Time to get his fingers in
Title: Time to get his fingers in
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest
Wordcount: about 4000
Summary: An unexpected tattoo changes things between Sam and Dean just a little. Spoilers up to 8.10
A/N: Sorry, this isn't the next update of the Season 8 Episode Fics. This is something that just got to me, and I had to write it down. I have trouble writing from Dean's perspective, so sorry if this is a little odd. Hey, we can't all be perfect. Side note: the title is taken from John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath
"But let a man get property he doesn't see, or can't take time to get his fingers in, or can't be there to walk on it - why, then the property is the man. He can't do what he wants, he can't think what he wants. The property is the man, stronger than he is. And he is small, not big. Only his possessions are big - and he's the servant of his property. That is so, too.” - John Steinbeck
They've run out of beers by the time Dean stands up, shrugging his shoulders back and shaking his head against the faint haze left in it from their binge. He's been trying to push away the feelings, push it all back into the box in the bottom of his mind, but he can't. Sam's only here on a thread, a heartbeat away from leaving again, and Dean doesn't know what to do. He's given up Benny, given up the only person he's been able to rely on since Cas betrayed him, and Sam... well it was Sam. And now he doesn't know if Sam will stay, if his trick with Amelia was too much, if it was the end.
Sam's here now, though. He's still sitting on the sagging couch, slumped into the center, side of one arm pressed into the warm spot Dean left when he got up. He seems a little drained, a little too much like how Dean feels, and no matter what, Dean can hardly stand his little brother looking like that. So he turns his face away, heading to the broken down bathroom, calling out about getting the first shower.
The water is icy cold when he first turns it on, and Dean's reminded that Sam won't be happy if he doesn't leave any hot water. He isn't sure when the last time that Sam showered was, madcap chase off to find Amelia and subsequent race to save Samandriel leaving little things like showers fading away in the background.
As he steps into the shower, he thinks that its one of the things he's always loved best about Sam. It doesn't matter how much his brother is above all the dirt and grime most of the time. It doesn't matter that things like showers are part of the normal that Sam has always dreamed about. No, when push comes to shove, Sam cares too much to let things like that get in his way. He just cares so much. And sometimes, (only sometimes, Dean tells himself) he wishes that Sam would do that for him. Wishes that he was Sam's, something to hang onto, to hold.
And maybe he was, once. He remembers the look in Sam's eyes when they talked about the months Dean was in Hell, the months Sam tried to get him back. But even then, he had to share Sam. Ruby had gotten her claws in, and Sam's want was tangled up in them.
Dean knows that it can't be right, wanting so much. He shuts off the shower, grimacing as the cold air hits his skin. He towels off quickly, trying to brush his thoughts away with the water that wicks away from his skin.
He can't.
So he pulls on his sweats, softer than he usually wears to sleep, but they were Sam's, something he bought while Dean was gone and gave to his brother when Dean had started to get too cold at night. (Purgatory was hot, sweltering in a haze of dust and grime, real and painted on his body in a way that Hell had never been. Hell had carved his soul, left its stamp inside his mind. Purgatory had turned his body against him.) And so Dean had started to get cold, wanting the glare of the white-grey sun through his bones too badly, sobbing inside at the fact that he wanted it, needing to let it leave him.
So he pulls on the sweats. Sam's still slumped on the couch when he makes his way back into the living room.
“Shower's free.” He tries not to growl, but all the things he is trying not to feel seem to have congregated in his throat, and roughen his voice. Sam only grunts in response, heaving himself up and shuffling towards the bathroom. Dean makes his way over to the two mattresses shoved into the third room, both a little too short for them. As he slides down the wall to sprawl on top of the blankets, he tries to blank his mind.
He can't. There's too much there, too much of Sam that he needs, and too much of all the people who he's needed. Dad, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, even Ash, and now Benny and Cas. They're all dead, or not here, or not Dean's. And maybe none of them ever have been, or he was never theirs, not in the way that Sam is his. He can't remember a time when Sam wasn't the first thing he thought about when he woke up, and one of the lat things he thought about when he falls asleep.
Even with the others, the ones who he's thought were his, its never been like it is with Sam. With Cas, he's always known that he's competing with all of heaven. And now Cas is gone, can't be Dean's any more, running off to heaven without even an explanation.
And well, it was Benny or Sam. There was no way that he could have both. He sees this now. Maybe he tried to make Benny his because he didn't have Sam, couldn't have Sam. But now its like part of his heart is getting twisted out of its proper place when he tries to care about Benny enough. It all snapped back into place when he saw Sam again, snapped back into who he was supposed to be. And he's been hanging onto Benny because Benny was there for him in Purgatory. He can't do it any more.
On the other hand, at least Benny maybe thought Dean was his. Back there, in the darkness, he hadn't thought about Sam when waking up, couldn't and survive. He'd thought about Sam the rest of the time, thought about getting back to him. But he'd thought about Benny waking up, and he knew Benny had thought about him.
It had been beautiful. Someone had cared for him, had shown it in a way Dean could understand, in a way that he wanted for the first time in as long as he could remember. It had never been that way with his dad, not enough desperation, and not enough ownership. His dad had always had his mom first, and Dean had never wanted that to be different. But with Sam, oh God, he wanted.
It didn't seem like he was going to get it thought. Sam had gone running off to Amelia. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean had wanted to believe that it wouldn't work, that Sam would not put something else first. And Dean knew who screwed up that was, how absurd and just plain messed up he had become. He knew. He couldn't help it though The only thing that had kept him going back there had been Sam. He couldn't just turn off the need, the pull, that he felt. And he couldn't push past the wish that Sam felt it too.
The shower shuts off, pulling him blessedly out of his musing, off the path that he had been trying to avoid this entire time. He shoves himself a little higher on the mattress, pulls his journal to him and tries to look like he's working. Tries becomes a loose term though, Sam stepping into the room and tearing Dean's eyes away from the book. Sam's forgotten to bring clothes with him into the shower, the first time since Dean's been back that he's walked around so open. He's got a thin towel wrapped low on his hips, almost nothing. He walks across the room, only glancing at Dean before he's rooting around in his bag.
And Dean can't look away. There are miles of beautiful brown skin, all stretched out before him, all his. Maybe he's not the only one who has part of those mile, but Sam is his to worry over and to dream over. Right now, Dean can only track up the side of one long leg, eyes trying not to press to hard at the towel, worried that Sam will turn around before Dean looks his fill.
Finally he reaches the top of the towel, gaze dipping into the two dimples at the base of Sam's spine. He walks himself up the ladder of Sam's vertebrae, smiling at each one. He gets to the edge of Sam's wing bone, laves it with his glance. That's when he notices it. There's a black mark splatted across Sam's right shoulder blade, letters plastered to his flesh. At first, all Dean can feel is a white hot flash of anger. What was so important that Sam felt he had to scribble it on himself for the world to read? And more importantly, what didn't Sam want to tell him about? Was it Amelia's initials there, forever imprinted on his brother, forever claiming? Before Dean can stop himself, he's standing up, taking a step forward to get a better view.
That's when his world falls apart a little.
Its not Amelia's name that glares out from Sam's skin. Its not even Jess's initials, a memorial to the world Sam lost. No, planted on Sam's shoulder, as if they've always been there, are a perfect D. T. W. The loop of the D, the sharp points of W - its unmistakable this close. Dean reaches out, almost not of his own volition. Before he can stop himself, one finger is tracing over those letters, making sure they're real. Just for a moment, his fingers connect and he can swear that Sam pushes back a little into them.
“Dean?” Sam sounds surprised, pulling a little away from Dean's hand and half turning to look over his shoulder. Then, “Shit! I... Dean...” and Sam doesn't seem to know what to say. But he's staring at the point where Dean's hand is still hanging in the air, not sure where to put itself not that Sam has turned all the way around. He can't even think about the hand, not when something so incredible maybe has happened. He swallows for a second, hoping to work enough moisture into his throat to say something. Finally, with a cough, he feels like he can get something out.
“When...” he works his throat again for a second, trying to get more out. “When did you get that?” And Sam looks confused, looks like he expected Dean to say something else.
“When you were... gone.” Sam looks a little desperate. “I just, Dean, its not like I wanted it to be weird of anything. I just needed a little bit of you with me.” He pauses for a moment, feeling like he needs to work up the courage for what he is going to say next. “I couldn't... everyone was gone... and you're supposed to stay with me.” His voice drops off at the end, and Dean thinks he's done talking. But then, in a low growl Dean's never heard before, Sam finishes, “you're fucking mine.”
That's when the world finishes collapsing. There's nothing left now. Everything he's though, for so many years, its wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he's Sam's, just like Sam is his. And maybe there's something worth it here, someone that wants him for more than a helping hand. He can focus on the hand again, wants to stretch it out again, to touch the mark.
Sam reaches out, and for a moment Dean worries that Sam's going to knock his hand away, that he was wrong about what Sam just said. Then his brother catches his straining fingers in a huge hand and draws them across the shoulder that he angles to Dean, pressing Dean's palm into the tattoo. Dean sighs a little as his fingers dig in, hand bracketed by Sam's shoulder and his huge hand. He's got his name in there somewhere as well, caught up in Sam just the way he's always wanted to be.
When Sam speaks again, thought, its uncertain. Dean's left it too long, hasn't said the right things.
“Its alright, right? I mean, you don't mind? Amelia thought it was kinda weird. But I... just needed something of you.” Sam flushes at the end of the sentence and Dean thinks that its the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
“Sam...” he breathes, and it must be enough, because Sam relaxes under his fingers. He uses his hand on Sam's shoulder to draw his brother a little closer, close enough that he can smell Sam's conditioner, spicy on his skin. Its not quite enough for Dean though, and so he pulls even closer, into that space that he never lets anyone into unless they're a fuck or its Sam.
“Of course. My fucking name. Of course.” And he can't say anything else, just stare at Sam, perfect before him. Sam's breathing a little shallowly now, hand twitching at his side. Dean just stands there. They're at the edge of something, and he desperately wants to find out what's on the other side. He doesn't know how though.
Sam's hand comes up to cup the back of Dean's head, tangling in the short hairs, and Dean breathes out a sigh. That's how, apparently. They're getting pulled together, and Dean doesn't know if he should stop it. He knows he wants nothing more than to step that last step into his brother, pour himself inside Sam, and never let go. He doesn't think that's a good idea though. Sam's got this perfect world, with a girl and a dog, and Dean is sure, just sure. If they take that last step in, that world is going to vanish in a puff of ash forever. There isn't going to be any going back.
“She's gone, you know.” It's as though Sam can read his thoughts. And maybe he can. They've always been able to communicate a lot of what they're thinking, even from across the room. And now they're closer than ever. “I chose you. I think she knew I always would, if push come to shove. You're mine, Dean.”
Dean doesn't just step that last step. No, he melts into it, falling into Sam like he's always been there. He can feel Sam's arms strong around his back pulling him close. Sam's forehead is against his, and suddenly, all he can focus on is Sam's mouth. He's being pulled apart, wanting so badly, not knowing quite what he wants.
Again, its like Sam knows. He bends down to Dean, one hand careful on the back of Dean's neck. He tips Dean's head to the side, and there's that moment where they're so close, but not touching yet. He quirks his lip a little, as if to ask “yes?” Dean breathes out the answer into Sam's parted lips, sighing it to him in a little punchy “of course.”
Then Sam's lips are on his, sucking Dean's plump bottom lip inside, nibbling across it. Sam switches to a sort of open mouth kiss, than licks at the seam where Dean's mouth is still shut. Dean parts in a gasp of surprise. He's never kissed like this before, or maybe he's never been kissed like this. Its like he belongs to Sam in just that one little swipe.
When he opens to Sam, the world puts itself back together. The pieces are just a little different now. He's kissing Sam with all the skill of every year he's wanted his brother, pushing past any lingering wonder. This is his, and Sam is his. Sam suddenly drags his hands down Dean's back to cup under his ass. Sam's hoisting Dean up, setting him down on the mattress, then falling after him to blanket Dean's body with his own.
More importantly, Dean's his. He can feel Sam's cock, already hard against his leg, and he presses his thigh up a little, just to feel the heat of it. There's something about this, something so natural, that Dean can't understand why they haven't done it before. Maybe he would have seen things more clearly then. Maybe.
But its not really worth worrying about, particularly when Sam has pulled Dean's shirts off and is nibbling at the spot where Dean's shoulder and neck join. Dean arches up into Sam's mouth, trying to get more.
“Fuck, Dean,” Sam pulls away a little to breathe, short puffs of air whispering against the wet spot on Dean's neck. Dean feels like he's loosing his mind, he just wants so much. “Fuck. Just...” Sam scrabbles at Dean's jeans and Dean suddenly realizes that his brother has sat up, is kneeling in between his splayed legs. He's opened himself up to Sam like a cheap whore, and he can't even feel ashamed about it. It's Sam, and he's finally Sam's. Dean pushes his hips off the bed to help Sam drag his jeans off and doesn't even start when Sam pulls his boxers down too. The towel that Sam was wearing earlier has come unknotted, so they're pressed against each other, naked to each other at last.
Sam feels like fire, burning into him, so warm. Dean can only moan when Sam reaches down, palms roughly at Dean's cock.
“Tell me you want this,” Sam demands, and Dean realizes that he hasn't said anything since Sam's last declaration.
“Fuck yes,” he sighs into the corner of Sam's neck, body humming with sparks of light radiating out from Sam's hand stroking him. “Please Sammy. Fucking need to be yours. Always needed it.” He knows he's pleading, can't even feel ashamed like he normally would. Something has shifted inside him, broken apart by the letters scared into Sam's skin.
“Need to know exactly what you want, Dean,” Sam is shaking a little above him, need pulling his lips back into the dark look that Dean knows too well. There has always been something animal under Sam's tightly controlled veneer, and Dean has cracked the walls to it. Sam's only barely in control now, won't be in a few minutes if Dean says the right thing.
“Fucking need you in me,” and that's the right thing. The control bleeds out of Sam's eyes, leaving only the perfect mixture of lust and love. He slams Dean back onto the bed and gets up, not looking away.
“Hold yourself open for me, then.” And Dean stretches his legs farther apart, so far he feels a bit uncomfortable, splayed open for Sam. He feels a lot less vulnerable, though, when he sees Sam's tongue flick out, wetting his lips, as he stares at Dean's hole, displayed all for him. Sam bites hard on his lip then fumbles in his bag for something.
“So hot. All for me, too. You're fucking mine, Dean.” Sam is back at the mattress now, one hand stroking across Dean's cock, a fingernail teasing now and then. Somehow Sam knows just how much pain Dean wants, needs, to make this perfect. He's sliding one slick finger down the center of Dean's ass, pressing lightly just underneath Dean's balls. Pleasure washes through him, bright but not quite enough.
Then a finger is pressing into him. Its like everything he ever wanted is invading his body in that fingertip. He moans. Its not enough there either.
“More, please Sammy, more,” he's pleading again, but there's nothing he can do about it. He's caught up in a landslide of feeling, can't even think about his hands holding his legs open. There's only Sam's hand on his cock, the two fingers that Sam has started to twist inside him. “Fuck, Sam, that's enough. Just fuck me already.” He can't believe he just said that, begged for it, even when he knows he isn't ready. Sam glances at him, seems to know that he isn't ready.
“It's going to hurt. A lot.” Dean just nods. Sure, it'll hurt. But he can't wait, and the burn will be warm, warm like nothing has been in so long.
Sam slicks his cock up, gritting his teeth against the slid of his fingers. He clamps his eyes shut for a second, fingers circling the base of his cock, keeping him from coming. Dean shivers. Sam wants this as much as he does, wants it so much he has to stop himself from coming all over Dean. And some time they'll have to try that, Sam spurting across Dean's stomach, or even, God, his face. But right now, Dean just needs Sam inside, claiming him.
The first push of Sam against his entrance makes him think that maybe he really isn't quite ready yet. Sam's cock is large, just like the rest of him. He's pushing at Dean's rim, trying to slide inside. For a moment, Dean thinks he won't fit. He forces himself to relax, to accept the intrusion, and Sam slips inside. Then he's sliding into Dean, slow and steady, inevitable.
There's a pool of fire somewhere in Dean's stomach, flickering with every push into him that Sam makes. It hurts so good and Dean never wants it to stop. The Sam bottoms out, and stays, not moving, panting above Dean and staring down into his brother's eyes.
“You ok?” Sam manages shakily, grasping at the edges of his control. Dean can only nod weakly. Of course he's ok. Sam's got him. He's got Sam. He's never been more ok. He wishes they could just stay like this, fitted together like the two missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Sam begins to slide out, just a little, then fucks back into him, opening Dean up wider.
Dean thought when Sam wasn't moving was perfect. He was wrong. This is perfect. Sam is pushing in and out of him, sparking pleasure through his body with every thrust. He's still looking down at Dean, pouring thoughts and feelings into Dean's eyes. Dean can't look away, can't move even when he wants to do something else, touch somewhere else on Sam. He's trapped by Sam's gaze, holding his own legs apart, opened up for Sam. He can only stay there while Sam pounds into him.
Suddenly its too much. The pressure is building inside his stomach, heat and light mixing too much in his skin, needing to be poured out. He lets go of his knees, meaning to start jacking himself. Sam catches his wrists before he can even really move though. He yanks Dean's arms above his head, pinning his wrists to the mattress in a titan strong grip. Dean whimpers a little. This is even more. Sam is holding him down, taking him. And then he knows how to pour it all it out.
“Say it, Sammy,” he whispers, voice rasping with arousal. Sam growls a little at him, still slamming his hips up, pressure against Dean's prostate with every thrust.
“You're fucking mine, Dean. Never giving you up.” Dean can feel his back arch up from the bed on the last word, balls drawn up tight against his cock. Then he's coming, pouring his soul out against Sam, vision blurring out into sparks of light.
It goes on longer than anything he can remember, writing on Sam. He's dimly aware of trying to fuck himself down harder against Sam, then Sam tensing up, slamming in one more time.
He comes back to himself with Sam panting against his sweat slick skin. He feels looser than he has in years, maybe since before Sam left for Stanford. He's Sam's, really Sam's. He doesn't need anything else, anyone else, now that he knows, he's really Sam's. Sam rolls a little off him, panting into his neck.
“Dean, Dean...” And Sam is murmuring against his neck, breath just as hot as the rest of him. “you're... that was... oh god, fucking incredible. Please Dean...” and Dean knows what he's asking for, just as Sam had known a few moments before.
“Always Sam. I've fucking got you now and I'm not letting go.”
Finally, he's Sam's. And maybe, just maybe, things are going to be ok.
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest
Wordcount: about 4000
Summary: An unexpected tattoo changes things between Sam and Dean just a little. Spoilers up to 8.10
A/N: Sorry, this isn't the next update of the Season 8 Episode Fics. This is something that just got to me, and I had to write it down. I have trouble writing from Dean's perspective, so sorry if this is a little odd. Hey, we can't all be perfect. Side note: the title is taken from John Steinbeck in The Grapes of Wrath
"But let a man get property he doesn't see, or can't take time to get his fingers in, or can't be there to walk on it - why, then the property is the man. He can't do what he wants, he can't think what he wants. The property is the man, stronger than he is. And he is small, not big. Only his possessions are big - and he's the servant of his property. That is so, too.” - John Steinbeck
They've run out of beers by the time Dean stands up, shrugging his shoulders back and shaking his head against the faint haze left in it from their binge. He's been trying to push away the feelings, push it all back into the box in the bottom of his mind, but he can't. Sam's only here on a thread, a heartbeat away from leaving again, and Dean doesn't know what to do. He's given up Benny, given up the only person he's been able to rely on since Cas betrayed him, and Sam... well it was Sam. And now he doesn't know if Sam will stay, if his trick with Amelia was too much, if it was the end.
Sam's here now, though. He's still sitting on the sagging couch, slumped into the center, side of one arm pressed into the warm spot Dean left when he got up. He seems a little drained, a little too much like how Dean feels, and no matter what, Dean can hardly stand his little brother looking like that. So he turns his face away, heading to the broken down bathroom, calling out about getting the first shower.
The water is icy cold when he first turns it on, and Dean's reminded that Sam won't be happy if he doesn't leave any hot water. He isn't sure when the last time that Sam showered was, madcap chase off to find Amelia and subsequent race to save Samandriel leaving little things like showers fading away in the background.
As he steps into the shower, he thinks that its one of the things he's always loved best about Sam. It doesn't matter how much his brother is above all the dirt and grime most of the time. It doesn't matter that things like showers are part of the normal that Sam has always dreamed about. No, when push comes to shove, Sam cares too much to let things like that get in his way. He just cares so much. And sometimes, (only sometimes, Dean tells himself) he wishes that Sam would do that for him. Wishes that he was Sam's, something to hang onto, to hold.
And maybe he was, once. He remembers the look in Sam's eyes when they talked about the months Dean was in Hell, the months Sam tried to get him back. But even then, he had to share Sam. Ruby had gotten her claws in, and Sam's want was tangled up in them.
Dean knows that it can't be right, wanting so much. He shuts off the shower, grimacing as the cold air hits his skin. He towels off quickly, trying to brush his thoughts away with the water that wicks away from his skin.
He can't.
So he pulls on his sweats, softer than he usually wears to sleep, but they were Sam's, something he bought while Dean was gone and gave to his brother when Dean had started to get too cold at night. (Purgatory was hot, sweltering in a haze of dust and grime, real and painted on his body in a way that Hell had never been. Hell had carved his soul, left its stamp inside his mind. Purgatory had turned his body against him.) And so Dean had started to get cold, wanting the glare of the white-grey sun through his bones too badly, sobbing inside at the fact that he wanted it, needing to let it leave him.
So he pulls on the sweats. Sam's still slumped on the couch when he makes his way back into the living room.
“Shower's free.” He tries not to growl, but all the things he is trying not to feel seem to have congregated in his throat, and roughen his voice. Sam only grunts in response, heaving himself up and shuffling towards the bathroom. Dean makes his way over to the two mattresses shoved into the third room, both a little too short for them. As he slides down the wall to sprawl on top of the blankets, he tries to blank his mind.
He can't. There's too much there, too much of Sam that he needs, and too much of all the people who he's needed. Dad, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, even Ash, and now Benny and Cas. They're all dead, or not here, or not Dean's. And maybe none of them ever have been, or he was never theirs, not in the way that Sam is his. He can't remember a time when Sam wasn't the first thing he thought about when he woke up, and one of the lat things he thought about when he falls asleep.
Even with the others, the ones who he's thought were his, its never been like it is with Sam. With Cas, he's always known that he's competing with all of heaven. And now Cas is gone, can't be Dean's any more, running off to heaven without even an explanation.
And well, it was Benny or Sam. There was no way that he could have both. He sees this now. Maybe he tried to make Benny his because he didn't have Sam, couldn't have Sam. But now its like part of his heart is getting twisted out of its proper place when he tries to care about Benny enough. It all snapped back into place when he saw Sam again, snapped back into who he was supposed to be. And he's been hanging onto Benny because Benny was there for him in Purgatory. He can't do it any more.
On the other hand, at least Benny maybe thought Dean was his. Back there, in the darkness, he hadn't thought about Sam when waking up, couldn't and survive. He'd thought about Sam the rest of the time, thought about getting back to him. But he'd thought about Benny waking up, and he knew Benny had thought about him.
It had been beautiful. Someone had cared for him, had shown it in a way Dean could understand, in a way that he wanted for the first time in as long as he could remember. It had never been that way with his dad, not enough desperation, and not enough ownership. His dad had always had his mom first, and Dean had never wanted that to be different. But with Sam, oh God, he wanted.
It didn't seem like he was going to get it thought. Sam had gone running off to Amelia. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean had wanted to believe that it wouldn't work, that Sam would not put something else first. And Dean knew who screwed up that was, how absurd and just plain messed up he had become. He knew. He couldn't help it though The only thing that had kept him going back there had been Sam. He couldn't just turn off the need, the pull, that he felt. And he couldn't push past the wish that Sam felt it too.
The shower shuts off, pulling him blessedly out of his musing, off the path that he had been trying to avoid this entire time. He shoves himself a little higher on the mattress, pulls his journal to him and tries to look like he's working. Tries becomes a loose term though, Sam stepping into the room and tearing Dean's eyes away from the book. Sam's forgotten to bring clothes with him into the shower, the first time since Dean's been back that he's walked around so open. He's got a thin towel wrapped low on his hips, almost nothing. He walks across the room, only glancing at Dean before he's rooting around in his bag.
And Dean can't look away. There are miles of beautiful brown skin, all stretched out before him, all his. Maybe he's not the only one who has part of those mile, but Sam is his to worry over and to dream over. Right now, Dean can only track up the side of one long leg, eyes trying not to press to hard at the towel, worried that Sam will turn around before Dean looks his fill.
Finally he reaches the top of the towel, gaze dipping into the two dimples at the base of Sam's spine. He walks himself up the ladder of Sam's vertebrae, smiling at each one. He gets to the edge of Sam's wing bone, laves it with his glance. That's when he notices it. There's a black mark splatted across Sam's right shoulder blade, letters plastered to his flesh. At first, all Dean can feel is a white hot flash of anger. What was so important that Sam felt he had to scribble it on himself for the world to read? And more importantly, what didn't Sam want to tell him about? Was it Amelia's initials there, forever imprinted on his brother, forever claiming? Before Dean can stop himself, he's standing up, taking a step forward to get a better view.
That's when his world falls apart a little.
Its not Amelia's name that glares out from Sam's skin. Its not even Jess's initials, a memorial to the world Sam lost. No, planted on Sam's shoulder, as if they've always been there, are a perfect D. T. W. The loop of the D, the sharp points of W - its unmistakable this close. Dean reaches out, almost not of his own volition. Before he can stop himself, one finger is tracing over those letters, making sure they're real. Just for a moment, his fingers connect and he can swear that Sam pushes back a little into them.
“Dean?” Sam sounds surprised, pulling a little away from Dean's hand and half turning to look over his shoulder. Then, “Shit! I... Dean...” and Sam doesn't seem to know what to say. But he's staring at the point where Dean's hand is still hanging in the air, not sure where to put itself not that Sam has turned all the way around. He can't even think about the hand, not when something so incredible maybe has happened. He swallows for a second, hoping to work enough moisture into his throat to say something. Finally, with a cough, he feels like he can get something out.
“When...” he works his throat again for a second, trying to get more out. “When did you get that?” And Sam looks confused, looks like he expected Dean to say something else.
“When you were... gone.” Sam looks a little desperate. “I just, Dean, its not like I wanted it to be weird of anything. I just needed a little bit of you with me.” He pauses for a moment, feeling like he needs to work up the courage for what he is going to say next. “I couldn't... everyone was gone... and you're supposed to stay with me.” His voice drops off at the end, and Dean thinks he's done talking. But then, in a low growl Dean's never heard before, Sam finishes, “you're fucking mine.”
That's when the world finishes collapsing. There's nothing left now. Everything he's though, for so many years, its wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he's Sam's, just like Sam is his. And maybe there's something worth it here, someone that wants him for more than a helping hand. He can focus on the hand again, wants to stretch it out again, to touch the mark.
Sam reaches out, and for a moment Dean worries that Sam's going to knock his hand away, that he was wrong about what Sam just said. Then his brother catches his straining fingers in a huge hand and draws them across the shoulder that he angles to Dean, pressing Dean's palm into the tattoo. Dean sighs a little as his fingers dig in, hand bracketed by Sam's shoulder and his huge hand. He's got his name in there somewhere as well, caught up in Sam just the way he's always wanted to be.
When Sam speaks again, thought, its uncertain. Dean's left it too long, hasn't said the right things.
“Its alright, right? I mean, you don't mind? Amelia thought it was kinda weird. But I... just needed something of you.” Sam flushes at the end of the sentence and Dean thinks that its the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
“Sam...” he breathes, and it must be enough, because Sam relaxes under his fingers. He uses his hand on Sam's shoulder to draw his brother a little closer, close enough that he can smell Sam's conditioner, spicy on his skin. Its not quite enough for Dean though, and so he pulls even closer, into that space that he never lets anyone into unless they're a fuck or its Sam.
“Of course. My fucking name. Of course.” And he can't say anything else, just stare at Sam, perfect before him. Sam's breathing a little shallowly now, hand twitching at his side. Dean just stands there. They're at the edge of something, and he desperately wants to find out what's on the other side. He doesn't know how though.
Sam's hand comes up to cup the back of Dean's head, tangling in the short hairs, and Dean breathes out a sigh. That's how, apparently. They're getting pulled together, and Dean doesn't know if he should stop it. He knows he wants nothing more than to step that last step into his brother, pour himself inside Sam, and never let go. He doesn't think that's a good idea though. Sam's got this perfect world, with a girl and a dog, and Dean is sure, just sure. If they take that last step in, that world is going to vanish in a puff of ash forever. There isn't going to be any going back.
“She's gone, you know.” It's as though Sam can read his thoughts. And maybe he can. They've always been able to communicate a lot of what they're thinking, even from across the room. And now they're closer than ever. “I chose you. I think she knew I always would, if push come to shove. You're mine, Dean.”
Dean doesn't just step that last step. No, he melts into it, falling into Sam like he's always been there. He can feel Sam's arms strong around his back pulling him close. Sam's forehead is against his, and suddenly, all he can focus on is Sam's mouth. He's being pulled apart, wanting so badly, not knowing quite what he wants.
Again, its like Sam knows. He bends down to Dean, one hand careful on the back of Dean's neck. He tips Dean's head to the side, and there's that moment where they're so close, but not touching yet. He quirks his lip a little, as if to ask “yes?” Dean breathes out the answer into Sam's parted lips, sighing it to him in a little punchy “of course.”
Then Sam's lips are on his, sucking Dean's plump bottom lip inside, nibbling across it. Sam switches to a sort of open mouth kiss, than licks at the seam where Dean's mouth is still shut. Dean parts in a gasp of surprise. He's never kissed like this before, or maybe he's never been kissed like this. Its like he belongs to Sam in just that one little swipe.
When he opens to Sam, the world puts itself back together. The pieces are just a little different now. He's kissing Sam with all the skill of every year he's wanted his brother, pushing past any lingering wonder. This is his, and Sam is his. Sam suddenly drags his hands down Dean's back to cup under his ass. Sam's hoisting Dean up, setting him down on the mattress, then falling after him to blanket Dean's body with his own.
More importantly, Dean's his. He can feel Sam's cock, already hard against his leg, and he presses his thigh up a little, just to feel the heat of it. There's something about this, something so natural, that Dean can't understand why they haven't done it before. Maybe he would have seen things more clearly then. Maybe.
But its not really worth worrying about, particularly when Sam has pulled Dean's shirts off and is nibbling at the spot where Dean's shoulder and neck join. Dean arches up into Sam's mouth, trying to get more.
“Fuck, Dean,” Sam pulls away a little to breathe, short puffs of air whispering against the wet spot on Dean's neck. Dean feels like he's loosing his mind, he just wants so much. “Fuck. Just...” Sam scrabbles at Dean's jeans and Dean suddenly realizes that his brother has sat up, is kneeling in between his splayed legs. He's opened himself up to Sam like a cheap whore, and he can't even feel ashamed about it. It's Sam, and he's finally Sam's. Dean pushes his hips off the bed to help Sam drag his jeans off and doesn't even start when Sam pulls his boxers down too. The towel that Sam was wearing earlier has come unknotted, so they're pressed against each other, naked to each other at last.
Sam feels like fire, burning into him, so warm. Dean can only moan when Sam reaches down, palms roughly at Dean's cock.
“Tell me you want this,” Sam demands, and Dean realizes that he hasn't said anything since Sam's last declaration.
“Fuck yes,” he sighs into the corner of Sam's neck, body humming with sparks of light radiating out from Sam's hand stroking him. “Please Sammy. Fucking need to be yours. Always needed it.” He knows he's pleading, can't even feel ashamed like he normally would. Something has shifted inside him, broken apart by the letters scared into Sam's skin.
“Need to know exactly what you want, Dean,” Sam is shaking a little above him, need pulling his lips back into the dark look that Dean knows too well. There has always been something animal under Sam's tightly controlled veneer, and Dean has cracked the walls to it. Sam's only barely in control now, won't be in a few minutes if Dean says the right thing.
“Fucking need you in me,” and that's the right thing. The control bleeds out of Sam's eyes, leaving only the perfect mixture of lust and love. He slams Dean back onto the bed and gets up, not looking away.
“Hold yourself open for me, then.” And Dean stretches his legs farther apart, so far he feels a bit uncomfortable, splayed open for Sam. He feels a lot less vulnerable, though, when he sees Sam's tongue flick out, wetting his lips, as he stares at Dean's hole, displayed all for him. Sam bites hard on his lip then fumbles in his bag for something.
“So hot. All for me, too. You're fucking mine, Dean.” Sam is back at the mattress now, one hand stroking across Dean's cock, a fingernail teasing now and then. Somehow Sam knows just how much pain Dean wants, needs, to make this perfect. He's sliding one slick finger down the center of Dean's ass, pressing lightly just underneath Dean's balls. Pleasure washes through him, bright but not quite enough.
Then a finger is pressing into him. Its like everything he ever wanted is invading his body in that fingertip. He moans. Its not enough there either.
“More, please Sammy, more,” he's pleading again, but there's nothing he can do about it. He's caught up in a landslide of feeling, can't even think about his hands holding his legs open. There's only Sam's hand on his cock, the two fingers that Sam has started to twist inside him. “Fuck, Sam, that's enough. Just fuck me already.” He can't believe he just said that, begged for it, even when he knows he isn't ready. Sam glances at him, seems to know that he isn't ready.
“It's going to hurt. A lot.” Dean just nods. Sure, it'll hurt. But he can't wait, and the burn will be warm, warm like nothing has been in so long.
Sam slicks his cock up, gritting his teeth against the slid of his fingers. He clamps his eyes shut for a second, fingers circling the base of his cock, keeping him from coming. Dean shivers. Sam wants this as much as he does, wants it so much he has to stop himself from coming all over Dean. And some time they'll have to try that, Sam spurting across Dean's stomach, or even, God, his face. But right now, Dean just needs Sam inside, claiming him.
The first push of Sam against his entrance makes him think that maybe he really isn't quite ready yet. Sam's cock is large, just like the rest of him. He's pushing at Dean's rim, trying to slide inside. For a moment, Dean thinks he won't fit. He forces himself to relax, to accept the intrusion, and Sam slips inside. Then he's sliding into Dean, slow and steady, inevitable.
There's a pool of fire somewhere in Dean's stomach, flickering with every push into him that Sam makes. It hurts so good and Dean never wants it to stop. The Sam bottoms out, and stays, not moving, panting above Dean and staring down into his brother's eyes.
“You ok?” Sam manages shakily, grasping at the edges of his control. Dean can only nod weakly. Of course he's ok. Sam's got him. He's got Sam. He's never been more ok. He wishes they could just stay like this, fitted together like the two missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Sam begins to slide out, just a little, then fucks back into him, opening Dean up wider.
Dean thought when Sam wasn't moving was perfect. He was wrong. This is perfect. Sam is pushing in and out of him, sparking pleasure through his body with every thrust. He's still looking down at Dean, pouring thoughts and feelings into Dean's eyes. Dean can't look away, can't move even when he wants to do something else, touch somewhere else on Sam. He's trapped by Sam's gaze, holding his own legs apart, opened up for Sam. He can only stay there while Sam pounds into him.
Suddenly its too much. The pressure is building inside his stomach, heat and light mixing too much in his skin, needing to be poured out. He lets go of his knees, meaning to start jacking himself. Sam catches his wrists before he can even really move though. He yanks Dean's arms above his head, pinning his wrists to the mattress in a titan strong grip. Dean whimpers a little. This is even more. Sam is holding him down, taking him. And then he knows how to pour it all it out.
“Say it, Sammy,” he whispers, voice rasping with arousal. Sam growls a little at him, still slamming his hips up, pressure against Dean's prostate with every thrust.
“You're fucking mine, Dean. Never giving you up.” Dean can feel his back arch up from the bed on the last word, balls drawn up tight against his cock. Then he's coming, pouring his soul out against Sam, vision blurring out into sparks of light.
It goes on longer than anything he can remember, writing on Sam. He's dimly aware of trying to fuck himself down harder against Sam, then Sam tensing up, slamming in one more time.
He comes back to himself with Sam panting against his sweat slick skin. He feels looser than he has in years, maybe since before Sam left for Stanford. He's Sam's, really Sam's. He doesn't need anything else, anyone else, now that he knows, he's really Sam's. Sam rolls a little off him, panting into his neck.
“Dean, Dean...” And Sam is murmuring against his neck, breath just as hot as the rest of him. “you're... that was... oh god, fucking incredible. Please Dean...” and Dean knows what he's asking for, just as Sam had known a few moments before.
“Always Sam. I've fucking got you now and I'm not letting go.”
Finally, he's Sam's. And maybe, just maybe, things are going to be ok.