Archive of Our Own ^beta

The silence is stifling. 

It wraps around them like a heavy cloud teetering on the edge of a particularly violent cloudburst - threatens the brothers by looming hauntingly over their heads. The way it circles them is sneaky for it never really shows up; it's presence is more subtle than anything else. 

Just like the brothers after all. 

Unwelcome thoughts about their last conversation stray into Sam's aching head, and he is forced to confront his demons. It's not the confrontation that scares him. The reluctant hunter has had first hand experience in the area of loss of control. The idea of agency rests extremely close to his broken heart. Almost as close as his big brother, but not quite. 

He sighs. 

Although its a gentle sound, his brother nevertheless fails to hear. His motions are practiced - years of caring for him have turned his brother into this machine; a machine that recognizes without fail whenever its "owner" is in danger. Dean's brow perks questioningly, the simplicity of the motion belied by the terse way he holds his shoulders. That beautiful mouth - the mouth which has caused quite a few bar brawls - is drawn tightly; shit eating grin nowhere in sight as he turns back to the devastated mother of a recently dead son. 

Sam stares at Dean just a little bit longer than required, but far lesser than he truly wants. This is not the place and this is definitely not the time. There are people to be saved. 

There will always be people to be saved. 

They're in a trashy, cramped motel room again. A part of their lives they accepted long ago, albeit with different strategies. Sam with his characteristic stubborness, Dean with his gruff understanding. Another sigh escapes his mouth, followed closely by his brother's drawn out yawn. There is more than just physical fatigue in that sound. There's emotional and mental fatigue in there too - pushing down the physical fatigue, tamping it until it becomes tangible enough to smash and shatter. 

Sam's waiting for that moment. 

"You going to bed?"

His question catches his brother off guard, and for a moment he watches Dean tense up again. It's a posture he recognizes. It's a direct declaration of defeat. Sam's own shoulders sag upon the realization, and his heart clenches into an ugly fist with the sudden epiphany. Sometimes, he hates his intuitive mind. 

Dean doesn't turn around, just gives him an abrupt nod with a bare glance and then settles sluggishly into bed. 

No, Sam always hates his intutive mind. 

After an hour of research, every sign of the hunt points to a kitsune. Owing to his obsessive nature, Sam still double checks. He goes over the details from the crime scene and mentally berates himself for not having seen it sooner. It's as a clear as an SOS signal; of course it's a kitsune. 

Amy.

The name jumps at him out of nowhere - reminding him of yet another wedge between his brother and himself. It reminds him of the fact that they never really needed a reason to fight; the fight was already there. He and his brother only provided the gunpowder to start an explosion. 

It's his third sigh of the evening, and that too without exchanging any words with his brother. Surprisingly, Sam never really sighs when he and his brother engage in their "arguments"; they mostly punch and kick and shout. 

He likes that better, he thinks. 

A soft rustle from the bed breaks him out the deep reverie, and he turns automatically - his eyes going first and foremost to his brother. He too, is trained in this art. This mechanic activity of silently assessing for harm. Dean might have chosen to do it more physically, but Sam was just as stringent if not as stark about it. 

He stalks to the bed and without thinking, lays a gentle hand on his brother's softly rising and falling back. It's a mistake, and he knows it before his wrist is grasped in a bruising grip and his back is thumped harshly against the mattress. 

Suddenly awake green lenses stare deeply into hazel ones; millions of words said and unsaid coloring the short distance between their eyes. A trusted method of communication. This is far better than the poison that spews so freely from their mouths. 

Breaths mingle and heartbeats thrum together. Sam swallows, the motion pinching to his suddenly dry throat. 

As always, Dean recovers first. He removes his grip on Sam's embarrassingly fragile wrist and jumps away from him in a surprisingly graceful move.

"Dont do that again Sam."

Before they enter the suspected the lair of the beast, Sam sends a quiet prayer for it to be a simple hunt. 

But when has God ever listened?

So it's not a simple hunt. They get the destination wrong on the first try and their weapons jammed on the second. Third time lucky proves to be true however, and Sam successfully stabs the kitsune with his knife; an aim so sharp that it slices right through the heart of the monster, and teeters on the edge of Dean's chest. 

They dispose of the body and take their understood places in the car as they head back to the motel. 

The drive is silent; not even music is allowed to pervade the thick air and leave it somewhat lighter. Music has not blasted in the leathered interiors of the Impala since the day Sam set their terms. No Led Zeppelin, no Boston, no Foreigner and definitely no Pink Floyd can be heard through the speakers. Its just them and the quiet. 

Sam fidgets. 

He stares at his fingers, still a little bloody from the kitsune, and twirls them round and round. He focuses on the miniscule rips on his jeans and inevitably, his glance switches to his brother's features instead. He's no fool so he doesn't stare outrightly. Although his direct vision is clouded by the unwelcome color of his own jeans, his peripheral vision is occupied by Dean. Dean's beautiful hands. Dean's beautiful legs. 

Legs that wrap around so beautifully around Sam's waist. Like a key made specifically for one lock. Only one lock and no other. 

The thought curls the side of his lip in a mockery of a smile. Their arguments have always paved the way for some rough incestuous fucking, so this time proves to be no exception. The rational part of his mind argues vehemently against the idea, but the better part of his brain - the one that has kept him sane in these insane times - is exhausted and doesn't have the will to spar.

They need this.

Dean enters the room first, bloody hands throwing the duffel on to the still unkempt bed. No house keeping does have its issues. He heads the bathroom, the same bloody hands grasping his shirt as he pulls it off his sweaty body. Sam can only stare as his brother's muscled back is bared to him; rivulets of blood and sweat mixing to slide down into his boxers. 

Want unfurls in his stomach again. 

It's something that can't be helped, and for the first time in a very long time, Sam doesn't want to rationalize it. Their first time is still a stark memory in his mind; no amount of bitterness or regret can ever drown the gritty perfection of that moment. A teenaged Sam pinning his brother to the wall because he's just so pissed with everything and oh Dean oh Dean wont you make it better? Wont you love me, love me like I want to be loved by you? Whimpered groans as he pries his brother's willing lips apart. Exquisite grunts as he pushes into his brother's virgin body with his virgin cock; conquest aided only by slick precome, blood and sweat. 

In the mirror placed almost strategically across the room, he can see his rapidly changing reflection. Normal hazel eyes glossing over with desire, jaw clenching and a tell tale tent in his jeans from his erotic ideas. Sick ideas too, but he's long past the point of caring. 

There is still anger in him. Anger at being violated. Anger at being lied to. 

Again. 

By his brother. By his stone number one. By his lover. 

But there are better ways to channel his anger and he's going to make sure they clear it all out today.

His brother walks out five minutes later. Head down, fingers testing the wounds on his chest as pokes and prods at the scrapes. Sam knows its nothing. He's looked at and loved that body for far too long now to be unable to detect anything wrong with it. The wounds are superficial. They will heal. 

So will they. 

He stalks towards his brother with every intention of healing them. Words fail him but this time, this time he swears that his actions wont. Words have never worked with them anyway. Its the actions that have proved their worth; its the loving, its the bruising and its the bandaging that has cleaned the miscommunication and allowed them to progress in areas where words have failed miserably. 

So he'll show him.

And show him he does. 

Sam grabs the antiseptic cream from the duffel and makes his way towards his brother. He rushes, rushes like he always has when approaches his brother. The need to be close is overpowering. Its stronger than their issues with each other; it's a feat he's thankful for. 

He sits down next to Dean, fully anticipating the sudden rigidity that suffuses his brother's body owing to his closeness. Calmly, he removes Dean's prodding fingers and places them gently in his lap. Gentle has never really boded well with his brother; even during the times they've been with each other, his brother has always demanded that it be tinged with a level of roughness, with a level of pain added to the mix. 

Sam understands. 

Hell - and he supposes Purgatory - do that to a man. Pain and pleasure had always been lines easily blurred for his brother, but after trips taken across multiple dimensions, that line had blurred so much that it was almost close to extinct.

But Sam has no right to castigate his brother on that. 

As he cleans his brother's wounds, he reminisces on his own pain tolerance - and pain want - a trait he shares with his brother. Pain is comforting. Pain is a reminder of what is real. He likes being reminded of what is real. And pain is a penance. 

Physical pain he can handle, but the pain that now shines in his brother's green eyes like bloodied emeralds is a pain he cannot take. Will not take. 

So he smiles lightly, adding a little extra stroke as he puts bandages on his brother's chest. His ministrations are halted though, and Dean's always sturdy hand grips Sam's in a not very sturdy manner. He even shakes a little, his voice cracking on the one word that Sam loves to hear.

"Sammy."

Sam stills, his hands settling over his brother's recently bandaged heart. The word is a homecoming. It's a blessing and a curse all at once, and it's something that he will never get over hearing. He smiles. 

"Yeah Dean?"

"Whatchya doin' Sammy?"

His voice is broken just like his heart and his spirit, and for the first time in a long time, Sam has hope. There is hope for Dean and him. There is hope that something good will come out of this codependency they share. There is hope that he and Dean can love each other without hurting each other. 

"Im forgiving you Dean."

Those green green eyes widen in surprise and then characteristically narrow in suspicion. That move is so like him that Sam lets out a small chuckle. Almost immediately though, he sobers up. The reason is both interesting and amazing at the same time; its nothing new - only the same old story about how he knows his brother better than anyone. 

"Why?"

And this time, Sam knows Dean has learned. 

He smiles again and tells his brother what they already know, but must hear once again.

"Because you're still my big brother and I still love you."

Dean doesn't say anything for a long time. For such a long time that Sam is prompted into thinking that maybe he's made a faux pas. Maybe this intervention should have waited a while, maybe he should have done something differently, maybe he should have said -

His mind is thrust rudely into overdrive, his erudite brain forcing him to consider each area of conversation ripe for mistakes. But before he can truly delve into that analysis, his brother stops him. 

Just like he always does. 

Dean opens his pretty mouth, croaks a little, and then shuts it. He waits a few more seconds and opens it once again, this time scrunching his nose and closing as eyes as he forms words that Sam knows are taking a lot of courage. 

"Sam, you were right."

For a minute, Sam remains frozen. His brother's gravely uttered sentence resounds in his brain like an incessant doorbell; worriesome and neverending. What do those words mean? He's said a lot in the past few weeks and not knowing what his brother is talking about is like a punch in the gut. Is he talking about Sam's terms, his thoughts on their-

Once again, it's Dean who stops his insanity from peeking over its tightly restrained lock. 

"What I did was selfish. But I cant apologize for saving you. I wont."

Imperceptibly, Sam lets out a small breath. Thank god. Even though his mind is beginning to rebel at his older brother's words, his heart is rising and looking at his lover, his partner with a hopeful glance. His brother takes a deep breath and Sam knows that now is Dean's purge. 

Finally. 

For a man not good with words, Dean does a decent job explaining - and apologizing - for his actions. His points are short and concise, his reasons behind them long and winding. There are times when his voice cracks, and Sam is right there with him to hold it in his hands and tape it back together again. It's what he's always done. He's kept his brother sane too. 

So Dean ends the speech in character, hints of tears coating emerald eyes and slightly bloody hands shaking with the effort of not touching Sam. His head is bowed and shoulders hunched and Sam is once again reminded of his brother's defeated glance. 

He wont stand for it. This is it. Time to act Winchester. 

Without wasting another minute, Sam tugs on his brother's bent head and forces him to look right into his hazel eyes. Eyes that both mirror and antagonize his other half; hazel meeting green, recognizing the desire fighting to cover the entire surface, little stars of hope shimmering oh so brightly in lenses that capture their worlds. 

Their entire worlds; namely, each other. 

"Oh Dean."

There is nothing else to be said. No words are needed to express what they are feeling; no words ever could. 

So they let their bodies do the talking. Let arms tangle into each other, let teeth clash, let tongues twist and hearts beat the same damn rhythm. Just like soulmates. Exactly like soulmates. 

It's like they never stopped. They fall into a pattern as familiar as the verses of the Bible in Churches of Old and as new as the happiness they've only just found. A pattern as beautiful as the starry sky gazed at by two brothers who fell in love from the moment they looked into each other's eyes, and never truly fell out of it. 

Sam's kisses are brutal. Fazed with intensity, with anger and with an all consuming love that leaves Dean gasping. His teeth nip marks on to Dean's neck and the broken and re healed knot of his collarbone, purple tattoos lining skin like a physical reminder of Sam's love. It's evidence of everything that has ever happened between them. Of everyone who has ever dared to come between them.

Dean does the same. Callused hands delve deep into his little brother's soft locks, twisting around the strands like his soul has twisted around his brother's. His lips pepper kisses over Sam's intelligent forehead, over his dimpled cheeks, over the long line of his throat. His mouth roams lower, sucking hickeys into the skin of his brother's shoulders. He feels the weight there, kisses them gently as if reminding his brother that those burdens aren't his alone. He'll hold them, cradle them and share them as long as he's alive. 

Sam understands. 

His hands fumble with the button on his older brother's jeans, characteristic impatience taking over and tugging a growl from his throat. But Dean's reaction is unprecedented. He grins and lets out a little bark of a laugh; the first one in a long time. And like any little brother, Sam's heart overflows with the realization that he's put it there. Him. No one else. 

He smiles and reaches for his brother once again. Dean comes willingly, his hands taking their rightful position over Sam's chest. He shucks off his jeans, demanding silently that Sam do the same. And Sam does. Off comes his plaid and down go his own jeans. He's waited for this a long time. A long, long time. 

They kiss again and its like an explosion of fireworks. In his mind, Sam sees the open field with the sky lighting up with colors he's only ever seen before in Dean's eyes. Without ever asking, he knows that's what his brother's thinking about too. Being soulmates allows a certain comfort in this arena, he thinks. Dean smiles against his mouth, tired lenses opening to stare at Sam with so much love that it leaves him breathless. 

He looks back and hopes that Dean sees the same. 

He does.

They're on the small bed now; two long bodies rutting against each other in the cramped space, filling the area with their heartache and pain. They hold on to each other like the Serpent around Eve. Like weeds around flowers and like raindrops to the ground. Hands roaming over bodies marked with the physical manifestations of being heroes and carrying the world. 

And each other.

But I can carry you. 

And they do. 

Sam grabs the lube from the duffel, flicking the cap open and dabbing a generous amount on his fingers. He knows his brother likes pain, but tonight is not the night for penance. He kisses Dean once again, pouring everything he can into that one carress. One hand frames the side of his brother's beautiful face while the other searches his brother for his core. When Dean jumps lightly in his arms, Sam knows he's found it. 

He's gentle, one finger working Dean slowly as he continues to drop carresses over his brother's body. A kiss on his eyelids, another over his cheeks and another of his throat. Two fingers are now pushing past his brother's tight rim, and Sam drops his head to tongue pebbled nipples. He hears a moan escape his brother's mouth and nips at the hardened nubs, continuing to open Dean with his other hand, patience rewarding him with a slightly loosened core. He drops to stroke his brother's hardened dick, moaning himself when pre come drips steadily from the slit. 

He kisses Dean one more time, righting his brother into a position more comfortable and one that allows him to stare into green eyes to watch him come. Dean harkens immediately, rising up on his elbows to see his brother's dick line up with his entrance. It's an erotic sight and it leaves them both transfixed. 

Their moans are melded as Sam pushes in, going slow until he's buried to the hilt and Dean is clamping around him like a vice. Groans and growls pervade the musky air around them, transforming into full blown cries once Sam begins to thrust. 

Each movement is drawn out, each thrust meant to hit each spot inside his brother's body. And he does. Dean's body bucks like a shot, cries emerging from his lips like the most faithful of prayers sent to the Lord. He chants Sam's name in a litany of need; curling his tongue around his little brother's name like he is his redemption and salvation in one. And Sam understands that. Feels that to the bottom of his bones because he cries Dean's name like that too. 

There is no one else here. Nobody. No Cas and no Benny and no Lisa and no Amelia and no Sarah. 

Not even Jessica.

This moment is their's. This entire lifetime is their's. And God save anybody who ever tries to come between them.

Sam cries out, his shout piercing the air as he feels Dean clench around him. His words are garbled, speech deserting him at the end moment, mind reverting to more primitive stages of communication as he leans down and bites on his brother's neck. Dean bucks harshly against him, his climax hitting him like an unanticipated bullet. A growl is ripped form his throat as he comes with an intensity that whites out his vision. 

Sam does the same. Dean's name is heavy on his lips as he feels his orgasm course through him like lightening bolts across a stormstruck sky. 

Tremors run through their bodies as Sam drops to Dean's side, still joined to him, not having the heart to leave him just as yet. Their breathing is still ratcheted, heartbeats still thrumming in tandem and their legs still tangled. None makes a move to leave though. 

As usual, Dean's the first to say something. 

"Sammy, if you die the next time-"

Sam tenses, his back lengthening as he hears his brother speak. If they're back to square one, then they're truly damned. 

"I know you don't want me to save you, but just know that if you go, I do too."

He stills. 

"There ain't no me if there ain't no you Sammy."

Sam smiles and turns to face his brother. He doesn't know how to feel about this, but he's been expecting it. In a twisted way, this is a development. They're moving on and maturing and learning. 

He kisses Dean one last time, whispers and says, 

"I know Dean, I know."

And just like always, they fall asleep with no nightmares to chase when they're where they belong - right here in each others' arms.