Fic: Signed Over

[sadelyrate]

Title: Signed Over
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Sam, Dean. Followers. Random canon characters.
Warnings: References up to and including 3x07, shades of sex smut
Disclaimer: None you know are belong to us.
Summary: Sequel to Sign Here by demand. And a fickle Muse.
A/N: Beta'd by dreamlittleyo. Written for the hungry mob gracious people who wanted to know what happened after. And, as ever, longed for the wincest that seems to be more or less par for the course for the Demon Jesus. :)


The world shifts between blinks, details replicated and replaced by dreams, the motel room fluttering away from him in the happy buzz of Magic Fingers.
Sam's not here, but maybe it's easier this way. He hasn't counted the days, why bother when they're written all over his brother's face? Sam hasn't found a way out, that much is plain as day. Whatever that Ruby-chick told him hasn't worked, because Dean can't believe Sam could hold that secret.
A brief worry: What if he does something stupid?
It's kiss and goodbye, the thought stolen by sleep, feelings left behind as dreamscape dawns around him.
It feels like home, everything in its place, somewhere he could walk in blind and never stumble.
Her lips promise sugar and sulphur, malice and mirth, dark eyes burning, ready to gobble him up and spit out the bones. This is how it's supposed to be and yeah, he's leaving his brother behind, but if it means Sam getting to live? He can't feel bad about that. Hell's always been his final address, anyway. The least he could do was to make sure the ticket was well-deserved. And it'll all be over. No more running away from people too blind to chase the shadows instead of them. No more yellow-eyed devil. No more spinning lies.
She looks up at him, on her tiptoes, smiling.

Ready, willing and able/To lose it all/For a kiss so fatal/And so warm *

Her breath is soft against his skin, hotter than the Hell around them, for that vanishing moment before her lips seal over his. But there's a screech instead, spattering of blood and the bitch is gone. The power palpable as Sam steps in the space where she stood, cups Dean's head and bends him backwards, hard lips over his claiming, taking. He smells of shadows and flames and blood, and Dean can't do anything but go with it, let himself be devoured, his lungs burning for everything his brother is. Fingers slip under his skin, and he can't breathe, can't get enough of the ashen air inside himself anymore.
He chokes himself back into his body, the phantom memory of lean muscles against him vivid and bright.
Night has fallen, left the room in darkness and dread.
There are steps outside the door, the rattle of keys while Dean tries to get his bearings.
Sam steps in with the shadows, a silhouette against the lights outside.
The change hits Dean squarely in the chest; he can feel it in his bones, hear it in the silence unbroken by barks and bellows, scratching and snarling. The fear and the love, the hope he's refused and the death he's now been denied make him surge up, slam Sam against the door with more force than he's ever dared before.

"What did you do?"

Sam's eyes betray everything and nothing, his lips silent.

It's over, I did it, it's been undone.

The blows begin before Dean even realizes he's curled his fingers, Sam's gasp surprised, and then they're wrestling, Sam's arms around him, trapping him, bringing both of them down to the hard floor. Dean's blood pounds in his ears, yells tearing his throat, and Sam catches his wrists, pins him. He bucks, tries to wriggle free, the world despair-dark around him.
Sam kisses him, then. Dry lips press gently against his own, parted in the middle of a curse, the last syllables crushed between them, his body shock-still.
Just as quickly, Sam breaks away, rests his forehead against Dean's, eyes closed.

"Just...we'll talk tomorrow, 'kay?"

Dean swallows, nods, Sam's breath warm against his skin. He can't suppress the shiver the sensation evokes, but Sam doesn't seem to notice as he rises off Dean, shrugs out of his jacket as he stumbles to a bed, kicking off his shoes before falling on it.
There are weary lines around Sam's closed eyes, his body curled on the covers.
He hasn't taken The Colt with him on his walks in a while, far as Dean's been able to tell. Doesn't mean anything, and the shadows have stayed longer and longer in the depths of Sam's eyes as the year's gone past.
The night is dark and long and twisted, and Dean keeps his eyes open, staring at the wall. Listening to his brother sleep, the soft sounds of breaths.
He's not sure he ever really woke up, after, because the world turns surreal; things between him and Sam, things about them, about everything else seems to go a little askew. The axis tilts fraction of a degree, the centre of gravity shifts.
He catches himself thinking he belongs to Sam, that Sam owns him. That there's something utterly awesome about his freaky geek brother that he's failed to see before, and can't even name now. That it's perfectly normal to let the touches linger, climb into the bed next to Sam whenever Sam doesn't kick him out.
It's weird and strange, as much a given as breathing, but something he knows for a fact he wasn't born with.
It's downright wrong, the way he feels really alive, awake, only in Sam's presence. He knows the word for these thoughts, and it's ugly, even if Sam isn't.
And Sam kept his promise, and they talked the next day. Sort of.

"I talked you out of it."
"How?"
"Just told him he couldn't have you."
"And that's all?"
"...Yeah."

The kiss goes unmentioned, and Sam's glare is enough to drive him to the floor, the foot of the bed that first time he slips in to try and share the covers with Sam.
And then, of course, there are the people. And the damn mark.
It takes him longer than he's comfortable with, later, to notice the people following them. A small group, huddling together whenever he glances their way, their eyes on Sam and him whenever he pretends not to know they're there.

"Ignore them."

Sam's voice is quiet, pleading despite its power. And the people don't look like feds, don't act like demons hell-bent on slaughtering them or the civilians. Or like hunters, some pals of Gordon or (God) Wandell.
Nevertheless, they follow Sam and Dean's every move, match them step for step. Attempt not to draw attention to themselves and fail.

"They've been after us the whole day, Sam!"

But Sam remains adamant, his hand hard around Dean's arm, eyes wary with warning.
There's something that's not right, not like before, and Dean's arguments die on his tongue, a voice inside him meekly suggesting kissing up to Sam (heel) and being a good boy.
He snaps instead, says something that has nothing to do with the damn stalkers. It's freaky how he's himself, and yet so very not.
It's like there's some twisted, alternate version of him inside. Some entity that wants nothing more than to please Sam, be in the spotlight of his attention constantly, completely. Touch him and feel him and taste him...
No, he's not particularly happy these days.
Sure, Sam's alive, he's alive, the Impala purrs around them like an overgrown kitten.
He's got no reason to complain. Not really.
Within short weeks, though, he finds himself having a long, uncomfortable chat with his downstairs brain for refusing to acknowledge the wet dream of a woman giving him all the right signals and then some. That discussion gets sterner when that same rebellious portion of his anatomy finds the sight of Sam in a ratty t-shirt and old sweatpants reason enough to steal all the blood from his other extremities.
Thank god Sam's too oblivious to see his problem.
There's definitely something wrong, but Bobby knows nothing. Bela seems to go *poof* overnight. One morning they find an envelope outside their motel room door, containing the badge and the letter of resignation of a certain Victor Henricksen. Later they learn that someone broke into the FBI and ("But this is completely off the record, okay?") that a number of files went missing, just before Henricksen's replacement could really dig into them.
The demons they catch stare mutely at them for a heartbeat and leave faster than ever before. And the hunters they meet... Dean would love to call it bad luck, but it's just not right that everyone who as much as hints at sharing Gordon's views, or any other Winchester-specific suspicions for that matter, ends up missing or dead within a week.
He's not sure what he should call it when he manages to wake Sam up by mouthing at his cock. But it was there, so close, and he thinks he doesn't have a reason to be half-bad at this, and it's not healthy to, you know, not get the pipes cleaned once in a while. And Sam is sure as heck still keeping it in his pants. Or just hiding the evidence way too well.
They don't mention it the next day. Or the burning bruise on Dean's cheek. And he definitely doesn't lick his lips, long to taste more than just Sam's flesh.
They do, however, go to a bar, Sam practically dragging Dean inside. The bartender gives them a bottle of tequila after one look, and later brings them a few other chosen beverages, without any money exchanging hands far as Dean can tell. It feels like it should raise the hair at the back of his neck, but maybe he's just getting used to things being constantly skewed, one way or the other.
They don't talk, not exactly, the firewater strong on their tongues, slow in their veins.

"Drink up."

No, they don't talk. Sam tells him to drink, so he does. And so does Sam. Again and again and again, and then one more time. And there might be some girls his upstairs brain tries to tell him are exactly what he hasn't had in a while, and wouldn't that be a great idea?
That might be Sam, too, telling him to go hook up.
In any case, he does. And he scores, despite the black eye. Even the little fella seems to be back on the track, because he's standing like a soldier when they finally make it outside, the girl pulling him against her, the bricks rough behind her. Her mouth is hot and sweet, bitter with smoke and spirits, her hair smelling of fake flowers, her flesh soft and willing and wet under his fingers, her miniskirt and itsy-bitsy panties barely any barrier at all.
He's drunk, certainly, but not enough to forget the rules. Or to fail in pulling the flimsy latex over his dick, the girl's small hands eagerly guiding him.
It's pure relief to sink in deep, her (too high) gasps sweet in his ears, his blood desperate to find the right rhythm as her pulse pummels his flesh with its pleas, her nails digging into his shoulders and back, frantic.
The release lurks just beyond his reach, somewhere in the depths of the body that's just not enough to bring him off, the friction wrong in a way he knows it has no right to be. He pounds in, feeling the pleasure pace all over him, tease him more and more, merciless and missing that final piece.

"Come."

The low purr of the word slides right into his groin, and it's the right sound, the low familiarity pulling out all his stops, the girl shuddering around him as he topples over the edge.
He slips out of her as strong hands spin him, hard mouth on his, liquor adding spice to the shadows and the flames, the comfort of old blood, cheap motel soap underneath it all. His hands fumble, fingers curl in fabric, mouth free for the other's tongue to plunder, teeth catching his lips. His legs still liquid from his release, his new partner stealing all memory of the girl with that single, burning kiss.
His own hands wander, grasp convulsively, try to find purchase, seek skin, learn anew all the lines of an already familiar body. A growl gets crushed between their lips, Dean held firm body between the wall and the other, the long, hard line of a cock between their bodies.
They're standing belly to belly, flush against each other, devouring, hands mapping out every inch they can reach, curling in hair, that hot, hungry mouth preying on his pulse. He opens his legs, rubbing himself hard anew against the firm body, his eyes closing as soft sounds thrum against his throat. Impatient hands tug him down, and he falls easily to his knees, his hands finding the belt, button, zipper, cotton over cock, like all this is second nature, and he can't have enough of this, the taste on his tongue, the weight and width filling his mouth, his teeth scraping the skin.
Whatever part of him that might have found any of this, of his brother fucking him, distasteful has drowned under booze, desire and duty.
He laves the length with tiny licks, sucks in as much as he can, curls his fingers around the rest, his other hand spreading across the jut of hipbone.
There's a grunt somewhere above him, a half-whimpered moan, one hand a sweet weight on his head, as the hips begin to thrust. He tries to do this well, take it all in, encouraged by the sounds falling from his brother's lips. The cockhead brushes the back of his throat, Dean's gag reflex still in shape, and the hand pulls his head away, his own hands on Sam's hips, the denim over his buttocks, trying to do the right thing, make it good like his life depends on it.
The hips under his hands twitch, and he works Sam's entire length down his throat. The moan it earns him is nothing but encouragement, his lips sliding over the veins, the supple, strong flesh, his tongue tracing symbols with spit on the strained skin, flicking over the head. Fingers tighten in his hair and Sam's hips snap forward, drive his dick as deep as Dean can take it; in, out, fucking his mouth with abandon. His hands hold feebly onto the fabric of Sam's t-shirt, saliva and semen mixing, spilling down his chin, and he's never felt more alive.
He swallows, Sam's cock jerking between his lips, hips stuttering. Carefully he licks it clean, tender with his tongue, feeling the hardness mellow, the rough, calloused fingers brushing his cheek like a benediction. They curl in his jacket, tug him upright.
He kisses the sweaty side of neck, feeling the breaths, the pulse there.
Sam raises his head, stares at him with dark eyes. Leans in, lips gentle against his own. Dean lets his mouth fall open, up for anything, the tongue taking its time to meet his, chase the taste of them both.
It feels like something's changed again, Dean thinks, Sam's arms strong on either side of him, the tiles rough, the air cool against his exposed flesh, tingling in the sin-small spaces between them. They're alone in the dark alley, and some part of him is bemoaning the fact he only sucked Sam off, didn't do anything more.
The kiss breaks as easily as it began, Sam's mouth a breath from his.
There are no words he dares to utter, none Sam voices.
For a moment, they just stand there, propped up against the wall, hands and foreheads at rest, drunk with alcohol and adrenaline. The alley is far from silent, the nightlife of a city ignoring them in the darkness, but it feels like miles from human life; in the middle of a desert, underneath the mountains, on the goddamn Moon... just the two of them.
Dean can't explain it. Not then, not after, when they've tucked each other away, returned to the motel. He tries to put it into words, what happened, why, how, only to find that he lacks the terms, even after the intoxication evaporates.
But Sam doesn't kick his ass for slipping next to him to sleep anymore, and laying kisses on his brother's skin feels strangely right, the sounds Sam makes a blessing all their own.

* lyrics from H.I.M., Heartache Every Moment
Next Chapter: Signing up
Now, I'm off to bed before I fall asleep on the computer. Tomorrow. Tomorrow there's nothing heavy and physical to do. Tomorrow I'm going to sleep, damn it. *snuggles next to dear hubby*