The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [16/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Part V. One.)
Word Count: 3269 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part V: We’ve Made Some Bad Decisions.
--Chapter One--
Sam’s coated in hot, dark blood, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
He’s got his thumbs pressing mercilessly into her eye sockets, and the bitch is screaming, and, God, it sounds like music to Sam.
Because it’s Lilith, and Sam’s got her, and fuck all if he plans on letting go now. Even if she pleads him to stop, even he can feel her struggling underneath him, even if Ruby is telling him to end it. He will, he’ll kill her.
Soon.
First, he wraps his big hands around a skinny throat. He knows he can’t kill Lilith this way, but it’s good to watch her struggle to breathe the way Sam did when he realized Dean was dead and good. It was good to watch her suffer the way Dean was suffering in Hell, the way Sam was suffering without him. And even as Sam felt the throat collapsing under his hands and saw the panic flashing bright in Lilith’s eyes, he knew it could never be enough.
Lilith’s pain? It was gonna end, and soon. There was no end for him and Dean.
He can hear Ruby yelling, unclear and distant,like he’s underwater, but it was enough for him to realize he’d wasting enough time on trying to wring some justice out of Lilith’s body. He can feel the force and heat of his blood-his blood, and other blood-pulsing in every part of him. He reaches into Lilith’s mind and starts to wrap around her light like a snake. He breathes in shakily, dizzy with the rage and warmth of the moment. He'ss going to crush a screaming millennia of life and cruelty into a flickering, fading dot of nothing.
Except, Sam realizes too late, that the light isn’t Lilith.
It touchs him long enough for him to realize that the neck he’s broken belonged to Clarissa Steel, a grad student studying religion who misses her family very much.
And then it’s dark. And because it was a dream, it stays dark. But because it was also a memory, Sam knows how it all ended.
Sam breathed and shook and stared at his trembling red hands and finally looked to Ruby. Sam’s good at seeing more than what’s in front of him,, but he couldn’t read Ruby’s expression. It was the sort of look a monster gives when finding something more terrifying than itself.
Ruby had taken Sam home to a shitty hotel, cleaned him up, and held him, stroked him, murmured to him as Sam studied his hands again and again, as though there was something he’d missed.
It was a mistake, Ruby’d said. Everyone makes mistakes. War has collateral damage, after all, and the whole thing simply chalked up to Sam needing just a little more practice. It wasn’t something he should get all emo over, Ruby had said. These things, they just happen sometimes.
She said that Lilith must have made a sneaky exit while Sam had been chasing her down in the dark dirty side alley. Sometime before Sam had tackled her to the ground, and slammed her forehead against the rain-slick concrete. Lilith must have slipped away, and Sam hadn’t felt the difference until too late, and Clarissa hadn’t had much chance to explain things to him.
Ruby had called to him, tried to stop, tried to tell him to end what he was doing, but, apparently, Sam hadn’t heard her. Really, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, per say, and it was best to put it out of mind and focus on the future, on really getting that hell bitch.
Ruby had asked how Sam felt, running a soft, smooth hand over his chest, circling his heart. Sam had thought about the question. Really thought. The way he felt was pissed. Lilith had used him to up her body count. And it had taken them weeks as it was to track the bitch, and she’d slipped through his fingers, almost literally.
Fingers, fingers…Sam remembered her fingers. They ran through his hair, brushing softly against the edge of his ear. They spread against the back of his neck, broad hands sliding down his back, coming to clamp his hip like he was going somewhere. Sam dreams, he remembers, he wonders and he wakes up.
These aren’t Ruby’s hands.
Dean.
Sam’s breath is like fire, he sucks it in so fast. He rolls on the creaky mattress and they’re there--green eyes bright in the old, tired darkness of the run-down room, so bright Sam thinks they look like exploding stars in the night.
Then Sam shakes his head-hard--because it’s just that sort of fucking stupid ass thought that’s going to get him into some serious shit right about now.
Sam’s heart is flattened against his rib cage. He’s not certain what to say, hell, he’s afraid to breathe wrong, so he just lets his jaw dangle while Dean presses a hand against the side of his face. Sam catches himself before he leans into it.
“Sammy. Exhale,” Dean says, all calm smoothness, as though this was business as usual.
Sam manages to work his mouth, and almost well. “Dean. What the hell are you doing?”
“Man, you really don’t get around much, do you?” Dean smirks.
Sam doesn’t react, he just closes his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, if he can’t see what’s happening, then he won’t feel the hands moving over his shoulders, down his stomach. And it’ll stop feeling so damn nice. With his…condition, not every part of him can feel, but the parts that can are more than making up for it.
Sam thinks quickly, and he can only come up with two explanations. Dean is either possessed by a demon immune to salt lines, devil’s traps, and protective wards, or his brother’s strained sanity has finally snapped like a burnt matchstick. Either way, this thing that feels so damn good is very, very bad, and Sam knows the difference between good and bad.
“Stop,” says Sam. He deserves some kind of medal for it.
It dawns slowly on Sam, watching Dean’s tongue drag slowly across his shining lower lip that Dean knows exactly what he’s doing. Sam had always thought he’d done a damn good job keeping his…fascination…with his brother under lock. Clearly, that was bullshit.
“You have to go,” Sam says.
“No one likes a prude, Sammy,” Dean says flatly. He presses a hand down Sam’s long, tight body and slips it over the stifling fabric of his shorts. Sam hisses at the sudden warmth where he needs it the most. With all the force he can muster--which, to be truthful, isn’t all that much at the moment--Sam shoves Dean away from him.
“I’m serious, knock it the hell off.” Sam scowls. A true glower from Sam Winchester is enough to make most men, and some less savory creatures, think twice about crossing him. But this is Dean, who won’t lose that smile that always gets right under Sam’s skin.
Dean pulls his hands back, putting them up like Sam’s armed. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me, honestly, that this isn’t your thing--you don’t want this, and I’ll go. We’ll never speak of it again, I swear.” Dean draws an X over his heart, to prove how seriously he takes this.
Sam’s lied before. He’s practically built a life out of it. “I don’t want this.”
“You’re a lousy fucking liar,” Dean says, and his hand grips the back of Sam’s head and pulls him in for a kiss that burns like looking at an angel.
Only when Hell freezes over would Sam admit how much time he has devoted to wondering how Dean tasted. Now, with Dean’s tongue filling up his mouth until Sam feels hungry, he realizes Dean doesn’t taste all that different from anyone else he’s locked lips with…except for the extra tang of hard liquor. It’s actually embarrassing-- if Dean did taste like honey and sex and magic, then Sam would have an explanation for why he’s harder than he can ever remember being. And while the taste might not be different, as Dean scrapes teeth lightly over Sam’s lower lip, filling the small space between them with low growls. The smell of him is drugging Sam. It’s metal and leather and smells like home. He’s starting to melt into the soft heat of Dean’s lips on his neck, licking at his collarbone and sucking on his earlobe like Sam’s made of sugar. He tries to ignore his straining dick, which clearly wants its own turn with those lips.
Sam’s working on mustering up some restraint, but in the meantime he lets out a moan and reaches up to slide a hand through Dean’s hair-something he’s wanted to do for a very long time. It’s amazing, and would probably be even better if Sam could feel anything.
He wants to bring Dean’s lips back to his, because they’re soft and warm and capable of great things, but he lets them go because those same lips are working down his body and Sam’s got an idea of where they’re headed. He’s not holding his breath, though…except, actually, he sort of is. He’s having some issues breathing normally, they keep coming out in needy moans or frantic huffs, as Dean’s tongue swipes hot across his nipples and wets the hard line leading down his stomach. Dean’s gripping Sam’s hips and Sam’s got his numb hands on Dean’s solid back and even if he can’t enjoy the slide of the sweating skin, he can understand the movement of muscle and it’s enough.
Sam bites his lip to keep from shouting Thank fucking God when Dean finally yanks off the shorts that have gone from adequate undergarment to suffocating injustice in a matter of minutes. He watches Dean’s eyes move over him, and he tries to get a grip on himself, to quiet the buzz in his blood. Close quarters don’t leave much room for modesty, but Sam knows Dean’s never seen him like this: big, shuddering breaths shaking his body, his dick full and hard and the head smeared with sloppy precum. If Sam had any sense left, he’d feel sheepish. Luckily, those particular circuits blew a while ago, and the sparks are just under Sam’s skin.
At the foot of the mattress, Dean sits back on his heels and stares at Sam for just a moment. A shadow of a thought slips quickly over Dean’s face, and no one but Sam would ever notice.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Dean snorts out a laugh. “You mean, besides this entire thing. Nothing, Sam. We’re good.”
“This is your first time, isn’t it?” Sam says, and only a moment later does it strike him as a stupid thing to say. The filter between Sam’s brain and mouth must have been pulled too thin when all his thoughts rushed down to his dick.
“You kidding me?” Dean says indignantly. “I’ve been doing this since before you hit puberty. This is not my first time.” He pauses. “I, uh, I’m usually on the receiving end, but how hard can it be?”
Sam’s looking down at Dean, crouched between his legs and with a strong hand clamped on either thigh. He looks like a hundred wet dreams . Sam knows that now is the moment. He could laugh because the situation is nine kinds of fucked and he could get Dean to laugh too.Maybe they could blame the whole damn thing on their brains being fried, what with the heat of the Apocalypse hanging over their heads. Sam knows he could stop it here.
But Sam’s whole body is tight with want-no, it’s not want anymore. He needs this. He needs his brother to keep touching him, or the world would end. Well, it was going to end either way-but if Sam could have this night, he might just be okay with that.
It’s already too late--Sam’s shocked out of all coherent thoughts when he feels his dick being wrapped up tight in Dean’s mouth. There’s a delicious tingling starting to tug at his gut. He feels Dean’s tongue working him over, rubbing and sucking him wet and messy, and Sam almost suspects his brother of lying about this being his first time. Sam lets his body drop back against the mattress, stretching out arms and fingers and toes. Dean’s mouth is so warm, it reminds Sam of that wonderful feeling of falling asleep in the backseat of the Impala, bathing in the sunlight pouring in all over him through the dusty window. Everything tight and tense unravels inside of him A moan strings out over his lips when Dean’s calloused fingers slide around to cup handfuls of Sam’s ass. Sam lifts his head just enough to peer down his long, shining body to watch Dean work.
Sam burns the swollen wet red lips and wide eyes and flushed cheeks into his memory. The sharp green eyes leave a mark on him that he’ll savor. Sam holds it all close to him, because this is the first time.
Maybe the only time, he realizes. This could be it.
Sam gasps when the warm and wonderful heat goes away. The smokey happiness that had been swirling in him stills, and Sam fights the bleary fog to focus on his brother.
“Listen, big guy,” Dean says, wiping an arm across his lips. “You’re gonna give me the countdown before blast off, right? ‘Cause I’ve got my lines, ya’ hear me? And none of this ‘Oh, I forgot’ bullshit, cause I practically invented that one.”
Sam knows it’s almost over. And then what?
“Sammy? Hello?”
After tonight, they’ll come back to their senses and it will be god awful and the last good thing Sam has will be fucked up forever. Things couldn’t possibly be the same, not after this-could they?
“Shit,” Sam hears Dean say. “I broke him.”
Maybe, maybe not-but Sam figures that he’s got until sunrise until sanity catches up with them.
“Dean,” Sam says.
“Oh, thank God. Thought I’d blown a fu-“
“Fuck me.”
The whistle of the wind and the creaking of the house is all Sam gets for a long moment.
“Come again?”
“I want you to fuck me,” Sam repeats. He tries to use his rational voice, as though this was an obvious and undeniable request. It’s an accomplishment, considering the worn room is slowly looping around Sam like he’s been taking shots of rubbing alcohol.
Dean’s face gets tightly woven into a frown. It borders on a snarl when he says, “Anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” He drags a thumb across his lower lip, and Sam watches intently. “Especially when it’s blowing you?”
Sam doesn’t have an answer to that. It occurs to him, with a dull thud of shock, that this is happening. He wonders with numb awe how this all happened. Dean isn’t looking at him, his brilliant eyes instead climbing the water-stained walls until he finally turns back and says, voice soft as a feather, “That’s what you want?”
Sam just licks his lips and nods.
“You got…uh, anything?” Dean asks. His gaze darts off into the darkness again.
Sam lets out a weak scoff. “This isn’t my first time,” he says, “And I usually am on the receiving end.” He catches a glimpse of Dean grimacing and almost laughs out loud. He rolls and reaches into his open duffel, fishing. His fingers grasp clumsily and his movements are slow, but he manages to produce an old bottle of lube that hasn’t been popped open in longer than Sam’s ever going to admit. He watches closely was Dean takes the bottle from him with a disgusted sneer on his face. If Sam’s brain was more than a simmering mess, he might poke fun at Dean for the prudish expression on his face as he squirts a glob into his hand. That thought melts away when Dean growls, “Roll over.”
With a total absence of thought or grace, Sam flops himself onto his stomach. Sheer willpower keeps him from losing it as Dean works him open with strong, steady fingers. He manages some amount of cooperation as Dean manhandles him to his knees, hoisting him up until Dean’s slick, solid chest is flush against Sam’s back, and Dean’s cock is pressed neatly along the crack of his ass. He can feel Dean’s dick flex against the tight muscle, and a hot comets run up and down his spine.
There’s not a lot of gentleness in the way Dean grips him-an arm slung across his shoulders to hold him up-all Sam’s bones have turned to warm syrup. There’s just a bare trace of tenderness in the way Dean lines himself up and shoves into Sam, without hesitation. Sam arches his back and grits his teeth and it’s skirting that thin, vibrating line between oh so fucking good and very, very bad. All the gentleness that isn’t there when Dean fucks into him is in his voice, as he whispers like wispy clouds in the dirty dark. He says quietly in Sam’s ear, “I’ll give you what you want, Sammy. Tell me this is what you want.”
Sam’s answering, he’s sure he is because his mouth is moving, but whatever is coming out is beyond him. He’s babbling like a man possessed, words boiling out of his brain and flowing through his lips as Dean fills him up. He assumes they’re some combination of “Please,” “yes,” and “fuck.”
Dean grinds against him, pumping fast and hard and Sam’s so fucking hard, his dick so full of the same warm, cosmic feeling that’s flooding his body. Like he’s filled with molten stars, like he’s drowning in good. He bends at the waist, presses his ass back, to get Dean deeper, and grins drunkenly when he hears Dean moan. Dean’s hands are wrapped hard on Sam’s hips, and when those rough fingers slide over his overheated skin to wrap Sam’s dick in a firm, sweaty hold, Sam knows it’s all over.
He lasts through a few pumps and thinks about what Dean said earlier-3, 2, 1, fucking lift off. Sam’s head is in space as his body spasms through an orgasm that feels like a black hole. He’s flickering back to reality as Dean grunts and comes, and Sam smiles. Dean collapses next to him and they spend a long time breathing.
“Dean…” Sam says blearily. He’s not sure what’s supposed to come next. Thank you? Sam only knows that he feels satisfied in a deep down soul kind of way, and that it’s because of Dean. “Dean, I-“
Dean puts a big hand on the side of Sam’s face. Sam thinks that in the pale moonlight, Dean looks otherworldly. And after everything, that’s sort of how Sam feels.
“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says. “Go to sleep.”
Sam understands that tomorrow, he’ll wake up in a slightly different world. That knowledge makes him hold tight to consciousness, but like so many things he’s tried to hang on to, it slips like smoke through his fingers, until the world is fading from him.
Sam knows that nothing--whatever happens tomorrow morning, the Judgement of Heaven and Hell, the unraveling of the universe, nothing-can change that this night happened. Sam doesn’t quite know if he should feel good or bad about that, but either way, he drifts off with a small smile playing on his lips and some true feeling in the center of his fading body.
-part V.two-
Word Count: 3269 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part V: We’ve Made Some Bad Decisions.
--Chapter One--
Sam’s coated in hot, dark blood, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
He’s got his thumbs pressing mercilessly into her eye sockets, and the bitch is screaming, and, God, it sounds like music to Sam.
Because it’s Lilith, and Sam’s got her, and fuck all if he plans on letting go now. Even if she pleads him to stop, even he can feel her struggling underneath him, even if Ruby is telling him to end it. He will, he’ll kill her.
Soon.
First, he wraps his big hands around a skinny throat. He knows he can’t kill Lilith this way, but it’s good to watch her struggle to breathe the way Sam did when he realized Dean was dead and good. It was good to watch her suffer the way Dean was suffering in Hell, the way Sam was suffering without him. And even as Sam felt the throat collapsing under his hands and saw the panic flashing bright in Lilith’s eyes, he knew it could never be enough.
Lilith’s pain? It was gonna end, and soon. There was no end for him and Dean.
He can hear Ruby yelling, unclear and distant,like he’s underwater, but it was enough for him to realize he’d wasting enough time on trying to wring some justice out of Lilith’s body. He can feel the force and heat of his blood-his blood, and other blood-pulsing in every part of him. He reaches into Lilith’s mind and starts to wrap around her light like a snake. He breathes in shakily, dizzy with the rage and warmth of the moment. He'ss going to crush a screaming millennia of life and cruelty into a flickering, fading dot of nothing.
Except, Sam realizes too late, that the light isn’t Lilith.
It touchs him long enough for him to realize that the neck he’s broken belonged to Clarissa Steel, a grad student studying religion who misses her family very much.
And then it’s dark. And because it was a dream, it stays dark. But because it was also a memory, Sam knows how it all ended.
Sam breathed and shook and stared at his trembling red hands and finally looked to Ruby. Sam’s good at seeing more than what’s in front of him,, but he couldn’t read Ruby’s expression. It was the sort of look a monster gives when finding something more terrifying than itself.
Ruby had taken Sam home to a shitty hotel, cleaned him up, and held him, stroked him, murmured to him as Sam studied his hands again and again, as though there was something he’d missed.
It was a mistake, Ruby’d said. Everyone makes mistakes. War has collateral damage, after all, and the whole thing simply chalked up to Sam needing just a little more practice. It wasn’t something he should get all emo over, Ruby had said. These things, they just happen sometimes.
She said that Lilith must have made a sneaky exit while Sam had been chasing her down in the dark dirty side alley. Sometime before Sam had tackled her to the ground, and slammed her forehead against the rain-slick concrete. Lilith must have slipped away, and Sam hadn’t felt the difference until too late, and Clarissa hadn’t had much chance to explain things to him.
Ruby had called to him, tried to stop, tried to tell him to end what he was doing, but, apparently, Sam hadn’t heard her. Really, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, per say, and it was best to put it out of mind and focus on the future, on really getting that hell bitch.
Ruby had asked how Sam felt, running a soft, smooth hand over his chest, circling his heart. Sam had thought about the question. Really thought. The way he felt was pissed. Lilith had used him to up her body count. And it had taken them weeks as it was to track the bitch, and she’d slipped through his fingers, almost literally.
Fingers, fingers…Sam remembered her fingers. They ran through his hair, brushing softly against the edge of his ear. They spread against the back of his neck, broad hands sliding down his back, coming to clamp his hip like he was going somewhere. Sam dreams, he remembers, he wonders and he wakes up.
These aren’t Ruby’s hands.
Dean.
Sam’s breath is like fire, he sucks it in so fast. He rolls on the creaky mattress and they’re there--green eyes bright in the old, tired darkness of the run-down room, so bright Sam thinks they look like exploding stars in the night.
Then Sam shakes his head-hard--because it’s just that sort of fucking stupid ass thought that’s going to get him into some serious shit right about now.
Sam’s heart is flattened against his rib cage. He’s not certain what to say, hell, he’s afraid to breathe wrong, so he just lets his jaw dangle while Dean presses a hand against the side of his face. Sam catches himself before he leans into it.
“Sammy. Exhale,” Dean says, all calm smoothness, as though this was business as usual.
Sam manages to work his mouth, and almost well. “Dean. What the hell are you doing?”
“Man, you really don’t get around much, do you?” Dean smirks.
Sam doesn’t react, he just closes his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, if he can’t see what’s happening, then he won’t feel the hands moving over his shoulders, down his stomach. And it’ll stop feeling so damn nice. With his…condition, not every part of him can feel, but the parts that can are more than making up for it.
Sam thinks quickly, and he can only come up with two explanations. Dean is either possessed by a demon immune to salt lines, devil’s traps, and protective wards, or his brother’s strained sanity has finally snapped like a burnt matchstick. Either way, this thing that feels so damn good is very, very bad, and Sam knows the difference between good and bad.
“Stop,” says Sam. He deserves some kind of medal for it.
It dawns slowly on Sam, watching Dean’s tongue drag slowly across his shining lower lip that Dean knows exactly what he’s doing. Sam had always thought he’d done a damn good job keeping his…fascination…with his brother under lock. Clearly, that was bullshit.
“You have to go,” Sam says.
“No one likes a prude, Sammy,” Dean says flatly. He presses a hand down Sam’s long, tight body and slips it over the stifling fabric of his shorts. Sam hisses at the sudden warmth where he needs it the most. With all the force he can muster--which, to be truthful, isn’t all that much at the moment--Sam shoves Dean away from him.
“I’m serious, knock it the hell off.” Sam scowls. A true glower from Sam Winchester is enough to make most men, and some less savory creatures, think twice about crossing him. But this is Dean, who won’t lose that smile that always gets right under Sam’s skin.
Dean pulls his hands back, putting them up like Sam’s armed. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me, honestly, that this isn’t your thing--you don’t want this, and I’ll go. We’ll never speak of it again, I swear.” Dean draws an X over his heart, to prove how seriously he takes this.
Sam’s lied before. He’s practically built a life out of it. “I don’t want this.”
“You’re a lousy fucking liar,” Dean says, and his hand grips the back of Sam’s head and pulls him in for a kiss that burns like looking at an angel.
Only when Hell freezes over would Sam admit how much time he has devoted to wondering how Dean tasted. Now, with Dean’s tongue filling up his mouth until Sam feels hungry, he realizes Dean doesn’t taste all that different from anyone else he’s locked lips with…except for the extra tang of hard liquor. It’s actually embarrassing-- if Dean did taste like honey and sex and magic, then Sam would have an explanation for why he’s harder than he can ever remember being. And while the taste might not be different, as Dean scrapes teeth lightly over Sam’s lower lip, filling the small space between them with low growls. The smell of him is drugging Sam. It’s metal and leather and smells like home. He’s starting to melt into the soft heat of Dean’s lips on his neck, licking at his collarbone and sucking on his earlobe like Sam’s made of sugar. He tries to ignore his straining dick, which clearly wants its own turn with those lips.
Sam’s working on mustering up some restraint, but in the meantime he lets out a moan and reaches up to slide a hand through Dean’s hair-something he’s wanted to do for a very long time. It’s amazing, and would probably be even better if Sam could feel anything.
He wants to bring Dean’s lips back to his, because they’re soft and warm and capable of great things, but he lets them go because those same lips are working down his body and Sam’s got an idea of where they’re headed. He’s not holding his breath, though…except, actually, he sort of is. He’s having some issues breathing normally, they keep coming out in needy moans or frantic huffs, as Dean’s tongue swipes hot across his nipples and wets the hard line leading down his stomach. Dean’s gripping Sam’s hips and Sam’s got his numb hands on Dean’s solid back and even if he can’t enjoy the slide of the sweating skin, he can understand the movement of muscle and it’s enough.
Sam bites his lip to keep from shouting Thank fucking God when Dean finally yanks off the shorts that have gone from adequate undergarment to suffocating injustice in a matter of minutes. He watches Dean’s eyes move over him, and he tries to get a grip on himself, to quiet the buzz in his blood. Close quarters don’t leave much room for modesty, but Sam knows Dean’s never seen him like this: big, shuddering breaths shaking his body, his dick full and hard and the head smeared with sloppy precum. If Sam had any sense left, he’d feel sheepish. Luckily, those particular circuits blew a while ago, and the sparks are just under Sam’s skin.
At the foot of the mattress, Dean sits back on his heels and stares at Sam for just a moment. A shadow of a thought slips quickly over Dean’s face, and no one but Sam would ever notice.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Dean snorts out a laugh. “You mean, besides this entire thing. Nothing, Sam. We’re good.”
“This is your first time, isn’t it?” Sam says, and only a moment later does it strike him as a stupid thing to say. The filter between Sam’s brain and mouth must have been pulled too thin when all his thoughts rushed down to his dick.
“You kidding me?” Dean says indignantly. “I’ve been doing this since before you hit puberty. This is not my first time.” He pauses. “I, uh, I’m usually on the receiving end, but how hard can it be?”
Sam’s looking down at Dean, crouched between his legs and with a strong hand clamped on either thigh. He looks like a hundred wet dreams . Sam knows that now is the moment. He could laugh because the situation is nine kinds of fucked and he could get Dean to laugh too.Maybe they could blame the whole damn thing on their brains being fried, what with the heat of the Apocalypse hanging over their heads. Sam knows he could stop it here.
But Sam’s whole body is tight with want-no, it’s not want anymore. He needs this. He needs his brother to keep touching him, or the world would end. Well, it was going to end either way-but if Sam could have this night, he might just be okay with that.
It’s already too late--Sam’s shocked out of all coherent thoughts when he feels his dick being wrapped up tight in Dean’s mouth. There’s a delicious tingling starting to tug at his gut. He feels Dean’s tongue working him over, rubbing and sucking him wet and messy, and Sam almost suspects his brother of lying about this being his first time. Sam lets his body drop back against the mattress, stretching out arms and fingers and toes. Dean’s mouth is so warm, it reminds Sam of that wonderful feeling of falling asleep in the backseat of the Impala, bathing in the sunlight pouring in all over him through the dusty window. Everything tight and tense unravels inside of him A moan strings out over his lips when Dean’s calloused fingers slide around to cup handfuls of Sam’s ass. Sam lifts his head just enough to peer down his long, shining body to watch Dean work.
Sam burns the swollen wet red lips and wide eyes and flushed cheeks into his memory. The sharp green eyes leave a mark on him that he’ll savor. Sam holds it all close to him, because this is the first time.
Maybe the only time, he realizes. This could be it.
Sam gasps when the warm and wonderful heat goes away. The smokey happiness that had been swirling in him stills, and Sam fights the bleary fog to focus on his brother.
“Listen, big guy,” Dean says, wiping an arm across his lips. “You’re gonna give me the countdown before blast off, right? ‘Cause I’ve got my lines, ya’ hear me? And none of this ‘Oh, I forgot’ bullshit, cause I practically invented that one.”
Sam knows it’s almost over. And then what?
“Sammy? Hello?”
After tonight, they’ll come back to their senses and it will be god awful and the last good thing Sam has will be fucked up forever. Things couldn’t possibly be the same, not after this-could they?
“Shit,” Sam hears Dean say. “I broke him.”
Maybe, maybe not-but Sam figures that he’s got until sunrise until sanity catches up with them.
“Dean,” Sam says.
“Oh, thank God. Thought I’d blown a fu-“
“Fuck me.”
The whistle of the wind and the creaking of the house is all Sam gets for a long moment.
“Come again?”
“I want you to fuck me,” Sam repeats. He tries to use his rational voice, as though this was an obvious and undeniable request. It’s an accomplishment, considering the worn room is slowly looping around Sam like he’s been taking shots of rubbing alcohol.
Dean’s face gets tightly woven into a frown. It borders on a snarl when he says, “Anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” He drags a thumb across his lower lip, and Sam watches intently. “Especially when it’s blowing you?”
Sam doesn’t have an answer to that. It occurs to him, with a dull thud of shock, that this is happening. He wonders with numb awe how this all happened. Dean isn’t looking at him, his brilliant eyes instead climbing the water-stained walls until he finally turns back and says, voice soft as a feather, “That’s what you want?”
Sam just licks his lips and nods.
“You got…uh, anything?” Dean asks. His gaze darts off into the darkness again.
Sam lets out a weak scoff. “This isn’t my first time,” he says, “And I usually am on the receiving end.” He catches a glimpse of Dean grimacing and almost laughs out loud. He rolls and reaches into his open duffel, fishing. His fingers grasp clumsily and his movements are slow, but he manages to produce an old bottle of lube that hasn’t been popped open in longer than Sam’s ever going to admit. He watches closely was Dean takes the bottle from him with a disgusted sneer on his face. If Sam’s brain was more than a simmering mess, he might poke fun at Dean for the prudish expression on his face as he squirts a glob into his hand. That thought melts away when Dean growls, “Roll over.”
With a total absence of thought or grace, Sam flops himself onto his stomach. Sheer willpower keeps him from losing it as Dean works him open with strong, steady fingers. He manages some amount of cooperation as Dean manhandles him to his knees, hoisting him up until Dean’s slick, solid chest is flush against Sam’s back, and Dean’s cock is pressed neatly along the crack of his ass. He can feel Dean’s dick flex against the tight muscle, and a hot comets run up and down his spine.
There’s not a lot of gentleness in the way Dean grips him-an arm slung across his shoulders to hold him up-all Sam’s bones have turned to warm syrup. There’s just a bare trace of tenderness in the way Dean lines himself up and shoves into Sam, without hesitation. Sam arches his back and grits his teeth and it’s skirting that thin, vibrating line between oh so fucking good and very, very bad. All the gentleness that isn’t there when Dean fucks into him is in his voice, as he whispers like wispy clouds in the dirty dark. He says quietly in Sam’s ear, “I’ll give you what you want, Sammy. Tell me this is what you want.”
Sam’s answering, he’s sure he is because his mouth is moving, but whatever is coming out is beyond him. He’s babbling like a man possessed, words boiling out of his brain and flowing through his lips as Dean fills him up. He assumes they’re some combination of “Please,” “yes,” and “fuck.”
Dean grinds against him, pumping fast and hard and Sam’s so fucking hard, his dick so full of the same warm, cosmic feeling that’s flooding his body. Like he’s filled with molten stars, like he’s drowning in good. He bends at the waist, presses his ass back, to get Dean deeper, and grins drunkenly when he hears Dean moan. Dean’s hands are wrapped hard on Sam’s hips, and when those rough fingers slide over his overheated skin to wrap Sam’s dick in a firm, sweaty hold, Sam knows it’s all over.
He lasts through a few pumps and thinks about what Dean said earlier-3, 2, 1, fucking lift off. Sam’s head is in space as his body spasms through an orgasm that feels like a black hole. He’s flickering back to reality as Dean grunts and comes, and Sam smiles. Dean collapses next to him and they spend a long time breathing.
“Dean…” Sam says blearily. He’s not sure what’s supposed to come next. Thank you? Sam only knows that he feels satisfied in a deep down soul kind of way, and that it’s because of Dean. “Dean, I-“
Dean puts a big hand on the side of Sam’s face. Sam thinks that in the pale moonlight, Dean looks otherworldly. And after everything, that’s sort of how Sam feels.
“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says. “Go to sleep.”
Sam understands that tomorrow, he’ll wake up in a slightly different world. That knowledge makes him hold tight to consciousness, but like so many things he’s tried to hang on to, it slips like smoke through his fingers, until the world is fading from him.
Sam knows that nothing--whatever happens tomorrow morning, the Judgement of Heaven and Hell, the unraveling of the universe, nothing-can change that this night happened. Sam doesn’t quite know if he should feel good or bad about that, but either way, he drifts off with a small smile playing on his lips and some true feeling in the center of his fading body.
-part V.two-