A Look From You and I Would Fall from Grace 2/5

[nu_breed]

Part One


***

Sam gets an email from Tamara, which has all the usual 'sorry to hear about your brother, he was a good hunter' bullshit. Stuff that makes his teeth ache. He's much more interested in the rest of her email, giving him the dates and co-ordinates he needs to track down the Trickster.

They'll tell you not to go after him yet, that you need time, that vengeance isn't healthy. But I say fuck that. They've forgotten what it's like to lose family like you and I have, Sam. You need this. Good luck.

He's not sure how he should react. Deep-down he knows he should be doing everything he can to find the sick fuck, but there's a part of him that just wants to give up, and that part gets stronger, more insistent every day. The part that tells him to retreat into a bottle, his dreams, whatever he can do to bring him closer to Dean. At least when he's asleep he can feel again, when he's awake he feels like a shell and nothing else.

It's just as he feared when Dean first told him about the Crossroads deal. Sam's nothing without him.

He drives for nearly fifteen hours straight, cityscape finally coming into view. Chicago. If he's honest with himself, he doesn't even remember how he ended up there, or why. Just got in the car and kept driving, through Arkansas and parts of Illinois, completely on autopilot, listening to mundane easy-listening track after easy-listening track. Was enough to make him want to drive himself and Dean's baby off a cliff. Fortunately for him, Illinois was kind of short on those.

Sam showers after he checks into the motel. The water pressure's good for a change, and he can feel it against his aching muscles, cajoling them to relax. He spends so long in the shower he feels vaguely faint and has to sit on the bed, naked, his head in his hands until he regains some balance.

When the room's stopped spinning, he puts on his good jeans and one of his clean tees. He pads out to the bathroom on bare feet, and brushes his teeth. He's still using that disgusting bubblegum flavor; last one Dean bought, because he can't bring himself to replace it with anything else.

It's one of the only things he has left of Dean, after all.

Reminds Sam of the mornings Dean'd kiss him after he'd brushed his teeth; just because he knew how much Sam hated the stupid stuff. Sam would bitch and moan at him for being a fucking child, but Dean wouldn't listen, he'd just suck Sam's tongue into his mouth and put his hands on top of Sam's on the counter, holding him in place. Sometimes Dean would turn Sam around to face the bathroom mirror, drop to his knees and make Sam watch himself as Dean brought him to orgasm, slow and perfect.

When Sam looks in the mirror now though, he's a little shocked by what he sees. He's practically swimming in his t-shirt now. Thin in the waist, the hips, even his shoulders seem less… broad. Dead brother equals instant weight loss; he could market that one all over.

The bar he heads for is one he's been to before, the last time he and Dean were in Chicago. Vamp case. Seemed the vampire had a thing for pretty boys. Sam wasn't looking then, but he’s certainly looking now.

Sam's head is down as he walks in, and he goes straight for the bar. The loud thump-thump of the heavy bass reverberates off every surface, much like a heartbeat. The bar's crowded, no chance of a seat and Sam doesn't fancy his chances of getting a drink anytime in the next hour.

"Sometimes I wonder why I don't just drink at home."

The guy next to him is tall, maybe only a couple of inches shorter than Sam, tanned, leather jacket and close cropped dark blond hair.

"Yeah," Sam says, ducking his head and grinning. "Sometimes the wait's worth it, though, right?"

The guy laughs, deep and throaty and throws his head back. His neck is gorgeous and Sam can't help but stare.

"I'm Ben," he says, putting out his hand. It’s warm and firm in Sam’s and Sam feels like the world's biggest traitor every time he does this; up until now, though, it's only been random bar-tramps, waitresses. This is different, and he feels like he's shitting on Dean's memory. Thing is, he can't help it; he needs... needs to feel something warm. Something tangible. Needs to feel it in the morning. A reminder that he's still breathing, because sometimes he really wonders if he is. He wonders if he still should.

"I'm." Sam swallows, and his throat's parched. "Screw it. You, uh, want to get out of here?"

Ben's eyes flick over Sam's body and he nods, slow and deliberate. "Yeah. Sure. We can do that."

He leans in, and Sam steps back, turns his head away. "I don't kiss. Not on the mouth. No offense or anything, just. I can't."

Kissing crosses a line. Kissing is intimate, and Sam doesn't want to be intimate. Can't be. He just wants to, needs to, get fucked.

Ben nods. "I get it. No names and no kissing. Boyfriend, huh?"

"Yeah. Sure. Something like that." Sam bows his head and can feel the flush staining his cheeks. Doesn't know how well "Actually, no. My brother used to kiss like a fucking pro; long and slow and wet. He'd make it last for hours, till I was begging like a bitch for him to touch me. But he's dead now, and I really need someone to fuck me so I can try and forget him for like ten fucking minutes" would go over.

Ben has an apartment downtown, and Sam drives them there. They don't talk on the way, and Sam just keeps his eyes on the road, though he can feel Ben's eyes on him and it makes him feel cocky as hell. Thankfully, they have a good run of the lights, so it doesn't take long till they're there and Ben's directing Sam to park in the secure underground lot.

"Car like this'd be thief fodder if you park anywhere else. It's a beauty. You had it long?"

Sam's chest aches. He wishes he hadn't picked up someone who's asking questions he doesn't want to answer. Ben seems like a nice guy, but Sam really doesn't want to chat, especially about Dean's car, and he suddenly wishes the guy was on his knees with Sam's cock down his throat.

They take the elevator to the third floor, and Sam's half thrumming with anticipation, while simultaneously wishing he were anywhere else. He could be home in bed, tripping on dreamroot right now, wrapped around Dean and he doesn't even know why he did this. Must've been out of his goddamn mind.

Ben opens the door and drags Sam inside, pushes him up against the wall. Ben's hard, and Sam can feel his own cock twitching in response. Ben also has big, strong hands that seem to want to touch him everywhere, and Sam throws back his head, bites his lower lip as Ben's hands map his body.

Sam's missed this. Hard and firm instead of soft and pliant, and Sam can't wait for Ben to get inside him; by the feel of Ben's cock, Sam's going to be feeling it when the night's over.

"You don't want to be kissed," Ben breathes into Sam's neck, one hand rubbing Sam's cock through his jeans. "So what do you want?"

"Want you to fuck me," Sam whispers, his teeth grazing Ben's ear. "Hard. So I’ll remember it tomorrow. Okay with you?"

"Yeah." Ben's mouth curls into a smile, slow and dirty. He grabs at Sam's belt and undoes it, unzips Sam's jeans and pulls them down past his hips, never taking his eyes off Sam for a second. "Yeah. I can definitely work with that."

***

Sam gets back to the motel around five. He aches everywhere; thighs and ass and jaw and wrists and he has bruises on his neck, hips, and collarbone. He's completely fucked out.

There’s no other thought in his mind but sleep. Contemplates just crashing on the bed, but he can't do that. Can't ignore the fact that Dean's waiting for him, and he's been thinking about him all night, thinking about being with him the whole time Ben was fucking him. When Sam was down on his knees all he had to do was close his eyes and he'd see Dean, standing right in front of him.

He's addicted, and he doesn't want to think about what the fuck he's going to do when he runs out of dreamroot. What it'll mean for him. Whether he'll ever see Dean again, or if he'll fade away like an old photograph, or a drunken memory.

The dreamroot never tastes any less like shit, no matter how many times he's had it and he can feel himself retching as the putrid liquid works its way down his throat, bitter and viscous. Worth it, though. He'd heard Becky once, talking about the bitter nasal drip that comes after doing a line of coke, that that's how you know once it's worked its way down, something really fucking good always comes with something really fucking awful. Price of life.

Words like junkie, addict. They echo through Sam’s mind, and he can't bring himself to care.

He pulls Dean's jacket out from under his pillow, breathes in the scent of sweat and leather and beer and DeanDeanDean. Tries not to think about how fucking pathetic or screwed-up it makes him, smelling his dead brother's clothes, getting ridiculously turned on just by the smell of him. Instead, Sam just closes his eyes and clutches the jacket tighter, following the ghost of his brother's memory into sleep.

***

Sam's eyelids are heavy and when he opens them, it takes him a good couple of minutes to adjust. He cleans the dust out of the corner of both eyes and sits up slowly, his body still not with the party after a rough night of sex and alcohol. It takes him a minute or two to realize that he isn't clutching Dean's leather jacket anymore, but a folded up piece of paper.

It's a boarding pass.

Sam stands up slow and careful on heavy legs and heads for the door. Of course, when he opens it, he's not standing on the threshold of his motel room, but on a landing strip. There's a 737 at the end of the runway, and Ruby’s standing at the bottom of the steps, waving to him.

Ruby's wearing a stewardess's uniform. Cheerleader. Stewardess. Next she'll be a nun.

"Yeah, sure, sport. I'd sooner be exorcised than have this fine body stuck in a penguin suit." Sam rolls his eyes and starts to push past her, but she grabs his arm and looks up at him with black eyes, saying, "Haven't you forgotten something?"

"Forgotten something?" Sam squints, trying to work out what he could have possibly forgotten.

"Your boarding pass, braintrust?" She holds out her hand, and he hands her the ticket. "Seriously, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one?"

Sam just shrugs and makes his way up the stairs.

The plane is almost entirely populated by demons, and it makes his skin crawl, but Sam can't help staring at them as he walks through the cabin. He's flying coach, which doesn't seem fair since he was supposed to be their leader and all. The least Ruby could've done was bump him up to Business Class.
"No freaking way," she says from behind him. "You gave up your privileges quite some time ago, champ. That way."

She points him towards the last row in the cabin, where Dean is sitting, knocking back a plastic tumbler of what looks like bourbon or whiskey on ice.

"Oh Sam, thank God." He grips Sam's arm so hard, Sam can feel Dean's fingernails digging into his skin and he can't help the shiver that goes through him. "Can you please tell that bitch Ruby that I need another six or so of these babies? She's cut me off."

Ruby's voice comes over the loudspeaker. "I trust everyone is comfortable. Would the dead, human, pain-in-my-ass in row J please shut the fuck up? This isn't a bar, and if you don't stop your whining, Dean Winchester, I will rip your spine out through your fucking throat!"

"Demons have such rotten tempers," Dean complains, crunching on an ice cube from the bottom of his cup. "Also? Don't order a Bloody Mary." He shudders. "Trust me."

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean interrupts him, "Oh, and stay away from the food too. Personally, I'd rather be skinned alive. Probably will be too, ha!"

Sam grimaces and turns away from him for a minute. Ruby and another flight attendant are distributing meals throughout the cabin. He can only imagine how revolting the food is; airplane food on a demon airliner. Bound to taste like hell. Literally.

He flinches when he feels Dean touching the side of his neck, his fingers pressing into one of the bruises there.

"Where'd you get that?" Dean's voice is rough, hint of something that makes Sam's stomach flip.

"I'm sorry." Sam turns back to face him, "I needed to."

"Needed to, huh?" Dean nods. "Yeah, well. I've got marks too, Sammy. See?"

Dean pulls his t-shirt up. His torso is marred with long, thick, raised scars. A whip, Sam guesses. He can just see it; Dean tied down, the lash biting into him and him taking it, not even screaming. Just getting that look in his eye that says, 'Okay assholes. Do your worst.' In the beginning, anyway. Sam doesn't want to think about what happens once the pain's too much to bear and Dean's flesh gets torn open time and time again for all eternity. He can feel his stomach turn over at the thought.

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "I just wanted to feel something other than death. Emptiness. Whatever. I didn't think you'd care." He knows it's a lie as soon as it's out of his mouth and he isn't surprised when Dean's eyes flare with anger and something else that’s just as intense. It makes Sam's stomach pitch and roll, liquid heat spreading. Makes him want to drop to his knees right there and make it up to him, Dean’s head tipped back, fingers clawing through his hair.

"Bathroom. Now." Dean's hand is on Sam's shoulder, fisting his shirt and gripping tight.

"I." Sam looks at the tiny door opposite them. No way, doesn’t matter what kind of reality, are they fitting in there. "The mile high club? Are you serious, Dean?"

"Now."

Dean's voice is practically vibrating and Sam thinks that maybe he shouldn't argue the point. He's going to feel completely claustrophobic in a space like that, but he's too busy feeling so turned on he can barely think. Dean's going all caveman on his ass, and part of him doesn't care. Part of Sam just wants to go with it, and screw the consequences. It's his dream after all, right?

The space between their seats and the bathroom feels like miles. Dean right there behind him, in his space, breathing on the back of his neck and it's too much. Makes the hair on his neck and his arms prickle. Makes him hard.

When Sam opens the door to the bathroom, he's pleasantly surprised to see it's like a TARDIS on the inside.

"Nice." Dean says, smirk in his voice. "Here's to your subconscious, Sam."

Sam opens his mouth to agree, but he doesn't get a chance because Dean is pushing him face first against the wall, unbuckling Sam's belt, pushing his jeans and boxers down his thighs.

Dean gets his hands on Sam. One at his hip, fingers digging into the bruises there, the other at Sam's mouth. Dean pushes two fingers past his lips and Sam sucks them all the way down, slow and wet and obscene, scrapes his teeth over them when Dean pulls nearly all the way out.

"Jesus, you're a slut," Dean groans and fucks Sam's mouth with his fingers. "Tell me, Sam. Tell me what he did to you."

Sam inhales sharply as Dean yanks his fingers out and moves them to Sam's ass. He rubs them spitslick over Sam's hole for what feels like forever before pushing them in, opening Sam up.

"I met him in a bar. That one in Chicago we went to on that vamp case. I. Uh--" Sam's voice catches in his throat, pain radiating when Dean gets his other hand in Sam's hair, grabs a handful and pulls his head back. Hard. "I. We went back to his place." Sam manages in a breath.

"Then what?" Dean adds another finger, pushes back in teasingly slow and Sam moans low and throaty.

"Christ, Dean." Sam can barely breathe, doesn't know how he's still managing to form words. He knows Dean is enjoying this way too much. "I. I asked him to fuck me."

"How did you do it?" Dean licks up the side of Sam's neck, sucks one of the bruises, and digs his teeth in. "Did you ride him? Did he fuck you on your hands and knees? How, Sam?"

Sam may complain about it, but he loves it when Dean's rough like this. Loves it and misses it and he groans his disappointment when Dean pulls his fingers out, but he's not sorry when he hears Dean drop to the ground behind him, and feels him replace his fingers with his tongue.

"Fuck. God. First he pushed me down on the floor. Fucked me there on my hands and knees." Sam groans as he feels Dean's tongue inside him, pushing in deep.

Dean laughs, and Sam can feel warm breath, a wet chuckle. It's all too much, standing there while Dean fucks him up like this. Too much and yet still not enough, and Sam grinds his hips back, tries to get Dean's tongue deeper inside him.

"And then?" Dean asks, muffled.

"Got me on the bed," Sam pants out, "fucked me with his fingers until I couldn't take it anymore."

Dean pulls out, ignores Sam's whimpers, and licks one long stripe up the cleft of Sam's ass, right up to the spot where Sam's brand starts. He gets his mouth on it, lips brushing over the brand before he traces the outline with his tongue; slow and wet and perfect.

"I bet you were begging for it." Dean stands up again, turns Sam to face him. "Did he make you scream, Sammy? Was it like it is with me?"

"No," Sam says, firm and almost angry. "Never. Never like it was with you. I wouldn't let him kiss me, either."

"Good." Dean smiles then and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "'Cause you're mine. Always will be, little brother."

"Possessive bastard," Sam mutters, but he's dropping to his knees and mouthing the outline of Dean's cock through his jeans as Dean's fingers stroke his hair.

There's a harsh knocking on the door and Ruby's yelling through it, "Time to go, Sam. Your sick incest sex-fantasy time is up."

"I fucking hate planes," Dean grumbles. He pulls Sam to his feet and helps him with his pants. Sam's still hard and he hisses when Dean buttons his jeans up, and fastens Sam's belt again. "So not fair," Dean says. "I never get off anymore. Fucking bitch!" Dean yells over his shoulder.

"Oh, bite me, brotherfucker!" Ruby screams back, slamming her fists on the door.

Sam can feel the pull that he's begun to associate with wakefulness and he just shakes his head, whispers, "It's never enough time."

Dean shrugs, pulls Sam in with a hand on the back of his skull. "Soon, Sam."

Sam can feel Dean's lips ghost against his, and he's gone.

He keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't want to see the fleabag motel room, doesn't want to see the sunlight streaming through the windows. He just lies there with his eyes squeezed shut, one hand reaching inside his boxers and the other clenching Dean's leather jacket, and when Sam comes he bites through his lip to stop himself from throwing up.

***

From Chicago he heads west to Minneapolis. There's a large group of demons who've taken over the Alpha Delta Phi fraternity, and hazing rituals have turned a little more brutal than usual.

Sam knows he should keep going till he gets there, but he gives two shits about a bunch of asshole frat brothers and pledges getting slaughtered, and, well, he'd rather find a place to stay and settle in for the night.

Sam's glad he's been able to avoid Bobby's calls so far. After all, he's gone from wanting to wreak bloody vengeance on the Trickster to not caring about anything other than losing himself in dreams of Dean. He really doesn't want to find out what Bobby would have to say about Sam blowing off hunts, or the fact that he's letting people die because he's so desperate to hang onto his brother.

Not that he ever could, but there is one thing he wishes he was able to talk to Bobby about, though: the bag of dreamroot is dissipating and he gets this panicked, tight feeling in his chest every time he thinks about it. He's still got enough for the remainder of the month, but he doesn't want to run out. He hasn't been able to get a hold of Bela so far, and Bobby'd kick his ass if he ever knew, so he does the only thing he can think of-- he calls Ruby.

She comes right away; she always does. Sometimes he doesn't even have to call and she's on his doorstep.

"Dreamroot?" She crosses her arms, and tilts her head to one side. She always looks like a petulant child when she does that, and Sam hates it. Makes him want to shake her. She's hundreds of years old, not eighteen.

"Yeah." He mimics her stance and they stand there for around five minutes. Not talking, just staring each other down and Sam finds himself thinking of her as she was in his dream. He tries to scrub the image of her as a stewardess out of his head, but he can't. His cock swells as he thinks of her, bending over fixing drinks, her crisp blue uniform riding up and her suspenders and stockings visible. Can't help but imagine her in between him and Dean, the two of them pushing her skirt up and...

She cocks an eyebrow. "Y'know, if you wanted me to appear in your dreams, Sam, all you had to do was ask. I don't need drugs to do it."

"I don't. God," Sam clenches his jaw. “I can't help that you're a pain in my ass even when I'm asleep. It's not that at all."

"Then what is it?" She moves in closer, glares up at him with black eyes, like that's supposed to scare him. "Oh, I see. Dean."

"I hate it when you do that." Sam means it. He can't stand the way demons get inside of people’s heads, root around in there and take fears, wishes and thoughts without permission. It feels like the worst sort of violation and it makes him want to tell Ruby to get out, to fuck off and never come back again.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Ruby snipes at him. "Maybe if you actually talked to me, gave me something to go on once in a while, I wouldn't have to root around in there. We're supposed to be on the same side here, Sam."

"Then prove it. Help me."

Ruby looks almost like she pities him, and he can't stand it. ”Sorry, champ. No can-do."

He shuts his eyes and rubs at his forehead, can feel a really nasty headache coming on. He's about to ask her why she won't help, what's so wrong about wanting to hold onto to someone and she was the one who said she could help save Dean in the first place, and...

But when he looks up, she's gone.

***

Sam wakes up to the sound of sirens. He assumes it's police coming for him. They can't get Dean now, but they can still get him and he leaps to his feet and runs to check the door. Opens it carefully and finds himself staring into the busy corridor of a hospital.

Not just any hospital, either. It's the hospital where he watched his brother slip away, the same place he saw his father die.

Ruby is sitting on the counter at the nurses' station. Of course.

"Oh give me a break," Sam murmurs under his breath, "a nurse now?"

She grabs her clipboard and gestures for him to follow her down the hall. "Dude, it's no worse than a cheerleader. Do I look like I have pep? Anyway, it's your damaged psyche, don't blame me for the fact you keep ending up in hell."

She pushes him towards the nearest door and leaves him there. He tries to open it, but the handle won't budge. The door's locked. Ruby smirks and takes off in the other direction.

"Thanks, Ruby!" Sam yells, livid, his voice reverberating off the thin walls of the hospital. A small piece of plaster cracks and falls. "You've been really fucking helpful."

"Screw you!" she throws back cheerily.

Sam wonders whatever happened to Ruby's sense of duty. He's also got to wonder why dream Ruby is even more of a bitch than the real deal. Or maybe that's just his perception. Dean was probably right about her all along.

Dean, who is most likely behind this locked door. Dean, who Sam still can't get to, no matter how bad he wants it. The irony is unbelievable.

"Oh, for Lucifer's sake." Ruby comes stamping up the corridor towards him, eyes black and fixed. She thrusts a lockpick into his hand. "Don't be such a fucking baby."

Sam twists and turns the lockpick, can feel the lock click when it gives, and the door opens to reveal Dean in scrubs, perched on the side of a bed.

"Why didn't you just open the door in the first place?" Sam asks her, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Why don't you just suck my left tit?" Ruby grumbles and gestures towards Dean. "Well? Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Sam walks towards Dean, who looks as pale and death-like as he did the last time Sam stood in this room, and the door slams shut behind him.

"See? I told you. Bad tempers. All of 'em." Dean yawns, stretches. "Took you a while to get the door open. You're off your game."

And that couldn't be more true. He is. He's so far off his game he can't even remember what it felt like to be on.

"I'm not hunting, you know." He looks away, can't stand to see Dean's disapproval. Not like this. Not here.

"Yeah, I figured." Dean crooks a finger, and Sam comes closer, stands in front of him. "You okay?"

Sam laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "Pretty fucking far from okay, dude."

Sam looks at the bed, and all he can see for a minute is Dean arching when he went into cardiac arrest. Sam's watched him die more times than he can even count; but he’s always, always come back. Not this time, though, and Sam doubts he's ever going to be okay again.

"Dean. I. I don't know if I can do this anymore. It's too hard."

Sam runs a hand through his hair, and looks at Dean, whose eyes are dark and intense and Sam almost wants to look away again, but he can't bring himself to.

"Sam..."

"I just don't want to wake up. And eventually, I'm gonna have to." He pauses. "Ruby said she wouldn't help me out with more dreamroot, and I can't get hold of Bela. She says Hi, by the way."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"And I just. As much as I can't bear the thought of not seeing you again, leaving you every fucking morning? It's killing me, man."

Dean places his hands on the backs of Sam's thighs. "Y'know how when I first made the deal you said you'd find a way out of it?"

"Yeah," Sam snorts, "and look where that got us."

"There's a way for us to do this. To be together like this, always, and never wake up." Dean stands up and pulls Sam's t-shirt up and off. "You're the research geek. Figure it out."

Sam squints, thinking, but Dean is pulling off his own shirt and Sam's drawn to the symbol carved into his abdomen.

"What the? What did they do to you?" Sam can feel white-hot anger flaring through him, boiling his blood. His hands clench at his sides and his nails gouge his palms. The other times, they were different. Brutal, hideous, but this is so much worse. Someone's fucking symbol carved into Dean, some demon with their fucking sigil on him, and Sam can't help the possessive flare that runs through him at the thought of it.

"You." Dean grabs Sam's hand and brings it to the symbol. Sam touches it, lets his fingers trace the outline and Dean shivers. "It's yours. That's what they told me. They said the sign was meant for you, and so was I, so..."

Sam feels liquid heat flare in his belly, lust and guilt at war with each other. Dean's been carved up with God knows what, and the brand is ugly and red and looks so painful it makes him wince. Yet he can't deny the fucking current that goes through him when he thinks about Dean with his mark on him, permanent proof of who he belongs to, even with his soul owned by hell.

"I'm sorry." Sam looks away. "Sorry they hurt you because of me."

Dean shakes his head and his voice comes out deep and gravelly. "I'm not, Sam."

Sam can feel his cock twitch in response to the depth of Dean's tone, to the meaning there and when he turns back, Dean is naked, lying on the bed. Sam's heart races and everything feels so desperate. He pulls his boxers off, straddling Dean's hips, shoves his fingers into Dean's mouth and moans as Dean sucks on them, getting them good and wet.

Sam pulls them out and without pausing gets two of them inside, working himself open as he rocks his hips back and forth. His eyes are closed and his head’s thrown back and he can hear Dean's appreciative, "Yeah. Fuck yeah, Sammy."

He doesn't waste any more time. Time's something they don't have, and Sam slides himself down, taking Dean's cock into him, inch by inch. He rides him; fast and hard, Dean's hands on his hips, and Sam's hands gripping Dean's shoulders.

"They made you mine," Sam says, his voice strained and ripped to shreds, "bound you to me. So fuck me like you're mine, Dean. Do it."

Sam pulls himself off in time for Dean to push Sam onto his back, get his legs over Dean's shoulders and push in with one. Smooth. Thrust.

Dean's almost rabid; growling and biting and scratching Sam as he pounds his ass. Sam wishes that the marks would stay; that he'd wake up with gouges and bruises all over his body to touch and connect him to something that no longer exists.

Sam tries to push back and take control but Dean doesn't let him. Sam can't complain; he asked for this, after all, so when Dean pulls all the way out and teases him with the head of his cock, just rubbing it over his hole, Sam twists his fingers in the bedspread and groans, "Please."

Dean grins wide and slams back in, fucking Sam with relentlessly hard thrusts.

They're both so close, and Sam can see his sigil on Dean above him. He wants to lick it, suck it, dig his fingers in and watch it bleed. Mineminemine is all he can hear, pounding in his head. Sam can see Dean's face contorting, can feel him fucking deeper and deeper and Sam knows Dean's going to come, and Sam's almost there too...

Until Ruby walks in. "Okay, that's it. No fucking in my hospital. Time's up."

Sam slams his head back on the mattress.

"Ruby? You are one hell of a buzzkill," Dean grunts, covering himself as best he can with the bed sheet, but it doesn't stop Ruby from looking, smirk on her face. She seems impressed, and Sam feels jealousy biting at him. He wants to throw her halfway across the room.

"What can I say? It's a gift." She tosses Sam's clothes at him. "Come on, Romeo. You can have your little caveman jealousy issues somewhere else. Gotta go."

Sam pulls his boxers back up, and his t-shirt back on.

"Remember what I said, Sam." Dean's lying back now, hands under his head. "You can fix this."

Sam nods and turns away, not wanting to watch him fade yet again.

Part Three