content and safe and at peace with each other. Happy.
"So are you gonna tell me where you were?" he changes the subject, gently deflecting Dean's flirtations.
Dean looks up, meets Sam's eyes with a long gaze, considering.
"You really wanna know?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, and Sam feels a tingle of fear run down his spine.
"Not if you're gonna lie to me," he says. "But yeah, I wanna know. Not knowing where you were or what happened to you these past few months -- " he took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Yeah, Dean, I wanna know."
Dean clenches his jaw and tilts his head away, and Sam can see it's not going to be easy to get him to spill.
But Sam waits, watches Dean go through his series of little avoidance gestures, fiddling with his fingernails on the table top, scrubbing a hand over his face, making faces.
"Dean -- " he tries finally, and Dean's eyes snap up to Sam's face again, frowning.
"I went to see Cain, ok?" Dean says, then flicks his eyes away, and Sam can see he's not going to get the whole story. "I thought if anybody could help me figure this thing out, he could."
"And did he? Help you figure it out?" Sam demands.
Dean shakes his head once. "He confirmed what Crowley said," he mutters darkly. "I can't die now. The Mark won't let me. It'll just keep bringing me back. The only way to be released from its power is to -- "
He stops, glances up at Sam, then away at the corner of the room again.
"What?" Sam demands. "What do you have to do?"
Dean lifts his eyes, meets Sam's gaze again, and Sam can see the old Dean there, the righteous man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and bore his responsibilities like a shield, without complaint.
"I have to pass it on to someone else," Dean says now. "Someone who's worthy. Then I can die in peace."
"Is that what Cain did?" Sam asks. "He passed on his burden to you so he could die?"
Dean looks away, and again Sam knows he won't get the whole story.
"Sorta," Dean admits.
"Well, that's not an option, Dean," Sam says, but Dean won't look at him again, so Sam puts his hand on Dean's arm, and that gets his attention. He looks at Sam's hand, then up at Sam's face, and Sam nods now that he's got Dean's full attention.
"You get me? That's not an option. We'll figure something else out. You obviously can't pass this thing on to somebody else -- it's a curse." And I can't let you die, he says in his head but won't say out loud because Dean wouldn't listen anyway. Thinks he deserves to die.
Or at least he used to think that way.
Sam's hand, still on Dean's arm, is shaking now, and Dean notices. Frowns.
Sam pulls his hand back, then realizes he's shaking all over, his body taking these long, shuddering breaths. It's shock, he thinks. It's his body's reaction to Dean's return after months of stress and grief and obsessive research.
"Hey," Dean says. "Hey, Sammy. What's wrong? What's the matter, Sam? Huh?"
"I don't know," Sam hiccups, his voice as unsteady as the rest of him.
Dean reaches out, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and suddenly Sam's nauseous, struggling to get to his feet. He wrenches away from Dean and barely makes it to the sink before he's throwing up, all of that good food gone to waste. His body just couldn't handle it, he thinks as he spits the last of it into the sink, turns on the tap to wash it away, rinse out his mouth and scrub his face.
That's when he feels Dean's hand on his back, gently rubbing, squeezing his shoulder, murmuring softly.
A sob rises in Sam's throat and he's shaking again, feeling weak and small and weepy, like the little boy Dean used to comfort when he had moments like this as a child -- the kid with the sensitive stomach whose big brother was rock solid and always, always there for him.
Dean hands him a toothbrush, already dabbed with toothpaste, and Sam takes it, tries not to think about the fact that Dean was there the whole time, had to have conjured the toothbrush out of thin air.
When Sam's done brushing his teeth Dean says, "Come on, Sam, you're exhausted. You need to sleep."
So Sam finds himself being led down the hall to his room, where the sheets have been washed and the bed neatly made and all the crap on the floor put away, and Dean lays clean sweatpants on the bed, pulls the covers back on the bed, and pats Sam on the back.
"Come on, Sam," he says. "You get in bed and I'll bring you a mug of that soup you always liked when we were kids."
"With the pasta alphabet?" Sam asks incredulously. "Do they even make that anymore?"
"Sure they do," Dean shrugs, turning to go. "And take off those jeans. They're cutting off your circulation." Dean winks -- he actually winks! -- and then he's gone, and Sam's peeling off the stupid jeans and ignoring the sweatpants and just getting under the covers in his boxers and tee-shirt because -- just because.
He considers taking off the tee-shirt because it's a little tight (it's probably Dean's too) but then he decides that's a bit much.
For what? What is he, a bride on his wedding night?
Fuck.
He grabs a book off the nightstand just as Dean comes through the door with a steaming mug of something delicious in his hand. Dean notices the discarded sweatpants immediately, raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just hands Sam the soup and sits down on the chair next to the bed.
Dean picks up Sam's book, discarded beside him on the bed, and reads the spine.
"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," he reads, then raises an eyebrow again at Sam, who is busy experiencing serious homesickness as he sips his soup.
Sam shrugs, feels the blood rush to his cheeks, although he can't imagine why he should feel embarrassed to be reading Lewis Carroll. It's classic literature, after all.
"After what happened to Charlie with the whole Land of Oz thing, I started reading some of the other classic stories in the library," he explains. "Felt like we outta be prepared for anything. And I never read this one as a kid."
Dean makes one of his non-committal shrugs, and Sam continues, "It's about siblings, you know."
Dean looks up at that, frowning a little as he tries to remember the story.
"Alice's big sister tells her to be good, not run off, and she's supposed to be watching Alice, but Alice takes off after the White Rabbit and falls down the rabbit hole," Sam explains. "You know the rest."
Dean's flipping through the book, looking at the pictures.
"Big sister must've felt pretty shitty for letting that happen," Dean notes.
Sam takes another sip of the incredible soup and shakes his head.
"She never even knows Alice is missing," he says. "As far as she knows, Alice goes off to play with her kitten and falls asleep. The whole Wonderland thing is just a dream."
"Well that's original," Dean says dryly, and Sam smiles because it's such a Dean thing to say. "How's your soup?"
"It's really good," Sam admits, and Dean nods smugly.
"You want me to read to you, Sammy?" Dean says it half-mockingly, and Sam blushes uncontrollably again. It occurs to him that this whole taking-care-of-Sam thing is a big act, some kind of demonic pretense designed to manipulate Sam into trusting this thing that his brother has become, all for some nefarious purpose he can't yet see and Dean isn't telling him about.
But then Dean's deep, expressive voice begins to read to him and it's like he's a kid again, and he's home sick from school because of his troublesome stomach, and Dean's put him to bed and taken his temperature and now he's reading to him to help him fall asleep.
Only he can't fall asleep because the sound of Dean's voice is intoxicating and he can't keep his eyes off his brother's face, or his hands as he turns the pages, or the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Or the way his knee bounces a little when he hits a difficult section with a lot of rhymes and he has to go back and try again from the top.
But eventually Sam feels his eyelids grow heavy, and the empty soup cup is gently removed from his hands and placed on the bedside table, and he feels Dean's lips pressed to his forehead, Dean's hand brushing back his hair.
"'Night, Sammy," Dean murmurs, and the air gets colder as Dean moves away so Sam reaches out, unthinking instinct and sleepiness making him helpless to stop himself, and he grabs Dean's wrist, opens his eyes to look up at Dean and begs him to stay.
"Please," he adds, and watches Dean's face soften with that little half-smile he reserves only for Sam.
"I don't sleep," Dean mutters apologetically, and Sam shakes his head.
"It's okay," he breathes, and he means it. It's all suddenly just okay, every damn thing about this, 'cause if Dean's suddenly turned into Lucifer himself Sam is just okay with that.
Dean must see the surrender in Sam's face because his smile turns a little smug.
"Okay, but you gotta take off that tee-shirt," he says. "It's giving me a complex."
Sam's not sure it's a good idea for him to get more naked at this particular moment, but he sits up, leans forward, and pulls the shirt off over his head anyway, dropping it on the floor next to the bed, where Dean picks it up, folds it neatly on the chair, followed by his own shirt and jeans.
That's when Sam notices Dean's anti-possession tat is missing.
And Dean's skin is smooth and lacking all the old scars everywhere.
Dean shoots him one more look, making sure he still has Sam's permission, then pulls back the covers and slides in, scoops Sam into his arms like he used to do when they were kids, lets Sam drape himself all over his brother, slide a leg between Dean's legs and push an arm under him so he can hold him as close as two people can be. Dean lies still for a minute, idly tracing circles on Sam's arm where it lies heavy across his belly, his other hand stroking Sam's shoulder.
For his part, Sam lies as still as he can with his crotch pushed up against his brother's hip and his cheek pressed against the expanse of warm chest, not wanting to spoil the moment by reminding Dean that they are, in fact, cuddling. Or that all this skin against skin, coupled with the long drought of their separation, is making Sam predictably hard.
But Dean knows. He presses his lips into Sam's hair and shifts a little, so Sam can feel his erection against Sam's leg, hot and smooth through the light cotton of his shorts.
"Yeah, here's the thing, Sam," Dean says, as if they've already been talking about this and Dean's just adding his two cents. "I sorta lost my moral compass, so the whole brother thing doesn't exactly bother me anymore."
Sam takes that in, his mind replaying all the times Dean pushed him away, expressed his disgust and revulsion at Sam's obvious desire for greater intimacy, even though Sam could tell he wanted it just as much as Sam did.
And it wasn't like they hadn't ever slept together. Hell, they'd been sleeping in the same bed since Sam was a baby, stopping only when Dean entered puberty and got all freaked out because little-boy Sam was rubbing all over him and making him hard.
But when Sam's own puberty drove them together again, made Sam all needy and desperate for the only person whose love he could always count on, made Sam want Dean with a consuming, passionate obsession that threatened to drown them both, Dean had to draw the line.
Because Sam couldn't.
And things inevitably happened, of course, because Sam was Dean's little brother and Dean couldn't stand that his denial was making Sam so miserable. Dean let things happen because he was programmed to take care of Sam. And Sam took what he could get, then kept pushing for more until Dean started leaving, taking off on hunting trips with their dad, forcing Sam to face his own obsession for what it was -- unhealthy not because it was incestuous, but because it was consuming and selfish and ultimately destructive for Dean. Because it held Dean back from living any kind of normal life, having any chance at a normal relationship.
And by the time Sam left for Stanford things had gone just about as far as they could between them, so Sam left because he knew it was the only way for Dean to have a chance at anything normal. He left because he needed Dean to be free, to see himself as the good man Sam knew him to be, not as some pervy pedophile who had corrupted his little brother.
But of course nothing could ever be normal with them, and by the time Dean came to get him at school Sam was already looking for ways to leave Jessica, had already worked out in his mind how he could return to Dean, believed his obsession had burned itself out and he could manage to be with his brother again in a healthier way.
Which was why Jessica's death had filled him with so much guilt. It wasn't just because he had death visions. Jess's death solved the problem of breaking things off with her, and that was just so wrong.
And for awhile after he and Dean were together again Sam managed to control his hunger, told himself he didn't deserve Dean anyway because he'd been so selfish and demanding when he was a teenager. He needed Dean to see he was grown up and could be trusted not to insist on having things his way between them, that he could respect Dean's feelings on the matter.
Because Dean's feelings for Sam were as clear as mud, and it didn't help that they never talked about it -- the elephant in the room -- at least not directly. But the few times it did come up -- when Sam got drunk and a little too handsy and needy, practically forcing himself on Dean and sobbing himself to sleep afterwards -- Dean muttered about their being brothers, how wrong it was, how sick, which only made Sam feel needier, more demanding, even weepier with guilt for giving Dean yet another reason to hate himself.
But as time went on Sam learned to control it better, for Dean's sake. He understood that Dean felt responsible for Sam's lust, felt it was his fault his little brother wanted him so badly, and Sam couldn't bear to add to the burden of guilt in Dean's chest. It was just unfair for Dean to carry that too.
So he fought it with every ounce of energy in his being. And after awhile it became habit, the suppression and repression and angst of ruthless self-control, self-flagellation. He learned to jack off in the shower, in bed after Dean fell asleep, in the bathroom alone in the mornings. He taught himself to touch Dean casually, to fake a disinterested smile when Dean touched him, to hold back and tamp down all the need to be everything for Dean because Dean wanted it that way, or at least seemed to feel it should be that way.
And when he caught Dean looking at him with longing, felt his hands on him in a way that was too intimate, too heated to be merely brotherly, Sam tried to reassure him, tried to convey his understanding, tried to make Dean see how much he loved him, accepted all the unresolved sexual tension as just part of the way it was between them.
There were times when Sam thought he'd succeeded, made Dean feel safe enough to take the extra step towards the intimacy that Sam still hoped for, despite it all. He knew Dean wanted it too, and that maybe if Sam could just make him see through the incest thing -- if Dean could just see that it wasn't sick, that between the Winchesters it was just an expression of how deeply they loved each other -- not necessary, no, but nevertheless a real, healthy part of a human relationship between two people who mean everything to each other.
Because Sam knew, deep in his bones, that it wasn't really wrong, that in the eyes of God or whatever great force of nature presided over everything, Sam's and Dean's love for each other was pure as the driven snow. If they hadn't been brothers, their souls would have found each other, Sam was sure. They'd even had that tested at one point in their crazy lives, and Zachariah's stupid game had proven Sam's point utterly. Sam and Dean were meant to be, that was all.
And now -- as Sam lies wrapped around his brother with his head on Dean's bare chest, now that they're both in their thirties with hundreds of years in Hell behind them -- now that one of them isn't even human anymore -- now Dean says he's finally ready.
Okay, then.
Sam takes a deep breath, smooths his hand down Dean's chest, lets his thumb rub against one beaded nipple, making Dean's breath hitch and his body arc up into Sam's touch. Sam turns his face and presses his lips against the warm skin, skims his hand down over Dean's belly as his mouth finds Dean's other nipple, tugs it into his mouth as Dean makes a little gasping sound and bucks up into Sam's mouth. Sam grinds slowly against Dean's hip, turns his body so that he can slip his leg down firmly between Dean's, pushing his legs apart even wider, blanketing Dean's body more completely with his own. Dean's erection is throbbing against Sam's stomach now, so Sam pushes his hand down over it, getting a good grasp through the thin cotton of Dean's boxers, begins working it slowly as he grinds his own erection against Dean's hip.
"Sam -- " Dean's breath is coming in long, ragged moans now, and Sam raises his head to look at his brother. His face is flushed, freckles prominent against his pale skin, plush lips parted, long-lashed eyelids at half-mast. He swallows, and his Adam's apple bobs enticingly, so that Sam needs to taste that, slides his body up over Dean's so he can reach it, kisses and nibbles at the stubbled flesh on Dean's neck as his hand works Dean's dick. Then Dean's hand is in his hair, tilting his face up so Dean can reach his mouth with his impossibly full lips, and suddenly Sam is drowning in Dean's kiss, tongue and teeth working at Sam's mouth until his lips feel swollen and bruised and his jaw aches. Somehow Dean rolls him so that he's on his back and Dean's on top, pushing his body between Sam's legs, spreading them so that Dean can settle there, grinding his dick against Sam's. Sam has a brief sense of Dean's strength as he holds Sam's wrists down on the bed beside his head, and Sam experiences a brief thrill of fear as he realizes Dean is much, much stronger now.
Then Dean's mouth is working Sam's neck, sucking and licking and nibbling as he moves down, dipping his tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat, releasing Sam's wrists so his hands can join his mouth in his exploration of Sam's massive chest. He runs his fingers through the hair there, thumbs Sam's nipples to erection, then takes them in his mouth one at a time, sucking and pulling at them lightly with his teeth. Sam groans loudly and arches his back, pushing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean smiles at that, seems to enjoy making Sam writhe and come apart beneath him. Dean moves lower, scooting down the bed so he's kneeling between Sam's legs, looks up the length of Sam's body with a smile that is predatory and dangerous as he slips his fingers around the waistband of Sam's boxers, making Sam shiver.
"These have to come off now, Sammy," he murmurs, and Sam nods, speechless with lust as he watches Dean, still finding it hard to believe this is really happening.
In one smooth movement, Dean pulls down Sam's boxers and tosses them aside, backing off the bed so he's standing on the floor, so he can push his own shorts off and step out of them. And now he's standing there, perfect and naked and hard and gazing up the length of Sam's body with that heavy-lidded look that's a mixture of desire and devotion and awe -- a kind of worshipful adoration that Sam recognizes because it's what he feels when he looks at Dean.
"Fuck, Sam, you're just -- " Perfect. Beautiful. Mine, Sam finishes in his head, because he thinks it too, even if neither of them can say the words out loud.
"Come here," Sam chokes out, and Dean complies, crawling onto the bed and up Sam's body, so they're flush in each other's arms again, dicks rubbing together, chests pressed tight, legs tangled together. Sam takes Dean's head in his hands and leans in for a gentle kiss, then releases Dean's mouth and gazes into his eyes again.
"You done this before?" he asks, and Dean shakes his head.
"You?"
Sam hesitates, then admits, "Once. Pretended it was you."
"Wanted this since before you were born, I think," Dean admits. "It was all over the minute I saw you."
"Me too," Sam breathes.
"Wasted a lotta years," Dean observes, "thinking this was wrong."
Sam leans in for another soft kiss.
"Such an ass," he whispers against Dean's mouth.
Dean's lips curl into a smile against Sam's.
"Little bitch," he murmurs back, and Sam's tongue plunges into his mouth, silencing them both for awhile as they fuck the hell out of each other's facial orifices.
They're both fighting for dominance now, sparring as they used to do when Sam was small and Dean could always come out on top, until Sam got big and Dean stopped egging him on because it rarely ended well for him once Sam was fully grown.
But now Sam can feel Dean's new strength, and he's not sure he could take him. It's an odd sensation, being the less powerful one after all the years of coming out on top, of being used to carrying his big brother if he needed it. Now Sam guesses he could probably still carry Dean, but no way was he gonna beat him in a fight.
And now, with Dean pushing him onto has back so he can pin his wrists next to his head and attack his mouth and neck again, straddling Sam's body as he does it, sitting on him to hold him down -- it feels like being a little kid again, like being powerless and helpless and needing and wanting and vulnerable and dependent on his big brother to take care of him.
It's confusing and exhilarating at the same time, and he must be making little whimpering noises because Dean lifts his head, stares down at him, and Sam's bucking up under him, trying to regain the contact.
"You okay?" Dean asks. "You wanna be on top?"
"You're asking me?" Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"'Course I'm asking, Sam," Dean snaps. "This ain't some kind of non-consensual bondage thing. I know you got control issues, and I'm sure as hell not trying to possess you."
It was almost funny, Dean being a demon and all, and Sam almost laughs, but probably just manages to look a little insane, 'cause Dean's climbing off, releasing his wrists, slipping down beside him on the bed.
"Come on," Dean says. "You drive."
It's so incredible, Dean just giving in like that, that it makes Sam feel more cared for than anything Dean could have done.
Sam feels a single tear slide down his cheek, lets Dean cup his face and swipe his thumb across it as he lowers his mouth for another long, bruising kiss, sweeping his hand down Dean's body, pulling him in so they're pressed together again, Sam half on-top.
Things move along without conversation after that, Sam devouring his brother's body with his mouth for awhile, caressing and messaging with his hands until Dean's a quivering, boneless mess. And when Sam slides to his knees on the floor and pulls Dean's body down to the edge of the bed, spreading his legs wide so Sam can lick and suck between them, it's Dean's turn to writhe and moan and whimper, especially when Sam's lubed fingers push into him, working him till he's good and open and can take Sam's oversized dick. And when he's eased all the way into Dean's body, Sam leans down over him and takes his mouth again, swallowing Dean's cries of near-painful pleasure as Sam fucks him with his tongue and his dick, reaching between their bodies to jack Dean's neglected erection till he tenses, arching under Sam as he hits that perfect spot that sends shudder after shudder of pleasure through his body. Dean wrenches his mouth away as the shock waves immobilize him, soft strangled sobs punched out with each thrust. Sam pushes up on one arm so he can watch Dean's face as he comes undone, mouth open and slack, eyes half-lidded and unseeing, skin flushed and radiant. He watches as his thrusts hit their mark every time, watches as Dean's body reacts without conscious thought, watches as the tension builds in Dean's face so that he's suddenly gasping, clenching his jaw, throwing his head back against the pillow, exposing the long, tight muscles in his neck and shoulders, and it's the most beautiful thing Sam's ever seen, watching his brother come -- all the years and years of waiting for this moment and it just doesn't compare to the reality of Dean letting it all go for Sam, because of Sam, with Sam inside him -- and it's that thought --- he's inside his brother, where he belongs -- that's what sends Sam's own orgasm surging through him, tearing out of him like the white heat and momentary blankness of an exploding star, or death itself.
He's breathing hard as he comes down, opens his eyes, gazes down at Dean's face, still out of it in the haze of his afterglow.
And that's when he sees it, feels the shock of it because as much as he expected it there's nothing like actually seeing evidence of it, and realizes with almost as much shock that he had until this moment still hoped it wasn't true.
Dean's eyes are black.
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