Gonna Know Where You've Been

[purple_carpets]

Title: Gonna Know Where You've Been
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3600
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: It's just your run-of-the-mill fuck-or-die curse. It shouldn't be a problem for two brother's who've been fucking each other for years. Except for the part where Dean hasn't had sex since he came back from hell and keeps flashing back every time Sam touches him.

purple_carpets doesn't write wincest, you ask? purple_carpets can't write sex scenes to save her life, you ask? Well, I agree. This is all princess_aleera's fault and at least I can use this as my fill for 'PTSD' on my hc_bingo card. I hope you don't find this as atrocious as I think it is. Now go, write me my daddy issues fic, bitch! :P


"She fucking what?" Air rushes out of Dean's lungs, speeding past the angry growl, making himself gag and cough in surprise. "She - fuck!"

He shoves his fists deep inside his jeans pockets to keep from punching a hole into the ocher-mustard-yellow-barf color of the wall.

Sam shrugs. He has that expression on his face that means Dean is making a big fuss over nothing. "She said we either fuck or we're dead by sunrise," he repeats, slowly, like he knows Dean has trouble hearing him over his own heartbeat. Sam rubs his hands on the sides of his pants, the smile slowly spreading all over his face. "Guess she thought she was putting us between a rock and a hard place, huh?"

Dean stares, dumbfounded. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, sending wave after wave of angry buzzing through his ears. "What, and you think she didn't?"

Sam's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. He chuckles, like he's almost sure Dean is joking. "Well, no. C'mon man, it's not exactly Sophie's Choice."

Dean tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. Sam is right. He's right. This shouldn't be a big deal.

Except for the part where it is a big deal and if Dean thinks about this anymore he's gonna throw up.

Dean hasn't had a lot of sex ever since - ever since he came back. He tried in the beginning, but it never ended in anything short of a disaster and the idea of being with Sam again makes acid bile rise up in his throat. He shakes his head, turns away when his chin starts doing the embarrassing wobbly thing.

"'mgonnakillthatbitch," he hisses, sharp and low and this time he does drive his already bruised knuckles into the wall. "I'm gonna kill her."

Sam is by his side in a second, one hand hovering just above Dean's arm, careful not to actually touch. Sam's been awesome that way, not nearly as touchy-feely as he used to be. Dean thinks he should probably thank him for that one of these days.

He lets out a shuddering breath, wills his heart to slow down to a more manageable pace, while Sam's smile turns into a bitter frown, like bad lemonade.

"You're acting like we've never done it before." Sam tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Dean knows it's there. Has been there for months now, ever since Sam crawled into Dean's bed one night and Dean shrieked like a goddamn girl and punched him in the jaw.

They don't talk about it, but Dean knows it's bubbling under the surface, every time their hands brush against each other by accident, every time they book two queens.

"What, so you'd rather die than sleep with me one more time?"

Oh God, Dean's gonna be sick.

He screws his eyes shut, shakes his head slightly left to right, sucks his lips in between his teeth. "I can't," he forces out. The words come out breathless and choked and somewhere in the distance the hellhounds start howling again.

Sam sighs. He takes a step back, two steps, three, four, until he sinks down on his bed that's still unmade from yesterday when they last crashed here. He looks up at Dean from under his too-long bangs and Dean watches his eyes slowly fill with tears. His voice comes out pleading and cracking all over the place when he whispers, "I don't want you to die again."

Hellhounds. Howling, tearing, scratching. Alastair. Razors, blood, and so much screaming.

Dean tears himself away from the red that's seeping into his vision and turns around on his heels before he can think too much about what he's doing.

"I don't want you to die either." His voice sounds thin and out of breath, echoing around in his own ears. His fingers fumble with the buckle of his belt, sweaty and trembling and he closes his eyes when the room starts to blur around him. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay, let's just...yeah, okay."

"Dean."

"No Sam it's no big deal you're right I'm just..."

"Dean."

Sam's voice is sharp and deep and Dean's eyes snap open, numb fingers frozen around the uncooperative buttons on his jeans.

"We can wait. We have all night for this. Let's just...wait, okay? Let you get used to the idea."

Dean lets out another shuddering breath that sort of ends in a strangled chuckle. "I'm not some virgin prom date, dude."

"Well," Sam shrugs. "No, but you know...you are. Kinda."

Dean glares, but he can't quite find the words to deny it either. His ears are growing hot with embarrassment. His pants are still hanging half open around his hips, he realizes and can't stop the strange hollow laugh that makes his lips twitch into a pained smile.

Sam fumbles with a hole in his sleeve for a second before he suddenly shoots to his feet. "I'm just gonna go out for a bit," he explains in one quick rush, pointing both index fingers at the motel room door, like he doesn't quite expect Dean to understand the concept of out. "Get everything we need. You uh...you stay here and...think about how much you used to enjoy...try not to freak too much, okay?"

Dean sits down on his own bed. His thumbs are beating a nervous rhythm on the smooth bedspread.

He knows he's staring at the door, tries too ignore the rivers of blood, beating against it from the other side.

"'makillher," he whispers into the empty room. "If she wasn't already dead I'd rip out her fuckin' throat."

Dean winces when he remembers Sam's eager smile, just before Dean's little freak-out wiped it clean off his face. He figures he would have worn the same look if they'd gotten themselves cursed forty years - half a year ago. Four months, he reminds himself. You're thirty years old, not seventy. Four months. Dad spent three times that in the Mekong Delta. Sam was in Stanford ten times as long as you were in the pit.

He takes another deep breath, presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids until the red turns to black and he can almost pretend he isn't feeling Alastair all over his skin.

Maybe he could just suck Sam off. Maybe that'd be enough. Dean thinks he could probably get through that, even if Castiel restored his gag reflex and it'll be fumbling and awkward and not really good.

The buzzing in his ears is getting louder, screaming, screeching, barking and Dean moves his hands to cover his ears, but it does no good. Millions of voices, screaming inside his head, begging, pleading until a warm, solid hand settles on his thigh.

Dean doesn't have the energy to flinch away. Sometimes he can't help flinching. He gave up on fighting decades ago. It doesn't hurt quite so bad when he just lets them take what they will.

A soft, high-pitched noise fills the room and it takes forever before Dean realizes he's keening, way back in his throat. He shuts it down, sinks his teeth deep into his lower lip until he trusts himself to open his eyes.

Sam is kneeling in front of him, staring up into Dean's eyes with his face pulled into a worried grimace.

"You okay?" he asks and Dean nods mutely, which is okay since they both know he's lying. "We can talk about this, you know?"

Dean quickly shakes his head. "What'd I wanna talk about?" he croaks, his throat closing up around the words until they come out choked and broken.

"Well...this. This is about something they did to you in hell."

It's not phrased as a question and Dean doesn't see the point in trying to deny it.

"Rape's hardly the worst thing they did to me."

Sam stares at him, his lips pulled into an open-mouthed frown. It takes Dean a couple of seconds to realize what he just said and he scoots back on the bed before Sam can start asking questions.

"Okay, let's do this." He yanks his shirts over his head in one quick motion, curses low under his breath when the three layers tangle around his arms.

"You can...why don't you just keep the shirt on?" Sam stutters, still on his knees by the foot of the bed.

Dean glares. He feels ridiculous enough getting all worked up over sex of all things, he doesn't need the extra embarrassment of running around with his ass hanging out of his shirt.

Sam nods in that way Dean has become too familiar with over the last couple of months. It means that he has no fucking clue what Dean's deal is now and he's really goddamn tired of this crap, but he's gonna nod and pretend he gets it, just to avoid another discussion.

Sam gets up and Dean thinks he does a pretty good job of not gasping like an idiot. Sam's always been tall, but ever since Dean went and died, the kid's put on about twenty pounds of muscle and it changes everything about the way he looks. His little brother is massive and Dean kinda wishes his cock wasn't proportionate and fuck if that's a sentence he thought he'd ever think.

Sam strips off his own shirts, still drenched with dirty sewer water from their hunt, the fabric stiff with dried-up blood. There's a buldge in his pants already, which, yeah, it's totally like Sam to get turned on by Dean being scared and small and trembling. Little freak's probably been harboring rape fantasies ever since he got old enough to jack off under the shower.

Dean looks down at his own crotch while he's sliding out of his jeans, taking his boxers down right along with them. He's just hanging there, limp and unresponsive. He slides his eyes up and down Sam's toned body. There used to be a time when a small glance at the tight muscles just above the rim of his pants was enough to set him off, have his dick twitching and straining against the confining denim. Dean thinks about giving it a few encouraging jerks, but then he remembers that the only time it was worse was when he did enjoy it. When he started panting and pumping and begging for more.

"Okay." Sam sounds out of breath, his eyes shining like he's trying really hard to not let on how much he's been wanting this, which really he shouldn't feel bad about, considering how normal people tend to like sex and Dean has a damn fine ass and all that.

"Rock'n'roll," Dean growls. He forces his lips to curl into a crooked smile. It hurts his jaw to keep it in place, so he tries looking at the ceiling instead. "Just be careful with my poor ass, okay? Re-hymenated and all that."

Sam doesn't laugh.

He holds up the plastic bag he bought - right, Sam went out - everything we need.

"We don't use condoms," Dean informs him with a frown when a pack of Trojans lands on the bed.

"Well, we should." Sam doesn't meet Dean's eyes. His fingers fly for the pack, fumble for a minute before he manages to get it open. "I mean, what if..? One of us might have an infection."

"Huh? How? Dude, I've been through the Gold Membership Angel Car Wash experience and, well, you haven't had sex since college."

Sam doesn't laugh this time either.

"I...I dunno, it just seems safer. I mean, your immune system's all blown to hell. I might have something in my bl...in me that you're allergic to or whatever...and I have had sex since college," he adds with a fucking frown, like a damn child.

Dean wants to argue that he's not some delicate flower, that he isn't liable to getting crushed every time he touches something he built up a resistance against decades ago, but Sam is already slipping the thing on and besides, the Slightly-Too-Old-Chicken-McNuggets-Incident from two weeks ago kinda blows a huge gaping hole into his argument.

"You should, uh..." Sam is making little motions with his hands, waves the tube of lubricant in front of Dean's face and part of Dean wishes this weren't so awkward. He decides he can't do this looking at Sam, so he works to get his hands and knees under himself, shuffles around until he's facing the headboard. "It's gonna be good, I promise," Sam says and Dean lets a desperate smile twitch across his face because Sam can't see.

A hand settles lightly on the small of his back, warm against the thin sheen of cold sweat that's broken out all over his body. The pounding in his ears is getting louder again and Dean wishes Sam would just get on with it.

He wonders what it will be like. Alastair is different every time. Forty years and not a single time Dean was prepared for what they had in store for him.

He is talking this time. Whispering endless streams of vain promises and threats and Dean starts shaking his head, like saying no means something in hell. Like saying yes ever changed anything.

Something cold and slick presses against him and Dean's entire body jerks forward. He expects the tearing agony of hooks ripping deeper into his flesh, but lands on soft blankets instead. He smells cheap detergent and sweat and Sam's aftershave.

"Nononopleasedon't."

Someone grabs his shoulder and turns him around until he is staring into Sam's wide, helpless eyes. "'s okay," Sam whispers and Dean tonelessly echos the words. 's okay okay everything's gonna be fine it's okay it's okay it's okay .

"We could...you know, you could be..." Sam's hands are moving again, making an unsure switching motion, one hand moving over the other. "If that's easier for you."

Dean starts shaking his head left to right, so fast his neck starts to hurt. He doesn't want to do that to Sam. Ever. Their eyes are still burned into his mind, huge and begging and screaming for help, even after he bit off their tongues. There's no way he's getting back in the driver's seat any time soon.

"It's okay," he forces out. "I'm gonna be fine this time. Just surprised me 's all."

He turns around again, shoves his face into Sam's pillow, maybe hoping the smell would help him settle, but really, it doesn't do anything at all.

Sam's hand starts pressing down on the small of his back again, rubbing soothing circles until Dean's lungs remember how to draw in air.

Rubbing soothing circles. Christ, how unsexy can this even get?

"Dean?"

Sam's voice is soft, a deep gentle rumble that almost covers the screaming in Dean's ears. Sam repeats his name and Dean figures he's supposed to give some sign that he's not lost inside another flashback again.

"Huh?"

"I'm...I'm just gonna...uh...start now. Okay?"

"Mhm."

And to think Sam used to be good at dirty talk. This is so bad. This is so sad. Dean wants to fucking laugh at them.

"This might hurt a little, so you need to tell me when I'm going to fast, alright? Dean?"

"Yeah...yeah, I got it, just get on with it."

Dean isn't sure how much of that Sam catches and how much gets muffled in his pillow, but the hand on his back squeezes and the mattress shifts when Sam gets back into position behind him.

"Okay, just one finger for now."

Dean thinks about Stairway to Heaven (Ha! Heaven! Great fucking choice, Winchester), tries to get his heart to slow down to the rhythm of the song.

"Dean, you need to relax, man. I don't wanna hurt you."

Dean nods into the pillow. He grabs two fist-fulls of the starched sheets, holds on for dear life and wonders why he can't seem to get past the first verse, mind going around the lyrics in circles.

The pressure increases, even though Dean doesn't think he's managed to relax at all. At least it's warm, now that the lube's been on there for a while and suddenly the pressure changes.

Dean thinks he makes a noise then. Small and pathetic and he blinks rapidly against the sting behind his eyes.

"Good," Sam whispers somewhere close to Dean's ear. His body is pressed up against Dean's back and a violent shudder runs down Dean's spine. "You're doing real good. You still with me?"

Dean nods again. He feels himself cramping around Sam's finger, bright stabs of panic start flashing before his eyes when the finger starts to move.

"Whatreya..?"

The words come out in one big, breathless gasp when the finger brushes against something. For a second the panic is drowned out by surprised pleasure, but then Dean's cock give a decidedly interested twitch and he sees them. Begging, pleading, screaming for him to stop, only driving him to push deeper inside them, cryinglaughingscreaming with that mad rush of exhilaration.

"See?" Sam's voice cuts through the endless song of pain. "This doesn't have to be bad."

Dean gasps again, gagging this time with the effort to control his breathing. "No. No, don't do that again."

"Don't...what? Why?"

Sam's finger moves again and Dean growls.

Sam stops.

"Okay," he sounds confused, but not like he wants to start a debate, so that's good. "Uh...second finger."

It's all the warning Dean gets. It's not as bad as he expected, so he nods his head for Sam to go ahead and get to number three and four.

Sam still takes a ridiculously long time. His dick brushes against Dean's thigh and Dean startles at the weak, mewling whimper that escapes his own throat.

Sam's free hand is still resting on Dean's back, petting, stroking, solid and warm and Dean tries not to lean into it. Sam flexes the fingers inside Dean's ass, careful not to hit his prostate this time.

"I think that's as far open as I'm gonna get you," he says, pulls them out slowly, leaving behind as much lube as possible. "Okay, I'm just gonna...uh..."

"Just do it," Dean growls, his voice hiccuping over the words like he's a crying little kid.

"You sure?" Sam asks. "Because it's okay, we still have a couple of hours. We can, uh...we can keep prepping for a while."

Dean isn't sure. He's so fucking far from sure, sure is probably hanging out with the penguins by now.

"It's not gonna get any easier, Sam."

Dean is getting light-headed with his heart thumping away in his throat and his lungs working overtime without ever drawing in any oxygen. Probably something to do with his ass being higher than his head, he rationalizes. How's a guy supposed to think like that?

"Alright. Brace yourself, it's uh...I'm gonna be as careful as possible."

And then there is new pressure. Hot and throbbing and all he can think about is how he knows what it feels like being torn apart from the inside out, knows the feeling of teeth kissing away his skin, blood and boiling hot oil leaking out of every left-over opening.

"Get off me!"

It takes him a minute to realize he's curled up by the headboard, shivering and keening, with tears flowing down across his mouth, seeping into the sheets.

"'msorry," he whispers, when his vision zeroes in on Sam, kneeling just out of arm's reach, his erection all but gone now. "Sorry for screwing it up."

Sam's eyes shoot up at Dean's words, big and scared under the bangs hanging into his face. "It's okay," he says quietly. "You're okay. You're safe."

Dean tugs his chin to his chest, blushes furiously when the tears won't stop. He tries to get back up onto his knees, but his legs won't cooperate and he ends up in a twitching, trembling mess, curled around Sam's pillow.

This is never going to work. Sam should just tie him to the bed and go to work on him. It'd make this a whole damn lot easier.

Sam's face pulls into a dismayed frown and Dean thinks he may have said some part of that out loud.

"Hey," Sam says and he sounds like he's close to tears, voice rising high when his throat cuts him off halfway through. "We're gonna get through this, okay?" He laughs slightly and for a second his eyes flash black and his mouth opens into an endless tunnel of sharp teeth. "We can do this."

Bet I can make my little baby girl scream for me.

Time does a funny little hiccup then. Dean blinks and suddenly he's back on all fores.

Sam's hands are stroking along his sides, burning, flaming hot, raising blisters all over his skin. Each finger leaves behind a perfect circle of pain, just like Alastair likes.

Dean's mind is circling around the blisters; counting them, making sure he can give the right number if Alastair asks him about them later, yesterday, ten years from now.

"Ready?"

Sam.

Dean nods, gathers up the covers in his sweaty fists.

And then Sam is inside him and it hurts. Bright hot and tearing and Dean's entire body tenses in shock.

He shoves his face into the crook of his elbow, bites down on the soft flesh until he tastes salt and iron and it's enough to push back the screaminghowlingpleaseyes, for Sam's voice to cut through the haze.

It's close enough to his ear that he can feel the soft puffs of hot breath against his cheek, it'sokaysogoodjustmejustSam and Dean breathes out answers like lines for a play he's been rehearsing for decades. Yes and more and fuck and God, Sammy and then the hiccup thing happens again.

Dean's dimly aware that his lips are moving, forming words that never make it out of his throat.

He's curled up again, knees drawn up to his chest, cooling sweat sticking to his goosebumped flesh.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice is loud and rough in Dean's ear and suddenly he realizes there are arms wrapped around his back, pressing his face into a huge, solid chest until he almost can't breathe anymore.

"'sitover?" he tries to ask, the words tiny and shivering, betraying the tears that are running down his cheeks.

Sam's arms move up his back, gentle hands stroking his hair. "It was...it was good, right?" Dean can feel the way Sam's heart is beating a terrified dance against both their chests. "I mean, not good, obviously, but It wasn't like... I mean I didn't..? It wasn't like that, right?"

Dean's breath hurts his chest, shuddering, heaving, not thinking about the times when Alastair looked like Sammy and it was exactly like that.

"No," he forces out, feeling Sam relax against him again. "No, it wasn't. I...yeah, it was great, Sammy."

Sam presses his lips to the top of Dean's head and Dean thinks he can feel him smile.