Fic: Faith that doesn't fade (SPN, Sam/Dean, NC-17)
Title: Faith that doesn't fade
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PORN, LOTS OF PORN
Summary: Sam used to pray every night, no matter how bad things got. But after everything that's happened, he wonders what he's got left to believe in. Dean shows him... with sex.
Notes: written for the wonderfully patient and generous dangomango for help_haiti. I got kind of tangled up trying to write plot, so there's a lot of porn here. I hope you like it! Thanks very much to poor_choices for looking it over. 3319 words.
Sam is bruised and exhausted and there’s mortar in his hair, and he just doesn’t fucking want to talk about it when they stumble into the room after midnight. His boots squelch with rainwater as he works the laces, fingers numb. When he looks up, Dean’s watching him, mouth squeezed into a crooked line.
“You kind of went off back there, huh, Sammy?” Dean says hesitantly, like Sam’s a little bit more dangerous than even he expected.
Sam grimaces. He wants to sulk and say, “They started it,” but that wouldn’t do any good. For all that it’s true. No angel should be able to tell them when to torch a ghost, even a ghost that requires they tear apart the catacombs under a two-hundred-year-old church. He thought Dean would know that. But Dean just stood there while some heavenly emissary - not even an angel they knew this time, just one hanging around waiting for a look at the Winchesters - told Sam exactly how he was going to fall, exactly how much his disobedience was going to cost him and how little there was he could do about it. Dean just stood there and looked sad, looked disappointed, let Sam swear and yell and tear apart everything he used to believe in. And Sam knew he was a disappointment, but he thought Dean would at least take his side. He thought he’d earned back at least that much of his brother’s trust.
When Sam doesn’t reply, Dean sits down next to him, knocking his elbow against Sam’s. “All that stuff you said about, you know, faith, did you mean that?” Dean smells like mildew and damp, and Sam thinks he’s probably just as bad, soaking god knows what into the cheap comforter.
“Why do you care?” Sam replies, wondering how soon he can escape to the shower, put a wall between him and Dean’s hurt expression.
“You used to have all this faith, Sam. You prayed every night, when most people would have just said fuck it and given up. Before we ever met an angel, you were sure they were out there, that the world wasn’t all demons and monsters.”
“And then the angels turned out to be dicks. So that worked out really well for me.” He kicks his boots off and wipes his grimy fingers on his grimy jeans. “I’m going to take a shower.” He stands up, but Dean grabs his sleeve, hangs on tight. “Leave it, Dean. You’re disappointed. I used to believe in God and angels and unicorns, and then I started the apocalypse and it’s probably going to end with everybody dead. Leave it.”
Sam yanks his sleeve out of Dean’s grip and stalks off to the bathroom, not looking back. It feels like high school all over again; Sam’s chest feels thick with useless, directionless anger. He strips down and kicks his dirty clothes into the corner, turns the water all the way to hot and steps in. The water swirling down the drain at his feet starts out brown, and the little yellow hotel soap seems like it may not be adequate. But the hot water feels so good after two days of catacombs and winter rain. Sam lets his hair hang in his eyes, lets the water patter against his scalp, making the world seem simple and comfortable. Just for a minute.
And then the bathroom door slams open and Sam tenses for a fight. He can hear the shuffle of Dean’s feet on the tile, but Dean doesn’t say anything, and Sam holds his breath, suddenly wondering if what’s in the bathroom with him is something else altogether. Then the shower curtain slides open behind him, rings clanking along the rod, and Dean says, “Sammy.” All soft and soothing like the voice he used to talk Sam down from nightmares when they were kids. His fingers brush at the nape of Sam’s neck, smoothing his wet hair. Sam shivers, can’t decide whether to pull away. They haven’t done this, not in almost two years, and Sam can feel how easy it would be to lean back into Dean, let gravity draw them together the way it always used to. But he’s not sure what Dean’s offering anymore, or what he’s asking for.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks almost petulantly, and Dean’s fingers falter. It’s been just as long for Dean as it has been for him, and neither of them is as sure as he used to be.
Dean doesn’t answer. He shoulders around Sam to get under the showerhead, runs his hands through his hair, dislodging a spray of dust. Sam watches the flex of Dean’s shoulders as he shakes the tiny shampoo bottle, not looking back, as though Sam isn’t even there. Sam wants to touch him, wants to touch him so much. He used to know the landscape of Dean’s body like he knew his own, but since Dean came back scarless and smooth, there’s ground Sam hasn’t mapped yet, a space above his right hip where a crooked line used to memorialize Sam’s first attempt at stitches, a stretch of thigh where no decade-old knife slash mars the skin. Sam hasn’t even tried to run his hands over the smooth curve of Dean’s collarbone, where a nick used to mark a badly healed break.
Dean turns, catches Sam’s eyes hungry on his skin, and licks his lips. He plops a handful of shampoo onto Sam’s head and reaches up to rub it in. Sam closes his eyes, bends his head to let it happen. Dean used to give him soapy Mohawks in the bath when they were little, twirling Sam’s hair into tall spikes and teaching Sam to squint his eyes and stick out his tongue like a real punk rocker. “What happened to your faith, Sam?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t stop combing shampoo into Sam’s hair, scraping his thumbs across Sam’s temples to keep it from getting into Sam’s eyes. “What happened to saying your prayers every night?”
The questions get in under Sam’s skin this time; his defenses are already down and he can’t summon any anger. “You died. You went to hell and I couldn’t stop it. I needed you so much, and I tried everything, and none of it was any good at all. What good could praying possibly do if you weren’t…” Sam swallows. Dean urges him forward, tilting Sam’s head back to wash out the shampoo. There’s not enough room at this end of the tub for both of them, so they’re pressed tight together all of a sudden, Dean’s back against the wall. Sam still has his eyes closed, but when Dean touches at the back of his head, bending him forward, Sam knows where he’s going before he reaches Dean’s mouth.
It’s barely a kiss, the wet brush of their mouths together, Dean’s lips so soft and plump under Sam’s, meeting them just right. And then Sam opens, his mouth shaping around Dean’s, lips tugging at Dean’s lips, tongues soft and slick together. Sam runs his hands down Dean’s sides, open palms against Dean’s hips to pull him in even closer. They fit, just like Sam remembers, a surge of need rising up in him, heating his skin and making his dick fill against Dean’s hip. He opens his eyes to find Dean’s closed, water trembling on his eyelashes, his cheeks flushed. Sam keeps kissing him, deep and hot until he’s sure he’s going to choke on all the need building inside him.
Sam rubs the soap over Dean’s belly, across the arc of his ribs and up his chest. He traces Dean’s collarbone with slippery fingers, taps the place where the uneven break used to be. Dean sighs into his mouth, and Sam runs the soap up over Dean’s shoulder and down his back, rubbing circles down the track of his spine, letting Dean rock into him, Dean’s cock as hard as his. The soap is soft and crumbling around the edges by the time he reaches the crack of Dean’s ass, slipping his fingers down and making Dean groan. He touches the tight little circle of Dean’s hole, digs one fingertip into it, and Dean huffs out, “Sammy,” soft and desperate against Sam’s mouth. Sam slicks soap around Dean’s hole, rubs at the center and then up and down the crack, using two hands to cup Dean’s cheeks, pulling them apart, spreading him open.
This is so much easier than talking, so much easier than trying to explain how Dean’s death had cut him open, bled all his faith out, made him feel helpless and hurt all the time. Not that the angels they’ve met since have helped at all. Sam used to think there was a God looking out for them all, keeping the world intact even when Sam’s own life was falling apart. But it doesn’t seem like anyone’s watching now, like there’s anything omnipotent in the universe looking at the big picture. It’s all factions and power struggles, and “God’s Will” lately is just another lie in the mouths of angels.
Sam bites at the lobe of Dean’s ear, sucks at it and makes Dean buck into him, Dean’s fingers tight against Sam’s skull. The water starts to go cold after a while, and Sam shuts it off with a twist of his hand, still crowding Dean against the wall, still kissing him, Dean’s lips tender and bruised now, red with the marks of Sam’s teeth. He’s so hard, his cock leaking and dribbling against Dean’s belly. Dean leans his head back against the wall and raises his eyebrows as if to say, “what now?” There’s a little froth of soap on his shoulder, and Sam wipes it away with his thumb.
He wants everything, all at once, looks at the heaviness of Dean’s cock and wants to suck it, wrap his mouth around it and make Dean come down his throat. He wants to press his fingers into Dean’s tight little hole, fuck him deep and slow until he begs for Sam’s cock the way he used to.
Sam brushes his dripping hair out of his eyes and steps out of the tub. The little bathroom is thick with steam, and there’s water catching and running everywhere on Sam’s sensitive skin. Dean stares, full mouth hanging a little open, and Sam wonders for a second if he’s made a mistake, if Dean’s suddenly going to remember that Sam is fucked up and broken and untrustworthy, unworthy. But then Dean follows him, palming the little bottle of lotion from the bathroom counter and opening the door, a rush of cold air from the room outside.
“Don’t be a tease,” calls Dean over his shoulder, and it’s exactly what Sam needs to hear to get him moving again.
They tumble onto Dean’s bed, the one farther from the window, wet skin sticking and sliding, Dean’s legs bending up and open as Sam settles on top of him. Sam groans, their dicks lining up, rubbing between their bellies. He kisses Dean’s mouth again, messy with teeth. It’s been so long, and he’s been so sure Dean didn’t, couldn’t want him anymore.
Sam reaches down, cups both their dicks in one hot palm, fingers curling and dragging. Dean squeezes some lotion into his hand and reaches down to help, a slippery slide up, his fingers tangling with Sam’s, squeezing around them. Sam pants out a startled moan, his balls brushing tight and hot over Dean’s, his dick twitching between their hands.
Dean pulls off, tugs Sam’s fingers reluctantly away and pushes them down farther between his legs, guiding them against his hole. Sam scrambles to his knees, wanting to look, wanting to see Dean open up for him. Dean’s hole is small and pink, soft crease of skin under Sam’s finger, and Sam presses gently in, dipping into the tight heat of Dean’s ass. Dean moans, his hole flexing around Sam’s fingertip. Sam pushes a little and Dean gives, so hot inside, Sam’s second knuckle scraping into him, slick with lotion but not slick enough. Dean hisses and shuts his eyes against the burn, but he doesn’t tell Sam to stop, just rolls his head against the pillow and takes it.
Sam used to fuck him on only spit sometimes, eagerness doing the rest of the work for them. There was a time when Sam could crowd him into a bathroom stall, and Dean would go with it, look at Sam all desperate and open as Sam pinned him with his hands, with his cock. Sam wants that back, but they’re not so used to each other now, can’t fit together so smooth. Sam squeezes another blob of lotion onto his hand, rubs it into Dean’s skin with slow circles of his thumb, makes Dean’s breath hitch again and again, his thighs trembling as Sam sinks a second finger into him. Sam’s knuckles brush against Dean’s hole, spread wide open for him, and Sam’s in as deep as he can be. He looks up into Dean’s face, his bitten lips, eyes opening to meet his as Sam goes still.
“Don’t stop now,” Dean says, rough and low, his hand covering Sam’s, a gentle brush against Sam’s skin urging him on. Sam twists his fingers, finding an easier angle, fucking in and out of Dean’s ass with every flex of his arm. Dean sips in little breaths, muttering, “yeah, yeah” as Sam fucks him harder, his fingers clenching against the back of Sam’s hand. Dean’s dick is twitching thick and heavy against his belly, precome smearing and spreading against his skin. Sam needs to taste it.
He bends his head, hair dragging on Dean’s stomach as he scoops Dean’s cock into his free hand, bringing the dripping head to his lips. Dean’s hole squeezes around him, tight on his knuckles. Dean’s cockhead is glossy wet against his mouth, bitter and vaguely soapy on his tongue. He swallows thickly and takes Dean in deeper, folding his lips over his teeth, familiar heat clenching in his gut as he lets Dean buck up into his mouth, gagging him before he remembers how this part is suppoed to go. Dean fills his mouth, slides all the way back into Sam’s throat on the next careful swallow, and Sam wants to hold him there, wants to stay full of his brother’s cock until this is all he knows, the stretch of Dean in his throat. He flutters his tongue up the shaft as he comes off for a breath, and Dean moans out, “Shit. Not yet. Not yet.” His cock is slicked wet all over from Sam’s mouth, bubbling out spurt after spurt of thick precome. His balls are drawn up full and tight, and Sam teases at them with his tongue, sucks one into his mouth to hear Dean groan. He curls his fingers in Dean’s ass, presses up just right.
“Why not yet?” Sam asks boldly, as Dean rocks down on him, spreads himself wider for Sam’s hand, his mouth. Sam’s cock aches, bobbing hard and heavy against his stomach, and he doesn’t want to wait, but he wants to hear Dean say it. And Dean will, Dean will let the words spill out, won’t hold anything back from Sam right now. Sam needs to know that.
“Want to come on your cock,” Dean groans. “Always want to.”
“Always” tugs in Sam’s gut, and he sits up, slides his fingers out of Dean’s ass and presses his dick to the hot openness of Dean’s hole, all stretched out and ready for him. Dean presses eagerly up against him, his back arched, begging now without saying anything at all. Sam rubs his cockhead around Dean’s hole, smearing it sticky and even wetter, and then he lines himself up, and on the next frantic squirm of Dean’s hips, he’s in. The plump head of his dick pops through the tight outer ring of Dean’s asshole, a sudden squeeze that makes Sam gasp, and then he’s sinking in deeper, rocking his hips in a slow rhythm, letting Dean get used to the girth of him, the weight inside, before he finally pushes in all the way.
Dean fits him so hot and smooth and wet that Sam thinks he could come just resting in him, feeling the pull of Dean’s insides around his dick. But Dean draws his knees up even tighter, more flexible than Sam remembers, opening up even wider so that Sam has a clear view of his cock splitting Dean’s wet little hole wide open. Dean licks his lips and wriggles a little, settling Sam’s cock just where he wants it. Then he wraps one leg around Sam’s waist, heel digging abruptly into Sam’s back, and says, “Do it.”
Sam pulls out of him with a slick sucking sound, drags all the way back until Dean’s hole is gripping under the rim of his cockhead, and then presses back in, shoving himself deep into the easy heat of Dean’s ass. He fucks Dean hard and slow, opening him up wide on his cock with every thrust. Dean moans, his mouth parted and soft, and Sam needs to kiss him. He bites at Dean’s lower lip, sucks on it, licks into Dean’s mouth. Dean kisses him back, sloppy and a little distracted, until they’re just breathing into each other, eyes closed, mouths open.
When Dean starts to come, not even a hand on his cock, Sam can feel it, the tremble and clench of Dean’s hole around him, Dean’s come splattering between them in fat spurts. He grabs for Dean’s dick to milk him through it, working out every last dribble of Dean’s come until Dean has to stop him, drag his hand away.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says, nuzzling at Sam’s cheek. “Get there for me.”
Sam cries out, his hips working frantically as he spills into Dean, a big, thick load that trickles out of Dean’s hole as Sam keeps working his cock into him. He comes so hard his vision is still blurry when he opens his eyes, their faces still so close that Dean’s breath ghosts across his lips.
Dean always used to fall asleep right after, but now he kisses the corner of Sam’s mouth and says, “It’s good to have a little faith, Sammy. It’s good to believe, even when you can’t see the big picture.”
Sam blinks hard. His dick is going soft in his brother’s ass, and Dean still wants to have a theological conversation. “You don’t have any faith,” Sam replies.
“And you see how well that’s working for me. Besides, there are some things I have faith in. Got a lot of faith in you.”
All the hurt and mistrust of the last year and a half rises in Sam’s throat like bile. “No, you don’t,” he says harshly, trying to scramble away before Dean remembers that they’re not these people anymore.
Dean grips the back of Sam’s neck, stopping him, holding his eyes. “There is no way I’d be here if I didn’t. Whatever happens with the angels, with God” - he says it with a skeptical twist to his mouth - “you’re the only one I trust to have my back. Even when you’re making mistakes, Sammy, you’re the only one I’m going to hang onto.”
“Dean,” says Sam softly, settling into him, nuzzling his hot face into the side of Dean’s neck. He doesn’t even trust himself all the time anymore, too many thoughts that aren’t his circling around his head, too many temptations. He wants to tell Dean not to believe in him, but he doesn’t know what he’d do if Dean didn’t. “I believe in you.”
Dean’s fingers stroke over the back of his head, grip in his hair. He nods. “Right now, that’s all we’ve got.”
~fin~
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PORN, LOTS OF PORN
Summary: Sam used to pray every night, no matter how bad things got. But after everything that's happened, he wonders what he's got left to believe in. Dean shows him... with sex.
Notes: written for the wonderfully patient and generous dangomango for help_haiti. I got kind of tangled up trying to write plot, so there's a lot of porn here. I hope you like it! Thanks very much to poor_choices for looking it over. 3319 words.
Sam is bruised and exhausted and there’s mortar in his hair, and he just doesn’t fucking want to talk about it when they stumble into the room after midnight. His boots squelch with rainwater as he works the laces, fingers numb. When he looks up, Dean’s watching him, mouth squeezed into a crooked line.
“You kind of went off back there, huh, Sammy?” Dean says hesitantly, like Sam’s a little bit more dangerous than even he expected.
Sam grimaces. He wants to sulk and say, “They started it,” but that wouldn’t do any good. For all that it’s true. No angel should be able to tell them when to torch a ghost, even a ghost that requires they tear apart the catacombs under a two-hundred-year-old church. He thought Dean would know that. But Dean just stood there while some heavenly emissary - not even an angel they knew this time, just one hanging around waiting for a look at the Winchesters - told Sam exactly how he was going to fall, exactly how much his disobedience was going to cost him and how little there was he could do about it. Dean just stood there and looked sad, looked disappointed, let Sam swear and yell and tear apart everything he used to believe in. And Sam knew he was a disappointment, but he thought Dean would at least take his side. He thought he’d earned back at least that much of his brother’s trust.
When Sam doesn’t reply, Dean sits down next to him, knocking his elbow against Sam’s. “All that stuff you said about, you know, faith, did you mean that?” Dean smells like mildew and damp, and Sam thinks he’s probably just as bad, soaking god knows what into the cheap comforter.
“Why do you care?” Sam replies, wondering how soon he can escape to the shower, put a wall between him and Dean’s hurt expression.
“You used to have all this faith, Sam. You prayed every night, when most people would have just said fuck it and given up. Before we ever met an angel, you were sure they were out there, that the world wasn’t all demons and monsters.”
“And then the angels turned out to be dicks. So that worked out really well for me.” He kicks his boots off and wipes his grimy fingers on his grimy jeans. “I’m going to take a shower.” He stands up, but Dean grabs his sleeve, hangs on tight. “Leave it, Dean. You’re disappointed. I used to believe in God and angels and unicorns, and then I started the apocalypse and it’s probably going to end with everybody dead. Leave it.”
Sam yanks his sleeve out of Dean’s grip and stalks off to the bathroom, not looking back. It feels like high school all over again; Sam’s chest feels thick with useless, directionless anger. He strips down and kicks his dirty clothes into the corner, turns the water all the way to hot and steps in. The water swirling down the drain at his feet starts out brown, and the little yellow hotel soap seems like it may not be adequate. But the hot water feels so good after two days of catacombs and winter rain. Sam lets his hair hang in his eyes, lets the water patter against his scalp, making the world seem simple and comfortable. Just for a minute.
And then the bathroom door slams open and Sam tenses for a fight. He can hear the shuffle of Dean’s feet on the tile, but Dean doesn’t say anything, and Sam holds his breath, suddenly wondering if what’s in the bathroom with him is something else altogether. Then the shower curtain slides open behind him, rings clanking along the rod, and Dean says, “Sammy.” All soft and soothing like the voice he used to talk Sam down from nightmares when they were kids. His fingers brush at the nape of Sam’s neck, smoothing his wet hair. Sam shivers, can’t decide whether to pull away. They haven’t done this, not in almost two years, and Sam can feel how easy it would be to lean back into Dean, let gravity draw them together the way it always used to. But he’s not sure what Dean’s offering anymore, or what he’s asking for.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks almost petulantly, and Dean’s fingers falter. It’s been just as long for Dean as it has been for him, and neither of them is as sure as he used to be.
Dean doesn’t answer. He shoulders around Sam to get under the showerhead, runs his hands through his hair, dislodging a spray of dust. Sam watches the flex of Dean’s shoulders as he shakes the tiny shampoo bottle, not looking back, as though Sam isn’t even there. Sam wants to touch him, wants to touch him so much. He used to know the landscape of Dean’s body like he knew his own, but since Dean came back scarless and smooth, there’s ground Sam hasn’t mapped yet, a space above his right hip where a crooked line used to memorialize Sam’s first attempt at stitches, a stretch of thigh where no decade-old knife slash mars the skin. Sam hasn’t even tried to run his hands over the smooth curve of Dean’s collarbone, where a nick used to mark a badly healed break.
Dean turns, catches Sam’s eyes hungry on his skin, and licks his lips. He plops a handful of shampoo onto Sam’s head and reaches up to rub it in. Sam closes his eyes, bends his head to let it happen. Dean used to give him soapy Mohawks in the bath when they were little, twirling Sam’s hair into tall spikes and teaching Sam to squint his eyes and stick out his tongue like a real punk rocker. “What happened to your faith, Sam?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t stop combing shampoo into Sam’s hair, scraping his thumbs across Sam’s temples to keep it from getting into Sam’s eyes. “What happened to saying your prayers every night?”
The questions get in under Sam’s skin this time; his defenses are already down and he can’t summon any anger. “You died. You went to hell and I couldn’t stop it. I needed you so much, and I tried everything, and none of it was any good at all. What good could praying possibly do if you weren’t…” Sam swallows. Dean urges him forward, tilting Sam’s head back to wash out the shampoo. There’s not enough room at this end of the tub for both of them, so they’re pressed tight together all of a sudden, Dean’s back against the wall. Sam still has his eyes closed, but when Dean touches at the back of his head, bending him forward, Sam knows where he’s going before he reaches Dean’s mouth.
It’s barely a kiss, the wet brush of their mouths together, Dean’s lips so soft and plump under Sam’s, meeting them just right. And then Sam opens, his mouth shaping around Dean’s, lips tugging at Dean’s lips, tongues soft and slick together. Sam runs his hands down Dean’s sides, open palms against Dean’s hips to pull him in even closer. They fit, just like Sam remembers, a surge of need rising up in him, heating his skin and making his dick fill against Dean’s hip. He opens his eyes to find Dean’s closed, water trembling on his eyelashes, his cheeks flushed. Sam keeps kissing him, deep and hot until he’s sure he’s going to choke on all the need building inside him.
Sam rubs the soap over Dean’s belly, across the arc of his ribs and up his chest. He traces Dean’s collarbone with slippery fingers, taps the place where the uneven break used to be. Dean sighs into his mouth, and Sam runs the soap up over Dean’s shoulder and down his back, rubbing circles down the track of his spine, letting Dean rock into him, Dean’s cock as hard as his. The soap is soft and crumbling around the edges by the time he reaches the crack of Dean’s ass, slipping his fingers down and making Dean groan. He touches the tight little circle of Dean’s hole, digs one fingertip into it, and Dean huffs out, “Sammy,” soft and desperate against Sam’s mouth. Sam slicks soap around Dean’s hole, rubs at the center and then up and down the crack, using two hands to cup Dean’s cheeks, pulling them apart, spreading him open.
This is so much easier than talking, so much easier than trying to explain how Dean’s death had cut him open, bled all his faith out, made him feel helpless and hurt all the time. Not that the angels they’ve met since have helped at all. Sam used to think there was a God looking out for them all, keeping the world intact even when Sam’s own life was falling apart. But it doesn’t seem like anyone’s watching now, like there’s anything omnipotent in the universe looking at the big picture. It’s all factions and power struggles, and “God’s Will” lately is just another lie in the mouths of angels.
Sam bites at the lobe of Dean’s ear, sucks at it and makes Dean buck into him, Dean’s fingers tight against Sam’s skull. The water starts to go cold after a while, and Sam shuts it off with a twist of his hand, still crowding Dean against the wall, still kissing him, Dean’s lips tender and bruised now, red with the marks of Sam’s teeth. He’s so hard, his cock leaking and dribbling against Dean’s belly. Dean leans his head back against the wall and raises his eyebrows as if to say, “what now?” There’s a little froth of soap on his shoulder, and Sam wipes it away with his thumb.
He wants everything, all at once, looks at the heaviness of Dean’s cock and wants to suck it, wrap his mouth around it and make Dean come down his throat. He wants to press his fingers into Dean’s tight little hole, fuck him deep and slow until he begs for Sam’s cock the way he used to.
Sam brushes his dripping hair out of his eyes and steps out of the tub. The little bathroom is thick with steam, and there’s water catching and running everywhere on Sam’s sensitive skin. Dean stares, full mouth hanging a little open, and Sam wonders for a second if he’s made a mistake, if Dean’s suddenly going to remember that Sam is fucked up and broken and untrustworthy, unworthy. But then Dean follows him, palming the little bottle of lotion from the bathroom counter and opening the door, a rush of cold air from the room outside.
“Don’t be a tease,” calls Dean over his shoulder, and it’s exactly what Sam needs to hear to get him moving again.
They tumble onto Dean’s bed, the one farther from the window, wet skin sticking and sliding, Dean’s legs bending up and open as Sam settles on top of him. Sam groans, their dicks lining up, rubbing between their bellies. He kisses Dean’s mouth again, messy with teeth. It’s been so long, and he’s been so sure Dean didn’t, couldn’t want him anymore.
Sam reaches down, cups both their dicks in one hot palm, fingers curling and dragging. Dean squeezes some lotion into his hand and reaches down to help, a slippery slide up, his fingers tangling with Sam’s, squeezing around them. Sam pants out a startled moan, his balls brushing tight and hot over Dean’s, his dick twitching between their hands.
Dean pulls off, tugs Sam’s fingers reluctantly away and pushes them down farther between his legs, guiding them against his hole. Sam scrambles to his knees, wanting to look, wanting to see Dean open up for him. Dean’s hole is small and pink, soft crease of skin under Sam’s finger, and Sam presses gently in, dipping into the tight heat of Dean’s ass. Dean moans, his hole flexing around Sam’s fingertip. Sam pushes a little and Dean gives, so hot inside, Sam’s second knuckle scraping into him, slick with lotion but not slick enough. Dean hisses and shuts his eyes against the burn, but he doesn’t tell Sam to stop, just rolls his head against the pillow and takes it.
Sam used to fuck him on only spit sometimes, eagerness doing the rest of the work for them. There was a time when Sam could crowd him into a bathroom stall, and Dean would go with it, look at Sam all desperate and open as Sam pinned him with his hands, with his cock. Sam wants that back, but they’re not so used to each other now, can’t fit together so smooth. Sam squeezes another blob of lotion onto his hand, rubs it into Dean’s skin with slow circles of his thumb, makes Dean’s breath hitch again and again, his thighs trembling as Sam sinks a second finger into him. Sam’s knuckles brush against Dean’s hole, spread wide open for him, and Sam’s in as deep as he can be. He looks up into Dean’s face, his bitten lips, eyes opening to meet his as Sam goes still.
“Don’t stop now,” Dean says, rough and low, his hand covering Sam’s, a gentle brush against Sam’s skin urging him on. Sam twists his fingers, finding an easier angle, fucking in and out of Dean’s ass with every flex of his arm. Dean sips in little breaths, muttering, “yeah, yeah” as Sam fucks him harder, his fingers clenching against the back of Sam’s hand. Dean’s dick is twitching thick and heavy against his belly, precome smearing and spreading against his skin. Sam needs to taste it.
He bends his head, hair dragging on Dean’s stomach as he scoops Dean’s cock into his free hand, bringing the dripping head to his lips. Dean’s hole squeezes around him, tight on his knuckles. Dean’s cockhead is glossy wet against his mouth, bitter and vaguely soapy on his tongue. He swallows thickly and takes Dean in deeper, folding his lips over his teeth, familiar heat clenching in his gut as he lets Dean buck up into his mouth, gagging him before he remembers how this part is suppoed to go. Dean fills his mouth, slides all the way back into Sam’s throat on the next careful swallow, and Sam wants to hold him there, wants to stay full of his brother’s cock until this is all he knows, the stretch of Dean in his throat. He flutters his tongue up the shaft as he comes off for a breath, and Dean moans out, “Shit. Not yet. Not yet.” His cock is slicked wet all over from Sam’s mouth, bubbling out spurt after spurt of thick precome. His balls are drawn up full and tight, and Sam teases at them with his tongue, sucks one into his mouth to hear Dean groan. He curls his fingers in Dean’s ass, presses up just right.
“Why not yet?” Sam asks boldly, as Dean rocks down on him, spreads himself wider for Sam’s hand, his mouth. Sam’s cock aches, bobbing hard and heavy against his stomach, and he doesn’t want to wait, but he wants to hear Dean say it. And Dean will, Dean will let the words spill out, won’t hold anything back from Sam right now. Sam needs to know that.
“Want to come on your cock,” Dean groans. “Always want to.”
“Always” tugs in Sam’s gut, and he sits up, slides his fingers out of Dean’s ass and presses his dick to the hot openness of Dean’s hole, all stretched out and ready for him. Dean presses eagerly up against him, his back arched, begging now without saying anything at all. Sam rubs his cockhead around Dean’s hole, smearing it sticky and even wetter, and then he lines himself up, and on the next frantic squirm of Dean’s hips, he’s in. The plump head of his dick pops through the tight outer ring of Dean’s asshole, a sudden squeeze that makes Sam gasp, and then he’s sinking in deeper, rocking his hips in a slow rhythm, letting Dean get used to the girth of him, the weight inside, before he finally pushes in all the way.
Dean fits him so hot and smooth and wet that Sam thinks he could come just resting in him, feeling the pull of Dean’s insides around his dick. But Dean draws his knees up even tighter, more flexible than Sam remembers, opening up even wider so that Sam has a clear view of his cock splitting Dean’s wet little hole wide open. Dean licks his lips and wriggles a little, settling Sam’s cock just where he wants it. Then he wraps one leg around Sam’s waist, heel digging abruptly into Sam’s back, and says, “Do it.”
Sam pulls out of him with a slick sucking sound, drags all the way back until Dean’s hole is gripping under the rim of his cockhead, and then presses back in, shoving himself deep into the easy heat of Dean’s ass. He fucks Dean hard and slow, opening him up wide on his cock with every thrust. Dean moans, his mouth parted and soft, and Sam needs to kiss him. He bites at Dean’s lower lip, sucks on it, licks into Dean’s mouth. Dean kisses him back, sloppy and a little distracted, until they’re just breathing into each other, eyes closed, mouths open.
When Dean starts to come, not even a hand on his cock, Sam can feel it, the tremble and clench of Dean’s hole around him, Dean’s come splattering between them in fat spurts. He grabs for Dean’s dick to milk him through it, working out every last dribble of Dean’s come until Dean has to stop him, drag his hand away.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says, nuzzling at Sam’s cheek. “Get there for me.”
Sam cries out, his hips working frantically as he spills into Dean, a big, thick load that trickles out of Dean’s hole as Sam keeps working his cock into him. He comes so hard his vision is still blurry when he opens his eyes, their faces still so close that Dean’s breath ghosts across his lips.
Dean always used to fall asleep right after, but now he kisses the corner of Sam’s mouth and says, “It’s good to have a little faith, Sammy. It’s good to believe, even when you can’t see the big picture.”
Sam blinks hard. His dick is going soft in his brother’s ass, and Dean still wants to have a theological conversation. “You don’t have any faith,” Sam replies.
“And you see how well that’s working for me. Besides, there are some things I have faith in. Got a lot of faith in you.”
All the hurt and mistrust of the last year and a half rises in Sam’s throat like bile. “No, you don’t,” he says harshly, trying to scramble away before Dean remembers that they’re not these people anymore.
Dean grips the back of Sam’s neck, stopping him, holding his eyes. “There is no way I’d be here if I didn’t. Whatever happens with the angels, with God” - he says it with a skeptical twist to his mouth - “you’re the only one I trust to have my back. Even when you’re making mistakes, Sammy, you’re the only one I’m going to hang onto.”
“Dean,” says Sam softly, settling into him, nuzzling his hot face into the side of Dean’s neck. He doesn’t even trust himself all the time anymore, too many thoughts that aren’t his circling around his head, too many temptations. He wants to tell Dean not to believe in him, but he doesn’t know what he’d do if Dean didn’t. “I believe in you.”
Dean’s fingers stroke over the back of his head, grip in his hair. He nods. “Right now, that’s all we’ve got.”
~fin~