Hit Me Baby, One More Time - Chapter 2 - You In The End
Fandom: Supernatural
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: NC-17
~7,000 words
Dad had come back a few days later, and with him the tension and anger between him and Sam. Then Sam had left for Stanford, and the years since then had been just one shit-storm after another. Angels and demons and monsters, and heaven and hell and purgatory, and twelve years later Dean still can’t stop touching Sam for any of a thousand reasons.
Dean jerks the wheel as Sam twists up onto his knees in the passenger’s seat, all legs, ass in Dean’s face as he reaches into the back seat. Dean looks in the mirror, partly to watch Sam dig through his bag and partly to see the leather stretch across Sam’s thighs and hips. He catches a glimpse of warm skin over hard muscle as Sam’s shirt slide up towards his armpit as he stretches deep into the back seat. He slides his palms over the steering wheel, imagining. Clears his throat. “Dude. What are you doing?”
Sam just shifts his hips, knocking into Dean’s shoulder. “Looking for something. Just drive.”
Dean complies, thinking of the motel room, and Sam and small spaces. He just takes up so much room. Out of habit, they’ve left nothing but a cooler behind everything they own in the trunk. He’s on the verge of suggesting dinner and then maybe driving through the night to get back to the bunker. Where they have their own rooms and Dean’s mattress remembers him.
“Ah ha!”Sam twists and plunks down into the seat, waving a small baggie triumphantly. His eyes are bright with things Dean doesn’t want to look at too closely.
Dean reaches over and grabs Sam’s hand, eyes verifying what his nose is already telling him. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Sam swings the bag back and forth slowly. “One of the dark orcs. I showed him how to get out of some holds. He was very grateful.”
“Apparently.” Dean’s gaze keeps flicking back between the road and Sam sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, like a thousand other nights, and looking like all seven sins rolled into one.
Dean rolls to a stop at the light at the intersection. Turn right, and they’re headed back to the bunker and tablets and angels and demons. Left, and they go to the motel where the ghosts of the past wait to ambush the present. Dean sighs and runs his hand across his mouth. He looks over at Sam, hand still pressed against his face.
“So,” Sam asks, holding up the bag, his voice is deep, intense. The red light spills through the dusk and reflects in Sam’s eyes. He holds Dean’s gaze, body turned completely towards Dean, open and offering. “You want to?”
Dean exhales, long and loud in the sudden break in the music. Both of them knew what Sam was asking. Did Dean want to go back to that night? Did he want to?
It was a lonely life they lived. Dean often felt like he was six drops of blood and a thousand kills to the left of humanity. And it just got harder and harder to even talk to civilians. Decades spent honing lightning-fast lethal reflexes, Purgatory-induced PTSD, and muscles that retained the memory of forty years of carving up souls, made it almost impossible for Dean to be sure it was safe for civilians to be around him, let alone naked in his bed.
The line between good and evil, right and wrong, hero and villain, had started its journey towards complete annihilation for Dean the night he’d traded his soul for Sam’s life, and had vanished completely when an angel with delusions of godhood had walked into a lake. As fucked up as the relationship between him and Sam might be (there had been a time in his life when he could recognize fucked up) he’d realized long ago that there were no lengths he wouldn’t go to, no line he wouldn’t cross for Sam. It was starting to look like Sam was willing and eager to cross this last line with him.
The light turns green and Dean doesn’t move. This would be different from that night. Not the simple frantic fumbling of two lost boys who had only each other as anchors, not a desperate clutching against the dark and unknown. Sam is offering it all. Dean can’t look away. The light flicks through yellow and back to red.
And Dean wants to.
Wants to more than he can ever remember wanting anything. Wants Sam the way he’d wanted him when he’d left for Stanford, they he’d wanted him while the hooks pulled him apart in hell. Sam had been Dean’s the moment John had thrust him into Dean’s four-year-arms. And Dean had been Sam’s since the first time Sam had smiled at him.
He thinks, briefly, that he should be terrified. But he’s not. Sam hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. Dean exhales and pulls his hand away from his face. Sam looks calm, but they can read each other like open books, and Sam’s heart is in his eyes. He’s hopeful, nervous, braced for rejection, in love with Dean, and so much braver than Dean will ever be. Dean can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face as he reaches for Sam’s leg again. “Yeah, Sam. Yeah. I want to.”
Sam smiles like the sun coming up. “Awesome.”
The light turns green again, and Dean turns the Impala left, his hand warm against Sam’s neck.
They pull into the lot, parking under a light outside the door to their room. Dean gets out first and walks around to the passenger’s side while Sam is still gathering their bags from the back seat. He leans against the door, watching. When Sam is fully out of the car, Dean grabs his arm and gently pulls Sam against him. “Hey,” he says, sliding his hand up into Sam’s hair, tilting his head down. “Just to be clear. Ok?” He figures the way Sam pushes him into the side of the car and kisses him like he’s just discovered what his mouth is for means it’s okay. It feels good. It feels right, having Sam so close to him, sharing breath and heat. Dean is not a small guy, but Sam is just so damn big. And he kisses like an attack, one hand holding Dean’s head still, the other on his hip, tugging and positioning Dean like Dean remembers from all those years ago, and Dean is hard in an instant. Dean slides his hands down Sam’s ass and thighs, the feel of soft leather over hard muscles almost making him whimper. Almost.
Dean breaks for air first. Sam must have lungs as big as the rest of him. He gently knocks their foreheads together, slightly irritated that he has to reach up to hold Sam’s head. “C’mon. Let’s get the stuff inside.” They gather up their gear in silence.
The motel is no different than a thousand others they’ve stayed in before, but it feels so different. Dean steps over the threshold and whatever bravery had inspired his parking-lot kiss dissipates like a rock-salt-shot spirit.
Sam tosses his gear bag on one of the beds. The beds that seem to loom there with intent. An intent Dean’s body is right on board with but one that makes his brain short-circuit. Sam stands there, all shoulders, height, and hair. Gorgeous and strong and tall. The literal embodiment of home and love and safety. The one person Dean has loved his whole life, and Dean is suddenly as nervous a virgin on prom night and he’s not sure how to stand or what to do with his hands.
Then Sam sighs, runs his hands through his hair, and turns to Dean. “Beer?”
Dean laughs, only a little hysterically he’s sure. “God, yes.”
Sam pulls two beers out of the cooler and hands them both to Dean to open. A flick of the wrist and the tops pop off. They clink the bottles together. “To victory,” Dean toasts. “To Charlie,” Sam offers.
That first sip goes down easy, followed by several of its friends. They’re just standing there, angled towards each other as usual, close enough for their arms to touch. Sam puts the bottle to his lips, eyes locked on Dean’s, and Dean is knocked weak-kneed with the need to taste the beer in Sam’s mouth. Sam must see some of it his eyes and drags the bottle slowly out of his mouth, dragging it down his lower lip. The bottle sticks a bit, pulling the soft lip out a bit before reluctantly releasing it. Sam’s eyes sparkle with a challenge. Fucker. Dean grins. He knows how to play that game. Shit, his mouth has gotten him into and out of more situations than he could even count. He licks his own lips, tongue flicking out quickly and sees Sam track the motion. He feels light inside; reckless with the blinding sense that a part of him he had thought permanently cold and closed off was opening up. Like everything has finally clicked into place. Finishing the last of the beer in two long swallows, he lets the bottle slip to the floor, closes the inches between then and fists his hand in Sam’s shirt, pulls him in for another kiss.
And, oh, god, it’s so good. So good. Any remnants of a memory of a hint of wrong was salted and burned in the fire of Sam’s mouth.
Sam wrenches and pulls and tugs at Dean’s clothes, stripping Dean out of his fake chainmail, undoing the laces on his shirt and dropping it down to the ground, all without his mouth losing contact with Dean’s skin. Biting and licking and breathing against him, murmuring so fucking gorgeous and want to taste you all over and Jesus fucking Christ Dean, been wanting my hand on you for fucking forever like a waterfall until Dean can’t figure out how Sam be talking and kissing like that all at the same time. Dean is already off balance from Sam’s mouth and the fucking mouth on him, when Sam grabs his ass and lifts Dean until his heels come off the ground. Sam’s teeth latch onto the base of Dean’s neck as he rolls his hips over and over against Dean. “Fuck,” Dean gasps against Sam’s mouth. “Yeah, Sam.” He winds his arms around Sam’s neck, one hand buried in his hair and bucks back as hard as he can with no leverage. He’s one second away from wrapping a leg around Sam heedless of the probable fall to the ground, when Sam lurches forwards, pushing and shoving them gracelessly towards the bed.
The back of Dean’s knees hit the bed and he falls back, pulling Sam down on top of him. The bounce back up slams their cocks together and they both groan. Dean spreads his legs with no shame. He has to get Sam as close as he can. “Dean, Dean,” Sam pants, before slamming his mouth back onto Dean’s, determined to map every atom of it and suck the breath right from Dean’s lungs. God, he’s going to come in his pants faster than 17 year old Sam did that; night. He grabs at Sam’s shoulders, trying to get him to slow down. Sam pulls away and slithers down Dean’s body, pushing up his shirt and kissing each inch of skin as it’s exposed. Dean throws his arm across his eyes as he feels Sam’s fingers working at the fastening of his pants. Breathing heavily, Dean slams his forearms into the bed, pushing his hips up as Sam yanks his pants down, stripping them off his so fast Dean’s sure there will be burns tomorrow. All he can feel now though is the pulsing of his cock. It’s so wet and hard, and shudders crawl down Dean’s skin as Sam’s hand wraps around it. He feels every callus on Sam’s hand.
Sam rests his head on Dean’s thigh, hand sliding loosely and slowly up the length of Dean’s cock, his breath hot and moist on the crease of Dean’s leg. “Dean,” Sam whispers, and it’s everything.
Dean lays his hand gently on Sam’s head. “Sam.” Sam looks up, eyes locking together, hazel into green. They stay on Dean’s as Sam lifts up, opens up, and slides down Dean until Dean is pressed against the back of Sam’s throat.
Dean’s hands clench into the sheets, his body jackknifing up and over with and overload of pleasure like a punch to his gut. “Sammy!” He falls heavily back to the bed. Sam is up on his knees now, hips higher than his head. His hands press bruises into Dean’s hipbones, hair tickling his skin, and mouth and tongue like warm wet heaven over Dean’s rock hard cock.
Dean thrusts up as much as he can with Sam holding him hard to the bed. The wet sounds and moans coming from Sam driving him as hard as the feel of his mouth, and Dean realizes distantly that he is slamming his head back rhythmically into the pillow as Sam’s name rolls continuously off his tongue, but he doesn’t care. He’s dying, Sam is killing him. Dean’s a repeat visitor to death’s door, and this is his favorite way to go by far.
Sam rips his mouth off of Dean and sits up on his heels with a shuddering inhale. Before Dean can even process the loss, Sam’s hooks his arm under Dean’s knees and drags him down the bed and up to his mouth. He shifts his hold to Dean’s ass and plunges down, taking Dean to the root.
All the breath is punched out of Dean’s lungs, and he comes with a shout.
Sam swallows it all, licking and sucking pulse after pulse, until Dean is a shuddering, breathless mess. Sam is quivering and gasping between Dean’s thighs, and Dean feels Sam’s come, hot and wet, dripping down his skin.
Panting, Dean digs deep for all the strength he has left and weakly lifts his arm to gently caress Sam’s hair. At least that’s the theory, it ends up more like a bag of wet cement smacking into Sam’s head and skidding down his face, narrowly avoiding Sam’s eye. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy,” he rasps.
He feels Sam’s head nodding against his leg. He’ll look up when he has the strength. Eventually, maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next days. “Fuck,” Sam whispers. Dean laughs roughly in agreement.
Sam recovers first. He is younger, after all, Dean rationalizes. Sam looks up and smiles at Dean. His eyes are glassy and his mouth is red, lips swollen. He looks like sex on a stick and Dean can’t look away. With a groan, Sam rises and crawls over Dean to lay heavily on top of him.
Dean oofs and manages a weak dude in mock complaint. But Sam just laughs at him and nuzzles against Dean’s neck. “Sleepy,” Sam mumbles. “Feels so goooood,” he draws out against Dean’s skin.
Dean reaches up and holds Sam tight to his body. He can’t remember when he’s ever felt so good. His fingers slip up Sam’s side, reaches up under Sam’s shirt, feeling sweat and soft skin over sleek muscle as his hips roll side to side. His fingers stutter over the scar from Jake’s knife and he gasps, shuddering suddenly with the old memory of Sam’s body stretched out on a dirty bed. That nightmare image had never lost its power over Dean, even when measured against the horrors of Hell. Dean clutches Sam tightly, burying his head in Sam’s shoulder. Sam stills, kissing Dean’s head gently.
The up and down of the last hour is too much for Dean. Too much. He needs something to even it all out, smooth out the highs and lows and stop the pounding of his heart. He slides his hands down into the back pockets of Sam’s pants and squeezes. Sam pulls up on his elbows a bit, looking down at his brother. “So,” Dean smiles, “how about we get into that stash?”
Sam rolls onto one elbow, leg sliding across Dean’s body. Dean grabs it and pulls it down against his hips, thrusting lazily and stretching up for a kiss. A quick slide of lips, a promise for later, and Sam slides out of the bed.
Dean watches appreciatively from the bed as Sam strips off his t-shirt, using it to clean up. His brother’s back is a work of art. Hiking up his pants, but not fastening them, Sam digs through the dufflebag. Dean can see he’s holding the baggie of weed, but he’s still rooting around the duffle. He struggles to a more upright position against the headboard. “C’mon, Sam. Time’s a’wasting.” He feels a little ridiculous post-orgasm, pantless, and sticky, so he pulls his shirt off and throws it on the floor. Wholly naked looks better. He pulls his socks off while he's at it.
Sam dumps the bag out with a huff, dirty laundry, lighter fluid, some canisters of salt, sand and old candy wrappers fluttering to the ground. “There’s no rolling papers.”
“So? There’s gotta be something we can use in this room.” Dean starts casting around the room. Soda can, apple, he’s pretty sure he can rig something together.
Sam turns, hands on his hips, annoyed. Dean’s distracted, marveling at how hot Sam looks even with bitchface, and he’s wondering if it would be rude to ask Sam to take his pants off, too, or if he prefers Sam in the pants, so he has an excuse for not really listening. But he does notice that Sam looks a bit forlorn, holding the baggy full of weed in one hand and a small glass pipe in the other.
Dean grins. “Awesome. Bring it over.” Dean waves him towards the bed.
The bed dips as Sam slides in next to Dean. Dean spends a second packing the pipe. Sam slaps the lighter into his hand and Dean flicks it on. He holds the flame over the pipe and inhales, holds it, then exhales with a sigh. He nudges Sam's shoulder and tries to hand him the pipe. Sam looks at it and says something Dean doesn’t catch. Dean shoves it at him again.
“I said, I don’t know how to use a pipe.” Sam looks embarrassed, which is ridiculous given he didn't seem embarrased by his really really superb blowjob skills. And don't think that won't be a conversation for later.
Dean laughs and shakes his head. “More for me, then,” he says, lighting up again.
“Jerk,” Sam laughs, knocking his knee into Dean’s.
Dean’s voice is tight with the effort of holding in the smoke. He can feel it curling through his lungs, seeping into his arms and legs. “Didn’t you learn anything at Stanford, college-boy?”
Sam leans in close to Dean, hand sliding up his thigh to cup Dean’s cock lightly. “I learned a few things,” he says with a lick of the lips and a quick glance at Dean’s lap. Dean chokes out the smoke and it’s Sam’s turn to laugh.
College. That makes a lot of sense but still Dean feels, well, miffed. Going to strangers when Dean could have taught him just fine. Dean's brain pauses a bit at that though, replays it, and Dean thinks maybe that dark orc weed is really potent. “Well, A-plus for that. That was a four point oh blowjob for sure.”
"Fuck you." Sam smiles.
Dean takes another hit. "Oh later, for sure. That's the final," he cackles. Dean cracks himself up.
Sam wrenches the pipe from him.
"Hey!" he protests grabbing for it. But Sam uses the unfair advantage of his gorilla arms to keep it out of Dean's reach. "You don’t sound surprised,” Sam points out.
Dean shrugs, patting Sam on the head. “It’s okay, Sammy. A lot of kids branch out during college. College is a time of experimentation. Of self-discovery.”
Sam pounces and tackles him on to the bed. Years and miles disappear and it could be one of any of a thousand times they’d ended up wrestling across the scratchy thin carpet of some nameless motel. Except, you know, for Dean’s nudity. They roll around, fighting for the top. Dean may be naked and half-baked and Sam a bit distracted by Dean's skin if the frequency with which his mouth and teeth scrape across Dean's body, but they are Winchesters and neither one will give up easy. Several minutes later - not counting the pauses when Sam's tongue invaded Dean's mouth, or when Dean's hands went on an exploration that culminated in scratches down the back of a totally naked Sam - they end up with Dean on the bottom, again, and Sam straddling him. Since Dean's hard cock is nestled between the cheeks of Sam's ass and Sam is gently rocking back and forth, Dean declares himself the winner.
Breathing heavily, Sam smirks at Dean. “A time of experimentation? That so?”
Dean seems to have lost the plot, but he thinks hard. Sam reaches up pinches Dean's nipple. Dean grabs his hips and pulls him down tighter, his groan the only answer he has. But Sam can't let it drop. Now who's got the messed up priorities. “I seem to recall you having a rather long voyage of self-discovery yourself,” Sam continues, rubbing his palms up and down Dean's skin. His voice trails off at the end and Dean's pretty sure Sam is reevaluating his choice of activities at the moment. Less talking, more fucking. Sam wrenches his attention away from where his hands are cataloging Dean's ribs, fingers sliding gently over them one at a time. He struggles to look annoyed as Dean lets go of his hip and slides his hand down Sam's hard, gorgeous cock. "You've been with guys," he proclaims triumphantly as if he is proud of forming a complete sentence.
Dean gestures expansively down his own body. “I am an equal opportunity giver, Sammy. It’s not right to deny half the population all this.” His brain catches up with his mouth and he remembers conversations he'd never had with Sam. “Hey, how did you know that anyway?”
Sam rolls his eyes. And his hips. So Dean forgives him. “I’m not blind, Dean. Or deaf. Or lacking a sense of smell. We shared a lot of motel rooms and there’s only so much cardboard evergreen tree can cover in the Impala.”
Dean’s briefly mortified but given the events of the evening so far, he figures that is water way way under the bridge. “Well, fine. But I’m still sad that you didn’t feel you could confide in me, Sammy. I’m hurt.”
“Whatever,” Sam scoffs, standing up. Dean pouts. In a manly way, sliding his hands up Sam's strong thighs and reaching between his legs for the weight and softness nestled there. Sam moans. "Fuck." He reaches down for Dean’s hand. Dean accepts the hand up and lets Sam lead him back to the bed. Dean pulls him in for a deep, long, hard kiss. Sam's lips feel fantastic between his teeth. "God, Dean," Sam pants as Dean's mouth slides down the side of his neck. “You were - fuck - pretty good at cockblocking me." He pressed Dean's head into the spot where neck meets shoulder. "Yeah, shit. Ah right there." He keeps talking and Dean really needs to get some smoke into Sammy right fucking now. "You kept me away from anybody, male or female." He pulls Dean off his neck. Dean's mouth detaches with an audible pop. He twists Dean's head up to look right at him. "I figured you didn’t really want to know.”
The thing is, Dean didn’t really want to know, didn't like thinking about some strangers hands on his Sam. Likes it even less now. He kisses Sam roughly and briefly. Screw you, he announces to the ghosts of lovers past. He's mine now and no one else gets to have him. He pushes Sam lightly down onto the bed. One had on his shoulder, one hand cupped around the back of his head, fingers buried in Sam's hair. His little brother. Fucking gorgeous, for sure. Muscle for days. But he’s so much more than that. Brave and loyal and smart and strong. “Not a one of the good enough for you, Sammy. They would never see how amazing you were. Only I could. Only I knew - know. Only I get to have you.”
Sam is just holding Dean's hand now, rubbing his cheek against Dean's palm. His eyes are suspiciously bright and Dean's throat feels tight. Rightthinks Dean, clearing his throat. Less talking, more fucking. This day was going to be the end of him. He smiles down at Sam and gently pulls his hand away. He locates the pipe, the baggie, and the lighter and sits down on the bed next to Sam. Sam tracks Dean's hands with his eyes as he goes through the ritual of filling and lighting the pipe.
He flicks the lighter and they both watch the flame for a second until Dean tilts it down over the pipe. He breathes in deep. “I could tell,” he chokes out, they didn‘t deserve you.” He loops his arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him in. “ Remember this? Breathe in when I breath out.”
“I remember,” Sam says as he closes his mouth over Dean’s. Dean exhales his heart and Sammy takes it in. It feels like home and safety and love.
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: NC-17
~7,000 words
Dad had come back a few days later, and with him the tension and anger between him and Sam. Then Sam had left for Stanford, and the years since then had been just one shit-storm after another. Angels and demons and monsters, and heaven and hell and purgatory, and twelve years later Dean still can’t stop touching Sam for any of a thousand reasons.
Dean jerks the wheel as Sam twists up onto his knees in the passenger’s seat, all legs, ass in Dean’s face as he reaches into the back seat. Dean looks in the mirror, partly to watch Sam dig through his bag and partly to see the leather stretch across Sam’s thighs and hips. He catches a glimpse of warm skin over hard muscle as Sam’s shirt slide up towards his armpit as he stretches deep into the back seat. He slides his palms over the steering wheel, imagining. Clears his throat. “Dude. What are you doing?”
Sam just shifts his hips, knocking into Dean’s shoulder. “Looking for something. Just drive.”
Dean complies, thinking of the motel room, and Sam and small spaces. He just takes up so much room. Out of habit, they’ve left nothing but a cooler behind everything they own in the trunk. He’s on the verge of suggesting dinner and then maybe driving through the night to get back to the bunker. Where they have their own rooms and Dean’s mattress remembers him.
“Ah ha!”Sam twists and plunks down into the seat, waving a small baggie triumphantly. His eyes are bright with things Dean doesn’t want to look at too closely.
Dean reaches over and grabs Sam’s hand, eyes verifying what his nose is already telling him. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Sam swings the bag back and forth slowly. “One of the dark orcs. I showed him how to get out of some holds. He was very grateful.”
“Apparently.” Dean’s gaze keeps flicking back between the road and Sam sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, like a thousand other nights, and looking like all seven sins rolled into one.
Dean rolls to a stop at the light at the intersection. Turn right, and they’re headed back to the bunker and tablets and angels and demons. Left, and they go to the motel where the ghosts of the past wait to ambush the present. Dean sighs and runs his hand across his mouth. He looks over at Sam, hand still pressed against his face.
“So,” Sam asks, holding up the bag, his voice is deep, intense. The red light spills through the dusk and reflects in Sam’s eyes. He holds Dean’s gaze, body turned completely towards Dean, open and offering. “You want to?”
Dean exhales, long and loud in the sudden break in the music. Both of them knew what Sam was asking. Did Dean want to go back to that night? Did he want to?
It was a lonely life they lived. Dean often felt like he was six drops of blood and a thousand kills to the left of humanity. And it just got harder and harder to even talk to civilians. Decades spent honing lightning-fast lethal reflexes, Purgatory-induced PTSD, and muscles that retained the memory of forty years of carving up souls, made it almost impossible for Dean to be sure it was safe for civilians to be around him, let alone naked in his bed.
The line between good and evil, right and wrong, hero and villain, had started its journey towards complete annihilation for Dean the night he’d traded his soul for Sam’s life, and had vanished completely when an angel with delusions of godhood had walked into a lake. As fucked up as the relationship between him and Sam might be (there had been a time in his life when he could recognize fucked up) he’d realized long ago that there were no lengths he wouldn’t go to, no line he wouldn’t cross for Sam. It was starting to look like Sam was willing and eager to cross this last line with him.
The light turns green and Dean doesn’t move. This would be different from that night. Not the simple frantic fumbling of two lost boys who had only each other as anchors, not a desperate clutching against the dark and unknown. Sam is offering it all. Dean can’t look away. The light flicks through yellow and back to red.
And Dean wants to.
Wants to more than he can ever remember wanting anything. Wants Sam the way he’d wanted him when he’d left for Stanford, they he’d wanted him while the hooks pulled him apart in hell. Sam had been Dean’s the moment John had thrust him into Dean’s four-year-arms. And Dean had been Sam’s since the first time Sam had smiled at him.
He thinks, briefly, that he should be terrified. But he’s not. Sam hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. Dean exhales and pulls his hand away from his face. Sam looks calm, but they can read each other like open books, and Sam’s heart is in his eyes. He’s hopeful, nervous, braced for rejection, in love with Dean, and so much braver than Dean will ever be. Dean can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face as he reaches for Sam’s leg again. “Yeah, Sam. Yeah. I want to.”
Sam smiles like the sun coming up. “Awesome.”
The light turns green again, and Dean turns the Impala left, his hand warm against Sam’s neck.
They pull into the lot, parking under a light outside the door to their room. Dean gets out first and walks around to the passenger’s side while Sam is still gathering their bags from the back seat. He leans against the door, watching. When Sam is fully out of the car, Dean grabs his arm and gently pulls Sam against him. “Hey,” he says, sliding his hand up into Sam’s hair, tilting his head down. “Just to be clear. Ok?” He figures the way Sam pushes him into the side of the car and kisses him like he’s just discovered what his mouth is for means it’s okay. It feels good. It feels right, having Sam so close to him, sharing breath and heat. Dean is not a small guy, but Sam is just so damn big. And he kisses like an attack, one hand holding Dean’s head still, the other on his hip, tugging and positioning Dean like Dean remembers from all those years ago, and Dean is hard in an instant. Dean slides his hands down Sam’s ass and thighs, the feel of soft leather over hard muscles almost making him whimper. Almost.
Dean breaks for air first. Sam must have lungs as big as the rest of him. He gently knocks their foreheads together, slightly irritated that he has to reach up to hold Sam’s head. “C’mon. Let’s get the stuff inside.” They gather up their gear in silence.
The motel is no different than a thousand others they’ve stayed in before, but it feels so different. Dean steps over the threshold and whatever bravery had inspired his parking-lot kiss dissipates like a rock-salt-shot spirit.
Sam tosses his gear bag on one of the beds. The beds that seem to loom there with intent. An intent Dean’s body is right on board with but one that makes his brain short-circuit. Sam stands there, all shoulders, height, and hair. Gorgeous and strong and tall. The literal embodiment of home and love and safety. The one person Dean has loved his whole life, and Dean is suddenly as nervous a virgin on prom night and he’s not sure how to stand or what to do with his hands.
Then Sam sighs, runs his hands through his hair, and turns to Dean. “Beer?”
Dean laughs, only a little hysterically he’s sure. “God, yes.”
Sam pulls two beers out of the cooler and hands them both to Dean to open. A flick of the wrist and the tops pop off. They clink the bottles together. “To victory,” Dean toasts. “To Charlie,” Sam offers.
That first sip goes down easy, followed by several of its friends. They’re just standing there, angled towards each other as usual, close enough for their arms to touch. Sam puts the bottle to his lips, eyes locked on Dean’s, and Dean is knocked weak-kneed with the need to taste the beer in Sam’s mouth. Sam must see some of it his eyes and drags the bottle slowly out of his mouth, dragging it down his lower lip. The bottle sticks a bit, pulling the soft lip out a bit before reluctantly releasing it. Sam’s eyes sparkle with a challenge. Fucker. Dean grins. He knows how to play that game. Shit, his mouth has gotten him into and out of more situations than he could even count. He licks his own lips, tongue flicking out quickly and sees Sam track the motion. He feels light inside; reckless with the blinding sense that a part of him he had thought permanently cold and closed off was opening up. Like everything has finally clicked into place. Finishing the last of the beer in two long swallows, he lets the bottle slip to the floor, closes the inches between then and fists his hand in Sam’s shirt, pulls him in for another kiss.
And, oh, god, it’s so good. So good. Any remnants of a memory of a hint of wrong was salted and burned in the fire of Sam’s mouth.
Sam wrenches and pulls and tugs at Dean’s clothes, stripping Dean out of his fake chainmail, undoing the laces on his shirt and dropping it down to the ground, all without his mouth losing contact with Dean’s skin. Biting and licking and breathing against him, murmuring so fucking gorgeous and want to taste you all over and Jesus fucking Christ Dean, been wanting my hand on you for fucking forever like a waterfall until Dean can’t figure out how Sam be talking and kissing like that all at the same time. Dean is already off balance from Sam’s mouth and the fucking mouth on him, when Sam grabs his ass and lifts Dean until his heels come off the ground. Sam’s teeth latch onto the base of Dean’s neck as he rolls his hips over and over against Dean. “Fuck,” Dean gasps against Sam’s mouth. “Yeah, Sam.” He winds his arms around Sam’s neck, one hand buried in his hair and bucks back as hard as he can with no leverage. He’s one second away from wrapping a leg around Sam heedless of the probable fall to the ground, when Sam lurches forwards, pushing and shoving them gracelessly towards the bed.
The back of Dean’s knees hit the bed and he falls back, pulling Sam down on top of him. The bounce back up slams their cocks together and they both groan. Dean spreads his legs with no shame. He has to get Sam as close as he can. “Dean, Dean,” Sam pants, before slamming his mouth back onto Dean’s, determined to map every atom of it and suck the breath right from Dean’s lungs. God, he’s going to come in his pants faster than 17 year old Sam did that; night. He grabs at Sam’s shoulders, trying to get him to slow down. Sam pulls away and slithers down Dean’s body, pushing up his shirt and kissing each inch of skin as it’s exposed. Dean throws his arm across his eyes as he feels Sam’s fingers working at the fastening of his pants. Breathing heavily, Dean slams his forearms into the bed, pushing his hips up as Sam yanks his pants down, stripping them off his so fast Dean’s sure there will be burns tomorrow. All he can feel now though is the pulsing of his cock. It’s so wet and hard, and shudders crawl down Dean’s skin as Sam’s hand wraps around it. He feels every callus on Sam’s hand.
Sam rests his head on Dean’s thigh, hand sliding loosely and slowly up the length of Dean’s cock, his breath hot and moist on the crease of Dean’s leg. “Dean,” Sam whispers, and it’s everything.
Dean lays his hand gently on Sam’s head. “Sam.” Sam looks up, eyes locking together, hazel into green. They stay on Dean’s as Sam lifts up, opens up, and slides down Dean until Dean is pressed against the back of Sam’s throat.
Dean’s hands clench into the sheets, his body jackknifing up and over with and overload of pleasure like a punch to his gut. “Sammy!” He falls heavily back to the bed. Sam is up on his knees now, hips higher than his head. His hands press bruises into Dean’s hipbones, hair tickling his skin, and mouth and tongue like warm wet heaven over Dean’s rock hard cock.
Dean thrusts up as much as he can with Sam holding him hard to the bed. The wet sounds and moans coming from Sam driving him as hard as the feel of his mouth, and Dean realizes distantly that he is slamming his head back rhythmically into the pillow as Sam’s name rolls continuously off his tongue, but he doesn’t care. He’s dying, Sam is killing him. Dean’s a repeat visitor to death’s door, and this is his favorite way to go by far.
Sam rips his mouth off of Dean and sits up on his heels with a shuddering inhale. Before Dean can even process the loss, Sam’s hooks his arm under Dean’s knees and drags him down the bed and up to his mouth. He shifts his hold to Dean’s ass and plunges down, taking Dean to the root.
All the breath is punched out of Dean’s lungs, and he comes with a shout.
Sam swallows it all, licking and sucking pulse after pulse, until Dean is a shuddering, breathless mess. Sam is quivering and gasping between Dean’s thighs, and Dean feels Sam’s come, hot and wet, dripping down his skin.
Panting, Dean digs deep for all the strength he has left and weakly lifts his arm to gently caress Sam’s hair. At least that’s the theory, it ends up more like a bag of wet cement smacking into Sam’s head and skidding down his face, narrowly avoiding Sam’s eye. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy,” he rasps.
He feels Sam’s head nodding against his leg. He’ll look up when he has the strength. Eventually, maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next days. “Fuck,” Sam whispers. Dean laughs roughly in agreement.
Sam recovers first. He is younger, after all, Dean rationalizes. Sam looks up and smiles at Dean. His eyes are glassy and his mouth is red, lips swollen. He looks like sex on a stick and Dean can’t look away. With a groan, Sam rises and crawls over Dean to lay heavily on top of him.
Dean oofs and manages a weak dude in mock complaint. But Sam just laughs at him and nuzzles against Dean’s neck. “Sleepy,” Sam mumbles. “Feels so goooood,” he draws out against Dean’s skin.
Dean reaches up and holds Sam tight to his body. He can’t remember when he’s ever felt so good. His fingers slip up Sam’s side, reaches up under Sam’s shirt, feeling sweat and soft skin over sleek muscle as his hips roll side to side. His fingers stutter over the scar from Jake’s knife and he gasps, shuddering suddenly with the old memory of Sam’s body stretched out on a dirty bed. That nightmare image had never lost its power over Dean, even when measured against the horrors of Hell. Dean clutches Sam tightly, burying his head in Sam’s shoulder. Sam stills, kissing Dean’s head gently.
The up and down of the last hour is too much for Dean. Too much. He needs something to even it all out, smooth out the highs and lows and stop the pounding of his heart. He slides his hands down into the back pockets of Sam’s pants and squeezes. Sam pulls up on his elbows a bit, looking down at his brother. “So,” Dean smiles, “how about we get into that stash?”
Sam rolls onto one elbow, leg sliding across Dean’s body. Dean grabs it and pulls it down against his hips, thrusting lazily and stretching up for a kiss. A quick slide of lips, a promise for later, and Sam slides out of the bed.
Dean watches appreciatively from the bed as Sam strips off his t-shirt, using it to clean up. His brother’s back is a work of art. Hiking up his pants, but not fastening them, Sam digs through the dufflebag. Dean can see he’s holding the baggie of weed, but he’s still rooting around the duffle. He struggles to a more upright position against the headboard. “C’mon, Sam. Time’s a’wasting.” He feels a little ridiculous post-orgasm, pantless, and sticky, so he pulls his shirt off and throws it on the floor. Wholly naked looks better. He pulls his socks off while he's at it.
Sam dumps the bag out with a huff, dirty laundry, lighter fluid, some canisters of salt, sand and old candy wrappers fluttering to the ground. “There’s no rolling papers.”
“So? There’s gotta be something we can use in this room.” Dean starts casting around the room. Soda can, apple, he’s pretty sure he can rig something together.
Sam turns, hands on his hips, annoyed. Dean’s distracted, marveling at how hot Sam looks even with bitchface, and he’s wondering if it would be rude to ask Sam to take his pants off, too, or if he prefers Sam in the pants, so he has an excuse for not really listening. But he does notice that Sam looks a bit forlorn, holding the baggy full of weed in one hand and a small glass pipe in the other.
Dean grins. “Awesome. Bring it over.” Dean waves him towards the bed.
The bed dips as Sam slides in next to Dean. Dean spends a second packing the pipe. Sam slaps the lighter into his hand and Dean flicks it on. He holds the flame over the pipe and inhales, holds it, then exhales with a sigh. He nudges Sam's shoulder and tries to hand him the pipe. Sam looks at it and says something Dean doesn’t catch. Dean shoves it at him again.
“I said, I don’t know how to use a pipe.” Sam looks embarrassed, which is ridiculous given he didn't seem embarrased by his really really superb blowjob skills. And don't think that won't be a conversation for later.
Dean laughs and shakes his head. “More for me, then,” he says, lighting up again.
“Jerk,” Sam laughs, knocking his knee into Dean’s.
Dean’s voice is tight with the effort of holding in the smoke. He can feel it curling through his lungs, seeping into his arms and legs. “Didn’t you learn anything at Stanford, college-boy?”
Sam leans in close to Dean, hand sliding up his thigh to cup Dean’s cock lightly. “I learned a few things,” he says with a lick of the lips and a quick glance at Dean’s lap. Dean chokes out the smoke and it’s Sam’s turn to laugh.
College. That makes a lot of sense but still Dean feels, well, miffed. Going to strangers when Dean could have taught him just fine. Dean's brain pauses a bit at that though, replays it, and Dean thinks maybe that dark orc weed is really potent. “Well, A-plus for that. That was a four point oh blowjob for sure.”
"Fuck you." Sam smiles.
Dean takes another hit. "Oh later, for sure. That's the final," he cackles. Dean cracks himself up.
Sam wrenches the pipe from him.
"Hey!" he protests grabbing for it. But Sam uses the unfair advantage of his gorilla arms to keep it out of Dean's reach. "You don’t sound surprised,” Sam points out.
Dean shrugs, patting Sam on the head. “It’s okay, Sammy. A lot of kids branch out during college. College is a time of experimentation. Of self-discovery.”
Sam pounces and tackles him on to the bed. Years and miles disappear and it could be one of any of a thousand times they’d ended up wrestling across the scratchy thin carpet of some nameless motel. Except, you know, for Dean’s nudity. They roll around, fighting for the top. Dean may be naked and half-baked and Sam a bit distracted by Dean's skin if the frequency with which his mouth and teeth scrape across Dean's body, but they are Winchesters and neither one will give up easy. Several minutes later - not counting the pauses when Sam's tongue invaded Dean's mouth, or when Dean's hands went on an exploration that culminated in scratches down the back of a totally naked Sam - they end up with Dean on the bottom, again, and Sam straddling him. Since Dean's hard cock is nestled between the cheeks of Sam's ass and Sam is gently rocking back and forth, Dean declares himself the winner.
Breathing heavily, Sam smirks at Dean. “A time of experimentation? That so?”
Dean seems to have lost the plot, but he thinks hard. Sam reaches up pinches Dean's nipple. Dean grabs his hips and pulls him down tighter, his groan the only answer he has. But Sam can't let it drop. Now who's got the messed up priorities. “I seem to recall you having a rather long voyage of self-discovery yourself,” Sam continues, rubbing his palms up and down Dean's skin. His voice trails off at the end and Dean's pretty sure Sam is reevaluating his choice of activities at the moment. Less talking, more fucking. Sam wrenches his attention away from where his hands are cataloging Dean's ribs, fingers sliding gently over them one at a time. He struggles to look annoyed as Dean lets go of his hip and slides his hand down Sam's hard, gorgeous cock. "You've been with guys," he proclaims triumphantly as if he is proud of forming a complete sentence.
Dean gestures expansively down his own body. “I am an equal opportunity giver, Sammy. It’s not right to deny half the population all this.” His brain catches up with his mouth and he remembers conversations he'd never had with Sam. “Hey, how did you know that anyway?”
Sam rolls his eyes. And his hips. So Dean forgives him. “I’m not blind, Dean. Or deaf. Or lacking a sense of smell. We shared a lot of motel rooms and there’s only so much cardboard evergreen tree can cover in the Impala.”
Dean’s briefly mortified but given the events of the evening so far, he figures that is water way way under the bridge. “Well, fine. But I’m still sad that you didn’t feel you could confide in me, Sammy. I’m hurt.”
“Whatever,” Sam scoffs, standing up. Dean pouts. In a manly way, sliding his hands up Sam's strong thighs and reaching between his legs for the weight and softness nestled there. Sam moans. "Fuck." He reaches down for Dean’s hand. Dean accepts the hand up and lets Sam lead him back to the bed. Dean pulls him in for a deep, long, hard kiss. Sam's lips feel fantastic between his teeth. "God, Dean," Sam pants as Dean's mouth slides down the side of his neck. “You were - fuck - pretty good at cockblocking me." He pressed Dean's head into the spot where neck meets shoulder. "Yeah, shit. Ah right there." He keeps talking and Dean really needs to get some smoke into Sammy right fucking now. "You kept me away from anybody, male or female." He pulls Dean off his neck. Dean's mouth detaches with an audible pop. He twists Dean's head up to look right at him. "I figured you didn’t really want to know.”
The thing is, Dean didn’t really want to know, didn't like thinking about some strangers hands on his Sam. Likes it even less now. He kisses Sam roughly and briefly. Screw you, he announces to the ghosts of lovers past. He's mine now and no one else gets to have him. He pushes Sam lightly down onto the bed. One had on his shoulder, one hand cupped around the back of his head, fingers buried in Sam's hair. His little brother. Fucking gorgeous, for sure. Muscle for days. But he’s so much more than that. Brave and loyal and smart and strong. “Not a one of the good enough for you, Sammy. They would never see how amazing you were. Only I could. Only I knew - know. Only I get to have you.”
Sam is just holding Dean's hand now, rubbing his cheek against Dean's palm. His eyes are suspiciously bright and Dean's throat feels tight. Rightthinks Dean, clearing his throat. Less talking, more fucking. This day was going to be the end of him. He smiles down at Sam and gently pulls his hand away. He locates the pipe, the baggie, and the lighter and sits down on the bed next to Sam. Sam tracks Dean's hands with his eyes as he goes through the ritual of filling and lighting the pipe.
He flicks the lighter and they both watch the flame for a second until Dean tilts it down over the pipe. He breathes in deep. “I could tell,” he chokes out, they didn‘t deserve you.” He loops his arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him in. “ Remember this? Breathe in when I breath out.”
“I remember,” Sam says as he closes his mouth over Dean’s. Dean exhales his heart and Sammy takes it in. It feels like home and safety and love.