Supernatural: And a Hard Place
Title: And a Hard Place
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Word Count: 3,150
Author’s Note: Written for spn_masquerade prompt: Any time Dean/Jensen freaks out about something/has flashbacks of a traumatic event/etc he finds a tight space to curl up in, like a cupboard or some sort of box. Jared/Sam usually gives him a few moments to chill before attempting to coax him out.
Feel free to invite a sexual element into this, whether it's Jared/Sam talking him through it, or touching him while he's still half inside, or maybe putting him back inside when he's already worked up. Any/all other kinks and scenarios welcome.
Summary: As soon as they were inside their room, Dean made a line for the closet and slammed the door, and Sam wasn't even surprised, this has been happening for years. He can't account for the why, but he gets that Dean needs it, so he doesn't say all the things he wants to.
It's a broom closet, this time. Well, broom closet is generous. What it is really is a cupboard tall enough to hold a broom, wide enough for a bucket or two, but not much else.
When they'd gotten here, Dean had found a vacuum tucked inside, the wide mouth nearly pressed against both walls. Now, that's been kicked aside, left a mess of tangled wires and spilled dust as Dean had scrambled to get inside and get the door closed.
Sam waits, patiently at first, aware that this is something Dean needs right now.
The hunt had been brutal, a monster they never found the name for who manifested itself differently for everyone. The only way to kill the thing was to do whatever you least wanted to do, a pretty solid defense mechanism. It chomped through seven mothers in this town by taking their kids' shape and none of them could put a knife through their baby's throat. It's just not in most people.
Sam had seen a demon, could hear the blood pumping through veins, could smell it, almost taste it on his tongue. The only way to kill the creature, for him, would have been to drink every drop. And he'd wanted it, too, which is what made him pull back and hide like a scared animal. Rookie move. Dad would have taken it out of his ass if he'd been there.
Dean had seen an innocent soul, up on the rack. By the time he was done, Sam could see the monster's real form, too injured and broken apart to hold up the illusion. Or at least the puzzle pieces of its true form; Dean had reduced it to almost nothing.
He played it cool the whole ride back to the motel, a calm steady stream of I'm fines and I don't want to talk about its. That's the thing about Sam's big brother, he's always fine. Dad dies and he's fine. Sam dies and he sells his damn soul and he's just fine. Hell? Yeah, he was fine after that one, too.
As soon as they were inside their room, Dean made a line for the closet and slammed the door, and Sam wasn't even surprised, this has been happening for years.
He can't account for the why, but he gets that Dean needs it, so he doesn't say all the things he wants to. That they've spent their whole life in shoebox motel rooms and a car, they've never had enough space, so why go shoving yourself into closets and cupboards? Sam had grown up claustrophobic and suffocated, had felt some days like he was trapped in his own skin until he ran all the way to California. Now he's used to it, has accepted it, slips it on like a worn old shirt. There's no getting out of this life, or the close quarters, or the creeping feel of Dean never being more than arms' length away. But he doesn't go looking to make it worse.
His brother does. Sam has watched him crawl into places that seem physically impossible until Dean's managed it: drawers under sinks in houses they had to kill possessed children in, trunks at the end of beds they didn't fuck in but both knew they'd wanted to.
Dean was never bothered by the lack of personal space like Sam was. Most of Dean's favorite memories had taken place in the Impala. Hell, some of the only things Sam looks back on fondly from his childhood are the nights when he stretched across the bench seat, his head pillowed on Dean's thigh, Dean changing the radio from the classic rock he favored to soft rock and letting his hand rest casually in Sam's hair at every red light until Sam was lulled by the soft touches and the familiar glide of asphalt under their wheels. But this isn't that. This is something Dean started while Sam was at Stanford, and Sam will never really know why.
Sam isn't selfish enough to protest, though he wants to, more than anything some times. He's never asked Dean if he realizes how small he was after the hellhounds had shredded him, how compactly he fit into that sad little crate Bobby had made him call a coffin ("Gonna start stinking pretty soon," he'd told Sam, politely pretending he didn't know that Dean had started to smell days ago and Sam just hadn't cared).
Every time he sees Dean like this, he can't help remembering that day too vividly. Thinks about how a part of him had smiled through the tears, imagining Dean would be at peace forever in that tight space Sam had shoved him in. The one time he'd gotten drunk enough to tell Sam what it was like to come back, he even acknowledged that Sam had done that for him. Said he'd been relieved to wake up in that dark, locked up little casket, that he'd breathed deep and let the Earth smell calm him before breaking his way to the surface.
"Might have stayed there, too, if I didn't have a pain-in-the-ass brother to check in on," he'd told Sam, his words slurring and his laugh hollow.
Deep down, Sam believes that's what this is about. The part of Dean that now and always is a little more in love with death than with anything Sam can give him. Dean can't quit on the fight, not while the world still needs him, but he finds comfort in these makeshift, living burials. Sam hates them. He hates them and he hates that Dean needs them.
He presses his forehead against the closet door now, and he can hear Dean's heavy breathing, not evening out like it usually does. He hears a sniff that sounds suspiciously like crying, and Sam thinks maybe that's another part of this. Dean always feels like he has to put on a brave face, not let anyone see he's cracking. But not in the dark where there's no room for anyone to see him, and Sam gets stupidly jealous of the dark little nooks for that. They've seen a Dean his brother has never let him near.
"Dean," he says, his voice soft, coaxing. "How are you doing in there?"
"Too big," Dean says after a few seconds. Sam can hear him shuffling around, his hands pressing against the door. Trying to fill it out. "There's still too much room, Sammy."
His instinct is to laugh-he's seen the room, too big is not it's problem-but he swallows it for Dean's sake. And then, for Dean's sake, he gets a bad, bad idea.
When the door opens, Dean nearly hisses, raising his hand to block the light from the motel room. "Sam, what the fuc-?" he starts, but he stops as soon as Sam starts shoving his way inside.
The door pushes up at his side, and Sam has to tug it at an awkward angle to get it to actually click and stay closed. There's shuffling for a few minutes, awkward and crowded and terrible, but eventually they settle, Dean's legs spread enough for Sam to stand between them, his hands pressed flat against the wall on either side of Sam.
He hears the relieved sigh that breaks out of Dean, lets Dean tuck his face into Sam's neck, because they're shoved so close together there's really nowhere else to put it.
His brother's breath is still heavy, though more measured at least, but it's hot and damp. They both still smell from the hunt, Dean more so from an hour of physical exertion (torturing that monster to death, Sam reminds himself, and smiling through the whole thing) and another forty five minutes of excited nerves as he hid in here and tried to wait out the panic attack.
It should be disgusting, and it is. But it's also that smell, Dean when he's ripe, that Sam's been trying to ignore since he was a kid. He does that now, tells himself he's cramped and annoyed and not aware of Dean's entire goddamn body shoved into his arms.
They don't let themselves get too close, as hard to believe as that is. Not physically. Not like this. They both know what's flowing between them, barely contained. An inch from breaking to the surface at the best of times, and this is not the best of times.
"You okay now?" Sam asks, eyes cast up to the ceiling, as if he could see his brother if he had the strength to look at him, anyway.
Desperate hope springs up in his chest-that Dean will say yes, and he can stumble his way out of here and into the too-small but at least manageable bathroom and an ice-cold shower-but hope has no place in Sam's life, and Dean just shakes his head.
Sam has about thirty seconds left of boner-killing material, and then he's done for. Because that's the kind of person Sam is. His brother is falling apart and needs his help and all Sam can do is think about how close Dean is and how good he feels.
Fuck, there it goes. Sam had stripped the grimy jeans he'd worn on the hunt off as soon as they'd gotten here, has nothing but boxers on for modesty's sake, and his dick is shoved right into Dean's leg, thickening up more by the second.
They have not talking about it down to an art, so Dean doesn't say anything, but Sam knows he's noticed, first of all because he would have to be an idiot not to at this angle, and secondly from the way his breath hitches for a moment.
Dean had been calming down. It had been working. And now Sam has gone and ruined that pretty damn thoroughly.
Sam closes his eyes and tries to will it away-the boner, the dirty thoughts, his whole damn life-but magic doesn't exist to help him out, and it doesn't happen here. All that happens is his hips start moving, trying at least, Sam has about an inch of wiggle room.
He wants to apologize, but he can't even do that. Cannot acknowledge out loud that he is humping his brother's leg like a dog and it feels too damn good to control.
Weirdly, Dean's breathing only gets steadier after that. He's quiet and kind enough to let Sam carry on without saying all the millions of things, mocking or revolted or otherwise, he could. His right hand leaves its spot on the wall, tries to get between their bodies but it literally can't, so he reaches up, hand curling on the collar of Sam's flannel shirt, pushing it just as far as it will go (not far) as if he's trying to get Sam more air.
Then it's on his face, resting softly against Sam's cheek, a solid, anchoring weight that says it's okay and you can have it without saying words Sam can't bear to hear and Dean won't ever bring himself to say.
Twisted Dean self-sacrifice, probably sees this as a fair exchange. Sam packed himself in here to give Dean what he needed, so Dean will let Sam use him if that's what Sam needs. And he does, Sam needs it, has always needed it, except that no one needs this from their brother.
When Dean moves, it's hardly enough of a change for Sam to be sure it happened. There's no space for that kind of thing between them, but Dean's jean-clad legs are suddenly just the slightest bit closer together, trapping Sam's dick nicely, giving him more friction to rub off on. And now, now Sam gets the appeal of close quarters.
His mouth drops open on what would be a cry, but he silences it. Dean's hand is still there, resting on his face, Sam wants to turn toward it but he's so fucking ashamed to be craving this comfort, to be getting it.
Dean's thumb strokes his skin softly, more reassurances, it's okay, Sammy, it's okay with every circle, but not a word spoken between them. Sam's face is burning with shame and embarrassment and Dean must be able to feel it. But he doesn't let up his quiet touch, and Sam doesn’t stop trying to thrust, meeting wall and the solid block of Dean's body. He wishes he could just goddamn do it, desperate and needy like he used to when they shared beds as teenagers and Sam woke up with his morning wood rubbing against Dean's ass. He never stopped himself back then, too young and hormone-addled to feel self-loathing, and Dean always pretended to be asleep; it was always over in minutes.
This is different. Not just because Sam is a fucking adult and should have outgrown this a decade ago. He can't get relief, can't get it over with, it lingers, feeling just good enough to keep going but nowhere close to finishing. He needs more space.
If Dean could jerk him off, Sam knows he would. Just to get it over with, to show a little mercy to his warped goddamn baby brother. Even though that would be crossing a line, actively participating in what is now just a passive perversion happening to him. But he can't, he's done all he could, and Sam is rubbing off on his thigh with all the enthusiasm he can muster, but it feels like it'll never end. And a part of him wants that, wants to go even slower, stretch it out forever because he'll never be this close to Dean again.
He's biting his lip to keep from crying out, to stop his brother's name from falling past his lips. There are boundaries. Fuck, there are supposed to be boundaries.
Dean's other hand moves now, up to cradle the outside of Sam's hip, pulling him in even more. Like he's fine to let Sam do anything as long as it means he gets to keep Sam a little longer. He wonders, if Dean's mind were clearer, if he weren't still dealing with the aftermath of the hunt, would he be hard, too? Would this be something evil and ugly and perfect they could share in their dark little closet and then close the door on forever, ignore like they have every other close call that alcohol or relief or exhaustion has pushed them into? Maybe it’s helping Dean, in some sick way, to have Sam's weirdness distracting him from what happened outside in the world they've shut out.
It's that amazing selfishness Sam always thinks he has a handle on talking. Trying to turn this into a way he's helping Dean, making up an excuse so he can keep going guilt-free. Sam kind of wants to cry, but Dean's touches are too comforting and they won't let him. He should be cursing Sam, telling him how disgusting he is, anything to make Sam stop because Sam can't on his own, and one day he's going to ruin them. He’ll have nothing left.
Sam's dick is wet now, leaving smears of sloppy pre-come on the inside of these boxers, and Sam's amazed the friction hasn't worn through the thin material yet. The thought of that, his bare cock on Dean's thigh, even Dean's clothed thigh, is more than he can stand, and Sam falls forward, slumping against his brother as he tries desperately to make room for his thrusting.
There's a good edge of pleasure there, lingering over his body, but close enough to chase. Sam goes ahead with it. He lets his mind tip over into all the things he could do to Dean, that Dean could do to him, filthy fantasies he tries to keep at bay most of the time. At this point he's dry-humping his brother, so there's really no use in trying to fight it.
Dean's hand slides back, from Sam's face into his hair, only his thumb still stroking Sam's cheek. He's still moving in that irresistible relaxing rhythm that Sam knows is trying to tell him he's not a monster for what he's doing. It's too much, and Sam takes a deep breath of that Dean sweat scent and he's a goner. He comes with Dean pulling him closer, as close as they can now, which actually makes the slightest bit of room for Sam to fall back against, the wall jolting him but his orgasm still rocking him and Dean by extension.
He can't see Dean's face, can't see if it's approving or relieved or if he's just coming to terms with what Sam's done. It's good like this, Sam's not sure he could bear to see Dean right now.
For a long minute, he just stands there, propped up against the wall, worn out by his orgasm, breathing heavily and wondering how it's supposed to go from here. Then Dean's hands on his face become more insistent, and Dean tucks himself into Sam's shoulder again. Hiding from Sam even in the dark.
"Thank you," he whispers, almost too soft for Sam to hear. But it's a murmur against Sam's skin, and Sam feels the words in his bones. He should be thanking Dean, has no idea what the hell Dean is thanking him for.
"Dean, I-" Sam starts, but he doesn't let himself finish. They can't talk about this. Not even to apologize. It didn't happen, not once they get out of here. They'll both leave it behind, locked in this closet like a sloppier killer might leave a corpse. What's there to talk about?
Familiar to the routine, Dean doesn't bother waiting for Sam to say anything. He pulls back, says, "You don't know how much room there was when you went off to school." As if that's still what he's focusing on, the fact that Sam helped fill a little space for him.
Then he's opening the door, light is filtering in, and Sam finds himself alone in there, his underwear wet with spunk, his face flushed with a mix of shame and satisfaction. He slides down the wall, curls his arms around his folded legs for a few minutes while he collects himself. Then he steps into the room and he can hear Dean in the shower, singing badly.
He waits for the click of the closet door behind him, looks around the room and nods. They finished the hunt and they'll both need showers and then they'll pack up and leave and never see this room or the busted vacuum or the too-small storage closet again. Another perfectly normal day for the Winchesters. They killed the monster, and Sam can almost believe the really evil thing isn't still inside of him, too strong to ever get the best of.
If he feels more trapped now than he did inside, Dean doesn't have to know that.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Word Count: 3,150
Author’s Note: Written for spn_masquerade prompt: Any time Dean/Jensen freaks out about something/has flashbacks of a traumatic event/etc he finds a tight space to curl up in, like a cupboard or some sort of box. Jared/Sam usually gives him a few moments to chill before attempting to coax him out.
Feel free to invite a sexual element into this, whether it's Jared/Sam talking him through it, or touching him while he's still half inside, or maybe putting him back inside when he's already worked up. Any/all other kinks and scenarios welcome.
Summary: As soon as they were inside their room, Dean made a line for the closet and slammed the door, and Sam wasn't even surprised, this has been happening for years. He can't account for the why, but he gets that Dean needs it, so he doesn't say all the things he wants to.
It's a broom closet, this time. Well, broom closet is generous. What it is really is a cupboard tall enough to hold a broom, wide enough for a bucket or two, but not much else.
When they'd gotten here, Dean had found a vacuum tucked inside, the wide mouth nearly pressed against both walls. Now, that's been kicked aside, left a mess of tangled wires and spilled dust as Dean had scrambled to get inside and get the door closed.
Sam waits, patiently at first, aware that this is something Dean needs right now.
The hunt had been brutal, a monster they never found the name for who manifested itself differently for everyone. The only way to kill the thing was to do whatever you least wanted to do, a pretty solid defense mechanism. It chomped through seven mothers in this town by taking their kids' shape and none of them could put a knife through their baby's throat. It's just not in most people.
Sam had seen a demon, could hear the blood pumping through veins, could smell it, almost taste it on his tongue. The only way to kill the creature, for him, would have been to drink every drop. And he'd wanted it, too, which is what made him pull back and hide like a scared animal. Rookie move. Dad would have taken it out of his ass if he'd been there.
Dean had seen an innocent soul, up on the rack. By the time he was done, Sam could see the monster's real form, too injured and broken apart to hold up the illusion. Or at least the puzzle pieces of its true form; Dean had reduced it to almost nothing.
He played it cool the whole ride back to the motel, a calm steady stream of I'm fines and I don't want to talk about its. That's the thing about Sam's big brother, he's always fine. Dad dies and he's fine. Sam dies and he sells his damn soul and he's just fine. Hell? Yeah, he was fine after that one, too.
As soon as they were inside their room, Dean made a line for the closet and slammed the door, and Sam wasn't even surprised, this has been happening for years.
He can't account for the why, but he gets that Dean needs it, so he doesn't say all the things he wants to. That they've spent their whole life in shoebox motel rooms and a car, they've never had enough space, so why go shoving yourself into closets and cupboards? Sam had grown up claustrophobic and suffocated, had felt some days like he was trapped in his own skin until he ran all the way to California. Now he's used to it, has accepted it, slips it on like a worn old shirt. There's no getting out of this life, or the close quarters, or the creeping feel of Dean never being more than arms' length away. But he doesn't go looking to make it worse.
His brother does. Sam has watched him crawl into places that seem physically impossible until Dean's managed it: drawers under sinks in houses they had to kill possessed children in, trunks at the end of beds they didn't fuck in but both knew they'd wanted to.
Dean was never bothered by the lack of personal space like Sam was. Most of Dean's favorite memories had taken place in the Impala. Hell, some of the only things Sam looks back on fondly from his childhood are the nights when he stretched across the bench seat, his head pillowed on Dean's thigh, Dean changing the radio from the classic rock he favored to soft rock and letting his hand rest casually in Sam's hair at every red light until Sam was lulled by the soft touches and the familiar glide of asphalt under their wheels. But this isn't that. This is something Dean started while Sam was at Stanford, and Sam will never really know why.
Sam isn't selfish enough to protest, though he wants to, more than anything some times. He's never asked Dean if he realizes how small he was after the hellhounds had shredded him, how compactly he fit into that sad little crate Bobby had made him call a coffin ("Gonna start stinking pretty soon," he'd told Sam, politely pretending he didn't know that Dean had started to smell days ago and Sam just hadn't cared).
Every time he sees Dean like this, he can't help remembering that day too vividly. Thinks about how a part of him had smiled through the tears, imagining Dean would be at peace forever in that tight space Sam had shoved him in. The one time he'd gotten drunk enough to tell Sam what it was like to come back, he even acknowledged that Sam had done that for him. Said he'd been relieved to wake up in that dark, locked up little casket, that he'd breathed deep and let the Earth smell calm him before breaking his way to the surface.
"Might have stayed there, too, if I didn't have a pain-in-the-ass brother to check in on," he'd told Sam, his words slurring and his laugh hollow.
Deep down, Sam believes that's what this is about. The part of Dean that now and always is a little more in love with death than with anything Sam can give him. Dean can't quit on the fight, not while the world still needs him, but he finds comfort in these makeshift, living burials. Sam hates them. He hates them and he hates that Dean needs them.
He presses his forehead against the closet door now, and he can hear Dean's heavy breathing, not evening out like it usually does. He hears a sniff that sounds suspiciously like crying, and Sam thinks maybe that's another part of this. Dean always feels like he has to put on a brave face, not let anyone see he's cracking. But not in the dark where there's no room for anyone to see him, and Sam gets stupidly jealous of the dark little nooks for that. They've seen a Dean his brother has never let him near.
"Dean," he says, his voice soft, coaxing. "How are you doing in there?"
"Too big," Dean says after a few seconds. Sam can hear him shuffling around, his hands pressing against the door. Trying to fill it out. "There's still too much room, Sammy."
His instinct is to laugh-he's seen the room, too big is not it's problem-but he swallows it for Dean's sake. And then, for Dean's sake, he gets a bad, bad idea.
When the door opens, Dean nearly hisses, raising his hand to block the light from the motel room. "Sam, what the fuc-?" he starts, but he stops as soon as Sam starts shoving his way inside.
The door pushes up at his side, and Sam has to tug it at an awkward angle to get it to actually click and stay closed. There's shuffling for a few minutes, awkward and crowded and terrible, but eventually they settle, Dean's legs spread enough for Sam to stand between them, his hands pressed flat against the wall on either side of Sam.
He hears the relieved sigh that breaks out of Dean, lets Dean tuck his face into Sam's neck, because they're shoved so close together there's really nowhere else to put it.
His brother's breath is still heavy, though more measured at least, but it's hot and damp. They both still smell from the hunt, Dean more so from an hour of physical exertion (torturing that monster to death, Sam reminds himself, and smiling through the whole thing) and another forty five minutes of excited nerves as he hid in here and tried to wait out the panic attack.
It should be disgusting, and it is. But it's also that smell, Dean when he's ripe, that Sam's been trying to ignore since he was a kid. He does that now, tells himself he's cramped and annoyed and not aware of Dean's entire goddamn body shoved into his arms.
They don't let themselves get too close, as hard to believe as that is. Not physically. Not like this. They both know what's flowing between them, barely contained. An inch from breaking to the surface at the best of times, and this is not the best of times.
"You okay now?" Sam asks, eyes cast up to the ceiling, as if he could see his brother if he had the strength to look at him, anyway.
Desperate hope springs up in his chest-that Dean will say yes, and he can stumble his way out of here and into the too-small but at least manageable bathroom and an ice-cold shower-but hope has no place in Sam's life, and Dean just shakes his head.
Sam has about thirty seconds left of boner-killing material, and then he's done for. Because that's the kind of person Sam is. His brother is falling apart and needs his help and all Sam can do is think about how close Dean is and how good he feels.
Fuck, there it goes. Sam had stripped the grimy jeans he'd worn on the hunt off as soon as they'd gotten here, has nothing but boxers on for modesty's sake, and his dick is shoved right into Dean's leg, thickening up more by the second.
They have not talking about it down to an art, so Dean doesn't say anything, but Sam knows he's noticed, first of all because he would have to be an idiot not to at this angle, and secondly from the way his breath hitches for a moment.
Dean had been calming down. It had been working. And now Sam has gone and ruined that pretty damn thoroughly.
Sam closes his eyes and tries to will it away-the boner, the dirty thoughts, his whole damn life-but magic doesn't exist to help him out, and it doesn't happen here. All that happens is his hips start moving, trying at least, Sam has about an inch of wiggle room.
He wants to apologize, but he can't even do that. Cannot acknowledge out loud that he is humping his brother's leg like a dog and it feels too damn good to control.
Weirdly, Dean's breathing only gets steadier after that. He's quiet and kind enough to let Sam carry on without saying all the millions of things, mocking or revolted or otherwise, he could. His right hand leaves its spot on the wall, tries to get between their bodies but it literally can't, so he reaches up, hand curling on the collar of Sam's flannel shirt, pushing it just as far as it will go (not far) as if he's trying to get Sam more air.
Then it's on his face, resting softly against Sam's cheek, a solid, anchoring weight that says it's okay and you can have it without saying words Sam can't bear to hear and Dean won't ever bring himself to say.
Twisted Dean self-sacrifice, probably sees this as a fair exchange. Sam packed himself in here to give Dean what he needed, so Dean will let Sam use him if that's what Sam needs. And he does, Sam needs it, has always needed it, except that no one needs this from their brother.
When Dean moves, it's hardly enough of a change for Sam to be sure it happened. There's no space for that kind of thing between them, but Dean's jean-clad legs are suddenly just the slightest bit closer together, trapping Sam's dick nicely, giving him more friction to rub off on. And now, now Sam gets the appeal of close quarters.
His mouth drops open on what would be a cry, but he silences it. Dean's hand is still there, resting on his face, Sam wants to turn toward it but he's so fucking ashamed to be craving this comfort, to be getting it.
Dean's thumb strokes his skin softly, more reassurances, it's okay, Sammy, it's okay with every circle, but not a word spoken between them. Sam's face is burning with shame and embarrassment and Dean must be able to feel it. But he doesn't let up his quiet touch, and Sam doesn’t stop trying to thrust, meeting wall and the solid block of Dean's body. He wishes he could just goddamn do it, desperate and needy like he used to when they shared beds as teenagers and Sam woke up with his morning wood rubbing against Dean's ass. He never stopped himself back then, too young and hormone-addled to feel self-loathing, and Dean always pretended to be asleep; it was always over in minutes.
This is different. Not just because Sam is a fucking adult and should have outgrown this a decade ago. He can't get relief, can't get it over with, it lingers, feeling just good enough to keep going but nowhere close to finishing. He needs more space.
If Dean could jerk him off, Sam knows he would. Just to get it over with, to show a little mercy to his warped goddamn baby brother. Even though that would be crossing a line, actively participating in what is now just a passive perversion happening to him. But he can't, he's done all he could, and Sam is rubbing off on his thigh with all the enthusiasm he can muster, but it feels like it'll never end. And a part of him wants that, wants to go even slower, stretch it out forever because he'll never be this close to Dean again.
He's biting his lip to keep from crying out, to stop his brother's name from falling past his lips. There are boundaries. Fuck, there are supposed to be boundaries.
Dean's other hand moves now, up to cradle the outside of Sam's hip, pulling him in even more. Like he's fine to let Sam do anything as long as it means he gets to keep Sam a little longer. He wonders, if Dean's mind were clearer, if he weren't still dealing with the aftermath of the hunt, would he be hard, too? Would this be something evil and ugly and perfect they could share in their dark little closet and then close the door on forever, ignore like they have every other close call that alcohol or relief or exhaustion has pushed them into? Maybe it’s helping Dean, in some sick way, to have Sam's weirdness distracting him from what happened outside in the world they've shut out.
It's that amazing selfishness Sam always thinks he has a handle on talking. Trying to turn this into a way he's helping Dean, making up an excuse so he can keep going guilt-free. Sam kind of wants to cry, but Dean's touches are too comforting and they won't let him. He should be cursing Sam, telling him how disgusting he is, anything to make Sam stop because Sam can't on his own, and one day he's going to ruin them. He’ll have nothing left.
Sam's dick is wet now, leaving smears of sloppy pre-come on the inside of these boxers, and Sam's amazed the friction hasn't worn through the thin material yet. The thought of that, his bare cock on Dean's thigh, even Dean's clothed thigh, is more than he can stand, and Sam falls forward, slumping against his brother as he tries desperately to make room for his thrusting.
There's a good edge of pleasure there, lingering over his body, but close enough to chase. Sam goes ahead with it. He lets his mind tip over into all the things he could do to Dean, that Dean could do to him, filthy fantasies he tries to keep at bay most of the time. At this point he's dry-humping his brother, so there's really no use in trying to fight it.
Dean's hand slides back, from Sam's face into his hair, only his thumb still stroking Sam's cheek. He's still moving in that irresistible relaxing rhythm that Sam knows is trying to tell him he's not a monster for what he's doing. It's too much, and Sam takes a deep breath of that Dean sweat scent and he's a goner. He comes with Dean pulling him closer, as close as they can now, which actually makes the slightest bit of room for Sam to fall back against, the wall jolting him but his orgasm still rocking him and Dean by extension.
He can't see Dean's face, can't see if it's approving or relieved or if he's just coming to terms with what Sam's done. It's good like this, Sam's not sure he could bear to see Dean right now.
For a long minute, he just stands there, propped up against the wall, worn out by his orgasm, breathing heavily and wondering how it's supposed to go from here. Then Dean's hands on his face become more insistent, and Dean tucks himself into Sam's shoulder again. Hiding from Sam even in the dark.
"Thank you," he whispers, almost too soft for Sam to hear. But it's a murmur against Sam's skin, and Sam feels the words in his bones. He should be thanking Dean, has no idea what the hell Dean is thanking him for.
"Dean, I-" Sam starts, but he doesn't let himself finish. They can't talk about this. Not even to apologize. It didn't happen, not once they get out of here. They'll both leave it behind, locked in this closet like a sloppier killer might leave a corpse. What's there to talk about?
Familiar to the routine, Dean doesn't bother waiting for Sam to say anything. He pulls back, says, "You don't know how much room there was when you went off to school." As if that's still what he's focusing on, the fact that Sam helped fill a little space for him.
Then he's opening the door, light is filtering in, and Sam finds himself alone in there, his underwear wet with spunk, his face flushed with a mix of shame and satisfaction. He slides down the wall, curls his arms around his folded legs for a few minutes while he collects himself. Then he steps into the room and he can hear Dean in the shower, singing badly.
He waits for the click of the closet door behind him, looks around the room and nods. They finished the hunt and they'll both need showers and then they'll pack up and leave and never see this room or the busted vacuum or the too-small storage closet again. Another perfectly normal day for the Winchesters. They killed the monster, and Sam can almost believe the really evil thing isn't still inside of him, too strong to ever get the best of.
If he feels more trapped now than he did inside, Dean doesn't have to know that.