Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean arches an eyebrow at Sam when he notices him standing in the doorway. Sam’s dressed in baggy -- everything’s baggy on Sam’s skinny legs -- faded jeans, a grey v-neck, and a blue plaid flannel shirt. He looks like he’s ready to go while Dean’s lying in bed in sweats and a single t-shirt; he doesn’t even have socks on.

It’s the tablet in Sam’s hands that has Dean sighing.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says; it doesn’t sound like a normal ‘hey’. “I was--”

“No,” Dean’s quick to shoot him down, gluing his eyes to the horror movie marathon on AMC. A guy that reminds him a little too much of Sammy is being chased by Jason Vorhees, and Dean finds himself wishing Sam was watching with him so they could laugh together. “We’re not going anywhere tonight, kiddo, it’s the night before Halloween.”

Sam finally crosses the threshold into Dean’s room to take a peek at the TV. “Why are you watching this crap, Dean? We live this everyday.”

“Exactly.” He grins up at Sam who’s staring incredulously at him, and gestures to the TV. “It’s not us, Sammy. It’s not real.” He pats the bed beside him and Sam obediently sits down. He sets his tablet on the memory foam between them and they pass jibes back and forth about the movie -- ”He looks nothing like me, Dean.” “Do you see his hair? Girly just like yours.” -- and playful jabs at each other’s sides, poking and prodding until the other caves and they watch in silence for a time.

It’s something they haven’t had in so long. Dean wishes they could do this all the time like when they were growing up. He wishes he did so many things differently; wonders if they wouldn’t have drifted like they had if they hadn’t made some of the choices they made. If it’s something they could fix between them.

Sam’s been quiet for awhile, and Dean finds himself staring longer at his brother than he’s stared at the TV screen. The kid makes little comments here and there, things he would have done better than his lookalike, better survival tips. And Dean doesn’t know what comes over him. Sam’s beautiful without even trying, and Dean can’t help it when the kid’s looking so damn gorgeous while lying half on his bed, engrossed in a horror movie.

He leans over and presses a kiss to Sammy’s parted lips. Sam had absolutely no time to react before Dean pulled away. “Dean?”

They experimented, once. Before Sam left for Stanford. Dean kissed Sam out of the blue when dad was out on a hunt. The kid was seventeen, just came home from soccer practice. He was glistening in sweat, hair pulled back into the smallest ponytail to keep the strands from his sweaty neck and Dean wanted. God, how he wanted. And he took. Just a simple kiss, hands on his little brother’s sweaty chest, and Dean was lost. They were the same height then, before he knew that Sam would grow to be four inches taller than him when they’d meet four years later.

And Dean was a fool because months later, when dad told Sam to leave, said that if he did leave not to come back, Dean didn’t say anything. Sam’s eyes pleaded at him for thousands of things -- forgive me, keep me, ask me to stay -- and Dean did nothing. He felt betrayed that Sam was leaving, but it took him years to realize that Sam had to have felt betrayed too, that Dean dropped him off and didn’t fight for him.

He tells himself it’s because he wanted Sam to have his chance at normal, but he’s just been too scared to admit his feelings.

But now...now he’s got Sam; Sam’s on his bed, making his own place in Dean’s memory foam -- his bed will recognize Sam now, and that pleases Dean more than it should -- and Dean wants something fierce because of his little brother’s proximity.

“Do you remember, Sam?” he whispers against Sam’s lips. His body rolls towards Sam as if a force is drawing them together. Sam is warm underneath him; soft, pliant. He doesn’t protest when Dean kisses him again. “Remember the first time I kissed you?”

“Dean--”

“You have to, I know you do. You kissed back. I tilted your head with my fingers in that ridiculous bun and you opened your mouth to me. God, Sammy, you tasted so good.”

A sound escapes Sam then -- something primal, between a whine and a growl -- and he bucks underneath Dean, their hips pressing together and making Dean gasp. He’d left space between their groins to prevent his body taking over in the heat of the moment, but Sam closed that space in one buck of his narrow hips. There’s screaming on the TV in the background but Dean’s unfazed by it. His focus is on his little brother, pressed flat underneath him, panting. He can feel how hard Sam is under his jeans, his own erection painful but not trapped behind a zipper like Sam’s. But when he grinds down he still hisses when the fabric rubs against it.

“Dean, god, I--” He gets a hand between them, Dean’s eyes following Sam’s skinny fingers as they close around his button and get his pants unbuttoned and unzipped. He’s seen his little brother’s dick before, but never in this context. He’s never blatantly stared at Sammy’s erection, nor has he seen the kid shimmying his pants off while lying down.

Underneath Dean.

On Dean’s bed.

Fuck.

Dean can’t get out of his sweats fast enough. Sweats are freeing; he doesn’t wear underwear when he’s in sweats, or in bed. It’s more comfortable to go without. He just has to worry about Sam’s tight boxer shorts. They cling to his thighs in a way so obscene Dean has to lick his lips. Sam’s too gorgeous for his own good, staring up at Dean in wonder when Dean strips himself completely.

He smirks, says, “What, you act like you’ve never seen me in my prime,” and winks. What he didn’t expect was the blush to creep itself onto Sam’s cheeks, staining them a beautiful pink Dean could get used to. He has to kiss Sam then.

It’s been long enough that he knows he won’t last if he were to fuck Sam right now, and he wants their official first time to be longer than a few thrusts and two minutes if he’s lucky. He’s almost completely sure that the process of preparing Sam will have him blowing his load all over the both of them; he isn’t sure he’d mind that outcome, Sammy covered in his come.

“What are you smiling about?”

Dean kisses him quiet again while working his hands to get the boxer shorts off his little brother’s hips. Sam lifts up to help him and Dean growls when their bare dicks rub against each other. “Fuck, Sammy,” he utters against kiss-swollen lips he’d like to see wrapped around his dick one day. The thought sends a shiver down his spine and he grinds down involuntarily, making them both cry out.

“I’m not gonna fuck you right now, baby brother.” He closes his eyes to block out the pout that ruined his life one too many times. “Because you deserve better than that right now. But I am going to make you come on my fingers, and my fingers alone. I know I can make you do that. I want to see you come apart under me.”

Sam’s nod is affirmation enough. Dean reaches over into the top drawer of his nightstand and pulls out the bottle of lube. It’s his emergency lube; rarely does he have time to jack off anymore, but when he does, he slicks his dick up with it and squeezes just right and it feels like he’s fucking something tight and hot. It’s been too long since he’s had sex that one stroke and he’d be done at this point, especially when there’s miles of naked little brother writing underneath him. On his fucking bed.

He lifts a knee and straddles one of his brother’s thighs, lubing up three of the fingers on his right hand. His left hand lifts and bends Sammy’s right knee until his thigh is pressed against his chest and he’s almost folded in half, hooking his ankle over his shoulder and holding him in place with a kiss. Sam whines into his mouth when the first finger slips in. It’s tight, and Dean can’t help but wonder if Sammy’s still a virgin down there, if that space only belongs to Dean. The thought sends with it a possessive growl and he pushes all the way in with his index finger.

Sam’s clenching around him, the sounds and feeling doing things to Dean he didn’t think were possible. Precome drips onto Sam’s skinny but strong thigh and Dean pulls back to look at it beading from his dick and dropping onto his brother. Sam’s going to be beautiful covered in Dean’s come.

He grinds down once onto Sam’s thigh and moans long and loud while Sam begs for another finger. Dean obliges, kissing away the hurt when Sam hisses his discomfort. But then he can’t help but ride Sam’s thigh for the friction on his dick as Sam clenches around two fingers, taking them like he was made for it. He wants to push his dick in so bad, take Sam completely, fuck him wet and messy until he’s screaming to come, begging for Dean to keep going, to stop. He wants to watch his come drip out of his little brother, and then lick him clean. Kiss his own come into Sam’s mouth and then suck him off to completion.

He’s unaware when he pushes in a third finger, but Sam’s writhing beneath him, moaning loud enough to wake the dead. Dean has half a mind to remember the angel resting deeper in the bunker, but he finds that he doesn’t care because he’s coming all over Sam’s thigh just with the way Sam’s messy hole clenches around his three fingers as he comes all over himself and Dean. They’re both covered in come by the time Dean pulls out his fingers. Sam did as he was told; he came with just Dean’s fingers in his ass. Dean kisses him in praise before pulling him against him.

“Shower?” Sam manages in a hoarse voice, but Dean just holds him tighter and bites at his neck. “Dean--”

“Let me just stay here a minute,” Dean murmurs, voice muffled by Sam’s sweaty neck. He loves how Sam smells, especially covered in Dean’s come. “I’ve needed this for years.” He feels Sam nod against him, but then tenses when Dean starts rubbing their come into Sam’s stomach and thigh. He makes a disgusted huff and Dean smirks, but doesn’t stop. “It’s mischief night,” he says by way of conversation. “I think that grants me permission to do whatever the hell I want to my little brother.”

By the time midnight hits and it’s officially Halloween, Sam’s completely forgotten about any potential cases he may have found on his tablet, and any horror movies that have Sam or Dean lookalikes in them.

Chapter Text

It wasn't that Sam hated being Dean’s little brother; it was the fact that he was the little brother. He had to stand through all the times Dean would ruffle his hair, or beat him in both training and play fights, wearing that stupid smirk that never left his stupid face. Sam hated being small and gawky and skinny. He hated that Dean could always overpower him with height and muscle.

He hated that that stupid leather jacket he wore smelled so good and almost always brought Sam's guard down.

And he hated that Dean knew it, too. Because it smelled like home and just soothed Sam in a way that the purr of the Impala's engine didn't. Because every night, Dean would take off the jacket and let Sam use it as a pillow when they stayed in the car instead of getting a motel room. The well-worn leather no longer smelled like dad, who gave it to Dean, and instead smelled like Sam's older brother, and that itself gave Sam comfort.

Dean knew all of that, because the one night it was too chilly in the car where they slept, Dean kept the jacket on instead of letting Sam use it, and Sam barely slept that night. When Dean got a slightly heavier jacket at the next town they blew through, and handed Sam the leather jacket like he didn't the night before, slipping into his new jacket, Sam smiled to himself and fell asleep immediately.

His brother never admitted that he got the new jacket so Sam could use the leather one; he'd brushed it off like it was nothing, and said, "I was just cold, is all. You don't gotta be a girl about it." Sam let it go, but the smile that spread across his face hurt his cheeks the rest of the day.

They "trained" once a week, twice if they weren't deep in a hunt, and sometimes not at all because they'd spend so much time on the road they'd have no time. John taught Dean everything he knows, but when John said he was going to teach Sam, Dean volunteered; John was happy to know his sons still wanted to spend time together, despite always being together. He'd leave them to their training while he scoped out the area.

Dean never exactly played fair, though Sam didn't expect him to. Dean's the older brother, determined not to give little Sammy an easy time. Though Sam will admit that Dean was probably more lenient than their dad.

He was always pinned so easily, held down and forced to submit, to admit that Dean had won. Sam hated it more than he hated losing, the fact that Dean exploited his weaknesses. But to an extent, Sam knew Dean was doing it for his own good, because monsters won't go easy on someone just because they're a kid. He just wished Dean would let him win every once in awhile. Just because.

There was one time he got Dean on his back. He was straddling Dean's hips, Dean's arms pressed to the ground, forearms gripped in Sam's small, bony hands, with a grinning Sam above him, triumphant.

"I gotcha!" he shouted, but loosened his grip in his excitement and Dean had him flipped over in an instant, pinning him just the same but with a stronger grip. Sam's legs had squeezed around Dean's hips when they flipped, and he was left with his legs strewn aside his brother's, Dean on his knees between Sam's thighs.

"Easy, tiger," Dean practically purred, a smirk on his face that Sam was pretty sure he'd only seen Dean use on the girls in the diner, or at school. "I actually think I got you."

It was a spur of the moment thing, really; if Sam could plead insanity he would, because without thinking, he leaned up the two inches he needed and pressed his lips against Dean's. It was wrong; god, was it wrong. He was kissing his older brother. His 17 year old brother. Sam's never kissed anyone before, and here he is leaning up further to kiss his big brother like it's nothing. Like it's normal. Like --

Dean was frozen above him; Sam used that as his opportunity to surge forward and flip them again. "I gotcha!" he shouted again, shooting Dean the biggest, brightest dimpled grin he was capable of using. "I gotcha, Dean!"

His laugh must have snapped Dean out of it, because he met Sam's eyes finally. "Yeah, this time," he said, and wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand. Sam was grinning too much to care; it's not like they hadn't swapped spit before, brothers and all, sharing drinks and food; mostly Dean stealing sips of Sam's soda and bites of his food when it wasn't healthy. Dean's convinced that Sam started eating healthy because it repels him; Sam wouldn't actually disagree. "But next time you won't be so lucky, kiddo, now lemme up before I knock your lights out."

*

Except next time, and the time after that, and the time after that, Sam beat Dean by pressing their lips together in a close-lipped kiss. It never failed because Dean never failed to be shocked. Green eyes wide, pupils dilated. He'd freeze like he was playing Dean, and Sam would flip him just like the first time.

And when he'd finally let Dean up, laughing and grinning, Dean would roll his eyes and wipe off his mouth like always and say, "You won't be so lucky next time, kiddo."

"Whatever you say, big brother," Sam would say, and grab the hand that Dean always held up, and pull his brother off the ground. They'd both be smiling, except Dean would no longer have to look down, because he and Sam were eye level.

The kiss would only be weird if they made it weird, or tried to make it deeper. Sam almost 17 years old, Dean 21, and both of them without a girlfriend, Sam didn't really care if it kept giving him the upper hand. He's only used it against Dean five times anyway, but who's actually counting?

Maybe one day he'd win without a cheap trick like that. He's almost got the height; he's sure as hell got the agility.

*

Someone's in his and Jess' home. She's alseep in the bed they share, and someone's broken in. Sam's heart beats heavily in his chest, his breath coming out louder than he wants because no monsters are supposed to be here. No one should be here but him and Jess.

This is their home. It may be theirs because of school, but it's theirs. And Sam will protect it until his dying breath; he can't lose another home. He's lost two already.

There's a silhouette near the front window. Sam doesn't think; he attacks. He's on his back after throwing a few kicks and punches. He thinks about clawing out the eyes of who or whatever's on him, but then they move and in the light of the moon --

"Whoa, easy, tiger," comes the familiar purr, and Sam gasps out a breathless, raspy whisper.

"Dean?"

His big brother smirks above him; the upturned lips are enough to make Sam cry because it's been four years since he's seen them... two years since he's heard his brother's voice. But he doesn't cry. He's better than that. The training comes back; just like when they were kids. His heart's beating fast, but for a different reason than fear this time. He's 22 years old. He has a girlfriend who he's going to ask to marry him when the time is right. He loves her, but this is what he knows.

He knows how to get out from under Dean when he's pinned. He knows how to render his big brother stupid with just a single pair of pink lips and an upturned smirk. He knows what exactly Dean will say to him once he's got him down.

But he also knows that that will be it. He'll kiss Dean long enough to flip their positions, and then he'll help Dean up and ask him what the hell he's doing in Palo Alto. He'll go back to bed with Jess once his brother goes on his way, and then Monday morning he'll be at the interview that will change the entire course of his future.

With a loud exhale, Sam leans up and presses his lips to Dean's. He's expecting the instant loss of control, the way Dean shuts down when Sam presses their lips together. He's expecting it, so he's completely thrown when Dean presses back. Dean pushes down harder, parts his lips and uses his tongue and teeth to coax Sam's lips apart. Kisses Sam in a way they've never kissed before.

Sam struggles, but Dean's as strong as ever because Dean's been hunting the past four years. He's in practice; kept his muscles up to speed. Sam's got thin, wiry muscle; it fits his lean body. Keeps him from looking skinny and sickly. But without his trick -- with Dean having a trick of his own -- there's nothing left to do but melt. He closes his eyes and lets Dean take over, because it feels right. It tastes right. It feels like home. Dean is home.

He has no idea when Dean let go of his hands, but he finds his fingers grasping at short hair, trying to find purchase in something that he can't grab. He growls his frustration against his brother's lips and Dean laughs into the kiss. He finds it unfair that Dean can grab his hair, but he can't grab Dean's, because there are fingers turning his head to give Dean a better angle and Sam yearns.

"That's my boy," Dean whispers as he pulls away, brushing Sam's bangs from his forehead. "I got you, kiddo."

Sam's grateful for the darkness of the room because his cheeks burn with the spreading blush along his face. He turns his head to the side with a muttered, "'m not a kid anymore, Dean," and Dean laughs.

"Still my kid brother, Sammy." He kisses Sam once more, just because, and says, "It's too bad you can't use your cheap little trick against me anymore, huh?" And Sam's pretty sure he hates his big brother. It's definitely the emotion he's feeling. Hatred. But he can't seem to stop smiling, and he hates that more than anything. He's just glad Dean doesn't have the leather jacket on.

Chapter Text

Dean’s been in his room a few days. He can barely look at Sam since he tried to kill him, but not without Sam trying to coax him back out. Castiel’s come and gone a few times, asking Sam how Dean is, if there’s any change, but there’s only a slow shake of his head every time. Castiel nods each time and is gone in a flutter of wings. He’s left alone again, Dean so close but so far, and it’s killing him.

He goes out, passes bars on the way to the diner, wanting more than anything to sit in there and drink it all away. But drinking alone was never something that interested him; he needs Dean there; that subtle warmth against his side. He needs Dean to tell him when he’s talking too much because he drank more than normal, and for Dean to hold him up when he’s too tired and buzzed to move. But Dean’s in his room, back at the bunker, feeling bad about everything.

The man at the counter of the diner isn’t very friendly; Sam’s used to the older woman who usually works there with her bright smile and kind eyes. He nods his thanks at the man when he takes his receipt and the foam container with Dean’s cheeseburger with extra onions. He doesn’t order much for himself anymore. He’s never really hungry.

The convenience store a few blocks from the diner has beer, so he stops and gets a six pack. The ride back to the bunker is quiet and lonely, but he never expected anything else.

Back at the bunker, he sets the food and beer down on the table and heads to Dean’s room. Every night he does this, he hopes Dean will just come out and sit with him, but every night Dean comes out, grabs his cold food hours after Sam’s gone to bed, and eats quietly in his room. Sam doesn’t expect anything different this time.

Except when he knocks on the door, it swings open almost immediately and Dean’s standing there, hair damp and button-down shirt only half buttoned, no shirt underneath. Sam’s breath catches in his throat and he swallows quickly, hoping to keep the sound down. “Dean,” he says, like a prayer, and it feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. And Dean’s face.

“Sam,” Dean returns and lifts a hand, brushing a finger along Sam’s cheek. “Sam,” he says again, and Sam almost loses it. He falls into Dean’s arms and holds him tight, murmuring his name over and over again into his big brother’s neck. And the arms that wrap around his back and pull him closer feel like home.

His big brother pulls him into the room, kicking the door closed behind them, and slowly, carefully backs Sam up to his bed. The memory foam remembers Sam the way Dean does; long and lean and beautiful. And Sam sighs when lips press against his so gently it couldn’t have been real.

They kiss for a long time, Dean’s fingers already having unbuttoned Sam’s shirt. His hands are re-memorizing Sam’s beautiful chest and god, is his little brother gorgeous. The sounds pouring from his mouth and getting caught in Dean’s are breathtaking but he can’t let go. He doesn’t want to get off Sam long enough to strip, but he needs the reassurance of their bodies close together, nothing in between.

“Dean,” he whimpers against kiss-hungry lips. “Dean, please, I need-”

He takes his little brother’s bottom lip into his teeth and pulls for a moment, then says, “Yeah, Sammy? What do you need?” But he knows, and if the bitchface Sam sends him is any consolation, he knows Dean knows. The bastard just wants him to say it. Because Dean’s always been hot for Sam begging. “Come on, baby boy, tell me,” and Sam breaks.

“Fuck me, Dean,” he whispers. Dean doesn’t have to be told twice.

He strips them quick and is back on top of his brother before Sam can say anything. He kisses Sam like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and maybe he is. He kisses his neck, and then chest; bites a nipple and loves the way Sam arches so prettily. “That’s it,” he says against Sam’s belly, sucking a mark there. “Come on, baby, I want to hear you.” And it’s like a switch is flipped when Sam does make the noises Dean needs to hear, because the calm and gentle and worshiping Dean is gone.

He licks his way back up Sam’s chest and kisses him roughly, teeth biting and making Sam whimper so beautifully. He uses his left hand to hold Sam’s hands above his head, nails digging into that soft skin while his right hand prods at his entrance. Sam whines when a finger breaches and god, Dean could swallow those sounds forever.

Two fingers in, Sam is begging Dean to do it, do it, fucking do it! and Dean growls against his lips, sits up and grabs his hips. “Hands and knees,” he growls, and Sam obeys. He slicks his dick and pushes in, hard and rough, and Sam fucking keens, begging for more. And if Dean’s nails and teeth leave bloody, red marks on Sam’s hips and neck, Sam doesn’t complain about it at all.

Chapter Text

"Sammy," Dean says, whisper-soft, like nothing is more precious than the person the name belongs to. Which, he supposes is true. Nothing is more precious than Sam. Never has been, really. Dean just hates the subtle flinch away from his hand that Sam does when he tries to touch his cheek. Light years ago, it seems, his touch was the one thing his little brother didn't shy from. His baby brother Sammy was so touch-starved for Dean and Dean alone that Dean didn't know or want anything more. Now...

Now, Sam is terrified of him. They've tried to kill one another before, there's no doubt about that. They didn't always see eye to eye; hell, they don't see eye to eye now. But it feels like they've never been this close to actually doing it. He almost lost his little brother tonight. If Castiel hadn't shown up when he did, Dean knows he'd be kneeling alongside his brother's still form, blood staining the walls and floor of the bunker's hallway. It would have woken Dean up, and probably killed him, too.

But here he is, alive and well, and only a little bit bloody. He's got bruises, and that stupid sling, but he's perfectly fine otherwise. And he's absolutely beautiful. There isn't a part of Sam that Dean doesn't find beautiful. He even thinks his fear is beautiful, but he's hoping that's just the Mark talking, because, god, he shouldn't be turned on by that glimmer of fear in hazel eyes.

He flinches when Dean takes a step forward, but holds his ground to which Dean is very grateful. He doesn't pull back when a warm hand settles on the back of his neck and pulls him against an even warmer, solid chest. He goes willingly, and that's all the answer Dean needs. He presses their lips together in a kiss rougher than he originally intended, but the events of the night followed by the guilt he felt before and after Cas left has left Dean raw and anxious and he just wants to show his brother without words how sorry he is.

Sam's neck is thrown back when rough teeth latch onto his throat and suck a bruising mark there. He whimpers, "Dean," into the air, and clenches the flannel shirt on his brother's back into his fists, holding him tight against his chest. "Dean, Dean," he chants, unable to contain the tears that have welled up in the corners of his eyes, and it's the way his voice chokes up that makes Dean pull away.

Calloused fingers pull through almost shoulder length hair, but they don't tug. "Sam," Dean chokes, but Sam just kisses him again, tremors running from his shoulders all the way down his toes; that fear adrenaline is kicking in, but it's got him harder than he's been since before he lost Dean to hell's backyard. "Sam," Dean says again, pulling away to look at his baby brother. "Sam, tell me what's wrong." There's pleading in his eyes that Sam can't say no to. Dean wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes, then, without thinking, licks them from his finger. Sam gasps.

"I just-" he pauses, swallowing to get moisture back into his throat. He feels like he hasn't taken a drink in years. "I'm scared, Dean," he whispers, and Dean's face falls, but he knows he deserves it. He starts to lower his head, but a warm hand on his chin pulls it back up. "No, listen, Dean, please." He presses their foreheads together, says, "I was scared out of my mind, Dean. I'm scared now. But I trust you, okay? I trust you not to hurt me. I trust you with my life, so please. Please just-"

Something flashes in Dean's eyes then, and the mark fucking burns, but he ignores it in favor of kissing the air out of his brother's lungs and pushing him roughly onto the bed. "Oh, baby boy," he growls in the midst of biting kiss-swollen red lips, "You don't know what you're asking for."

He doesn't take his time, but Sam doesn't want him to. He isn't gentle, or soft. He's rough and callous and animal. But it turns Sam on more than he can admit. This burst of fear when Dean holds his hands above his head in a bruising grip and fucks every thought from his head is enough to have him screaming mindlessly, unsure if he wants the unintelligible words to be stop or don't you ever fucking stop. Because all he feels is real with Dean above him and making him feel alive.

Afterwards, covered in sweat and come and a little blood, Sam is half asleep in Dean's arms, finger tracing lightly over the Mark of Cain because Sam touching it seems to soothe the burn. Dean's kissing his head and petting his cheek and gripping his hip so there's no part of them separate.

He whispers into his little brother's hair, "'m so sorry, Sammy," and all Sam can reply with is, "'s okay, De. I like when you make me yours."

"You're always mine," Dean says, then, "But I'm always yours, too."

Chapter Text

It isn’t usual for Sam to drink as much as he has tonight. Sure, Sam’s gone off before, drank a little too much, and Dean had to put him to bed, but that was usually after a case that affected him in a bad way. But tonight, his little brother’s been on edge, fidgety, and keeping his distance from Dean.

He hates that more than anything else right now.

“Alright, little brother,” Dean says. He gets up from his bar stool and pulls Sam away from the bar before he can order another shot, leaving enough on the counter to cover both them and the tip. “Let’s get you back to the motel.”

Nimble arms shove at his shoulder and Sam slurs, “No, De’n, I don’ w’nna.”

With a sigh, Dean runs his hand down his face and grabs for Sam again, this time with better luck as Sam just slumps against him. He gets him into the Impala and buckles him in, but once he’s inside the driver’s seat, Sam’s there with his head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He resigns himself to Sam with a bad hangover tomorrow.

* * *

Sam’s eyes open when Dean pulls him from the passenger seat, and he’s still shaky, but he’s mostly able to walk with Dean’s help. Dean has the intention of dropping Sammy into the bed furthest from the door, but Sam gets his footing and nearly trips but makes it into the bathroom to lock himself in there.

Dean waits. But when Sam doesn’t come out after five minutes, Dean kicks open the door and the look he gets from the deepest, most pained hazel eyes breaks his heart. “Sam?” he asks, and a sob breaks Sam’s silence.

“De’n,” he whines. He stands and falls into Dean’s arms, whispers into his ear, “I need you, De.”

“I’m right here, little brother. Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Sam doesn’t fight, but he also doesn’t let go when Dean drops him onto the bed to go to his own. “Sammy?”

“Don’t leave, De,” he whimpers. He wraps both arms around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him into a sloppy kiss, whining into it. “Please.”

Dean tries to pull back. “Sam, you’re drunk,” but Sam just shakes his head. “Sam,” he says more sternly. “You’re my brother.”

A sob passes liquor-wet lips and Sam looks away, says, “I know, but I,” he pauses, biting his bottom lip. “I want you, De’n. I’ve seen the way you look at me, how you-“

He’s cut off by a hand on his lips. “Fine, you’re right, Sam, okay?” he growls, pulling back but leaving his hand. “Okay? I fucking want you, Sam. But you’re drunk and I- I need to be sure you-” A shaking hand pulls Dean’s against Sam’s heart, then drags it down to the tented front of his jeans. Dean gasps and pulls back. “God, Sam, you don’t understand,” he says, but he removes his hand from his brother’s mouth and kisses him rough and dirty and hard because he needs this just as much as Sam does.

He unzips his pants and gets his hand in there, gripping Sam good and tight. “I’m going to take good care of you, baby boy,” he growls against kiss-swollen lips. “You’re going to be screaming my name by the time I even get inside you.”

Chapter Text

Castiel's grip on Sam's shoulder got tighter and tighter the more they heard Dean get slammed around upstairs. Because they just knew that no matter how strong the blade made Dean- how strong Dean was in general- Cain was still the Father of Murder. He was still that strong physically to be able to fling Dean across a room. And it was killing Sam.

"Cas, he's-"

"I know, Sam," he whispers, pulling Sam closer to keep a better grip on him. He could feel with the way the younger Winchester was tensing that Sam was poised to ditch the grip and run upstairs.

The cloud of dust that just rained on them wasn't helping matters, either.

Sam growls, trying to shake the angel off. "Just let me-" but Crowley, who'd been farther back from them, steps in and grips Sam's other shoulder. Sam pauses, breathes.

"Moose."

"I don't care!" Sam shouts. Crowley didn't say much, but he didn't have to. "My brother is in trouble and I'm not going to stand down here while he gets hurt, so you can either come with me, or stay down here." He shrugs both hands off then storms up the stairs.

Castiel turns to Crowley, who says, "Don't look at me. Cain can take my voice with a single look. I'm not going up there to save their arses."

"Fine," and Castiel is following after Sam.

* * *

For most of Dean's life, the greatest thing he's ever heard was his name on his brother's lips. Good or bad, hearing his brother say his name is what it means to know his brother is alive. When Sam says 'Dean' soft and gentle, fond, like a prayer, like Dean is the greatest thing in the world, the truth is it's actually the greatest thing in the world to Dean. And when Sam says 'Dean' loud and imperative, because he needs Dean's attention now, now, right now this is important, it means so many things.

It means why would you even say that? It means I'm in pain and I need you. It means please be okay, Dean, please be okay. It means thousands of things in thousands of ways that cut right through to Dean's heart every time.

But this one. This 'Dean' is like a nightmare. This 'Dean' is something Dean didn't want to hear because Sam isn't supposed to be here. Sam is supposed to be downstairs with Castiel and Crowley waiting for him. Safe. Away from Cain, the man that murdered his own brother.

But instead Sam is right here, running up the stairs and Dean doesn't know what to do.

"Sammy!" he yells, turning his back to Cain which is the worst thing he could have ever done because he's thrown with a groan of pain and pinned against the far wall, and the blade is in Cain's hand and he can't. He can't because Sam is up here. Sam is in danger and Dean can't do anything. "Sam," he groans from the wall, shaking his head at his little brother.

"DEAN!" Sam shouts, taking the last few stairs two at a time and trying to get to his brother. He pays no mind to Cain, and is surprised when Cain lets him get to his brother. "Dean," he says quieter, but the fear is there in hazel eyes. He reaches up and touches Dean's cheek with a clammy hand before letting go to turn back to Cain. "Let him down," he growls lowly, puffing his chest up with the harsh breaths he's pulling in. "Let him down and fight fair."

Castiel's upstairs now, shooting a look Cain's way once he sees Dean's predicament. "Cain."

"Ah, Castiel, it's a shame you're not going to be any help," Cain replies and then with a flick of his wrist, Cas is rendered useless, paralyzed in a way even an angel with stolen grace shouldn't be. "Now, Sam," he begins, extending power towards the younger Winchester and pulling him into the circle. He may not be able to leave the circle, but with the blade, he's powerful enough to still use his powers. "I think it's time you and I properly met."

"NO!"

"Dean," Cain sighs, gripping Sam's throat tight enough to keep all air from flowing through his airways, rendering his voice useless. "Do I have to silence you?"

"Your fight is with me, let Sam-"

"Ah, ah, I have the blade. It was all I wanted. You're no longer of use to me. But Sam..." He lifts the blade to his captor's face and softly traces the tip down the side of his face, leaving a thin blood trail. The marks on both Cain's and Dean's arms flicker before dimming just as quick. He leans in and presses his nose against Sam's hair, sniffing long and drawn out. "This will be rewarding," he says into his ear, then licks the shell.

Sam's losing consciousness, little noises from his attempts to breathe make Cain relent a little and allow air to flow into his lungs. "I won't kill you," he tells the red-faced man gasping in little breaths against him, tears in the corners of his eyes. "Because your brother is going to do that for me. But that won't be until after I'm done with you, so sit tight, Sam Winchester."

* * *

There's nothing Dean can do but watch and struggle as Cain strips his little brother and lays him down on the cold floor. He can tell Sam's weak from how long he couldn't breathe; he can't fight back. His breathing is ragged and irregular with the way his chest bounces awkwardly and Dean wants to grab him and take him away from here. Make sure Cain and none of this other shit can touch him again.

The things being whispered to his brother are too low for him to hear, but he growls when Sam tenses and tries to pull away.

He keeps quiet for it all because he doesn't want his voice taken. He wants Sam to be able to find his voice when he loses himself. He wants to speak reassurances into his ear and kiss his face and hold him close. He wants to be with Sam and protect him always, like he's failing right now.

The cry of pain is what breaks his silence. "What the hell are you doing to him, you sonofabitch!" But he knows. He knows exactly what Cain is doing, where his fingers are, because he recognizes this from the first time he and Sam... years ago... except this time, Sam's in pain. Emotional and physical. And nothing will make it better. There are tears in his eyes running down into his hair and Dean wants it to stop. "CAIN!"

"Oh, no," Cain says, but never takes his eyes from Sam's scrunched up face. "I'm doing to your brother what mine denied me. I am going to fulfill everything I ever wanted just imagining that your Sam is my Abel. And then I'm going to let you loose, Dean." He finally looks up at Dean. "I'm going to let you loose, watch you care for your little brother, and then watch as the anger takes over, as the Mark take over, and wait for you to kill your little Sam." Sam whimpers in pain below him, whining, softly begging for it to stop, please. "And then I'll kill you, Dean."

"You sonofabitch, I'm-"

"AH!" Sam screams as Cain pushes hard and rough into him, after only two fingers barely preparing him. Cain is relentless, not even letting Sam adjust as he jackhammers into the tight channel beneath him. Dean is thrashing against the wall, shouting for it to stop, stop, fucking stop, you sick sonofabitch! but Cain can barely hear him over Sam's screams. Sam's tears. Sam cries beautifully.

There's nothing about this Dean likes, but when the Father of Murder, the man who killed his own brother, leans down and sucks at his little brother's neck, Dean fucking loses it.

Cain comes just as Dean breaks the hold Cain had over him, the Mark glowing on his forearm a reminder that he's still not who his brother wants and needs him to be, but he needs to be there for Sam at all costs.

Sam's an unconscious, bloody mess by the time Dean gets there, but Cain's gone. He doesn't know how he got through the circle. But he doesn't care because Sam's shivering. There's blood everywhere. He pulls him into his arms and golds him. "CAS!" he shouts, and then Castiel is there, Cain leaving having broke the paralysis. Dean's crying into an unconscious Sam's hair, rocking him against his chest, saying, "Fix him."

Cain's gone. The blade is gone. Crowley will be pissed. But Dean doesn't care because Sam almost died. He will watch out for Sam no matter what, and do what he can to stay off Cain's radar when he comes back around to finish what he started.

Chapter Text

Sam is writhing underneath him, hands tied to the headboard above his head. His fists are clenched and wrapped around the rope, tugging it and chaffing his wrists, but it doesn't register as pain. Dean is inside him, folding him nearly in half as he pounds into him relentlessly, grunting above him and gripping his thighs so hard he knows there will be bruises in the morning.

"Fuck, fuck, Dean, oh f--"

Lips crash down and silence him. Dean's kisses hard and biting as he bends Sam impossibly further, his knees almost touching his shoulders and he has no fucking clue how this machine he's pounding into has such flexibility.

"Fuck," Dean says, biting kisses down hard flesh and making the man below him want to scream. "Sam," he hisses when the heat around him clenches and makes him fucking tremble because he can't keep himself from coming much longer.

Sam -- only Sam, never Sammy, or little brother, or baby boy; not until his brother's soul comes back from the cage and he has him back -- tugs harder on the ropes and Dean almost feels bad about the blood he sees. But that's gone the second the feral sound rips itself from Sam's throat and he comes completely untouched when Dean hits his prostate at the right angle.

"Fuck, that's hot," Dean growls, then comes right inside his brother's body, the man beneath him shivering at the warm feeling.

He lets himself fall onto Sam, kisses and bites at his neck, until Sam twitches. "Dean," he says. Dean's sound of recognition has him continuing, "Either clean me up or untie me so I can shower."

"No," is the reply, and before he can retort back an insult, Dean continues, "I'm punishing you for fucking around. My brother isn't a whore, and I don't appreciate you using his body to be one. So when I untie you, you are staying right here, uncomfortable, with my come inside you, until you get it through your head that this body is mine."

Chapter Text

The fastest way to piss Dean Winchester off is to hit on his little brother.

Dean's three beers in while Sam finishes up his second. Sam's cheeks are rosy with the flush from his slight buzz and Dean just wants to touch his face. But across the bar, there's a man eyeing Sam like he's the hottest thing in the world -- Dean won't argue that, but what the fuck, get your eyes off my baby brother.

He tries to ignore the skeevy guy because he's all the way over there and Sam is right here. Sam's next to him nursing his beer because he's not as much of a drinker as Dean. He just wishes Sam would finish it before it gets too warm because warm beer is gross.

The next time Dean looks across the bar, the man is gone, and it feels like a weight has lifted from his shoulders.

"Hey," slurs an unfamiliar voice, and both Sam and Dean tense.

It's the man from across the bar. If Dean were a wolf, his hackles would be raised and he'd be standing above Sam protectively.

"What," Dean retorts, unwelcoming. He goes ignored as the man only has eyes for Sam.

Sam, who looks uncomfortable, like he wants to curl in on himself, and Dean won't have that. Sammy is his. His to protect, to watch over, to hold.

So Dean slips an arm over Sam's tense shoulders and pulls him closer. "Sorry, man," he says, false sincerity; he just wants to take his brother out of here and get him and his adorably flushed face back to the motel so he can curl around him in their king size bed. "He's all mine."

This guy, Dean notes, does not seem to like no for an answer. "Listen, buddy." Dean raises an eyebrow but otherwise tightens his grip on Sam. "I've been watching you two, and not once have you two touched. You've barely spoken. So go the fuck away so I can take this pretty piece of ass out back."

Dean was going to try to ignore him for Sam's sake -- he knows Sam doesn't like unnecessary violence -- but Sam's head droops so his chin almost touches his chest and his hair covers his face and Dean doesn't like that. He knows Sam's self-conscious, hates being called pretty. Mostly only if it's a stranger saying it; Dean saying it has never really bothered him. But Sam's tense and trying to sink inside himself and Dean is so done with this fucker.

He leans in, whispers, "Don't worry, little brother," into Sam's ear and stands up. To the asshole, he says, "You've got three options here, buddy." He pops his back in a stretch, eyes never leaving this asshole's face. "I kick your ass in pool, I kick your ass in the alley out back, or you walk away right now. Your choice."

There must be something in Dean's eyes right then, because the guy's backing up and making a beeline for the exit.

Chapter Text

He clenches his phone in his hand, CAS CALLING flashing on the screen. He doesn't know if he wants to answer. He's only just left Sam and Cas; there's no way that he's needed already. But something's telling him to answer, that it's important.

Sighing, Dean swipes the 'answer' button and says, "Yeah?"

"Dean," Castiel says on the other end, an urgency to his voice that Dean doesn't like. "It's Sam."

From where he grips the steering wheel in his right hand, Dean's knuckles are white. "What," he growls lowly. His voice is dangerous, his temper is flying. "Is wrong with Sam."

Castiel starts rambling hurriedly on the other end. "I think it was the needle. I put it in too deep, or pulled too much out, Sam's--"

"Needle?"

"--very weak. He doesn't look good, Dean, and I don't have enough grace to heal him anymore. I don't know what to do."

Dean wants to throw his phone, turn the Impala around and go back to the bunker to strangle an angel. He wants to make Cas just as weak as Cas made Sam. "What needle are you talking about?" he asks as calmly as he possibly can because he needs answers, now.

There's a pained whine on the other end and Dean's heart clenches in his chest because that's Sam. His baby brother is in so much pain that he's whining. Dean can't.

"There was residual grace from Gadreel inside Sam, and I told him that there was a way to track him by using it, and Sam agreed that--"

"Cas--"

"I know, Dean. I know. I'm sorry." Everything's quiet for a minute before Dean hears, "Shh, Sam, shh, it's okay, I know it hurts--" and Dean almost loses it. He pulls a K-turn and is speeding the Impala all the way back towards the bunker. "Dean, you there?"

"D-Dean," he hears Sam whimper and says to Sam, knowing he's on speaker, "Yeah, kiddo, I'm here," and then to Castiel, "I will be there in an hour and a half, tops. Make him better, or I will rip out whatever grace you may have left."

* * *

By the time Dean gets to the bunker, Sam's passed out but whimpering in his sleep, his head resting on Castiel's lap while Cas strokes his fingers through his hair. His little brother is pale and he looks so small lying there that Dean wants to fall to his knees. He never wanted to see Sam like this ever again, but here he is, looking at his brother like he's just stopped the trials all over again.

"Sam," he whispers, taking a step towards his brother and the angel holding him. "Is--" he chokes the words out, "Is he going to be okay?"

"He's very weak," Castiel says, not taking his eyes off Sam's sleeping but pained face. The red mark on Sam's neck reminds him that he fucked up, and he leans down without thinking to kiss this fragile human on the forehead. He smooths his hair back one more time before finally looking up at Dean. "He'll be fine, Dean, but he needs you here."

"Cas," he starts, feeling like he can't breathe with the way his brother looks and the way Cas is holding and caring for him. "You know I can't, not after what I--"

"You can," the angel replies, "And you will. He's been saying nothing but your name before and since he fell asleep, Dean. He needs you."

That's when Dean steps closer, gets down on his knees and kisses Sam on the top of the head. He touches his cheek, and Sam's head tilts to be closer, like he knows that it's Dean. "I'm here, little brother," he says in a whisper, holding his tears back. "I'm not going anywhere."

Chapter Text

Dean smirks against the back of Sam’s neck, giving a shallow thrust just to tease, and Sam keens. The long expanse of his brother’s back is flush with overexertion and the way Dean’s been working him. He’s trembling under Dean’s hands, muttering words into the arm he’s hiding his face in.

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean whispers, biting another mark into his flesh. His brother whines under him. “I know I said I’d rip your throat out with my teeth,” he says, licking the new red spot and Sam shivers, “But I think this is better, don’t you?”

When he sucks at the skin under his teeth, Sam arches under him and Dean grabs his hair to keep him from lowering his head again and hiding. “Ah, ah, little brother, I want to hear you and see your face as I take you apart.”

”Dean—”

One hand holds Sam’s head up while his other grips tight to the slim hips pinned to the pool table and pulls him back to angle his thrusts. He gives one hard jab and Sam fucking screams under him. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he chants, thrusting again, harder this time. “Fuck, I’ve missed this ass, baby brother. No one’s touched it while I’ve been gone, have they?”

He can barely get a breath in let alone the word ‘no,’ and he can’t shake his head with Dean’s hand in his hair, so he just fucking whines, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Answer me, Sammy.”

He draws in a shaky breath, gasps, “N-no,” and Dean smirks.

“That’s right, baby boy, this ass is all mine.”

He bends Sam backwards to get better access to his neck as his thrusts pick up the brutal pace he’d set in the first place. He sucks mark after mark into his little brother’s neck, throat, shoulders, until there’s no unmarked skin left and Sam is fucking crying under him, begging for more, begging for Dean to stop, to keep going, to fucking let me come, god, Dean, fuck, please.

“You won’t come tonight, Sam,” he grows into the neck that’s always been his. Sam whimpers below him, and his tears taste delicious. Better than any whiskey Dean’s ever had. “Shh, shh, baby boy,” he whispers into Sam’s ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth. “You won’t come unless it’s on my cock and my cock alone. If you can come without me touching you, or you touching yourself, I’ll let you come a second time. Got it, kiddo?”

”Y-es,” Sam whines, tears falling freely now.

“Good boy,” Dean smirks, and proceeds to fuck the consciousness right out of Sammy.

Chapter Text

It’s like getting your heart ripped out, watching Castiel touch and kiss and hold Sam.

He knew it was his fault. He shouldn’t have told Sam no all that time ago. Shouldn’t have said, “Sam, we’re brothers,” and left his little brother cold and heartbroken, unable to look directly at him in months. He fucking shouldn’t have.

But he did.

Sam had laid it all out, his feelings, his heart and soul, everything he ever fucking wanted with and from Dean, and Dean had turned him down. Dean was more cruel than he wanted to admit. He’d hurt Sam so bad that day, he could see it in his face, but Sam had just nodded graciously, said, “I understand,” in his most quiet voice, and never brought it up again.

Dean hated every second of that and kept hoping against hope that Sam would one day bring it back up, call Dean out on his bullshit, but Sam was respectful. It took months, but Sam had moved on and was able to talk to Dean again.

They’re still okay now. Back to hunting. Back to the family business. They still have each other’s backs — that never changed. Sam’s just with Castiel now. He and Cas touch and kiss and tease each other. It’s been months since Castiel told Sam that he makes him feel more than an angel should. Sam was just as gracious with Cas. It took weeks, but Cas wore him down and Sam is so comfortable around him, it leaves a harsh ache in Dean’s chest when he looks at Sam every second Sam is Castiel’s instead of his.

It isn’t that Castiel treats Sam wrong. On the contrary, Cas treats Sam better than Dean probably ever could. The way he touches Sam’s face and kisses his forehead while he sleeps in the library of the bunker because he fell asleep researching again. And the way he makes Sam tea when he’s sick. It’s tender, and Dean would never take that away.

But he so badly wants to.

At any time, Dean could say the word and drive Sam’s world straight off a cliff. He could break his little brother by telling him he loves him; loves him the way Sam told him he loved him years ago. Dean could do that instead of biting his tongue and clenching his fists until his knuckles are white and there are crescent indents in the palms of his hands from his nails.

Dean could do all that, and pick up the pieces of his baby brother, carefully, tenderly piecing them back together until he’s whole and smiling again.

He could do that. But he won’t.

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If Dean wasn’t working, he would be following Sam down that hallway right the fuck now.

‘You’re not the only one who’s ever dated someone bendy,’ echoes through his head and he growls despite his calm composure. Because who the fuck was Sam with that was bendy? Dean hates the very thought of someone being with Sammy, even though he knows there have been enough girls.

He hates that he’s jealous — jealous? who the fuck says he’s jealous? — of someone he’s never met.

Fuck.

Dean decides that he doesn’t give a shit about his job. He drops the ladle, rips off the hair net, and follows after Sam. He corners him a little way down the hallway, pushing him up against a door. Sam’s confused head tilt makes him lick his lips.

“Dean?” Sam asks.

He squirms against Dean’s grasp and Dean pushes in closer, whispers in his ear, “You’re mine, kiddo,” then kisses from his earlobe to his jaw and finally his lips. “I don’t care who you’ve been with before, Sammy, but you’re mine now, and I don’t want to hear about anyone else having touched what’s mine.”

Sam gasps when Dean’s palm grips his dick through his skin tight yoga shorts. He arches to get friction, and Dean pulls back with a smirk. “Dean—”

“No, little brother,” he says, eyes darkening. “Do what you can to make that go down — take a cold shower, think about dead puppies, I don’t care — just don’t jerk off. Your dick is mine and mine alone to touch.”

Sam’s a whimpering mess where Dean leaves him to go back to his job, but Dean’s completely satisfied as he adjusts his own pants.

Chapter Text

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean’s groan is muffled by the pillow his face is buried in. Sam’s hands feel like magic on his bare back. There’s a stirring in his pants that’s making it uncomfortable to keep lying on his stomach, even though his memory foam is comfortable no matter what.

Sam presses down on a particularly bad spot on his shoulder blade and Dean arches, rubbing his growing erection on the mattress. It feels so fucking good. He bites his lip to hold back a moan.

“Almost done, Dean,” Sam says softly, worriedly, mistaking Dean’s sounds for pain and discomfort. But it’s so far off from the truth, Dean doesn’t know what to do.

He’s not supposed to be turned on by his little brother’s big hands massaging the kinks from his tweaked back.

Wait. Fuck.

It’s not Sam, he thinks. I just haven’t been touched in so long, my body is reacting to it. It makes him feel a little better, telling himself that.

Instead, he thinks of some hot waitress’s hands on him, soothing his aches and pains, but it has the opposite effect. He hates admitting it, but fuck, it’s the fact that his little brother is doing this for him that has him hard and wanting. What the fuck is he supposed to do?

His shoulders tense more at that revelation and Sam says, “God, Dean, I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have offered to do this…” He pulls his hands away and Dean swears he’s never moved so fast in his life. He twists — hey, his back feels good as new, yes — and grasps Sam’s wrist in his hand and pulls him back down before he can get far. “Dean?”

They’re chest to chest when Dean whispers in Sammy’s ear, “Your hands have been all over me, baby brother, whaddaya say, do ya think it’s my turn to return the favor?”

Sam doesn’t protest when Dean flips them and kisses the breath right out of him.

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Dean’s least favorite cases are the ones involving college and its stupid frat parties. He honestly cannot imagine a 19 or 20 year old Sam, skinny and awkward and just coming into his college life and making friends, drinking at one of these things. His face flushed with the small buzz he got from the beer in the solo cup sloshing around over his hand and jacket sleeve.

And he especially doesn’t want to imagine boys and girls flirting with him and him flirting back.

Kind of like what’s happening now. Except Sam isn’t flirting back; he looks extremely uncomfortable. This kid is probably ten years younger than him. But there’s a blush on his brother’s cheeks — he’s fucking flattered.

Dean would have honestly preferred not taking this case — “They’re just disappearances, Sam, people disappear all the time,” he’d said, but Sam only rolled his eyes at him and continued researching — but even he had to admit the disappearances weren’t normal. College kids were disappearing one after another from different frats at different parties. It’s been going on for about a month. People don’t disappear like that unless something’s taken them.

“So,” Frat Douche says to Sam, his hand gently running up and down Sam’s tense shoulder. “You look like you’re in need of a good time. I can help with that.”

Dean fights this animalistic urge to pounce, his lips curled in an almost snarl.

“Uh,” Sam sputters, rolling his shoulder and losing the kid’s hand. “Thanks, I’m- but- well, no,” he says, “I’m sorry. I’m not— You’re too—”

“Don’t say young, baby—”

Dean fucking growls.

The kid raises an eyebrow, eyeing Dean up and down before smirking and continuing to Sam, “I’m young and spry. I can go for a long while, and I’ll make you feel good, too. I’ll have you begging—”

Sam’s face is so red, Dean is afraid he can’t breathe. He steps in, wrapping a strong hand around his brother’s forearm to calm him down and exert dominance over both this little shit and his little brother. “Okay,” he says as calmly as possible, “See the suit? I was pretty sure you saw our badges. What part of Federal Agent don’t you understand?”

The kid — Cody, his mind supplies — doesn’t let up his smirk. “Sorry, man, but baby face here is breaking every rule a Fed lays down.” He lifts a hand and touches a lock of Sam’s hair that had come loose from behind his ear. Sam flinches, closing his eyes. “This, especially. I know, because my dad was one. This sweetheart here isn’t a Fed,” he grins, “But he is begging for dick.”

Dean shoves Cody’s hand away and pushes Sam behind him, big brother mode taking over. “Shut your mouth, kid, you’re probably, what, twelve?”

“Dean,” Sam whispers in his ear, squeezing his arm, “Let’s just go.”

Cody rolls his eyes. “Like I haven’t heard that before. Fine. Whatever.” He sends Sam a wink. “Find me if you change your mind.”

*

Dean’s silent on the ride back to the motel. It’s an eerie, scary silence that Sam doesn’t like. He’s afraid he’s pissed Dean off somehow.

“Dean—”

“Shut up.”

He stays quiet after that, until they’re back in the room and Dean is all over him, pinning him against the door. “Dean?”

“Who fucking cares if he’s younger than me?” he asks no one in particular, and Sam tilts his head. “Just because he’s twenty-something and I’m in my thirties doesn’t mean I can’t make you scream.”

“De—”

Hot, hard lips roughly press against his own and he can’t help but moan into his brother’s mouth. A biting kiss keeps him from making another sound as his clothes are ripped from his body and he’s left bare while Dean’s still fully clothed.

Dean unbuttons his own jeans and pulls his dick out, but he doesn’t remove any clothing from his own body. This is a claiming. He’s proving he’s better. Sam is his. He growls against Sam’s lips, “Gonna fuck you, baby boy, until you can feel nothing but my dick inside you and my teeth marks all over you.” Sam shivers and Dean smirks against his neck. “I’m gonna fuck you for hours, kiddo. You won’t be walking tomorrow.”

He’s lucky he keeps a small packet of lube in his pocket, because he wouldn’t be able to leave Sammy panting against the wall in good conscience.

He slicks two fingers and pushes them in at the same time. Sam’s tight, but not enough to hurt him. He’s up to three in no time and Sam is a writhing, whining mess against the wall, Dean’s never seen anything quite so beautiful.

He shivers when the cold of the lube touches his dick — a good thing it’s cold, otherwise he’d have come just from Sam’s sounds alone — and he rubs it in slowly, kissing Sam’s lips at the same time. His brother is panting, bracing himself, and Dean grips his thighs tight, nails digging in, and lifts his brother’s legs to almost fold him in half.

Sam cries out when he pushes in with one smooth thrust. “D-Dean!”

“Shh, Sammy,” he whispers, kissing at the tears of frustration that have built up. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you.” He gives his brother no time to adjust, just pulls back and thrusts in hard and fast, hitting his spot head on and Sam’s a screaming mess against him. His thighs tense under Dean’s palms and Sam’s chanting his name over and over and begging him please Dean, god, fuck, fuck me. And Dean does.

He fucks Sam until Sam comes hot and messy all over himself, before pulling Sam away from the wall and walking him to the bathroom. He sits him on the sink and resumes thrusting, his dick hitting his prostate at a better angle, he’s got Sam crying again. He comes for the first time inside Sam after he’s already made Sam come twice, and Dean’s hard again before Sam can catch his breath.

“D-Dean, ah, fuck—”

He slides one of his hands from Sam’s slick thigh and trails it down to where his dick fucks into him. He kisses him to drown out his cry as he pushes a finger in alongside his dick. The whimper hits him right in the heart, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop until he’s got two fingers fucking into Sam also, and he tastes tears.

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing his eyelids. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, shh.” Sam bites his lip. He can’t make any sounds besides whimpers, and Dean doesn’t mind. Sammy’s beautiful no matter what.

He quiets the whimpers with his tongue when he wraps his free hand around Sam’s oversensitive cock, jerking him off in time with the thrusts of his tongue, dick, and fingers. He doesn’t know where his voice comes back from, but Sam fucking screams, coming a third time when Dean scratches a fingernail along the slit. “DEAN!”

“That’s it, that’s my boy,” he praises, and comes a second time when Sam clenches around him. Sam’s full of his come, he can feel it around his dick and when he touches Sam’s stomach. “Oh, Sammy,” he says, kissing a spot he doesn’t remember leaving on his brother’s throat. “Ready for another go? I think I need to get my tongue in you.”

Chapter Text

It hurts, looking at Sam sometimes.

It hurts waking up to fresh coffee that Sam brewed when Dean was still sleeping, giving Dean a smile like Dean’s the most important person in his life.

It hurts when he walks down the hallway and sees the holes in the walls from when he tried to kill his little brother.

He can’t even go near the control room; hates the thought of what he said, what he did. Hates the fact that Sam would have let him kill him, because Sam wasn’t going to hurt him, despite the fact that Dean was a demon.

There’s a pain in his chest, like there’s a vice gripped tight around his heart, whenever he sees Sam smile. That smile doesn’t reach his eyes anymore. And that may be what hurts the most, and makes it the hardest to wake up every morning.

Sam’s not the same, and Dean isn’t either.

The emotional pain outweighs the physical, and Dean doesn’t want to feel anymore.

Chapter Text

Dean’s shaking and growling in the chair in the dungeon, eyes flashing back and forth from black to his regular green. He’s been alone and fucking pissed ever since Castiel dragged him back and locked him back in. There’s more chains this time, and he’s getting more and more antsy. He wants out, but no one’s come into the dungeon for half an hour.

When the door does finally open, he lets out an animalistic growl, but cuts it off when he sees what’s walking in.

Sam’s completely naked, face flushed. He looks uncomfortable and scared as Castiel pushes him further into the room, shutting the door behind them.

“Cas--”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Cas says quietly, but not quietly enough to keep away from Dean’s stronger demon ears. “It’s the only way I know how to coax your brother back out.”

The younger Winchester’s face is twisted in pain; Dean notices quickly that he isn’t wearing the sling and is trying to hold his left arm as close to his chest as possible, favoring it. There’s a dark, painful-looking bruise covering the normally flawless skin of his shoulder, and it sets something off in Dean. He didn’t realize how badly his brother was hurt.

“Cas, isn’t there--”

“Yeah, Cas, what are you going to do to little brother, hm?” Dean forces a smirk, flashing his eyes back to black and letting them stay that way. He feels like when he lets the black eyes come out, he’s further from his human self. “Break his other shoulder? Make baby boy bleed?”

Sam cringes at the nickname. Dean, his Dean, used to call him that. It hurts hearing this black-eyed monster say it. He closes his eyes. Pretends everything is okay.

Dean pretends to miss the look.

“No, Dean,” Castiel says, hard and cold. “I’m going to fuck your brother.” He touches a warm hand to Sam’s flushed cheek, leaning in for a quick, gentle kiss, and the lights start to flicker with the sound Dean makes across the room.

“Get. The fuck. Off my brother,” Dean growls lowly, eyes narrowed to slits.

Sam trembles when Castiel puts a hand on his injured shoulder. “Cas, maybe--”

“Shh, boy,” he whispers, kissing his cheek. “Don’t worry.” He leads Sam to the table, pushing aside the case of syringes, and gently bends him over the cold metal. Sam shivers. “Just don’t move, Sam. I don’t want to hurt your shoulder more.” The shivering human nods.

“I swear, I will rip your fucking wings out of your back, you fucking--!”

“Says the one who tried to kill his own brother not even an hour ago.”

That hurts, and for a moment, Dean’s eyes are green again and he looks so hurt. Fuck.

Castiel continues his exploration of Sam’s beautiful body, while Dean thrashes and growls and tries to fucking get to them. He sees the tears in Sam’s eyes; they haven’t fallen yet, but they’re in the corners, glimmering, and he’s shaking in both cold and fear. Sam’s in pain, but he isn’t fighting. He’s scared, but he’s not trying to get away. Dean fucking hates it.

He’s watching his little brother’s face the moment a finger breaches his tight entrance -- Dean hasn’t touched him since before Purgatory; a week before he killed Dick, to be exact -- his mouth parting in a silent whine, eyes clenching closed tight. He’s biting his lip, shoulders shaking with how he’s holding himself up, trying not to lean on the injured one.

Cas takes his time, whispering into Sam’s ear, kissing the side of his face, the corner of his lips. Sam nods slowly, whispers, “I know,” and Dean hates that he didn’t hear what the angel said to him.

They’re up to three fingers now and Dean is trembling, itching to kill.

“Ready, Sam?” Cas asks when he pulls his fingers out. Sam gives a single nod, and Cas pushes in. He pulls Sam back by his hips, pressing flush against Sam’s ass as he fully sinks into the tight heat. “Fuck, Sam.”

“Oh god, Cas,” Sam whines, biting at his bottom lip until it bleeds, and Dean is practically steaming where he sits. He feels the chains around his wrists shaking, and he’s pretty sure he can break them, he just needs another--

“Cas!”

--push.

At Sam’s cry, Dean breaks the chain around his right wrist. His skin is red from the strain, but he smirks as the left one basically crumbles under his free hand. Cas is fucking hard into Sam now, holding him against the table, and Sam is whimpering and trembling and Dean is the only one supposed to do that to his brother.

He shouldn’t have neglected him for so long, but he’d been so mad about the girl from Texas, and then Gadreel...He can’t justify the pain he’d put Sam through, but the black bleeds from his eyes of its own accord and his vision isn’t clouded by the need to murder. He just wants to claim.

He wraps a hand around the angel’s throat and forcibly removes his body from Sam’s and his little brother cries out. The lack of hands on his hips holding him up has him falling against the table, whining at the way it jars his shoulder. Cas doesn’t give Dean much fight as he throws him across the room; he knows that it worked for the most part.

Dean’s back at Sam’s side in seconds, leaning over him and kissing his hair before standing him up and pulling him back against his chest. His arms are wrapped around his waist and Sam relaxes into the touch, the body behind his familiar in so many ways.

“Dean,” he whispers, lifting his right hand up to gently place on his big brother’s hand on his stomach. “Welcome back.”

Chapter Text

“Dude, this is freakin’ nasty!”

Dean and Sam crash through the motel room door and just barely stop themselves from hitting the floor. They’re covered in ectoplasm from the most recent hunt where they tracked down and eradicated a ghoul. True to himself, Dean had jumped right in front of the thing before it could get to Sam, leaving Dean to be the one covered in the disgusting black goo. It was only Sam’s need to laugh at Dean’s expense that led to him getting covered too, because once they were in the clear, Dean shoved Sam down and spread the sticky stuff into his hair.

Now they’re both a mess, the interior of the Impala is disgusting, and they’re trailing the shit all over the carpet to the bathroom. Cleanup is going to be a bitch.

Sam rolls his eyes, grunting as he’s shoved into the bathroom. “You didn’t have to jump in front of me, man, I was perfectly fine--”

He’s cut off by a rough jerk to his plaid shirt. Dean’s growling under his breath, muttering, “Just take your clothes off, we’re disgusting and need to shower.”

“Together?” Sam asks dazedly, but undresses anyway, eyes watching as Dean does the same. “Dean?”

“Do you want to wait until I’m done to get this shit out of your hair, or what? Because I am sure as hell not waiting for you to shower first.”

Nodding, Sam kicks his shoes, socks, and pants off. Dean’s already disappeared behind the curtain with a muttered “thank fuck” and Sam chuckles before slipping out of his underwear. He pauses outside the shower, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. They’re two grown men -- brothers -- and they’re about to shower together. There’s got to be rules against this.

“Come on, man,” Dean shouts over the sound of the shower. “Didn’t dad ever tell you that you’ll turn into a ghoul if you keep the ectoplasm on you too long?” He chuckles like it’s funny -- it actually is, except their dad never said anything funny like that to them; not even a single ‘keep making that face and it will freeze like that’ -- and Sam groans.

The water’s warm when he slips under the stream and sighs in content. Slippery hands are already on him and he jumps, would have fallen if those same hands didn’t steady him. “Dean?”

“Who else would it be?”

But the hands don’t leave and Sam eventually relaxes, says, “What are you doing?” when he feels fingers in his hair. His eyes close without his permission and he sinks into the feeling. He doesn’t realize he’s moaning until there’s a chuckle right against his ear.

“I’m washing your hair. This stuff doesn’t come out easily, I’m making sure I get it all.”

Oh god, Sam whimpers, biting at his lip again. Dean massages the shampoo into his hair until all the black is giving wait to white soapy bubbles. He gently coaxes Sam under the spray to rinse his hair before applying more soap to be sure. Sam can barely hold himself up; he’s exhausted and it feels so good.

“That’s it, kiddo...”

Dean’s dick is hard against Sam’s ass and Sam gasps but doesn’t move away. “Dean?” he whispers, eyes open now despite how good the hands on his scalp feel. Dean hums against his skin, mouthing at Sam’s shoulder, but says nothing otherwise.

He gets Sam back under the spray and scritches at his scalp when he rinses the soap away. His little brother is almost boneless under his hands and he uses it to his advantage. Presses Sam’s chest against the tile and covers his back with his chest. Kissing at his cheek, he tilts Sam’s head to reach his lips and Sam gasps into the kiss, allowing Dean in.

Sam’s a moaning, whimpering mess by the time Dean pulls back. “Little brother,” Dean mutters, pressing his forehead to Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy, can I...”

“Yes,” Sam says, too quickly, but Dean’s pleased, nods.

Dropping to his knees, Dean manages to grab the bottle of body wash on the shelf. He kisses at the dimples on Sam’s lower back, licking into the small craters that he wants to leave marks on, lay his claim to. Sam’s shivering, shaking, whining, and Dean pops the cap open on the body wash and coats three fingers. He sucks a mark into one back dimple as he slips a finger in to the knuckle.

“Dean!”

“That’s it, baby boy,” Dean murmurs without thinking. “Let me hear you.” He’s in the process of sucking a mark into the other dimple when he slips in a second finger. Sam whines, not so much from pleasure this time, and Dean slows down, kisses at the dimple and gently rubs at his stomach to soothe him. “Shh, shh, relax...”

He’s watching the back of Sam’s head for a nod or a headshake, anything to tell him to stop or to keep going. Sam nods and Dean slips in a third finger. He’s tight, but Dean never suspected anything more. He kisses reassurances into Sam’s wet skin, rubs his tummy to calm him, until he’s ready, gasping, “Dean, fuck, please, I need--” when Dean pushes hard into his prostate. He screams against the tile.

Content with the way he took care of Sammy, he pulls his fingers out and stands. Sam moves willingly when Dean turns him until his back is to the tile and kisses the breath from his bitten lips.

“Want us to move to a bed, Sammy? Or do you want me to fuck you here?” He’s smug, smirking against Sam’s lips.

“Fuck, fuck, here, please, I can’t--”

“Shh, shh, okay, baby, okay,” Dean says quickly, kissing him rougher for a moment before pulling back and loving the whimper Sam lets out. “Brace yourself, Sam, okay? I’m going to lift you. I need you to wrap your legs around me and cross your ankles. Can you do that for me?” Sam nods frantically, Dean whispers, “Good,” and grabs the backs of Sam’s thighs, just under his ass, and squeezes to lift him up so his dick lines up with Sam’s ass.

Letting out a whine when the tip touches at his fluttering hole, Sam closes his eyes and wraps his arms tight around Dean’s neck. Dean kisses the corner of his lips, then cheek, then nips his ear gently. “Just breathe, Sammy,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose to his ear. “Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you,” as he pushes in.

His mouth against Sam’s swallows Sam’s scream as he bottoms out until his balls nestle against Sam’s ass. He lets his little brother breathe through it to adjust, biting into the spot where his neck and shoulder meets. Sam’s so fucking tight and he wants so bad to just pull back and fuck up into him, rough and hard, but his brother’s whimpers keep him from doing so.

After what feels like hours, Sam gasps, “Now, n-- fuck, just fuck me, Dean,” and Dean does.

He’s brutal, hips jackhammering up into Sam’s, balls slapping against his ass while his fingers squeeze at the globes of his ass and pull his cheeks apart. He tils Sam slightly upward and finds that it brings him even fucking deeper and he growls at the feeling of his little brother tightening around him. “Sam, fuck, baby boy, yes, you’re so fucking hot, so tight--”

“Dean--!”

“Bear down for me, Sammy, okay? Can you do that? Bea-- fuck!” Sam clenches around him and Dean almost comes, but manages to stave it off because it feels too good. Sam’s spouting out obscenities -- deeper, harder, faster, oh fuck, Dean fuck me -- and Dean’s losing it quick. Wants to make Sammy scream with it, make him come until he sees stars, until he passes out in his arms and Dean can carry him to one of the beds and finger him until he’s awake and begging for more. Wants to eat Sammy out, sloppy and hot, taste his come inside his little brother and kiss him with a mouthful of it.

He doesn’t realize he’s said all this until he sees Sam’s face. He’s blushing the deepest red he’s ever seen on his little brother’s face and it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen in his life.

It prompts him to fuck harder, go deeper, until Sam’s a sobbing mess of need and want and he’s all Dean’s.

“Come, Sammy. Come, fucking come, okay?” he growls. The second his hand wraps around Sam’s dick, Sam comes hard with a shout of Dean’s name. “That’s it, baby, fuck yes.” It’s the way his ass clamps down and clenches around his dick that has Dean coming hot and dirty right into Sam. He’s spent, but he still has to get them to a bed.

Sam’s legs are fucking shaking when he lowers them to the shower floor and he’s damn proud. He doesn’t even want to clean the come from inside him. Just tugs on Sam’s hand to pull him with him against his chest and shuts off the shower. He begins protesting -- even though the water has long since run cold, their bodies were just so hot they barely registered -- because there’s come leaking from his ass down his thighs and it’s uncomfortable.

“Dean...”

Dean smirks, wide and dirty. “Believe me, baby boy, we’re gonna need it in a little while,” he says, so fucking proud, as he pulls Sam out of the shower and wraps him in a big fluffy towel.

Chapter Text

Sam’s just come back from the dead. His lower back, his spine, hurts like a bitch and there’s this burning red scar there, fresh like a scab just recently starting to heal, and he knows he should be dead. He shouldn’t be breathing, he should still be bleeding out on the ground in Cold Oak, South Dakota, Dean’s crying face his last image before everything fades to black.

But he’s here, standing next to a beat up mattress stained with his blood -- his blood! -- and he’s still alive.

He’s both scared and worried. Because he’s been having visions for months. seeing things he should never have seen, known things he shouldn’t have conceivably known. And now he’s alive and not bleeding out with Dean screaming his name when he should be dead.

He’s an anomaly that no doctors would understand. There’s something wrong with him.

But the relief, beautiful and grand, lighting up Dean’s face when he sees him is the greatest thing he’s ever seen in the world, because what feels like minutes ago that face that he’s loved and cherished for most of his life was full of such pain and sadness.

He’s alive, Dean’s alive. They’re both alive and Dean’s smiling, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him in, reminding him that he hurts. God, he hurts, but they’re both alive.

They don’t want to let go, but they do so reluctantly, and Dean gets them to a motel. Insists that they shower -- “together would conserve time and water,” he says, matter of fact. Sam doesn’t point out that the water is of no concern to them -- and gets them both naked and into the hot stream of water.

Sam shivers and Dean holds him, insists it’s normal, this closeness, because Sam almost died -- he doesn’t correct Dean on this matter anymore, because he doesn’t have all the facts yet -- and then washes and rinses Sam (little brother always comes first) before washing himself off quickly.

He dries Sam softly and carefully, turns Sam to face the sink and drops to his knees, drying Sam off with the fluffy towel limb by limb, but doesn’t touch his back, his scar. Makes sure Sam is completely dry before he leans in and presses a chaste kiss to the inflamed skin, gentle as a feather, but Sam shivers under the touch, clenches his hands around the porcelain. whines.

Dean kisses and licks at the moisture the shower left on and around the point of entry, the most gentle Dean has been with anything in years. Sam’s crying above him, tears dripping onto the counter and Dean wipes a tear of his own away before he stands up, turns Sam around, and kisses his lips, gentle as he kissed his back.

Sam kisses back with fervor, and Dean is only happy to oblige.

They somehow make it to the bed, naked and sweating from both their actions and the sauna that the bathroom had become after their hot shower. Dean lowering Sam to the bed, never breaking the kiss, until he nudges Sam’s side, pleads with his eyes to turn over. Sam does, placing a quick peck to Dean’s lips. lies flat on his stomach, arms under the pillow, waits.

Dean makes love with kisses and fingertips to Sam’s scar before making love to Sam, sweet and slow.

Chapter Text

There’s someone on the ground, body cooling from rain and the lack of pumping blood. His brother is dead, but he isn’t sad. He isn’t regretful, doesn’t hate himself, even though it was by his own hand. It’s like a breath of fresh air. But he has to ask.

“Can you bring him back?” he asks of the angel in the trench coat. One last time, just like old times. There’s no frantic ‘fix him, do something, please’. No self-hatred for what he let himself become. His eyes are sad, but they’re green again, for the first time in months.

Regretfully, the angel replies, “Not this time. I’m sorry. It’s over.” Wants to weep for the truth of his statement, because they were friends. Had been through so much together.

Eyes closed, head tilted up and away from his brother’s dead body, blood mixing with the mud the rain turned the dirt into, he lets out a breath of relief, like a new beginning. It’s over. His tears can easily be mistaken for rain. He counts on that. “Okay,” he says to the sky, “okay.”

The angel doesn’t move. Waits for the inevitable. The backlash.

“Cas, buddy,” a whisper to the wind. His eyes are still closed, face still tilted skyward, but Castiel knows what he’s going to ask. Has suspected it for years, knowing the fate of the Winchesters all along. “Think you can do me one last favor? Just like old times.”

He was never able to say no to a Winchester.

“Dean?”

“Heya, Sammy, long time no see.”

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t want to let go. God, Dean doesn’t want to let go. He lived, no, survived a year without Sam, thinking he’d never get to see him again. Thinking he’d never see his ridiculous dimpled smile, or his floppy hair, or hear his stupid boyish laugh. God, Dean survived a year thinking Sammy was gone, dead, for good. But here he is, in Dean’s arms, hugging him back.

Here he is, alive and well and…has a metric fuckton more muscles than he had before he jumped into the pit.

Pulling back but not letting his palms leave Sam’s ridiculously toned shoulders, holy shit, Dean eyes his brother critically. “Sam,” he says in question, keeping him at arm’s length as he looks him up and down. Sam’s visibly changed in the year since they’ve seen each other. His body looks bigger, his clothes a tighter fit than they were a year ago.

But it’s so much more than that. It’s in his face, the way his lips are almost tight, his brows no longer arched up in that way that he does. He’s more calculating and calm and serious. His face no longer lax. He’s tense. Something isn’t right. This is Sam but it isn’t Sam.

Hell, he thinks, frowning up at his brother’s still beautiful face, It definitely changed him.

“Dean?” Sam asks, but his voice is almost flat. There’s no worried tone like his voice usually carries. There’s no concern, just blatant confusion. But his head doesn’t tilt like normal. Dean’s making a mental checklist for what is and isn’t wrong with Sam. “You alright, man?”

So far what isn’t wrong with him is the fact that he’s alive.

He opens his mouth to answer. He wants to answer Sam. But his body has a mind of its own because instead he’s using the hands on his brother’s shoulders to pull him close, push him down just enough so that they’re eye level, and press his lips roughly to Sam’s.

Sam doesn’t fight; he goes with the kiss like he’s as desperate for it as Dean is. Impossible, Dean thinks as he walks Sam backwards, pushing him down. He crawls over Sam, keeping him down but never breaking the kiss. Sam’s legs spread for Dean, willingly and eagerly, and Dean bites at his lip before soothing the pain with a lick and then sucking it into his mouth.

When he breaks the kiss and looks down, Sam’s bottom lip is red and swollen and Dean thinks, I did that. I fucking did that, proud.

He sheds his brother of all clothes before he strips himself. Their dicks are hard and flush against each other and Dean moans when he feels Sam’s precome touch his dick. “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean growls, grinding down to gain friction. Sam moans, long and loud, wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and pulling their hips as tight together as possible.

“Are you gonna do it, Dean?” Sam pants, leaning up to kiss at Dean’s lips, little pecks here and there, never a solid kiss because they’re both too busy panting and grinding against each other to be able to focus on kissing. “You gonna fuck me, big brother?”

That shouldn’t make Dean’s dick twitch, hearing Sam call him big brother while they’re naked and kissing. But it fucking does and Dean groans. “Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against Sam’s collarbone. “Oh fuck, Sam, say that again. Call me that again.”

“C’mon, big brother,” Sam teases, thrusting his hips up. “Fuck me.”

He’s never known this side of Sam, but he also thinks he fucking loves it, because he’s wanted this since before Sam was of legal age. He’s wanted to get his dick into Sammy since he caught the kid jerking off at 13 when Dean came back a little too early from his ‘date’ with some girl whose name he couldn’t even remember when they’d been hooking up.

But it wasn’t until Sam left for Stanford that Dean realized he was in love with his little brother. That was what became a problem for him. He’d fucked any pretty thing with long legs and a skirt after Sam left because he wasn’t gay. He had to prove that to himself. He didn’t like dudes. He tried once, with a pretty twinky frat boy with expressionate eyes and floppy brown hair, but he couldn’t get past the kissing. Then a second time with someone only a year or so younger, someone not twinky, but who didn’t want to stick his dick in Dean because no, but that didn’t work out either because he doesn’t like dudes.

But Sam was different. Sam was something else. Sam was his brother, someone he needed, someone he could actually admit he loved, and he thought that emotion had burned on the ceiling 27 years ago.

Dean’s loved Sam longer than he knew what love was, and he’d be damned if he passed that up after finally getting it back.

Sam’s responsive – oh fuck, he’s so responsive – arching into Dean when Dean presses down the right way, spreading his legs wider when Dean tweaks a nipple. God, Sam is so fucking beautiful it physically hurts.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers against his skin, pressing kisses down his neck, “Are you sure?”

Sam grabs his hair, pulls Dean up, and kisses him, hard. “Dean,” he growls against his lips, “Fuck me, or watch as I fuck myself.”

Dean also hates how much that turns him on. Wants to watch that next time, Sam fuck himself to completion in front of Dean, thinking of Dean, screaming Dean’s name. Fuck.

“I don’t have any lube or a condom, or–”

“Make me come, big brother,” Sam says, frustration in his voice, “Make me come and use that. We don’t need a condom, either. I’m clean, and I know you’ve always been safe. Just fuck me.”

Dean presses hard against his dick to keep himself from coming. He doesn’t want to come until he’s buried balls deep inside his brother, thrusting as fast as his hips will move because Sam wants.

Once he calms himself down, he nods, says with a deeper voice than he’s ever had before, thick with lust and heavy with arousal, “Alright, little brother, but it’ll still hurt when I push in. You better hope you have enough in you.”

Dean wraps a clammy hand around Sam’s dick, squeezing gentle before he jerks his hand up and down, giving Sam the friction he needs to get him worked up and arching into Dean, whining low in his throat and begging, begging, begging for Dean to move his hand faster. There’s enough precome buildup for him to coat three fingers and push one into his tight hole, stretching him. Sam whines, biting at his lip as the tip of a finger breaches him for the first time. He’s so tight around one finger, Dean isn’t sure that Sam’s ever touched himself down there. That thought alone is arousing because Dean will be the first.

He gets Sam stretched enough to fit a second finger in. More precome leaks from his dick and he knows his own is no better, but he leaves it alone in favor of taking Sam apart with both his hands. Sam’s a writhing mess below him, hair clinging to his face with sweat and tears and Dean leans down to lick it all away before kissing him hard.

When his fingers brush something deep inside, Sam throws his head back, arches up, and screams, coming all over his and Dean’s stomachs and Dean’s hand. “Yeah, yeah, that’s it, baby boy, give me it all,” Dean’s muttering, now watching as he milks the rest of Sam’s orgasm from him, coating his hand and wrapping it around his weeping member. He hisses at the contact; the head of his dick is angry and red from neglect and he needs to do this quick because not coming is killing him.

“You ready, little brother?” He presses the head against Sam’s entrance, starts to push, but waits for the go ahead. Sam’s panting and whining, fucked out from his orgasm, but he manages a nod and closes his eyes. “Bear down, okay? And relax,” Dean whispers before wrapping both hands around Sam’s hips, lifting them up slightly so he can look down and watch as his dick stretches Sam further than his fingers did.

Sam’s scream tears at his heart, but he knows that if he doesn’t bottom out now, he’ll pull out to stop his brother’s pain, and they both need this.

Once their groins are flush, Dean holds still, waits for Sam to start breathing again. Strokes his cheek and kisses at his forehead and nose and lips until he’s calm.

“Fuck, Dean, just do it. Fuck me. Don’t hold still. Fuck me.”

It doesn’t register that this isn’t like Sam, that Sam would want more time, but Dean doesn’t care because he’s warm and tight and beautiful and Sam, his little brother, so he does as he’s asked. Fucks out and then back into Sam, hard and fast and brutal. It feels good on his neglected dick. He’s close. He wraps a hand around Sam’s dick again; Sam whines because it’s still sensitive but if Sam can handle his dick with a lack of good preparation, then he can come again, despite the pain.

His kisses slow down until they’re just pecking each other, Sam’s fingers in his hair keeping their mouths together as Sam gyrates his hips to try out different angles and Dean’s losing his fucking mind with the tight hotness clenching around him, pulling him in and pushing him back out. Sam’s a moaning, panting mess and Dean loves it. Didn’t think he could love Sam more but he does.

He doesn’t want to stop kissing, but he can’t breathe. His heart is racing, his hips moving at a brutal, unforgiving pace and Dean’s close. He’s so fucking close, oh god.

Pumping his fist around Sam’s dick faster, Dean leans down and whispers into his ear, “Come on my dick, Sam, fuck, I want to feel it. Make me come when you come on my dick, baby, do it.”

And Sam does. Sam comes, clenching hard around Dean’s dick and growling right back at him, “Fucking come, Dean, fuck me and come, now.” He moves his hips this certain way, squeezing tight around him to draw out his orgasm, and when Dean comes, it feels like it isn’t ever going to stop. Just fills and fills and fills Sam up until his belly is almost visibly raised. He lifts his hand that’s covered in Sam’s come and presses against the slight bulge in his lower belly and Sam whines, bites at his lip and moans his name.

“Oh fuck, Sammy,” Dean whispers as he rides out the last of his orgasm. He rotates his hips to tap once more at his sweet spot, making Sam whimper, before he pulls out completely, looks down at Sam’s fucked out ass and smirks. Presses three fingers right back in and feeds his come back into him. Leans down to kiss at his lips again, his smirk fading into a smile as he whispers, “I love you,” against Sam’s lips.

It just slipped, he didn’t mean to say it, but he doesn’t regret it. Kisses him again, but Sam is tense under him, rigid, and Dean pulls back in question. Tilts his head.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, almost uncomfortable. He’s shaking now, Dean thinks because of the sweat and come cooling on their bodies. “Dean, I don’t…I don’t feel anything.”

It’s like the ceiling is crashing down on him. The walls are closing in. He pulls back, off of Sam completely, in shock. He’s cold, fucking freezing all of a sudden. Picks up his shirt from the ground and slips it on before grabbing his jeans. He can’t find his boxers but he doesn’t care. He slips into his jeans one by one, hopping on one foot trying to get each foot through.

“Dean–”

“No,” Dean growls, doing up his belt quickly, the sound of the metal loud and echoing in the near silence of the room. He slips into his boots. “This was a mistake.”

“Dean–”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Sam’s mouth closes and he sits up. Dean hates the look on his face, like he has no emotion, like he can’t feel. He hates how Sam looks, how Sam changed in Hell. Fuck. “I just–” His come is dripping from Sam’s ass and it can’t be comfortable, but Sam stands and Dean tries not to watch as his come trails down Sam’s thighs; he watches anyway. But he doesn’t have to see it for too long because Sam is pulling on his own jeans, dripping and drying come be damned, and putting on his button down shirt without the undershirt. “I just need to think, Sam, this is all–”

“Dean,” Sam says for the third time. “I get it, okay? Just. Don’t leave. Okay? We have to talk to you about something before we can let you go.” His voice should have clued Dean in. His voice should have told Dean not to fucking do this. But he was so clouded over by the fact that Sam is alive that he–

“Wait, we?”

All Sam does is nod. And for the first time since he saw Sam, he wishes he never came to find him. Dean doesn’t think he can get over this.

Chapter Text

When Dean walks through the door all he sees is Sam, completely naked and kneeling on the living room carpet. His head’s down, hair covering his eyes, but Dean can see tears on his cheeks. He hangs his keys on the wall but doesn’t kick off his shoes like they normally do when they get home. Doms cannot allow any weaknesses when their subs are in subspace.

“Sam,” he says, loud enough for the boy to hear. He flinches, but doesn’t say a word otherwise. Castiel is nowhere to be found, but from a quick assessment of the room, Dean can assume that Sam wasn’t good and this is punishment. “You may speak, Sam.”

“No, he may not.”

Dean turns to send a glare Castiel’s way. He and Cas butt heads when it comes to Sam; they never come to an agreement on anything that Sam needs or wants. The only thing they don’t argue on is that Sam needs both of them. So they’ve not killed each other yet, because they work so well together when it comes to taking Sam apart.

“He brought himself to orgasm, Dean,” Castiel finally says, eyes on Sam’s shaking shoulders. “In the shower. Tried to hide it from me.”

Looking back at Sam, Dean asks, “Is that true, Sam? You may speak.” He’s looking at Cas when he says it. A challenge.

“Go ahead, Sam.”

“Yes,” Sam whispers, voice trembling but quiet.

“You know the rules, don’t you, baby? You don’t touch what’s ours unless we give you permission, and you don’t, ever, keep it from us.” Sam nods, frantic. “Because I’m sure Castiel would have loved to get his mouth on you, isn’t that right, Cas?”

Cas steps up behind Sam so the tips of his shoes bump against the heels of Sam’s feet. “That’s right, Dean,” he says lowly, gently running a finger over Sam’s shoulder. Goosebumps trail in its wake. “Sam tastes so good, we shouldn’t be denied that, should we? Was I wrong to punish him?”

He glares at Cas when he replies, “No, Cas, you weren’t wrong,” before crouching down in front of Sam, gripping his fingers tight into his little brother’s hair and forcing him to make eye contact. “What do we do to make this lesson sink in, Cas?” he asks, and watches with both resentment and satisfaction as a quick flash of fear shows in Sam’s eyes.

“I was going to say three days and nights without our dicks,” he pauses, both Dean and Sam tensing, “But you and I can’t even go one day without wanting to fuck him, so how about…” Dean cups Sam’s chin, making him maintain eye contact when he tries to look away. “…we just don’t let him have our come, like he denied us his? And he doesn’t get to come for three days and nights.”

“That seems fair,” Dean agrees. “I’ll fuck his beautiful mouth while you fuck his tight ass, rough and deep, and we’ll pull out and make him watch as we bring ourselves off with our hands, and not let him have a single drop.” He smiles down at his brother when he hears the whimper, kisses him on the forehead and stands. “We’ll bring him to the brink of orgasm and then slip on a cockring. He was always so pretty when he couldn’t come.”

Tears fall more freely down Sam’s face, but he nods his acceptance, waits for an order.

“Get up, Sam,” Dean says, from above him. “Cas, get him ready while I shower. Get him hard and plug him up. I expect him to be a mess when I come out.”

Chapter Text

Sam’s studying for finals sophomore year. They're staying in a two bedroom house John rented them in Louisiana while he's on a month long hunt two states over. Their A/C broke three days ago and it’s fucking hot. It’s nearing the end of May and it’s 90 degrees already. He doesn’t want to be inside but he needs to study; he wants to prove to their dad that school is what he wants, not what their lives are now.

Dean’s outside working on the Impala. Sam knows he’s got a six pack out there with him even though he’s a year short of being of legal age to drink. He doesn’t ask how he gets his beer, but Dean always lets him have a sip before bed.

There’s sweat on his neck, his hair sticking to it making it uncomfortable. He can’t concentrate when every few minutes he’s swiping his hands through his hair to relieve his neck.

After half an hour of that unnecessary torture, he digs through his backpack, coming up with a small rubber band. “Thank god,” he mutters, wrapping it around his wrist and brushing his fingers through his hair to get it into one spot. Satisfied that it’s off his neck and out of his face, he ties it up in the rubber band. It’s like a relief on his neck and a huge improvement for his thought process when he sits back down to study.

He puts the pencil back up above his ear and a highlighter in is mouth for when he has to highlight things he knows are gonna hit him during the finals.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean calls as he walks in the front door. “What are you thinkin’ for dinner? Chinese? Pizza? Whoa.”

Sam looks up and takes the highlighter from his mouth with a muttered, “Hm?”

“What is that, Sam?”

“What’s what?”

“Your hair.”

Lifting a hand, Sam pats his head, says, “Oh!” and then smiles sheepishly. “It’s hot in here, Dean, my hair was sticking to my neck and--”

Ignoring him and walking past the couch and to the hall, Dean shouts, “Don’t care, gotta shower!” and slams the bathroom door behind him. Sam sits, completely confused, at the table. Dean never passes up a chance to poke fun at Sam and call him a girl; this would have been the perfect opportunity. His hair’s up in a ponytail -- Sam needs to buy actual hair ties, because the rubber band isn’t very comfortable and pulls at his hair when he turns his head a certain way -- so he was fully expecting to be called Samantha at least once today because of it.

He gets up to head towards the bathroom. They’re brothers, they don’t give a shit about personal space. They don’t lock the door when they shower. If you gotta piss, you gotta piss, the bathroom has to be available.

But the door’s locked when he goes to turn the handle. Annoyed, Sam lifts a fist to knock when he hears a moan. Shit, Dean’s jerking off. Sam bites his bottom lip, presses at his dick in his basketball shorts with the palm of his hand -- why the fuck is he hard? His brother is jerking off in the shower -- and walks back to the small living room. He shouldn’t have heard that. It wasn’t something he should have heard.

But Dean also shouldn’t be jerking off in the middle of the day either. What was he even doing? Some chick probably flashed her bra at him or something while he was working on the car.

Sam covers his hard dick with his book, groaning at the weight, and hopes studying will make it go down by the time Dean comes out.

Chapter Text

It takes three separate times of Sam wearing a ponytail and Dean running off quickly before Sam realizes it’s the ponytail so then for the next year and a half, he ties up his hair.

He makes up random excuses to do it, too, even when it’s not hot. And when Dean realizes what Sam’s doing, he finally makes a move. Pulls Sam close by a grip on his ponytail and kisses him hard.

They don’t move past over the clothes touching or kissing, but Sam likes the feel of their hard dicks rubbing together, despite it being through jeans, but Dean’s hand never leaves Sam’s hair.

But as a ‘fuck you’ to Dean and John -- John because he told Sam to get out and never come back, and Dean because Dean didn’t fight for him; Dean sided with John -- he cuts his hair on his way to Stanford. Cuts it short so he can’t even get a little ponytail. Keeps it short because he doesn’t want to be reminded of Dean.

In the process of growing his hair out, contemplating whether or not he should cut it again, is when Sam sees Dean for the first time in four years.

“Easy tiger,” Dean says. He’s got Sam pinned to the floor in the dark. Jessica’s asleep in the next room, and Sam can’t catch his breath because Dean is still as beautiful as he was when Sam left.

“Dean,” he whispers. It’s hard to breathe.

“You cut your hair,” Dean replies, sounding wounded. And in that moment, Sam regrets everything. But mostly four years of washing his hair down the sink in public restrooms.

Chapter Text

“Now, Dean,” Death says, voice as calm as it always is, soft, patient. “I need Sam to be here for me to tell you exactly what I want if I’m going to remove that mark from your arm.”

Dean rolls his eyes, mutters, “Well, isn’t that just fan-freaking-tastic,” but pulls out his phone anyway. Sam picks up on the second ring.

Dean?

“Yeah. I’m gonna text you an address, I need you to meet me there.”

Dean, wai--

He hangs up before Sam can finish talking. Types out the address, hits send, and shuts off his phone. “There. He’ll be here. He shouldn’t be too far.” He’s not too pleased that he has to see Sam so soon, that Death is involving Sam in this. But whatever it takes, he needs this mark off his arm before he loses it completely. Almost killing Cas -- despite the fucked up things Cas has done in the past, he’s still one of his and Sam’s closest friends and Dean can’t afford to lose another friend -- was the last straw for him.

Death doesn’t say anything as he does a quick look around the place. He takes a seat at the bar and folds his hands as if waiting for a bartender to come and serve him. There are no bartenders here. It’s been abandoned for years, but from the looks of it, kids come by for parties and means to get drunk where no one can find them.

Sitting beside Death, a couple seats away, Dean looks at the empty shelf that should hold alcohol. Says, “Anything you can tell me before Sam gets her? Or why he even needs to be here?”

“Sam’s involved in this, of course. No matter what choice you make, it will affect your brother whether you want it to or not.”

“I don’t care,” Dean growls. “He got someone important to me killed. It’s his fault she’s gone.”

“You two have always been stubborn, haven’t you?” Dean turns to send him a glare, but finds Death smiling almost fondly. “You’re always quick to blame your brother, and he’s always so self-sacrificing. There will come a time when you realize that what you’re saying is wrong, Dean Winchester, but by that time it will already be too late.”

“What does that mean?”

The rumble of the Impala outside the bar provides a good distraction for Death to ignore Dean. He stands, back to the bar, as Sam walks in the front door. “Sam Winchester,” Death says, stretching out a hand to the younger Winchester. “It’s been so long. Your soul’s holding up nicely.”

Sam’s too in shock to be able to shake Death’s hand, only turns a questioning look on Dean, who puts his hands up in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture.

“Well,” Death sounds as cheerful as he can get, a small teasing smile on his lips as he turns to Dean. “We’re here to cure Dean of the Mark of Cain.” Turning back to face Death, Sam’s eyes are wide and scared, but so full of hope. Dean sought out help on his own. Dean wants to be saved. “I have two possible conditions to do so. I need you here, Sam, because your involvement is crucial.”

“Whatever it is, do it,” Sam says.

“You see, if I am to remove this mark,” he lifts Dean’s right hand up to inspect the angry red burn on his forearm, “the two of you cannot both be alive. In order for me to remove something with that much power, there must be a sacrifice. I can either take the mark and in turn take Dean’s life with it...or Sam, you can willingly let your life be taken to save your brother’s.”

In his free hand, Death seemingly materializes a scythe, still holding onto Dean’s arm.

Dean pulls his arm from Death’s grasp and steps back. Sam is silent beside him, but Dean can see his mind working, see what other things he can think of because surely Sam doesn’t want to die, and Dean knows Sam won’t let him die.

Dean’s eyes are on the scythe when Death asks, “Sam, have you made your choice?”

“Yes.”

When Dean looks, Sam is on his knees beside him, hands up. He’s watching the blade of the scythe through the hair covering his eyes, but he’s keeping an eye on it. He won’t look when Dean whispers, “Sam, what are you doing?”

“I have a condition, too, Death.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a negotiation.”

“Please, just...just hear me out.” There are tears in his eyes and Dean feels his hear breaking as he steps back from Sam, afraid to do or say anything. Sam’s on his knees, waiting to die to save Dean. Dean doesn’t know what to do. He shouldn’t care because Sam got Charlie killed but Dean can’t help but care.

“Go on,” Death replies, looking to Dean for a quick moment before he trains his eyes on Sam.

“If you do this, if...if my death can cure Dean, could you also bring someone back to life with the exchange of mine?”

“Sam--”

Sam ignores Dean, ignores the way Dean says his name. He closes his eyes and the tears that had built up there run down his face in a thick stream, staining his cheeks. “Could you bring Charlie back? Bring her back and promise me- promise me that this will be the last time I breathe? That once I die here, once I die today, right now, that nothing, not God, not an army of angels, not you can bring me back to life?”

Dean’s words- anything he could have said then- die in his throat as he watches Sam. Sam’s a shaking mess of tears on the floor beside him and Dean is shattering with every word his brother says.

“That is a lot to ask for, Sam,” Death says, slow and calm, but takes a step forward. “You are willing for all of that to happen for your brother? You are willing to be wiped from this earth, with no hope of ever coming back? Of ever seeing your brother again? Are you sure?”

“No, he’s not sure,” Dean finally manages to get out, but his voice is raspy, his throat hurts. “He’s sure as hell not doing that-”

“Yes.”

What Sam doesn’t say, what he couldn’t bear to repeat, because he couldn’t bear to hear it again, is that Dean wants him dead. Dean wants him dead in exchange of Charlie. That Dean said that. So what more does Sam have to lose when he’s already lost Dean?

“No.”

“Then it shall be, from this day forward, that you, Sam Winchester, will die for your brother, to cure him of the Mark of Cain, and bring Charlie Bradbury back from the dead.”

Chapter Text

｢the first words Dean ever said to Sam｣

Mom and Dad come home with Sam while Dean is sleeping. It isn’t too late at night, and Dean had tried so hard to stay awake to meet his brand new baby brother just two days old, but the four year old had tuckered out at 8:30 having excited himself too much. Dad had thanked the babysitter and carried Dean to his room while Mom got Sam situated in the nursery.

“Shouldn’t we wake him up?” Dean thinks he hears Mom ask softly, but his eyelids are so heavy he can’t open them.

Dad sighs but there’s a smile in the sound as he brushes Dean’s hair from his face. “Let’s let him sleep, Mary. He can meet his brother in the morning.”

“Okay.” She kisses Dean’s forehead, whispers, “I love you, sweetheart,” and leaves the room with Dad. They leave his door open a crack like always. The house is completely silent once Mom and Dad go to their bedroom.

But it’s like a switch is flipped and Dean’s wide awake. He sits up and rolls out of his bed, hurrying to his open door and walking as quickly but quietly as he can manage to the nursery he’d fallen asleep in for weeks before Sam was due. It feels more like home than his own bedroom.

There’s a bassinet in the far side of the room that his little brother is sleeping in right this second; he just has to get there. He pulls up the little chair in the corner of the room, trying not to drag it because the baby monitor is right there and he doesn’t want to upset Mom and Dad from their sleep.

But he accidentally pushes the chair too close to the bassinet and it shakes. His baby brother makes a distressed noise and Dean is quick to crawl up onto the chair so he can look down at his little brother.

Sam’s got this pouty lip and his eyes are shut, cheeks chubby and so, so cute, Dean wants to poke ‘em. But instead Dean grabs Sam’s flailing hand in his slightly bigger one and holds it, tucking his thumb into his brother’s fingers. Sam sits still but still makes the little sounds and his eyes, so, so beautiful, open slowly and find Dean. His distress seems to escalate, Dean thinks because Sam doesn’t know him, so he says, soft and quiet, as he gently touches his brother’s cheek, caressing under his eye with his thumb, “Shh, close your eyes. Sammy, close your eyes,” and Sam does.

｢were almost the last words he ever said to him, too｣

“Close your eyes.”

It’s like 32 years of emotion comes flooding back the second he says it. And Sam looks up at him, face covered in blood and tears, but he looks exactly like Dean’s newborn baby brother right then. Sam’s looking at him like he doesn’t know him, but like he trusts him just as much as that baby had trusted four year old Dean all those years ago, and Dean wants to cry.

He wants Sam to stop looking at him. He wants Sam to look at him forever.

He’s supposed to protect Sam. He’s not supposed to tell Sam that he should have been burning where Charlie was. He’s not supposed to tell Sam he’s selfish and that he has to die. It’s not his right.

He just wants the pain to stop.

The scythe is heavy in his hands and he adjusts his grip to get used to the feeling. It’s nothing like a sword or a knife or an angel blade. He can’t screw this up. He can’t bring more pain to Sam than he’s already caused.

But fuck, it hurts.

It’s hard to swallow, like he’s choking, can’t get in air, because Sam is kneeling before him, looking up at him like he’s the one that hung the moon and brings it out for Sam every night. Sam’s looking at him like there’s nothing else in the entire world worth as much as Dean himself. And Dean wishes he could die instead of Sam. But he can’t- even if he could die, he couldn’t do that to Sam- Sam doesn’t deserve that pain. Dean does.

Dean deserves the pain he’s in, and the pain he’s going to feel until the Mark rips him apart and takes away all that made him Dean Winchester.

Only seconds have passed, but it feels like hours in the time he and Sam stare at each other. He wishes it could be different, that he deserves the love and trust in Sam’s eyes. He wants to be that person; the one that deserves Sam’s love and devotion. Maybe in his next life, he’ll find Sam again. He wants.

He says, soft and quiet and broken, “Sammy, close your eyes,” and Sam does.

｢shh, close your eyes, sammy｣

Chapter Text

When Castiel’s around, he’d just heal him with his grace despite Sam’s best efforts to stop him, to tell him not to waste it on him when he has such a small amount left.

But Cas can’t always be there. For everything else, there’s Dean. Dean who tells Sam to breathe in deep, exhale slowly, just keep breathing for me, Sammy, it’s okay. And Sam would breathe because his big brother told him to, because the person he’s looked up to since he was four years old despite their many fallouts was telling him what’s best for him.

He always listens.

“Shoulder or gash first?” Dean asks, softly swiping the hair from Sam’s eyes.

Biting his lip, Sam whimpers when he accidentally jostles his dislocated shoulder. Wishes Cas was here, wishes for his grace for the first time, because dislocated shoulders hurt the worst. “S-shoulder,” he gasps once he can breathe again. “Otherwise I- otherwise I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Dean nods. “I’m gonna have to cut off your shirt. I need to look at it before I do anything, kiddo.” Sam doesn’t respond so Dean does just that. He takes out his hunter’s knife, grabs a fistful of his tshirt and slices up the sleeve. He pulls too hard when he does because Sam cries out when his shoulder is pulled. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shh, calm down, breathe, little brother.”

Sam does.

Once Dean gets a good look at him, he frowns. His shoulder, part of his collarbone and a large part of his back are bruised black and blue. Darker than it should be this soon. “God, Sammy, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.” Eyes never leaving Sam’s trusting but pained face, Dean undoes his belt and pulls it from the loops. Holds it in front of his brother’s mouth and says, “Bite down on this. I don’t want you to bite your tongue.”

He’s always so pleasantly shocked when Sam does as he’s told, no questions asked. He can’t shake the feeling that Sam is beautiful with Dean’s belt in his mouth.

With a gentle hand on Sam’s warm shoulder, Dean whispers, “On three...one...” Sam’s eyes close. “...two...” His jaw clenches around the belt, swallowing and working his throat and Dean bites his lip, wishing there was any other way. “...three!” Sam’s shoulder pops back into place with a sickening sound and Sam’s scream muffled by the belt- Dean’s belt. Disregarding the gash in Sam’s side for the moment, Dean takes the belt from his mouth and pulls his little brother into a hug. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, Sammy,” he’s soothing, holding his hand to the back of Sam’s head to keep it rested on his shoulder until Sam breathes normally.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he doesn’t regret it as he presses kiss after kiss to the top of Sam’s head. His little brother’s hair is a mess of blood and sweat and dirt, but Dean keeps kissing until he’s pulled Sam’s head off his shoulder so he can kiss his face. He kisses the tears away, murmuring all the while how good Sam did. Sam just clings to his shirt like a lifeline.

Dean doesn’t want to have to let go to stitch up his side.

Chapter Text

His limbs hurt all the time. It feels like his legs and arms are being stretched beyond his body’s capacity. And he’s just so uncomfortable. He’s sixteen years old, but he feels ninety when he sits up to get out of bed each morning. He thinks that if this is how ninety feels, he’d be glad to live a short hunters’ life.

He frowns at the thought, and swings his legs from the bed so he can stand. He has no idea how he does it, but he bangs his knee on the corner of the nightstand and cries out. It’s the kind of pain that makes him feel ill, like he’s going to throw up all over the place. Tries to soothe his knee by rubbing on it, hopes to quell the queasiness in his stomach. Sits still so the room stops spinning.

“Oh, god,” he whimpers, dropping his face into his hands while the feeling passes.

Dean peaks his head into the bedroom they’re sharing in the house Dad rented them for a few weeks. His hair is damp from his shower, skin splotchy and red from the steam and from scrubbing his face, Sam assumes. The amulet Sam gave him eight years ago gleams in the sunlight lighting up the room. He smiles despite the pain in his knee and the sick feeling welling up in his stomach.

“You okay, kiddo?” Dean asks, stepping completely into the room shirtless, but in worn down Route 66 jeans. There are drops of water on his shoulders that haven’t completely dried because it’s too warm in the house. Dean will probably stay shirtless for another hour or so until he runs to the diner to get them breakfast. “I heard a bang and then -”

“I hit my knee on the nightstand. I’m okay. Just - hurts.” He rubs at the tender area. He sleeps in only boxers in the summer; Dad never really bothers with the A/C unit. Doesn’t want to pay for it. Sam hates it, because Dad’s never the one who has to suffer through 90 plus degree summers. He’s gone more often than not these days. “Did you use all the hot water?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean sits beside Sam on the bed. “It’s too hot in here for a hot shower, Sammy -”

“You know I can’t take cold showers.”

Dean mumbles something that even so close, Sam can’t hear. “What?” he asks, turning to face his brother.

“Nevermind.”

The way Sam turned gives Dean a good view of his banged up knee. He frowns, moving Sam’s hand away to put his palm on the reddened skin. “Shit, kiddo, you hit it pretty hard, huh?” He leans over Sam and inspects the nightstand. Little things, like dads would usually do. Jokes.

Sam pushes at his shoulder, laughs, “Jerk.”

“I think we have ice. I’ll be right back, bitch.” Before Sam can protest, Dean’s gone from the room. It’s barely been a minute before he comes back with a sandwich bag full of ice and a wet washcloth. “It’s gonna sting for a minute because you’re not used to the cold, but just bear with it, okay?”

Hissing, Sam tries to pull his leg away, but Dean’s got a tight grip on his thigh, keeping him firmly in place while he gets used to the cold.

“When did you even get ice anyway? Dad would be pissed if he saw you wasting money on stuff like that, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t say that he got the ice days ago, after the first time Sam flung his arms around and banged his elbow on the wall when he was sleeping because the bed is too short and not nearly wide enough for his growing limbs. He also doesn’t say that he keeps it stocked just for moments like these when accident prone Sammy hurts himself. And he sure as hell doesn’t mention the heating pad he bought yesterday when he went out to buy them dinner for when the stretching in his arms and legs gets too bad.

Sam just doesn’t need to know things like that.

“You tellin’ me you don’t want ice in your soda, you brat?” he says instead, and lifts up a hand to ruffle Sam’s already messy bedhead. Sam laughs and smacks his hand away.

Chapter Text

“God, Sammy, look at you,” Dean praises as he slowly slips his dick out of his brother. He’s got Sam on his hands and knees on their bed, trembling under him from holding position for so long. Sam’s making these pretty little breathless noises against the pillow, hair fanned out and covered in sweat all over the place. If Dean could draw, he’d want to draw this.

He’d love to try to draw Sam. But no artist could ever capture the true beauty that is his little brother spread out and naked for him, ready at all times. It wouldn’t do him justice.

Come dribbles out slowly from his hole and Dean fights every urge to press it back in with two fingers. But he just wants to look right now.

He’d look for the rest of eternity if they had that long.

Grabbing the pert globes of Sam’s ass, he spreads the cheeks to get a good, long look at the hole he just spent the past hour violating in the best way. It’s puffy and red and fucked wide and Dean wants to lick. Wants to get his tongue all up in there and taste himself mixed with Sam. It’s a heady smell. All Sam and earthy and woodsy and beautiful. If he could, he’d write sonnets about Sam’s beauty.

Sam makes him want to be things he never thought of being before.

“You’re wide open, baby boy, I wish you could see yourself.” He pulls the cheeks a little further apart and Sam whimpers, pushes his face into the pillow. “Shh, shh, I know, I just -” He takes a deep breath and leans down; he can smell the two of them right there. His come with Sam’s natural scent; it makes him hard all over again. “This is all mine, isn’t it, Sammy? Mine to fuck. Mine to lick. Mine to stretch wide on my dick until you come with nothing but that alone, isn’t that right?”

Without preamble, he thrusts three fingers right back in there, using his own come as slick. Sam’s already fucked wide, they just slide in like they were meant to be there. Like they belong.

He leans over Sam, kisses the knobs of his spine as he reaches into the top drawer of the nightstand. Sam peeks open an eye to look at what Dean’s doing; smirks against the pillow when he sees Dean’s wet fingers pull out the plug. “That’s right, you know what this is, don’t you, baby boy?” Sam nods and Dean slips out his fingers only to quickly replace them with the plug. He can barely feel it, doesn’t flinch when it’s pressed all the way in. He’s so wet and loose. Dean can’t wait to pull it out once Sam’s hole tightens around it again. Wants so badly to fuck him loose again already.

“You’re gonna sleep with this in your ass, kiddo, and my dick nestled between your thighs, nice and tight and warm.” He maneuvers Sam just the way he wants, spooning up behind him and settling his dick in between Sam’s warm thighs. Sam whines when Dean bumps up against the plug, pushing on it. He smiles against his little brother’s neck and slips two fingers past his swollen, parted lips, and falls asleep to Sam’s even, contented breathing.

Chapter Text

“I didn’t know you could cook more than SpaghettiO’s, Dean,” Sam says, but not unkindly. He’s smiling fondly from the small dining table in their rented apartment. He’s used to takeout and diner food. Dean hadn’t cooked much since Sam was old enough to be left alone for Dean to go out and get food. This is a welcome surprise.

Dean’s putting together everything for a cheese, bacon, and potato casserole, very focused and intent. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, but continues his work. He’s aware of the eyes watching him and just wants to get this thing into the oven so he can focus all his time on Sammy.

“It’s a good thing,” Sam replies cheerfully. He’s seventeen and still doesn’t know all the horrors of the real world. He knows monsters; he’s used to monsters of the week and things that lurk in the dark, but everything else is still lost to him. “I’m tired of diner food and fast food.”

Covering the dish, Dean opens the oven door and slips it inside. He turns to face Sam; just looks at him. Sam’s got this happy smile on his face, dimples full force, and Dean is the one that put it there. “Come ‘ere,” Dean murmurs, pleased when Sam stands and walks to the counter where Dean’s leaning. Before he can get there, Dean’s hands are on his hips and pulling him flush against him.

Sam practically melts into the kiss, letting Dean take over and kiss him how he wants to. His arms find their way around his big brother’s shoulders and hold on tight as their groins press together.

Against his lips, Sam whispers, “I don’t wanna wait anymore,” bumping his nose against Dean’s. “I want you now, Dean.”

Dean groans, pulling their faces apart. “God, kid, don’t say things like that.” There’s an underlying growl to his voice that sends a shiver down Sam’s spine. He tightens his grip, keeping their hips flush. “Not until the oven’s off. We don’t have the money to let the landlord keep the security deposit.”

Dinner is full of stupid smiles across the table and foot nudges under the table. Sam’s cheeks hurt from grinning so much; thinks his face might freeze that way.

“Go wash up in the bathroom, I’ll be in the room.”

Sam obeys, going to wash his face and hands and stare at himself in the mirror. He’s nervous but he’s ready. He’s wanted this for two years now, but Dean refused. He said this was even pushing it, but neither of them could wait anymore.

When he opens the bathroom door, there’s a strong waft of apples and cinnamon and vanilla from their bedroom just across the hall. He quickly heads down to hall only to be surprised by the amount of candles all over the room. On the nightstand, the dresser, the little end table…there are ten candles, just decorating the room and overwhelming it with pleasant scents.

He feels stupid that he’s grinning.

Arms wrap around his middle from behind him and pull him against a strong chest. Dean’s chin rests on his shoulder and he tilts his head to press a kiss to Sam’s cheek. “You ready, baby boy?” He sounds just as nervous as Sam feels.

Sam turns his head for a peck on the lips, whispers, “Yes.”

They strip each other like they’re fragile. Fingers gentle and kisses soft. Dean’s fingers in Sam’s hair just resting, not pulling, just enjoying the softness and the floral scent shampoo he uses. He’s fond of Sam’s hair and the way it smells. Associates it with him always.

He gets Sam on his back on the bed, settles between his little brother’s legs, and just admires his body. Small, and thin, barely any muscle present but he’s beautiful and tan and all Dean’s. He presses a kiss to his flat belly, worships the flesh there, delights in the shivers that wrack Sam’s body at the contact. Sam is so responsive and Dean couldn’t be happier.

It feels like hours preparing him; he wants there to be absolutely no pain at all, even though he knows how almost impossible a feat that is. He just has to try.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam whispers, hazel eyes boring into his soul. “It’s okay.” Leans up to kiss him softly, gently, pouring all his love into that little gesture. It helps settle Dean.

And when Dean pushes in, it’s slow as possible. He hates the hiss Sam lets out, the quick intake of breath on that first initial push, but Sam wraps skinny legs around his hips to keep him from stopping. “Sam,” Dean grumbles, but loves the heat around him anyway. Doesn’t think he could pull away if he tried. “Oh, god, Sam, you’re so tight.”

Fingers in his hair keep his face buried in Sam’s neck so Sam has somewhere to hide; against Dean’s sweaty shoulder. Dean is completely still inside him, wanting to let Sam adjust before he moves, and when Sam finally says, “Okay,” Dean thinks he feels the way Sam does when he sees fireworks.

Sam is Dean’s fireworks.

Chapter Text

Being with Sam isn’t the problem.

Taking him apart piece by piece night after night is one of the greatest things Dean has done in his life. He loves to watch the way Sam crumbles under him, cries out for more, grips the sheets with shaking fingers, whitening his knuckles with how tight his hold is.

He loves every second of Sam’s facial expressions and tiny whimpers. Loves the way it’s him that makes his little brother feel that way. He makes Sam look at him like he’s the sun shining down on his garden, bringing the seeds to life as beautiful flowers. Like he hung the moon that rises the tides.

When in fact it’s Sam that does that for him.

He could spend hours with Sam spread out under him, shaking, moaning, begging him please. He could take Sam apart for days and piece him back together with a kiss. He could bring Sam to completion with a whispered word and Sam would just take it, take it all, let Dean do as he pleases.

If he had all the time in the world, he’d spend it with Sam. And that’s the problem.

There’s no excuse. Not a single one for what he’s done.

He drank so much booze, he can actually smell it on himself, which only means Sam will smell it too. He just hopes Sam can’t smell what else is on his body.

Showering doesn’t help the sickening in his stomach, the acid building up that he won’t even blame the alcohol on. He’s made himself sick over what he’s done. Hates himself, wishes he could erase it, erase himself. Fuck.

The cheep beer smell is gone, masked under Sam’s girly Dove body wash; Dean needed anything to get rid of the stench. But he still feels the hands that ran down his back as he fucked into a warm body that wasn’t Sam.

She was soft, warm, and wet. Tight around him but not like Sam. She sounded nothing like Sam. Her hair was too long, not thick enough, her voice too high pitched. She wasn’t his brother and that’s what’s fucked up. Four years ago, she would have been perfect. A great one night stand after a long hunt to take off the edge. No strings, no regrets; just orgasms and a hot mouth.

But he regrets this, now that he’s come to his senses. The alcohol puked out of his system, water to wash it all away, he hurts.

“You okay, Dean? You’ve been out of it the past few days.” He doesn’t say that Dean’s not been touching or kissing him lately, but Dean hears it anyway. Hates himself even more for not telling Sam the second it happened. For not calling him to say he was drunk and went home with some blonde when he should have been in bed with Sammy

I’m fine, he tries to say, but what comes out is, “I had sex.” His mouth didn’t get his brain’s memo. Fuck.

“…what?”

“Sam, I -” cheated on you, fucked some chick but it didn’t mean anything, cheated on you, cheated on you, fucking cheated on you, but it didn’t mean anything, I’m sorry “- I had sex the other night. Some girl - Stacy, Tracy, I don’t know - it doesn’t matter, I -”

The chair leg scraping across the fake linoleum tile floor cuts Dean off and he stares up at Sam as his little brother stands. His hair frames his face, covers his eyes, and Dean wants to cry. Sam won’t look at him.

“Sam -”

“I have to go.” His hands are flat on the table and Dean focuses on them, how his fingers subtly shake from the tremor running down from his shoulders to his arms and hands. He looks like he’s seizing. He’s frozen where he stands, like he was glued there and Dean’s thankful for those small graces because it gives him time to get his bearings back and stand. Lifts a hand, but Sam’s quicker; cringes away from him and finally detaches himself from the table. “Don’t.”

“Sammy…”

“Just - I need time, Dean. I’ll -” his voice cracks, “I’ll see you.” His duffle is already packed; they never unpack when they’re on the road. Never know when the time to leave arises. Have to be able to make a hasty exit. He’s out the door before Dean can remember how to walk.

The car that was parked three spots from the Impala is gone, and there’s glass in the parking lot in its place. Dean feels like his heart is those hundreds of pieces.

Every text goes unanswered. His calls go right to voicemail. He tries to think the best, but only thinks the worst. A cloud settles above his head and he tries to sleep.

He reaches for the gun under his pillow. He’s used to the cold spot on the other side of the bed by now, but still feels it like a weight on his heart. Breathing isn’t as easy as he’d thought.

There’s a shadow in the room, tall and broad shouldered and clumsy and he knows it’s Sam. Knows Sam is back by the way the duffle drops and a weight sags the bed to the side. Dean wants to reach, but pretends he’s still asleep. Waits. His fingers release the gun and he relaxes his shoulders.

“If I wasn’t enough, I wish you’d told me, Dean,” Sam says. He knows that Sam wouldn’t be talking if he knew Dean was awake. “Instead of - well. I just wish you’d told me. It might have hurt less.” A dry chuckle, faked and broken, makes Dean want to turn and pull Sam into him. “But you. I won’t stop you. I won’t tell you not to do it again. I don’t own you. I guess it was wishful thinking for you to own me, huh?

“I love you. I was - I was going to tell you. I was working on the nerve.” He wishes he could see Sam’s face. He’s frozen in place. He can’t breathe. “But, you know. Even if you don’t feel the same, I still want to hunt with you. You’re still my brother. So.”

He stands and Dean hears paper crumpling. His body won’t listen to his brain and move.

It’s only after the door closes again that Dean can move. There’s a piece of paper on the nightstand; crumpled like Sam was clenching it in his hands. With shaking fingers, he picks it up.

Dean
I’m two doors over -
I’d still like to hunt with you
Just - maybe after we get a room with two beds?
S —

Chapter Text

“Just look at you, Sammy, taking my fingers like you were made for it.”

Dean’s got Sam in his lap, chest pressed to chest, with Sam panting in his ear, clinging to his shirt. His little brother’s riding two of his fingers, grinding down, and Dean curls them just so and has Sam keening.

“Another,” Sam pants, kissing wet and sloppy along Dean’s neck. “Another, De, please.”

Chuckling, Dean does as he’s asked, slipping a third in. He wants Sam to adjust, to be ready, because his dick is by no means small. He doesn’t think three fingers will get Sam ready, but he’s hoping that fucking Sam on them three times a day for the past few days will have helped. Growls, “So bossy, little brother,” but it’s not a complaint.

Sam clenches when the third pushes all the way in and he’s full. Dean moans just thinking about what that will feel like around his dick.

“I’m ready, Dean, I’m ready- fuck -”

“You’re ready when I say, kiddo, not anytime sooner, now let me -” He turns his hand slightly and jabs and Sam cries out, arching his chest more against Dean’s, throwing his head back. Dean’s mesmerized by the way Sam’s hair flies backwards in a mess, but he’s captivated by the way his throat works as he swallows. “Yahtzee,” he whispers, almost smug, as he attaches his lips and teeth to his brother’s throat. It’s always a welcome distraction when Sam wants something that Dean doesn’t think he’s ready for. He becomes a whining, needy mess whenever Dean leaves marks on his neck.

“God, Dean, godfuckplease -” Dean would outlaw the sounds that come out of Sam’s mouth if he didn’t love them so much. “I need -”

“I know what you need, baby boy, shh.” He was never good at the waiting game, though. Can’t keep teasing Sam without teasing himself and it’s killing him. Sam’s been grinding, bouncing, clenching, and he feels fine around Dean’s fingers. He’s ready. He has to be. “Okay, Sammy,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Sam’s pink lips. Hates the way Sam whimpers when his fingers pull free; he kisses the sound from his lips as he slicks up his dick. “C’mere, Sam.”

Sam willingly moves where Dean pulls him; hides his face in his big brother’s neck and shoulder.

“It’s gonna hurt, Sammy, I won’t lie to you.” He’s stroking his hand over Sam’s hair, smoothing it down as he kisses along the side of Sam’s face. “But I’m going to make it as bearable as possible, okay?” He feels Sam’s nod against him and grabs each side of Sam’s hips to lift him up. Lines his cock up with Sam’s slick hole and says, “Bear down for me,” and lowers Sam at the same time as he pushes up his hips.

Just the tip and Sam whimpers, clings tighter. But when Dean stops, whispers, “No, don’t. Dean, keep- keep going, it doesn’t- it’s not pain, just- pressure,” and Dean does until Sam is completely seated in his lap. They both expected more pain but Sam’s... he just feels full. Slight discomfort at being full, but no pain. “I don’t want control, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean nods, understanding; he holds Sam’s sides and shifts them so Sam ends up on his back, legs wide open for Dean to settle between. They kiss for what feels like hours until Dean is sure Sam is ready for him to move.

Chapter Text

“I’m gonna be bigger than you one day,” Sam mumbles, kicking at the ground in front of his big brother. The pout on his face has Dean laughing even more, which just makes Sam’s cheeks puff out in anger. “I’m gonna!”

Dean ruffles Sam wavy mess of hair that’s on its way to straightening itself out, says, “Keep tellin’ yourself that, kiddo. Keep tellin’ yourself that.” But it’s in good nature; he has no doubt that Sam will at least shoot up to his height.

It’s just a matter of time. Sam’s only 9, so he shouldn’t be stressing over it.

*

“Dean, c’mon, this is getting old.”

Sam grew a little more into his arms and legs; he looks less gangly and more normal. His face isn’t always scrunched up in pain from his growth spurt anymore. But Dean’s still taller, and can still hold things high enough above his little brother’s head to tease him.

“Not for me!” he laughs, waving it around proudly. “Still a squirt that can’t reach up to his brother, eh?”

But Sam doesn’t laugh. He’s 13 and tired of this shit; he wants to write his essay. He wants to finish it early so he can just read. And he wants the swell of pride when his Language Arts teacher smiles at him for turning in another good essay.

Always a quick thinker, he does the first thing he thinks of to distract his big brother. He grabs him by the collar of his shirt with both hands, yanks him down at the same time as he raises up on his tip toes, and presses their lips together. Dean’s arm subconsciously drops, bringing Sam’s notebook down far enough that he can grab it from his brother’s slack fingers.

He pulls away with a huge, dimpled grin, proclaims, “See, I don’t have to be tall!” and promptly turns and hurries to the bathroom to lock himself inside so he can write.

Chapter Text

“Just let me out, Sammy. Big brother’s gone and he ain’t comin’ back.”

Sam’s laugh carries no trace of humor. He fills up another syringe of human blood and makes his way over to his brother, frown perfectly set on his face. He leans down to jab the needle into Dean’s forearm, but Dean moves out of the corner of his eye and catches him off guard. Lips press to his and all he thinks is something’s wrong because he tastes blood that he knows isn’t his own.

Fuck.

When he tries to pull back, a whimper causing his mouth to open wider, teeth clamp down on his bottom lip and keep him where he is unless he dares pull away and lose a chunk of his lip. With only one good arm, he can’t very well push away and grab Dean’s jaw at the same time to disconnect their lips. He can only wait and hope that Dean quits soon.

But he’s got no such luck because the sweetness of the blood is already affecting him. His eyes glaze over and he sways forward; realizes belatedly that his bottom lip is free because another stream of warm blood flows into his mouth. He ends up practically in his brother’s lap, the syringe long fallen on the floor and broken; he can’t bring himself to care.

Dean ends the kiss with a gentle peck and smirks up at Sam, whisper-growls, “’attaboy,” into his ear and delights in the shiver that earns him. He wants nothing more than to break his arms free and grind Sam’s ass against his dick for sweet friction, but he’s got to rely on his blood and Sam’s lack of will when he’s high.

“Sammy,” he murmurs, licking his lip to clean away the last of the blood. With clean lips he kisses at Sam’s cheek, presses his nose into his little brother’s temple and inhales. “Sammy, I need you to do something for me, hm?” Sam whines, shaking his head, and tries to pull away, but Dean’s quick. He latches onto his little brother’s ear lobe and keeps Sam close. “Stay, little brother.”

“De’?”

Sleepy, Sam squirms in his brother’s lap and Dean hisses, growls, “Either sit still, or do something about that.” But Sam, ever the disobedient little bitch, squirms again and Dean bites hard at his neck. Sam whimpers, but doesn’t pull away; his strength is almost completely gone. There’s a warmth in his belly, his cheeks are flushed, and his skin feels like it’s about to melt off his bones. “Fuck, Sam, I need you to do something for me. Now.”

“An’th’ng,” he mumbles, head falling into the crook of Dean’s neck. It’s been so long since he’s had demon blood, it seems like the smallest amount is fucking him up. But then again he can’t exactly measure how much he consumed. He was never this way with Ruby. Never rendered immobile and almost useless. He hates this feeling.

“Stand up, now.” Sam stands, on shaky legs, but he stands. Waits. “Drop your pants and lean against the table.” Sam does, reluctantly, but unable to resist a command from his big brother while his big brother’s blood flows through him, setting off fireworks in his belly. He’s hard, his member weeping precome when he gets his pants and underwear off and kicked to the side. He shivers. “Oh fuck, look at you,” Dean mutters appreciatively as Sam leans against the table, presenting his bare ass to him. He admires the perky globes, wants to sink his teeth into the cheeks, his tongue into the untouched hole, and then his dick, hard and fast, until Sam cries.

It should bother him how much he wants to see Sam cry, but it doesn’t.

“I don’t care what you use,” he says, impatient. “Finger yourself until you’re fucking yourself on three fingers -- get them deep inside and fucking moan for me; think about my dick inside you -- but don’t. Don’t fucking come, you got that?”

Sam nods.

With Sam’s back to him, he can’t see what Sam’s using, but the first finger slides in nice, but Sam still cries out at the initial stretch; Dean wishes it was his dick pushing inside Sam right now. He encourages Sam with, “another,” even though he knows Sam hasn’t worked himself well enough yet. He can just make out tears tracking down Sam’s red cheeks, and he wishes he could coat his dick in them and fuck Sam with his own tears. Wishes he could make little brother cry so much that he has enough to use as lube.

“Dean, please,” Sam whines when Dean whispers for the third finger. “Dean, I can’t.”

“You can,” he growls, and, “You will. It’s either three fingers and then my dick, or my dick after only two fingers. Your choice, kiddo.”

It’s beautiful when the third finger slips in because he watches his little brother’s ass clench, trying to fight the penetration, to force the fingers out, but Sam keeps going until they’re all the way in to the knuckle. He pants against the table, tries to mind his injured shoulder but ultimately he’s too tired to hold himself up anymore. Dean just wants to fuck.

“Go on, baby, fuck yourself. I want to watch your greedy little hole as you fuck your fingers into your ass.” And when Sam’s whimpers turn into long, drawn out moans, he knows his little brother is ready. He rasps, “C’mere, kid,” and Sam does. His dick is still hard, the tip an angry red from neglect, and Dean wants it in his mouth, but his own dick is becoming a problem. “Pull out my dick, Sam, and then sit on it. I want you in my lap, completely flush with my thighs, spread wide on my dick. And I want you screaming, baby boy.”

And scream Sam does when he does as he’s asked.

Chapter Text

Sam’s reluctant to let go, but he has to ask, “What do you remember?”

“I remember you were pretty whacked out yesterday. Remember catching up with the Trickster. That’s about it.”

It’s like a weight lifts off Sam’s shoulders. He has Dean back; he can erase those six months from his head because they’re going to go on for another six months. And longer, because he’s not letting his brother go again; he’s going to save him.

He pulls Dean into another hug and just breathes him in. Dean is here. Dean is alive. And he’s not going to let him go again.

“Come on, bitch, you’re soaking my shirt,” Dean laughs, his tone joking. He doesn’t know how right he is, because Sam can’t hold back his tears; they’re flowing freely and he’s trying so hard to keep his whimpers in so he doesn’t alert his big brother to his pain. But the six months he spent alone, fighting his way to the Trickster, has left him empty and broken and it’s the biggest relief in his life to have Dean back.

Dean pats him on the back gently. This hug is long, even for them on their worst reunions, but it’s not like this is a reunion, right? “Alright, sasquatch, it’s time we got going,” he says, grabbing Sam by the shoulders to separate them. Sam hangs his head, trying to cover his eyes, which only alerts Dean to the fact that something is very, very wrong. “Sam?”

His little brother tries to pull away, to put distance between them and turn so he’s not facing him anymore, but Dean sees it on Sam’s flushed cheeks. There are tears glistening in the sunlight shining into the motel room and Dean feels like the biggest asshole because of his comment.

“Sam- Sammy, hey, look at me.” He gets two fingers under Sam’s chin and turns his face upward so he can get a good look at him. “What happened?”

“I just -” his voice is thick and cracking and Dean’s heart breaks. Sam won’t look at him directly and that hurts more than he can say because this is Sam. This is his little brother that never looks away from him; his unwavering Sammy that fights head on and takes shit from no one. And he won’t look at him.

Dean does the first thing he can think of. He cups the back of Sam’s neck with a clammy hand and pulls him against him. Their breath mingles with how close their lips are and Dean gives one, solid shake that has terrified hazel eyes meeting his for the briefest of seconds. He waits for some kind of negative response, but finds none, and promptly presses his lips against Sam’s, soft and gentle. Sam makes this sound that has his mouth opening under Dean’s and Dean plunders in, taking what they’ve both been wanting for longer than either would care to admit.

Never has Dean had a more responsive partner than Sam; he’s pliant and lets Dean do everything he wants. He moves with Dean, no questions, and lets his tongue inside like it’s the most natural thing for him to do. Dean forgets that he wanted to pack their things up and to go to that diner downtown before leaving this weird place. Sam’s moans are like the cure-all for everything.

“Dean- oh, god –”

“I’ve got you, Sammy,” Dean whispers, their lips brushing together because Dean refuses to create any amount of distance. It’s clumsy, the way he backs Sam up towards the bed, because he’s so focused on the hair between his fingers and the hip he’s holding, Sam’s shirt riding up just enough for Dean to get his fingers on feverish skin. All around him is Sam.

He gets Sam completely undressed before he pushes him down onto the bed, and then divests himself of his own clothes impatiently. But before he climbs onto the bed, he roots around in the nightstand drawer, almost completely sure that he saw- yes, there it is- lube. Victorious and with one of the most teenage smiles Sam has ever seen in his life, Dean pulls the brand new tube from the drawer, proclaims, “Look, Sam, courtesy lube!” and Sam laughs for the first time in half a year, his tears forgotten and dried on his cheeks.

Dean gets on top of him then, pressing kiss after kiss against first Sam’s lips, and then forehead, cheek, nose, and down, down, down unto his neck and throat. He pays particular attention to the juncture between Sam’s neck and shoulder, draws shivers from his little brother’s body when he licks and sucks a mark there. Sam’s got these quiet sounds, his breath puffing out against Dean’s cheek when he pulls back just to look down. His brother is beautiful and Dean can’t believe he’s his.

The tears build up again at Dean’s gentleness and Dean kisses them away, noses along Sam’s cheek, whispers against salty, tear-soaked skin, “Please, Sam, can I touch you?” and when Sam whispers a broken, “yes,” it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever heard in his entire life.

He coats his fingers, watches Sam’s hands find purchase on the bed sheets and kisses him when he slips one finger inside. Sam’s tight and hot and squirms so prettily. Dean wants this forever. He could finger Sam for hours and get off on just that; he could get off on making his little brother come, but they only have until 11 to get out of the motel before they have to pay for another night, and it’s just about to be 10.

“Fuck, Sammy, look at you. Look what one finger’s doing to you. Imagine my dick. Oh god, you’re going to be so tight around me, baby boy, do you want that? To be tight and hot for big brother?” Sam gasps and arches, his dick twitching, and Dean chuckles, wrapping a hand around Sam’s hard and neglected dick. “I take it you like that. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” He slips in a second finger as he jerks his fist up and down on Sam’s dick; he wants his brother to come before he gets himself inside him. He needs Sam to be loose and relaxed before he even tries to fuck him; hurting Sam is the last thing he wants to do.

Sam comes with a shout of Dean’s name, followed by unintelligible murmuring as Dean slips in a third finger with great care and licks the come from his fingers. He’s slow, letting Sam adjust to the way three fingers stretch him, but he knows they’re still not as wide as his dick. He just needs to be careful and slow and let Sam -

“Dean,” Sam whines, clenching around Dean’s fingers. “C’mon, Dean, fuck me- ah- please, I- oh god- need it.”

Closing his eyes, Dean slips two fingers into Sam’s mouth, just to watch as he sucks on them greedily. “Alright, baby boy,” he says, removing his fingers from Sam’s stretched and fluttering hole. He looks down at the redness, watches as it flutters, looking for something to fill it. Sam whimpers around Dean’s fingers at the emptiness and Dean smiles as he coats his dick. The lube is cold on his hot flesh and he hisses at the feeling, but he’s generous with the lube; he doesn’t want Sam to hurt. He replaces his fingers with his tongue and kisses his way into Sam’s mouth, just to taste. “Ready?”

“Yeah, yes- fuck,” Sam mutters, pupils blown with lust, hair matted to his forehead. “Fuck me, Dean.”

With big, strong, hot hands, Dean grabs the backs of Sam’s thighs and pushes them up until his knees are practically framing his face. Sam goes willingly – he had no idea how flexible his little brother was, holy shit – and when Dean keeps his brother’s legs where he wants them with the power of his shoulders, Sam crosses his ankles above his head and moans, long and loud, when Dean pushes in for the first time.

Sam gives as good as he gets, rolls his hips and clenches around Dean deliciously. Dean fucks and fucks, jackhammers his hips to the rhythm of Sam’s moans. He watches in utter awe as Sam’s big hands spread above his head and hold onto the headboard. The sweat glistening all over his skin gives him this ethereal shine that has Dean wanting to lick him all over. Taste the sweat for himself; he wants Sam covered in his come and his saliva.

He makes Sam come a second time, untouched, just with his dick pressing unapologetically against his prostate, grinding in when he stills himself inside Sam. And the way Sam clenches just right around his dick as he comes has Dean coming hard and hot, ribbons shooting right inside Sam and coating him generously with Dean’s spunk.

It’s a mess when Dean pulls out; his come leaks onto the sheets and they both need a shower before they absolutely have to leave, but he doesn’t want his come washed away, and he doesn’t want Sam’s scent to leave his body.

He gently eases Sam’s legs down, spreads them out and settles between the v between them and lies right on Sam, kissing him softly. Sam’s sleepy and content, fucked out and all Dean’s now. Dean isn’t going to lose this even if it means ending the world for his little brother.

Chapter Text

Some nights Sonny has to wake Dean up because he’s screaming in the middle of the night. He’s screaming “Sammy,” asking where Sam is, shouting, “what have you done to my brother?” And Dean’s quiet for days after that, doesn’t give his normal smile when Sonny makes him pancakes before school.

He tries to call John sometimes. But after three times of someone (John, most likely) hitting ignore, he wants to give up. But he tries again, and on the fourth time, he hears a small, quiet, scared – he wants to fucking cry – broken, “Hello?”

“Sammy?” His hand shakes where he holds the phone; it’s slipping, his hand all clammy as he waits with bated breath.

“D-De?” Sam’s voice cracks, he’s going through puberty without Dean, and he sounds so miserable.

“Yeah, kiddo, it’s me,” he says softly, relieved to hear his little brother’s voice. “What’s going on, are you okay?”

“I –” his voice turns to more of a whisper, “why won’t you come home?”

“I told you not to answer the phone, Sam. Who is it?”

Dean frowns. For the first time in his life, he’s afraid John is going to hurt Sam. He doesn’t know what to do. There’s nothing he can do. The phone hangs up anyway, and he’s left trembling, the phone just playing the dial tone over and over in his head.

And when he tries to call again a few days later, “We’re sorry, this number is no longer in service,” and Sonny has to replace the house phone for the third time Dean moved in.

So he works hard in school; he keeps himself fit and his grades up, but he continues researching like John made him do before he was allowed on hunts. Learns up on things, reads articles, and tries to gauge where John may have taken Sam next. What kind of monster they’re hunting. He lashes out when Sonny tells him he can’t go across the country when he’s still under 18 and living under his roof. But he apologizes later, says he understands.

“Son,” Sonny says one day while Dean’s heading out to the library to find more things. “Wait up a minute, I wanna talk to ya.” Dean drops his backpack; he always listens intently to Sonny. The man’s very important to him. “When you do get outta here, D-dawg, what are you gonna do?”

“What?” Dean asks. “I’m going to college!”

“Now, I know that isn’t true, kid. Because you haven’t looked for one single college in your time here. But do you know what you have looked for? Monsters, Dean. You’re looking for exactly what your dad always had you looking for. And for what?”

Dean looks down, mumbles, “My little brother. I want to know where he is, even if I’m not with him.”

“Your little brother. Sammy? The kid you cry out for in your sleep?” Dean cringes. “Listen, kid, the way you been lookin’, it seems like once you’ve got that car you’ve been eyein’ down at the lot, you’ll be outta here and headin’ straight for whatever your brother’s huntin’. And I just have to ask, Dean, what are you goin’ to do once you get there?”

He’s never thought about it before. Would Sam even want to be around him after he abandoned them? Would John immediately send him away? Dean just turned 18; he can’t take care of his little brother, who’s still got another few months before he turns 14. And John would never allow that.

“I don’t know,” he says instead. “I just. I need to see him, Sonny. Make sure he’s okay. Sammy’s so smart, I could see it in the way he did his homework by himself. He’d be done so quick. I want him to be able to go to school.”

“I get that, kid, but sometimes you just have to let go of what you have no control over.”

It was the realest thing anyone has ever told him, but it still didn’t help him to let go of Sam.

So Dean graduates high school in June (a month before, he celebrated Sam’s birthday in the room by himself, calling a number that’s no longer in service trying one last time to get a hold of him), Sonny and the other kids in the home watching him, grinning at him from the crowd, and he can’t help but wish it was Sammy with them, too; he always wonders what life would have been like if Sam was with him at Sonny’s. But it’s still one of the best feelings in his life.

He’s all smiles when Sonny frames the diploma and hangs it on the wall with all of Dean’s other certificates from the honor roll and wrestling. But the diploma is placed right in the middle, where the wall has been bare for months in anticipation, and he wants to cry for Sam again.

Sonny asks him about college again, but never once pressures him or gives him a disappointed look when he says, “I’d just like to take a year off.” Sonny agrees and tells him that sometimes that’s the best; it gives you a chance to think when you’re not in school all the time. But he knows exactly why Dean is taking a year off; Sonny has never been anything less than understanding and compassionate. Dean has never been more grateful.

The car he’d been eyeing since he got there was his graduation present. He knows Sonny doesn’t have much money, but he also knows Sonny doesn’t want to be asked how or why he got it. “You deserve it, kid,” he says proudly, with a ruffle of Dean’s hair, and Dean thinks he could cry.

Dean fixes it up to his liking – same year as John’s Impala, it’s a Pontiac GTO that’s seen better days – scrapes off layers of paint and repaints it black, shines, and finishes it. He strips the interior that’s worn and ripped, and makes her look brand spankin’ new. She almost looks like the Impala when she’s done, but only two door. He thinks he likes it better because he fixed it.

It took a few months and a lot of scrapes and bruises and blood, but Sonny whistles when he sees her, says, “She looks just like she did back then, boy,” and Dean grins, proud.

That week, he spends all his time researching; strange deaths, noises, kidnappings, anything that would scream monsters.

It takes a week, but he finds something. He says goodbye to Sonny and the kids, and heads out to East Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania on a hunt.

He finds little things there, but the case is closed. But he knows John and Sam were there.

He tries again. And again. And again. Always missing them, always five fucking steps behind. So he takes cases on his own, has to think like a hunter, not someone on a chase. He needs to hit a mark first and find them when they get there. He needs to be waiting, because John isn’t expecting him.

Time flies by, and before he knows it his “year off” is up and school is the farthest thing from his mind right now. His cell phone rings; only one person has his number, and that’s Sonny. He pulls over to the side of the road, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before he answers, “Hello?”

“D-dawg!”

“Hey, Sonny,” Dean says, “what’s going on?”

“I take it you made your decision then.” But it isn’t bitter, it’s not disappointed, and Dean thinks that hurts more. He let Sonny down because Sonny never even had faith in him in the first place. It feels a lot like dying.

“Yeah, Sonny, I did.”

“Hey, no matter what, kid, I’m proud of ya. And if, you know, down the road you want to go to school? They accept all ages. I hope you visit sometime, D-dawg.”

Dean drops the phone when the line goes dead and just breathes. He has to find Sam.

But it’s like John knows his game.

Dean’s old enough to drink by the time he catches wind of a sleek black Impala trailing behind a huge black GMC pickup going back and forth across the country. He’s got connections that help him keep tabs on the Impala, knowing that Sam’s the one behind the wheel. He made friends in his almost 4 years on the road by himself. He’s saved more people than he ever thought possible, and only came close to death 5 times. He’s proud of himself, because most hunters don’t last too long on their own.

He gets a call three weeks later from a hunter he met at a bar in middle of nowhere, Ohio, “’67 Impala, flyin’ solo on Interstate 90 through South Dakota, headin’ towards Wyoming.”

“Thanks, man,” he says as he hangs up.

The library closes in an hour. He’s got time to see what’s there before they kick him out. He doesn’t like the idea that Sam’s almost 18 and is on a hunt by himself; what the hell is John thinking?

Three strange deaths in Sheridan, Wyoming is the only thing that comes up for that area and any states around. Dean gets back to the motel, packs up his stuff, and heads to Wyoming.

He gets a call two days later from a number that isn’t Sonny’s, or anyone else he has saved. “Hello?”

“Boy, what do you think you’re doin’?”

“Bobby?”

“No, Mother Teresa. What the hell do you think you’re doin’ goin’ on hunts by yourself?”

Despite the situation, Dean laughs. “I’m 22, Bobby, I can handle hunts on my own. Been doing it for years now. How’d you get this number?” But he can’t deny that he’s happy.

“That hunter you been minglin’ with, ya idjit!”

“Jack?”

He can almost hear the eyeroll. “What are you doin’, boy? Talkin’ to other hunters, and workin’ alone?”

“I’m looking for Sammy, Bobby.”

He thinks he hears something break, and then there’s a muffled, “Balls!” on the other end and he’s both worried and feels like a weight has lifted off his shoulders. He’s missed this man. “Listen, don’t go after Sam, Dean. Your dad’s been keepin’ tabs on him since he let him go off alone. I’m not even sure if ‘let’ is the right word. Word is, they got into a fight. A big one.”

“All the more reason for me to find him, Bobby.”

“He’s not that same kid you left behind almost 9 years ago, Dean! John dropped him off at my place a few times he had hunts around here, and Sam’s…he’s distant. He won’t talk to anyone. He thinks you left him, Dean. I don’t think he’ll react kindly to seeing you after all this time.”

“Bobby…”

Dean wishes he went back for Sam. He wishes he asked Sonny to fight for him. But he knew how that would have went.

“Sam’s a smart kid, Dean. Smarter’n you, and Lord knows you’re too smart for your own damn good. I think it’s getting to him. Let him come to you.”

“I can’t, Bobby, I’m sorry.”

Unable to keep back the sick feeling in his stomach, he hangs up, throws open his Pontiac’s door, and throws up on the side of the road where he’d pulled over. He’s back on the road in less than ten minutes, after chugging a bottle of water from the trunk.

He does end up catching up with Sam. He sees the Impala outside the victim’s mother’s house. He parks behind it, pulls out a fake ID from his glove compartment, and straightens his tie. A red-faced, teary-eyed woman answers the door, says with a cracked voice, “Your partner’s in here,” before he can get a word out, and lets him in.

Dean’s thrown by how much Sam has grown up. His hair is longer than he remembers, his cheeks thin, the baby fat long gone, and his smile isn’t there. His legs and arms are long and thin, the suit hugging his shoulders just right; he doesn’t seem to work out much, but he’s just. He’s beautiful.

“I found your partner,” the woman says, and Sam snaps his head up so quick, Dean has no idea how he doesn’t get whiplash.

“My– Dean?”

God, he’s got this boyish voice. His brows are furrowed and his eyes- his eyes are this beautiful color. Dean wasn’t sure what they’d turn out to be as Sam was growing, because they changed so frequently, but they’re this beautiful hazel now; so piercing.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says, a crooked grin appearing on his face as he sits next to his brother. Their thighs touch on the small couch and Dean couldn’t really care less what the woman says, because he’s comfortable just being next to Sam.

Chapter Text

He never wanted Dean to find him this way.

“Sam. Sam. Sammy? Sam, c’mon, answer me, damn it!”

But he can’t seem to move to put distance between them.

Dean’s hands are warm on his cool skin; they feel like fire. He tries to pull away, but Dean’s strong, always has been, always will be. He keeps a grip on Sam’s face, a hand cradling each cheek to keep him in check. He knows that if Dean were to let go, his head would fall back, limp.

Being trapped inside your own head isn’t something that’s comfortable. He swore it was the last time three times ago, but it’s getting worse and worse. Ruby is getting worse and worse. She knows when he’s fiending, knows when to come at the last second and give him what he wants. She gives him just enough time away to build up that want so he can’t push her away -- doesn’t give him the chance to think, because she’s good at this game -- can only accept her forearm like a man starved.

She just gives him more and more each time. This time was too much.

He hears the sound before he feels the slap. It’s a slow-going process; when he’s hyped up on demon blood, it’s almost like he’s invincible. He feels like Superman; indestructible. He doesn’t feel pain.

He thinks that’s what worries Dean the most. It would worry him too, if he had the energy and headspace to feel.

“Sammy, please,” Dean pleads, but no matter how hard Sam tries he can’t, “Open your eyes, Sam.”

He hates that he’s doing this to his brother. He often wonders what it would be like to be a fly on the wall, or have the ability to separate his mind from his body and watch as all this unfolds.

Maybe he’d be able to see what this does to himself and to his brother.

Sam hates himself more than he’s ever loved himself.

He hopes there’s no blood on his lips.

Distantly, he feels himself being moved. He’s pretty sure he was on the floor in the middle of the motel room when Dean burst through the door. He remembers Dean checking the salt lines under the door and on the window sills, and he remembers Ruby’s voice, taunting him outside the door moments after Dean left to get them dinner.

He remembers the sound of the knife as she pulled it from the holster, and how he could practically hear it slicing into her arm. The sound of her blood -- it sings to him when she bleeds for him; a cacophony that he can’t ignore -- is what made him open the door and toe apart the salt line with his shoe in the first place.

And she had him, right there on the floor. She rode him, long and hard, as she silenced him with her forearm against his mouth, her free hand in his hair, keeping him against her. She moaned when he sucked; watched as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Laughed as he came in his pants, the warmth spreading under her as she continued to grind down, take her pleasure, and came with a shout above him.

The purr of the Impala made her scarce. She left Sam there with the aftermath, and he’s been cold ever since.

“I’m going to kill that bitch. Skin her alive with a blade dipped in holy water. Show her what Alastair taught me.” Sam trembles under him. He’s slowly coming back to himself, and he’s so cold. He hurts. “She’s going to regret ever touching you, Sammy, when I pour holy water into every hole I carve into her skin.”

When his eyes open, the first thing he sees is Dean. He’s blurry, his vision a mess, but he knows that shape anywhere. “De,” he manages, and brilliant green find his face; he’s lost in his brother’s eyes.

“Sam, oh fuck, Sam,” Dean gasps, wrapping the back of Sam’s shirt in his fingers and pulling him up into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re- oh god, Sam.”

Sam’s still too weak to wrap his arms around his brother, but he settles into the hug, lets Dean’s warmth engulf him and still his shivers. He’s so cold and he can feel a burning on his left cheek that he thinks may have been the slap he heard earlier. He closes his eyes and sleeps for real, feeling safe for the first time in a long time.

He wakes up groggy and sweaty. There’s something heavy holding him down, and a warmth at his backside that he thinks might be moving. The only light in the room is the outside lights of the motel and the digital clock with a green light that reads 4:26 AM.

His head is pounding and he tastes a coppery sweetness that’s making him ill. He wants to brush his teeth and drown himself in the shower.

When he shifts his hips, he feels the dried stickiness and the memory hits him light a freight train. Ruby.

“Sam, stop,” Dean says from somewhere behind him. Sam can feel his brother’s breath tickle at the nap of his neck, making the hairs there dance with the gust. “It’s not even 5 yet, just sleep.”

He doesn’t think he can, but his body’s exhaustion wins over, and he’s passed out in moments, Dean’s hand pushing on his stomach to pull him back so he’s flush against Dean’s chest.

When he wakes up again, he’s alone. Afternoon light shines in the motel room and he wipes the sleep from his eyes. He’s alone in the room and gives himself about half a second to panic as he looks to the bed that was supposed to be his bed. Both his and Dean’s duffel bags are there; Dean’s is open and there’s a towel on the bathroom floor.

He sighs in relief and swings his legs off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. The door opens just as he gets his bearings and his head stops spinning.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean says. There’s a smile in his voice, but Sam can hear the strain. He turns to his brother who’s got a plastic bag in one hand that Sam recognizes from the local diner, though it could have been gotten from anywhere. It’s got a big yellow smiley face on it that says, “Have A Nice Day!” It smells delicious.

In his other hand is a drink tray with two cups of coffee and a strawberry-banana smoothie that Sam knows won’t have any yogurt in it. He smiles, a quick quirk of his lips, as Dean says, “I got you chocolate chip pancakes, you nerd.”

Sam meets Dean over at the small table so they can eat together. He still needs a shower, but he doesn’t think he can keep himself from shaking long enough to get anything done. He needs to work off the blood in his system and get real food into his stomach.

It almost feels normal, eating breakfast with Dean, like last night never happened. But he knows the shit’s gonna hit the fan sooner or later. He just wants to hold onto this for as long as possible.

Chapter Text

Dean had a phase somewhere between 13 and 14. John called it the ‘rebellious teenager’ phase, which he knew was normal for kids who’d just become teens. But he expected better of a Winchester, of his son.

John learned real quick that spanking Dean did nothing. It wouldn’t break his spirit. Dean was strong; it was something that made John proud, he just didn’t want to be at the receiving end of that strength.

The three times he’d spanked Dean, the kid just took it silently, chin up, eyes front, brow furrowed. He never made a sound, never shed a tear. His face got red, but that was it. John knew he hated it, knew that Dean’s dominant nature -- more prominent now that he’d hit his teens -- was ready to rear back and fight, but he didn’t.

Dean wanted to stay in the school John settled them into for the month. He threw fits, broke things that John was going to have to pay for in the two bedroom house he rented before he left on a hunt. He knew John was going to take it out on his ass with his belt, but that didn’t seem to dissuade John’s firstborn. He continued lashing out, saying he liked it in this small town in Minnesota, that he’d made friends, that his teachers said he was promising.

He told John he didn’t want to be a hunter.

“I don’t care what you want, Dean, we’re here for a month and then we’re moving on, just like we always do,” John said, trying to control his temper. Sam was still awake; he was a little older than 9, and John didn’t need him to see his father wail on his older brother. “You’ll be in a new school soon enough.

“Salt the windows and doors. Watch out for Sammy. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He hoisted his duffel up onto his shoulder, opened the door, gave his oldest one long look, and walked out, slamming the door behind him. The deadbolt twisted seconds later and John’s footsteps faded the further he walked down the steps.

When he returned three weeks later, covered in cuts, bruises, dirt, and blood he wasn’t sure was entirely his own, he just wanted a shower. He expected Dean to be cooled down, packed, and ready to leave. John had called them a week before, said that it was close, he was almost done, be ready to leave.

Dean was none of those things, and the house was in no condition for them to leave if he didn’t want to pay more money than he had to to the landlord. The repairs alone would take a month of John’s out-of-pocket money if he didn’t want to lose the $500 security deposit.

“DEAN!”

His little shit of a son came from the bedroom he and Sam shared, a confident smirk on his face as he asked, “Yes?”

“What the hell have you done, boy?”

Dean shrugged, but kept his mouth shut and the smirk implanted on his face. He knew what Dean was expecting: a hard lashing and then a month of cleanup before they could leave. This would be his 4th time doing things out of turn and getting his punishment taken out of his ass; he was used to John’s methods by now and, although he did not like them one bit, he continued to act out.

John wasn’t going to let him win this time. He hated what he was about to do because he knew none of this was Sammy’s fault, but if there was one way for Dean to learn, this would be it.

He watched Dean’s face fall as he shouted, “Sam!” down the hall, and waited for his youngest son’s pitter-patter as he ran down the hallway to him. He motioned silently for Sam to stand right in front of him as he got down on one knee. “I’m sorry, kiddo, but I have to show your brother.”

“Dad?”

“Dad, what the hell are you doing?”

As gently as possible, he pulled Sam to him and bent him over his knee. He didn’t pull down his pajama pants because he wasn’t punishing Sam here, but he still had to make it hurt enough to get through to Dean.

“I’m doing what it takes, Dean,” John said, and gave Sam a quick, hard slap to his left ass cheek. Sam jerked and squirmed and tried to pull away with a cry, but John held fast, kept his youngest trapped over his knee. “I need you to count for me. Tell me how many more your little brother deserves to make up for how much you’re fighting me.”

The second slap hit Sam’s right cheek and Sam whined, jutting his lower lip out in a quivering pout. His eyes were huge and teary, but no tears had fallen yet. John soothed the hurt for a moment, then quickly delivered two more. Dean still had yet to count.

“If you don’t start counting, I’m going to spank your brother raw, Dean.”

When he looked to Dean, he was standing there red-faced and shaking in anger. His chin quivered with how tight he clenched his jaw. His fists were balled, knuckles white, and John thought, good, get angry.

Another slap and tears fell. John kept his face impassive; he didn’t want Dean to see how this was affecting him. He needed Dean to stop this shit on his own.

Two more and Sam was pleading, “Dad, please, stop!” his tears falling freely.

Before he could deliver the eighth slap, Dean sprung into action and grabbed John’s wrist tightly. John hadn’t even seen him move. He raised an eyebrow up at Dean. Dean wouldn’t look at him, his mouth downturned into a frown as he whispered, “Stop, okay? Please stop hurting Sammy.”

John knew that Dean was going to work with him from then on. He let his crying youngest son be pulled from his knee, picked up and cradled in Dean’s arms. He didn’t protest when Dean carried Sam down the hallway to their shared room and locked the door behind them.

He set about cleaning up the house so they could leave hopefully soon.

Chapter Text

Dean wonders, what if Sam couldn’t see Dean, but he could feel him? Dean could physically touch him and Sam would feel it. Almost like Dean’s normal touch but a little colder. Would send different kinds of shivers down Sam’s spine. But Sam would know exactly who it was.

Just because of their closeness, their connection to each other, Dean could move Sam however he wanted.

After he realized he and Sam could communicate via Ouija board, he thought, “If I can do this, maybe I can touch Sam?”

So he tested it out because he knew somehow he’d come back to life, he wanted to try this, just this once, to see if it would work. He didn’t want to pass this opportunity up, so he pushed the Ouija board to the side, drinking in the sound of Sam’s gasp as he did so. “Dean?”

"I’m here, Sammy,” he said, even though he knew Sam couldn’t hear him, and gently leaned over to press a kiss to Sam’s slack lips. Sam opened up under him and Dean smiled into the kiss, deepening it as he pushed Sam onto his back on the floor.

Sam under him is something he always wanted. He wanted to always have this. Because Sam was beautiful.

His hands would find their way under Sam’s shirt, just teasing along his sides and his stomach and up his chest to play with nipples that harden under the coldness of his hands. He loved the little gasps that would fall from his little brother’s lips, so he’d fit their bodies together like always, slotting right over him and pressing down with his hips to feel the hardness there he always loved to create.

And he’d make Sam come, just from the little touches, gasping and panting his name under him.

Chapter Text

“Dean, oh fuck- oh god- Dean--”

Dean leans down and kisses the sounds from his mouth, swallows them up and keeps pressing down. Whispers, “That’s it, baby boy,” against his lips and tweaks a nipple. Sam’s beautiful when he’s falling apart and Dean can’t wait until he’s in his body again, healthy, so he can take Sam apart.

His head snaps up at the sound of the door handle jostling. Sam doesn’t appear to hear it, too lost in sensation and Dean has no other way to alert him to an intruder than to pinch his side.

“Ow!” Sam shouts, and Dean kisses his lips again, softly, gently, to shush him because the nurse doesn’t see him sitting there yet. Gently, he pulls Sam up into a sitting position and straightens out his brother’s clothes. Sam’s confused expression just makes him want to kiss him senseless again, but he can’t, not now that they have company and have to be quiet; he knows that Sam has never been able to keep quiet when pleasured.

Dean presses his knuckles lightly to Sam’s chin and gently turns his head towards the bed. Sam blushes scarlet when he finally notices the nurse checking Dean’s vitals. Dean kisses his cheek, a smile on his face despite the situation. His body is right there, so close to his spirit, and yet so far. He just wants to nestle back inside and be alive again so he can hold and kiss Sam properly.

They wait it out for another thirty seconds; Sam is silent but his flush darkens as Dean settles a possessive arm around his waist and kisses down his neck. Sam has always been sensitive there, and with how cold Dean must feel, Dean delights in the shivers that wrack Sam’s body.

“Shh, Sammy, shh...”

Apparently satisfied with Dean’s vitals (there’s literally been no change since she checked half an hour ago), she turns to leave and promptly shrieks when she notices Sam sitting there.

Sam manages a quick, forced, “Hi,” but can’t exert enough energy to wave.

“Are you okay? You’re --” she swallows, gesturing with her hand towards him as if to say, “on the floor for no apparent reason.”

He nods, says, “Yeah, just. Couldn’t sit in that chair anymore.” He forces a polite smile while Dean smirks against his shoulder. Dean knows Sam wants to hit him for this; he knows that Sam is going to hit him once Dean’s back in his body and not dying.

“Okay,” the nurse says, a troubled look on her face as she leaves Sam and Dean alone again.

Sam flops back onto the floor again, just managing not to crack his head on the linoleum because Dean catches the back of his head with a hand and cradles it in his palm. “I hate you,” Sam groans, but he’s grinning big and wide, that flush still tainting his cheeks. Dean grins back, even though he knows Sam can’t see him.

Chapter Text

Sam started pulling away sometime after he turned 15. He became distant, even with Dean, and started throwing himself into his schoolwork. It bothered Dean that he couldn’t get Sam to talk to him, when he worked so hard to condition Sam to him. He thought that, if anything, he and Sam would always have each other. But Sam seemed to want nothing to do with him.

Despite the shittiness of the situation, Dean was thankful for any chance he could get to talk to Sam, to corner him.

The hunt their dad dragged them on -- “You’re both old enough to be able to come on a hunt,” he’d said -- was nowhere near civilization. There wasn’t a motel for miles; it wasn’t worth the money or the drive when they were hunting something in the woods. John set up two tents, said he was sorry, but Sam and Dean would have to share, and zipped himself up in his tent.

Dean had three hours to coax Sam back out of his shell, because that was when John said he’d wake them.

“Sam,” he whispered. Sam had his back to Dean, and although he couldn’t see Sam’s face, he knew his little brother wasn’t asleep. “Sammy, c’mon.”

“You heard dad, Dean,” Sam snipped, not turning to spare him a look, “We have three hours. Go to sleep.”

Suppressing a growl, Dean did the first thing he could think of. He grabbed Sam around the waist and dragged him back so Sam’s back was nestled snugly against Dean’s chest. He had to bite his lip to keep a contented sigh from escaping at how perfect he and Sam fit together. It wasn’t right, but it felt good.

“What are you doing?” Sam hissed through clenched teeth, trying to pull away and get back to his side of the tent. Dean was having none of that, though. He held fast, wrapping a heavy arm around Sam’s middle and holding him against him. “Dean --”

“Shh.” He felt the way Sam shivered as he shushed him, lips brushing his ear. He delighted in the feeling. “Just let me have this, Sam, please.”

Dean knew the moment Sam had given up fighting because the tension in his shoulders dissipated and he fell back against Dean with a breath of a sigh. Dean’s heavy grip turned into a soft caress as he circled his fingers all over Sam’s sensitive belly. He teased his fingertips just under the hem of his shirt and smiled against Sam’s neck when he felt the muscles constrict and the whimper pass his lips.

He wanted to ask Sam why he’d been pulling away, but he was more than content just holding him. There was more time for talking later. Sam might be more pliant after falling asleep in Dean’s arms.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure this is okay, Dean?”

Dean shoots him a grin, rolling his shoulders to adjust the leather jacket that’s still a little too big on him. He hasn’t fully grown into it, his shoulders not wide enough, but he loves it too much to put it away. “Of course I am, Sammy, have I ever been wrong?”

Sam shoots him this look that Dean can only consider as a bitch face to end all bitch faces; for a fourteen year old kid, he’s got a lot of sass packed into him. But besides the skeptical look Sam’s face transforms into, Dean can see the underlying excitement in his eyes.

He was saving for weeks. He did odd jobs here and there; between carrying groceries for old ladies and doing dishes in little soup kitchens for extra cash -- neither Sam nor Bobby knew about him hustling pool, thank god -- Dean managed to get enough money together to buy enough to keep a smile on Sam’s face for weeks.

John was on a hunt a state over, said he didn’t need his boys for that particular one; Dean and Sam were all too happy to stay at Bobby’s for a few weeks. Sioux Falls was the easiest place for Dean to make some easy cash while not having to worry about paying for a motel and spending on food. John left Bobby with enough money to cover them long enough for him to gank the son of a bitch.

Bobby didn’t need to know why Dean needed cash, though.

He had the trunk of the run-down Civic Bobby was lending him filled with goodies. It was just before sundown and he wanted to get to a remote location before it was completely dark because he still had to set everything up. It was at least a 45 minute drive to where he’d already mapped it out.

“Let’s go, kiddo, we’re running out of time.”

He’d never seen Sam get into a car so quick in his life; Sam was at his quickest when he was getting out of a car after sitting in one for 10 hours straight. This was a welcome change.

The Civic didn’t have a working radio; it didn’t have a radio at all. There was a hole with wires where the radio should be and Dean wished Bobby had something else; he wanted to hit himself for even thinking it. Bobby didn’t even have to lend the Civic to him. Could have said no, especially since Dean knew that John didn’t want Dean going anywhere on his own.

“No tunes, Sammy,” Dean lamented, but he wasn’t too hung up over it. He didn’t mind the silence sometimes, and with the windows down, it wasn’t very quiet anyway.

The clearing was everything he hoped it would be. Trees just far enough there wouldn’t be a danger of fire, and enough room for them to play. He showed Sam how to mount a rocket into the ground and let him set his first firework alight.

“That’s my boy!” he yelled over the sounds of the explosions above them. But he wasn’t paying any mind to what lit up the sky in a glorious lightshow; he was too busy looking at Sam. “Happy 4th of July, Sammy.” Dean’s heart was warmer than the sparks in the sky when Sam turned his blinding smile to him.

Chapter Text

Sam’s kissing him.

Sam is drunk, swaying, using his grip on Dean’s shoulders as leverage to keep himself up, their lips locked together in a sloppy kiss. Dean wants none of it. Dean wants all of it.

Dean wants to kiss Sam until Sam’s lips are all he knows.

He pushes back, makes the kiss harder, rougher, until he can’t anymore. He’s pulling away with a gasp and holding Sam back at arm’s length. “Sam,” he says, like a prayer, like a curse. Like the only name he’ll ever use again.

“Fuck you, Dean!” Sam pushes him backwards with surprising strength for someone so inebriated he could barely stand minutes ago. “Just…fuck you.”

It hurts more than he can admit hearing Sam curse like that. Sam’s never had quite as bad a mouth as Dean had growing up. He rarely heard Sam say any kind of curse word; Sam said ‘jerk’ when Dean said ‘bitch’. It was their thing. One rated PG-13, the other rated R.

But Sam’s cursing at him now, shoving at his shoulder and trying to push past him. Dean can’t let him go; he can’t let Sam go away angry and drunk. Angry is one thing, drunk is another. Sam could do anything when he’s drunk. He has no idea how to function after a few cold ones. Dean can’t let him go anywhere. They have to get over this one together.

Which isn’t to say that they’ll both make it out alive.

Dean fists Sam’s jacket into his hand and forces him back again, pushes him against the wall in between the door and Dean’s bed. He has no idea how Sam got back to the motel on his own if the stench of his alcohol intake is any indication for just how much he ingested. But Sam’s here, not bruised or bleeding, albeit drunk off his skinny ass. His eyes are narrowed into dark slits, but there’s a pout on his lips that Dean thinks trumps any daggers Sam seems to think he can throw at Dean with his eyes.

His little brother is cuter than any 24 year old man has any right to be.

He presses with both hands against Sam’s wide shoulders, pinning Sam harder against the wall when he starts squirming. “You may be taller, kiddo, but I got strength and sobriety to back me up. Whiskey and an impending hangover is all you got goin’ for ya. Stay still, or I will make you.” The face he receives would make him laugh on a better day, but he’s got a drunk little brother that seems to think kissing his big brother is an a-okay thing to do. They need to talk.

“Okay, kid, I’m goin’ to let you go, and you’re goin’ to sit right on this bed and fuckin’ talk to me. Got it?” Only when Sam nods and stays still for almost a minute does Dean actually let him go and step back. “Good,” he says as he helps Sam to the bed to sit. “Good boy.” He pats Sam once on the shoulder and walks to the other side of the bed to pull his duffel from under the bed. He grabs the unopened bottle of water from the pocket and opens it before walking back to Sam and handing it to him. “Drink.” He’s pleased when Sam does as he’s asked.

He lets him have a few good sips, lets him hydrate himself in hopes of lessening his chances of throwing up the contents of his stomach, before he takes the half empty bottle from Sam and sets it on the floor.

“You ready to tell me what that was about, or do you want to sleep it off and tell me while you’re sober and hungover, when I’m less inclined to be nice?”

“You –” He clears his throat, looks away. Swallows. Dean watches as his adam’s apple works. Wishes he didn’t find it alluring. “You messed me up, Dean. My head, it’s- it’s all messed up and it’s all your fault.”

Dean wants to tell Sam he’s full of shit, that Dean didn’t do shit to mess him up. That Dean did the best that he fucking could to raise Sam and protect him and do every fucking thing possible for the little shit. That Dean couldn’t possibly have messed Sam up when Dean sold his soul for him; when Dean is months away from his expiry date. There’s a figurative one-way ticket to Hell in his pocket, burning against his thigh every single day, singing his flesh and reminding him why he does the things that he does.

For Sam. He’s done everything but carve the kid’s name into his skin, and Sam still blames him. For what?

“What’s my fault, Sam? Enlighten me,” he says, as calm as he possibly can. His lips are downturned but his eyebrows are raised in inquisition and he wants to fucking know more than he’s wanted anything in his whole life.

Sam bites his lip, looks away. Dean wants to scream, no, fucking look at me, don’t take your eyes off me, never fucking look away, but he doesn’t. He waits patiently. As patient as someone who’s so close to death can be; for someone who’s tired of being patient.

“God, Dean,” Sam whispers, choked up, and Dean has no idea why. “Winona, Minnesota. 1998. Dad dropped us off at some shitty motel – I don’t know the name; it doesn’t matter anyway – to hunt…fuck, I don’t remember anymore, all I remember was you, Dean. Just you.”

Dean thinks back, looks away from Sam and stares at the wall for a moment. 1998 was a long time ago. Sam couldn’t have been older than 15 then. That was the age where Sam was this petulant little shit, wanted nothing to do with Dean. Tried to run away a few times because he hated being cooped up in a motel room with the stupid neon sign outside buzzing incessantly all night, every night.

But suddenly, like a freight train, Dean remembers. He remembers Winona. He remembers the motel room, an ugly yellow, old. Being 19 and bored with having to watch his little brother all the time.

Dad unpacking Sam and Dean’s stuff from the Impala and making sure to leave the rifle, a jar of holy water, and a bag of rock salt near Dean’s bed. Says, “Deadbolt the door behind me. Don’t forget the salt. Take care of Sammy.”

Him and Sam being alone. Two beds, but only one being used.

He remembers Sam not keeping his mouth shut, asking why they can’t be normal. Questioning Dad all the time.

He remembers pushing Sam down hard onto the bed and kissing him ever harder to keep him from running that smart mouth of his.

He especially remembers the sound Sam made when Dean pushed his tongue inside and claimed his little brother’s first kiss. How Sam started to kiss back and lean up into him, asking without actually asking for more.

How wrong but how right it felt. How well they fit together.

But mostly Dean remembers how he didn’t think of some girl underneath him. He didn’t imagine soft skin, perky breasts, and kissable, pink lips. Eyelashes for miles and legs to die for. He saw only Sammy under him. His little brother spreading his legs for him and letting him take, take, take everything he wanted. His kid brother giving Dean everything Dean didn’t know that he wanted.

He remembers coming in his jeans while he pumped Sam’s dick with a calloused hand. The sounds Sam made, the way he gave without being asked.

He remembers wanting more. Wanting it to stop. Wanting it never to end.

He remembers Sam, panting underneath him, smiling and sated and quiet for once.

He remembers the regret he felt.

He remembers Sam’s face when he told him it was just a mistake. When he told him it would never happen again; that it’s just been too long for Dean, he needed a warm body.

He remembers Sam.

Fuck.

“Sammy,” he says, that same regret sinking in deep. Like a pit in his stomach. Hurting. But now, he regrets telling Sam that it never meant anything. Because he’d been lying through his fucking teeth back then. He took advantage of his little – physically little also, at that time – brother and took without asking. He only regretted never telling Sam the truth, and letting Sam believe all these years that…

“You messed me up, Dean. You –” This time Dean watches Sam, watches as he licks his lips and swallows, trying to wet his throat. “You ruined me for anyone else, Dean. I loved Jess, I did, but kissing her wasn’t the same as being kissed by you. And you- you took something from me then. You gave me something I thought I could never have and then you- you ripped it from me. I just.” Sam does look at him now, finally, the look on his face sober, his eyes hard, cold. “I guess I’m just glad to finally know the truth, you know? To know for sure that I was a mistake.”

He wants to tell Sam no; that he’s wrong. That Dean does want him; he wants him more than anything in the world. That he’s wanted him ever since. That he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Instead, he says, “You’re drunk, Sam,” and hates himself even more when Sam nods silently. He watches in pure agony as Sam stands and locks himself in the bathroom. Doesn’t move when he hears the shower kick on. He’s still sitting there when Sam comes out in a towel, dripping wet from the towel on his waist up. He’s a statue when Sam dries himself off and dresses. When Sam climbs into bed and turns his back to Dean.

Dean thinks, Tomorrow. Tomorrow when he’s sober, I’ll… but tomorrow doesn’t mean as much as today.

Chapter Text

The text from Kevin worries him.

Sam, we need to talk.

“Dean, I uh, I’m gonna go lie down for a little bit,” Sam says, feigning a headache. Except it’s not really “feigning” when he’s had a constant buzzing in his head for days, reminding him that there’s still two more trials his body has to endure before he and Dean and the rest of the world are safe from all things in Hell.

He thinks the pain is worth it, if only to live the rest of their lives fighting normal things; things that go bump in the night. Not demons. They’ve had their fair share of those.

Maybe they can spend a month on a beach somewhere, rent a beach house for the summer and make friends with the locals. Play off the whole “married couple” thing if the locals are friendly enough. Sam wouldn’t mind. Spending years being fucked by his big brother and fighting monsters warrants some kind of vacation where they can be themselves. Where they could be in a house instead of a motel room or the bunker.

He likes the bunker, he does, but he’d just really like a home. The bunker isn’t as much ‘home’ to Sam as it is to Dean. They have the Impala; that’s Sam’s home. But being in a house that doesn’t double as a supernatural being’s deathtrap is something more along the lines of what Sam wants.

He certainly doesn’t want a dungeon.

But if he’s honest with himself, Dean is his real home. Dean’s always been home to Sam, and as long as he has Dean, he thinks he’ll be okay.

He’s already hitting ‘call’ the second his door shuts and locks behind him. Kevin answers in a flourish, panted breath and worry making him sound hectic.

“Kevin, slow down, breathe -- what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Sam --” Sam hears rustling of papers on the other end, waits. “There was something I missed when I was translating. I mean, I didn’t miss it, it was just... I translated it before the rest and it got buried under everything else, I’m panicking, Sam, I don’t know what to do I --”

“Kevin! First, you’re going to breathe, okay? Can you do that for me?” His voice is calm; he pauses, lets Kevin’s breathing even out before asking, “Kevin?”

“Yeah, I’m- I’m good, man.”

“Sit down for me, okay? And then tell me. Slowly.”

He hears the chair creak on the floor and sits on his own bed. His phone is slipping in his hand with the way his palm is sweating in nervousness and anxiousness. He doesn’t think he wants to know, but he’s glad Kevin came to him instead of Dean. He definitely does not want Dean worrying needlessly.

More rustling papers before Kevin’s saying frantically, “Okay, it says here that the person to complete the trials must be a willing sacrifice. To close the gates, willing blood must be drained; a life must be lost to make this even possible, Sam.”

Sam’s quiet for a long time. He can feel the blood drain from his face. He’s cold, clammy, but he’s gripping the phone so tight, he can hear his bones creaking. He forgets how to breathe.

He pulls in a breath too quick he’s lightheaded with it.

“Sam?” Kevin asks, cautious. “You’re not- you’re not gonna continue, are you?”

It feels like he just told Dean seconds ago that he wants to live. That he’s going to do the trials because he can survive it whereas Dean can’t.

Dean’s not weak, but Dean’s been through so much. His big brother has been through too much, Sam couldn’t bear to let him add another weight to his shoulders. Sam wants to be strong, carry Dean’s weight for once. He wants to be the one to sacrifice so Dean can live and move on.

But he wants to live.

At least he thought he wanted to live.

.If someone told him to draw a diagram of what’s important, he’d draw a circle, color it the same shade of green as Dean’s eyes -- completely color the whole circle -- and write ‘Dean’ on the side. He will always choose Dean. He will always want Dean to be the one to live on. As much as he’d like to be right next to Dean, living on with him, kicking ass and saving people, maybe kicking back at a beach somewhere...he’d much rather be the one to die than ever let Dean go out that way. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

“Yeah, Kevin, I am.”

Chapter Text

‘Baby boy’ was one of those things that rolled off Dean’s tongue like silk under his fingertips when talking to Sam. It was normal, for both of them. And it would make the most beautiful blush cover his little brother’s cheeks, and make him bite his lip in the way that Dean loves the most.

But ever since turning into a demon, Dean would never say it. He wasn’t horrible to Sam, per se. He just wasn’t who he used to be. It took months to get Sam and the demon to accept how things were. Sam got used to the roughness; he got used to the extra strength Dean had since he became a demon, and how many more bruises he’d acquire from a single night together.

He was okay with it, really. He was fine.

There was nothing loving about Dean anymore. He liked to taunt Sam; flash his eyes black when Sam didn’t agree with him. It would shut Sam right up, and the demon would laugh and laugh until he’d push Sam down onto his back on whatever surface was available and fuck him till he screamed his throat raw.

But sometimes...sometimes Dean would get this look in his eyes that would take Sam’s breath away. The shade of green that Sam fell in love with would come back for the briefest of moments and Sam would draw in a breath, and just stare at his brother. But moments later they’d cloud over again and Dean would laugh, loud and cruel.

Sam wasn’t okay those nights.

But the night it happened, Dean had Sam spread out on his memory foam mattress, shaking and moaning. An exercise in control, Dean had said, as he pushed Sam’s hands above his head but didn’t tie them to the headboard; he simply told Sam not to move them. And Sam didn’t. He always swelled with pride when he did something Dean asked, and Dean acknowledged it.

Dean was slow that night. Gentle. Took great care in preparing Sam for him. He kissed down his body, eliciting whimpers from his little brother that pleased him more than hurting Sam ever did.

He sucked Sam off, nice and slow; the first time he’d done it since he became a demon. He remembered the taste from when he was still human, wondered why he didn’t do this sooner because Sam had always tasted good to him. His tongue brought Sam to the edge, almost pushed him over, but Sam tensed under him, his arms still held above his head by sheer force of will. Dean smiled as best as he could around the dick in his mouth and worked harder.

Three fingers deep and Sam cried out that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself if Dean kept going.

Dean pulled off, crawled up his brother’s long, lean body and kissed his lips, whispering, “Come for me, baby boy, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” and Sam did, before Dean could even take him back into his mouth.

Afterwards, when Dean had a fucked out Sam curled up against his chest, dozing off, Sam whispered so quietly, if Dean weren’t a demon he wouldn’t have heard, “What- what did you call me, Dean?”

He couldn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer. He tightened his hold and pulled Sam so his chest was flush with Sam’s sweat covered back. He closed his eyes and said, “Go to sleep, Sammy,” and Sam did. Something changed; he just didn’t know if it was for the better or not.

Chapter Text

Dean’s first mistake was kissing Sam.

He was being selfish; god, was he being selfish. He shouldn’t have, but then again, he didn’t know.

The day Dean realized he didn’t look at his little brother the way most big brothers looked at their siblings was the day Dean realized he was fucking screwed. Because Sam was honestly beautiful. He was an awkward gangly kid whose body didn’t grow as fast as his limbs, but his legs went on for miles and his dimples could stop a serial killer in his tracks.

His little brother was beauty personified and Dean hated that thought the most because that’s a stupid chick flick moment thought. He hated chick flick moments more than he hated the fact that he thought of Sam when he was kissing girls.

It plagued his mind more than he’d care to admit.

Because by the time Sam was 16, he was practically fully grown yet still a scrawny little brat, and Dean couldn’t have been more attracted to him if he tried.

He kept the urges away to the best of his ability. He took girls out, made their legs quiver and tried not to think about how Sam would quiver under him, thighs gripping Dean’s hips nice and tight. But that wasn’t enough. He was able to sleep at night because he told himself before turning out the light in the room he and Sam shared in the rental of the month or week that their dad would be disappointed in him if he acted on those urges.

For years he managed to stave them off. Even when he saw Sam for the first time in four years when he picked him up at Stanford. Sam’s shoulders filled out more, his face became more angular and pointy, less kid chubby and more adult finesse. Getting Sam under him was the most satisfying thing he’d ever done in his 26 years of life, even if Sam’s girlfriend walked in shortly after they’d parted.

But still, he kept it to himself, as much as he possibly could because Sam was his little brother. He was supposed to protect him, not have repressed sexual feelings towards him.

It was like second nature at that point.

He survived through watching Sam with Sarah, and Madison. He was okay, because he was Sam’s older brother…he was supposed to let Sam get chicks if he wanted. Older brothers were supposed to help their tight ass younger brothers get chicks. It was like a written law; if your brother is too uptight, get him laid.

Dean just wasn’t prepared for the burning jealousy in the pit of his stomach each time Sam so much as flirted with a girl.

But he powered through; survived what he thought unsurvivable. He came out on top. A better man.

Or so he’d thought, until he watched Sam die right before his eyes. Until the second he’d felt his little brother’s blood, still warm, trickle out of his back, staining his hands and soul. Until his little brother died in his arms.

That was something Dean couldn’t survive.

He was selfish – he’d be the first to admit – when he made that deal, but a world without Sam was like a world without color. He never wanted to live in a world like that again. And the second his lips met the crossroad demon’s, it was like watercolor paint exploded all over the paper, and he could make art and beauty out of something so grim and painful. Because Sammy was alive again. Dean didn’t even care that he’d only have one year left to spend with his little brother because Sammy wasn’t dead.

Eight months into his deal, Dean figured, hey, why not, because he had nothing to lose. He was going to die anyway. Sam was alive; Sam was okay. Dean was tired of hiding and, well, why not show Sam how he feels when his clock is slowing down to stop in less than four months? Because if Sam hates him for it, well…at least Dean wouldn’t have died lying to Sam.

But one thing he didn’t exactly count on was Sam kissing back, with fervor. He didn’t expect Sam to arch his chest up and grab what he could of Dean’s short hair and kiss back with all he had in his entire body.

Dean always knew Sam gave his all; he just didn’t think Sam would give him his all.

“Sam, oh fuck, Sammy,” Dean moaned, finding Sam’s hair with his fingers and tugging so their lips parted. His breath mixed with Sam’s and he wanted nothing more than to kiss him again, take his breath and swallow each and every sound his little brother made. “Sam.”

Sam’s lower lip quivered when he whispered, “Oh god, Dean, I had no idea,” and he leaned up again to press a butterfly kiss to Dean’s lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Dean, you don’t even know.”

Fuck.

It was a mistake. A beautiful mistake that Dean wishes he could fix. He couldn’t do this, not to Sam.

He gave Sam a taste, and then he’s just going to leave him. He’s going to die and there’s nothing either of them can do about it. Dean is the most selfish person on the entire planet, he’s sure.

“Sammy…”

Sam closes his eyes and Dean pauses. He takes in the flush coloring his brother’s cheeks and the tiny, sad smile upturning his lips. He wants to kiss him again and swallow the sadness so Sam never has to frown again; so Sam never has to smile that way again.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam finally says, and opens his eyes. They’re glassy with the tears Dean doesn’t want to shed. It feels a little bit like dying, being the reason his little brother is breaking. “It’s okay. I know.”

He kisses Sam again, softer, slower, and ignores the tears that settle at the corners of his own eyes in favor of tasting what he’s denied himself for years.

It becomes normal after that; well, as normal as is possible for brothers that hunt demons and make each other come for a living. Dean pours as much love into Sam as humanly possible in such a short amount of time before his deal is up. He whispers things in Sam’s ear when he makes him come, and when Sam is passed out in his arms, hair a mess and matted to his face with sweat.

He learned very quickly that Sam sleeps better when he and Dean share a bed; physical contact between them keeps the nightmares away from both of them, and Dean’s very grateful for it.

It’s when Sam murmurs I love you, Dean in his sleep one night that makes Dean wish he never did this.

He was too selfish; he shouldn’t have put Sam into this situation. He should have left it and never let Sam know that he wanted him; it’s just going to hurt Sam more later on when he watches Dean get taken away right before his eyes.

He should never have done this to Sam in the first place. He’s supposed to be making it easier on his little brother, not give him more things to lose.

Dean’s done everything else wrong; why not add to it?

His second mistake was going to the bartender’s apartment.

She was beautiful; long, dark hair, long legs, kissable lips. Sugar sweet voice and candy blue eyes. Rode him like there was no tomorrow. Kissed him like it was her last meal. She was absolutely incredible, but the biggest mistake of his life. Because Sam was back at the motel, probably worried sick about him. Dean had stormed out, said he needed a drink, and left Sam alone.

Dean could barely look at Sam anymore since the I love you because by being intimate with Sam, he was doing more harm than good…and with Sam in love with him – whether he realized he’d said it or not – it was going to hurt his little brother a hell of a lot more when the hellhounds come.

He’d really fucked up this time.

Sam was still awake when Dean got back to the motel. He wasn’t drunk anymore, not even a little buzzed. He’d had sobering revelations and he wished he hadn’t done what he just did.

“Dean, thank god,” Sam breathed into his ear as he pulled Dean into a tight hug, “You weren’t answering your phone and you’ve been gone for hours, I –” Dean closed his eyes when he realized why Sam must have stopped talking. “Is that– perfume?”

“Sam –”

Before Dean could get a hold on him, Sam pulled back and put distance between them, a frown on his face. His eyes were glassy the way they were that first night and Dean hated himself all over again. “I guess that’s it, huh,” Sam mutters bitterly, looking down at the dirty motel carpet. “We get into one fight and you crawl into bed with the hottest woman you can find, right?” He laughs humorlessly.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he says once the laughter stops; says it the same way he’d said it the night Dean kissed him. Dean thinks that’s worse than Sam lashing out at him. It sure as hell hurts worse than if Sam had punched him instead. “It’s okay.”

Chapter Text

Everyone they meet thinks they're gay, but this time instead of getting flustered and denying it immediately, Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s waist and pulls him so their sides are flush. He doesn’t miss the blush that darkens his younger brother’s cheeks because Sam was not expecting that, and he’s ridiculously pleased to finally see Sam fazed by something like that.

The case they're working ends up being a long one. Probably a little over a month because the thing was good and had practiced movements that kept it out of Sam and Dean’s sights. It was a small town, so they became known. First name basis with almost everyone; the little cafe had his and Sam’s orders memorized so when Dean would pick up his coffee and pastry and Sam’s girly coffee drink and cup of fruit (”Sammy, what the fuck?”) at 7 every morning, he would just have to pay and walk out with their goods without a wait.

It was weird, but it was also nice. he even got used to the “How’s the boyfriend?” because everyone liked the way Dean’s cheeks would color when they called Sam “the boyfriend” instead of Sam.

And in public to keep up appearances, Dean would kiss Sam’s cheek, but Dean would be the one to blush because Sam is his brother, what the hell. But it got to the point where it became normal.

Finally, three weeks into the hunt, he walked into the motel room with their usual breakfast. Sam was sitting at the little table in the corner, freshly showered and researching on his laptop. “Hey, Dean,” he said, but never looked away from the screen. Dean smiled and crossed the room and set down his and Sam’s things onto the table, then, without thinking, he leaned down and kissed Sam on the cheek. Just like they do when they’re out at the diner. Or at the store.

They both froze, but for the first time Sam was the one blushing and Dean was completely cool and collected, albeit a little bit shocked because they weren’t even showing off for the town.

Fuck.

“Sam, I–”

Blush still on his cheeks, but a confidence Dean hasn’t seen in so long, Sam pulled Dean down and kissed him right on the lips. Maybe, just maybe, they haven’t been pretending in a long while.

Chapter Text

Dean’s never fucked a guy before, so he had no fucking clue what it would feel like. But god, he’d gotten his first taste of Sammy – he’d wanted to fuck the little punk since the kid was 16, but that’s even more wrong than fucking his little brother – and he just couldn’t wait anymore.

Kissing Sam had been torture because the kid’s mouth is sin itself, sent by god to break those unworthy of heaven to keep them out. But if heaven meant Dean couldn’t taste Sam, it isn’t the place for him anyway.

Sam was tighter than any girl he’d ever fucked. A vice clamping around two of his fingers and trying desperately to keep them there as he rocked his hips back and forth, whining Dean’s name.

Dean kissed along his back, trying to keep his cool, because Sam wasn’t yet prepared enough. But Dean’s dick was dripping, precome leaking down Sammy’s ass where it bumped against him as he rocked. He’d never once thought about tasting his own come, but there was something about watching it drip down Sam’s pale thigh that made Dean want like he’d never wanted before.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he groaned, leaning down to press his chest to Sam’s shimmering back. “You’re gonna kill me yet, kiddo.” He licked at Sam’s ear, causing shivers to shake Sam’s entire body, and Dean felt it all the way through his fingers embedding in his brother’s ass. “That’s it, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Pressed this close to Sam, his dick was practically nestled in between Sam’s thighs, with lack of a better place to put it. But let it be known that Dean will never underestimate his little brother again. Because Sam opened his thighs just slightly, and pressed back hard, and then, before Dean could even react, he closed his hot thighs around Dean’s dick. “Fuck!”

As Sam fucked himself back and forth on Dean’s fingers, he milked Dean’s dick with his thighs, all the while making the filthiest fucking sounds Dean had ever heard in his life, and he watched porn since he was 16 fucking years old.

“Sammy, you little shit,” Dean growled in between pants for air. “You want it, huh? Well, you’re gonna fuckin’ get it, baby boy,” he hissed against Sam’s trembling shoulder. He pulled his fingers from Sam’s hole and grasped each thigh, digging his nails in hard enough to make Sam cry out. It ceased all his brother’s movements and Dean used the distraction to pry his thighs apart and free his dick.

Looking down, Sam’s thighs were covered in sticky white come – Dean’s come, he thought with pride – but even better was Sammy’s slick red hole, twitching from use, looking like it wants something in it, puckering for even the simplest kiss. “Fuck, I wish you could see this, Sammy,” Dean whispered, mesmerized. “It’s unreal. You’re unreal.”

“Dean, please…”

“I’ve got you, kiddo, I’ve got you, shh.”

He held onto the base of his dick to keep himself from coming as the tip pressed in. Sam cried out and clenched unbelievably tight, worse around his dick than his fingers, and Dean hissed, “Sam, Sam calm down, relax, relax sweetheart. Relax.”

He was stopped at the tip; from this angle, he could only see part of the side of Sam’s face and his eyes were closed tight, his teeth clenched in a hiss and god, Dean wanted to stop but it felt so good, fuck.

“Sam,” Dean whispered, caressing Sam’s hips and sides with shaking hands to soothe him. It was hard keeping his hips still, but he managed to lean down and press a kiss to Sam’s cheek, tasting the tears there. “You want me to pull out, just tell me, kiddo, please.”

Seeing Sam in pain has always hurt Dean more than physical pain since the kid was born. Dean felt Sammy’s first booster shot like he’d gotten one that moment, too. He felt it the first time Sammy fell and scraped his knee, and Dad had put hydrogen peroxide on it. Sammy’s cries went straight through Dean that day, and Dean held him for hours after that; his shirt was covered in tears and snot, but Dean had finally gotten him to sleep.

This was no different.

“Okay, Sam, I’m gonna pull out, okay?”

“D-on’t, Dean don’t,” Sam murmured. “I’m okay, just. Go slow, big brother?”

Dean drew in a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was like a fire was set in his groin and he could move again. Sam calling him ‘big brother’ shouldn’t have been a turn on, because they’re brothers. Sam is his little brother and he’s in the process of pushing his dick inside him, and he doesn’t give a shit. They have no idea where Dad is; Dad doesn’t even have to know that his sons are having sex. It’s riveting, doing this. And when they find Dad, Dean can’t wait to fuck Sam when the three of them are hunting together again. It’s all part of the thrill, hiding something from Dad for the first time, and not feeling guilty.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, slowly pushing himself further into the tight heat and moaning long and loud. “I’ve got you, little brother.”

Chapter Text

“Sam? Sammy, please.”

It’s Dean’s voice that gets him; the deep hurt and worry that penetrates through Sam’s subconscious and beckons him out. He opens his eyes. His head hurts, and everything’s a blur, but he can make out Dean’s figure beside him; can feel Dean’s hands on him, seemingly burning holes in his flesh and making him feel real.

“D-Dean,” he rasps. It takes almost all his strength, that one word, but he gets it out. His throat is burning. He thinks he was screaming.

Remnants of the cage trickle back and he shuts his eyes again, but the visions are worse in the dark. He draws in a breath and throws his head back. Dean’s warm hands catch him, burn his shoulders and back through his clothes, and he whines pitifully.

“Sammy, hey, I got you, okay? I got you,” Dean’s saying, but it’s fading, muffled, like Sam’s underwater. He’s got water in his ears, in his lungs, taking his breath, and Dean’s sitting there doing nothing as he drowns.

He was in the dark so long, Lucifer playing on his fear of the dark like drums. One by one he’d lost all his senses. His vision went first, but he doesn’t think it was even taken. Because he’d see light occasionally. Bright wings that hurt his eyes, and then there was pain. Burning pain coursing through his veins like liquid fire, and he’d scream until his lungs gave out. Shattered his eardrums every single day, only to be fixed again to start all over.

Sometimes all he’d have was his hearing. Voice gone from screaming, he had nothing but sound. And he’d hear wings, flapping so quick, like thousands of birds scattering from a storm. He’d listen and listen to Lucifer and Michael screaming in voices that could have shattered Sam’s skull hundreds of times over had he been topside. The pain was unreal; Sam lost track of how many times his heart stopped. Just how many times he died down there, only to be brought back again in the cruelest ways imaginable.

Enochian. He remembers it clearly. He could recite every single thing that was ever said down in the cage, because he heard it so often. And even though he couldn’t see, he just knew when the words were directed at him. Knew when they were meant to hurt, because he felt it deep in his soul.

Feels it even now, lying in Dean’s arms convulsing and choking on his own tongue.

“--mmy! Sammy!”

His eyes open and he can see again. Everything’s clear. He’s alive. “Dean?” It hurts to talk but the relieved look on his big brother’s face is worth the scorching pain in his throat. “Dean, wh--”

Strong arms wrap around him and pull him into an even stronger hug. The heat from Dean’s body burns through all the layers he’s wearing, but he doesn’t want him to let go. He only feels real when it hurts, when Dean’s anchoring him down and making him exist. “God, Sam, you scared the shit out of me, I...” There’s tears on Dean’s face that drip down onto Sam’s neck and cool his burning skin. He sighs and melts into his brother’s arms. “You weren’t even speaking English,” he whispers, and that’s the most shocking thing Sam could have ever heard.

“I--”

“Please, please don’t do that to me again, I can’t--”

Chapped lips connect with Sam’s rough and hard. His mouth opens automatically and he lets Dean in. Dean kisses with his entire body, pushing every single emotion into it and forcing Sam onto the ground, onto his back, until he gives in and lets the memories fade away. His hands find Dean’s hair and he bites at his big brother’s lips until Dean bites back and makes Sam hurt in a way that takes the pain away.

When they break for air, Sam gasps, “Dean, I- I need--”

“What do you need, baby boy? I’ll give you anything.”

He sounds so calm and composed, cool and collected, but Sam can see beyond those gorgeous green eyes that Dean’s hurting just seeing Sam hurt. He can read his brother like a book; knows all the major plot points and how the story will end. He knows the middle and the tragic backstory that pulled him in in the first place. Sam knows him inside and out, and he knows his brother’s hurting just like him.

“I need to hurt, Dean,” he whispers, turning his head away; he hates asking this of Dean. He knows more than anyone that Dean doesn’t want to hurt Sam, but he also doesn’t want him to suffer. “It’ll go away if I hurt outside the way I hurt inside.”

He doesn’t know what does it; the tears or the pleading in his eyes or what, but Dean nods and grasps Sam by the chin, forcing him to look up at his big brother. “I’m gonna take care of you, Sammy, I promise. I just need you to stay with me a little longer.” When Sam nods, Dean claims his lips in a kiss that hurts more than the first.

And when Dean finally fucks him, bruises his skin and claims him deep and hard, the darkness in his head is the furthest thought in his mind, and he forgets any Enochian he’d learned in the cage. The only word he knows is Dean. He screams himself hoarse, reminding himself who he is and who he belongs to.

Chapter Text

Sam and Dean would obviously go for the initial, “Where’s my brother?” while Jensen and Jared would be confused, and then slightly starry eyed, tbh.

God, Jared would probably be so excited to meet Dean, holy shit. He’d ask about him, and Sam, and just, little things like, “Is Sam taking care of himself?” because obviously there’s aspects of Sam’s life that Jared doesn’t know about, considering Dean Winchester is real and standing in front of him.

Dean? Dean wouldn’t be as excited. Because this guy that looks almost exactly like Sam – same height, same dimples, pretty much Sam – is standing before him, but he isn’t Sam. He’s not his little brother. So he’d be wary. Not want to talk much because who knows how this even happened, right? His hand would be on his gun at all times, not necessarily drawn, but ready to be. Can never be too cautious.

They’d be trying to find Sam and, Dean remembers from his stint in that one universe, someone called Jensen. Up until this moment, he’d thought that that world was created by Balthazar; that Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki didn’t actually exist… but boy was he wrong. Because Jared Padalecki? Was made of sunshine. And he was real.

He didn’t realize when he’d let go of his gun and loosened his shoulders, but it had to have been recent. He thinks Jared’s laugh would have done it.

But Sam looks weird with all that scruff; almost a full beard. But Dean kind of liked it. He actually imagined himself kissing it, which was all kinds of wrong because he couldn’t do that to his brother, right? It’d be terrible, to betray him like that; to kiss someone that looks just like him.

(But they did, and Dean left all kinds of marks on Jared’s body, made him writhe like he’d never made anyone writhe before. He doesn’t think Jensen fucks like he does.)

Jensen would be in awe of Sam. Touching his hair and his forehead and just. djkfhjldskhgfj and Sam would be cautious because this is more beard than Dean has ever had. This guy isn’t dressed anything like how Dean dresses, and he smiles much more than Sam’s seen Dean smile. (He absolutely likes his smile.)

Sam wouldn’t be as cautious as Dean was, but he’d be wary. Worried about his brother. But Jensen’s good company, and he knows Jensen’s just as worried about someone else and anxious to get back to him as he is.

Jensen would absolutely ask how Dean is, what he’s like. Because Jensen cares so much about Dean (Jensen and Sam have a lot in common with that aspect; their love for Dean, just like Jared and Dean have in common for Sam). He’d want to know all the things he doesn’t know; things that aren’t scripted. They’d talk for hours, and Sam would be so excited but also miss Dean listening to Jensen because they look alike, but are so different it hurts. They talk differently, use different word and grammar, have a different posture. Jensen more relaxed whereas Dean’s reserved and alert.

Sam would talk about how he and Dean are, were, and how they haven’t been in awhile. Sad. Missing his big brother.

Jensen would kiss him soft and sweet, tell him it’ll be okay, they’ll find each other again, and fix everything. It won’t always be easy, but it’ll come through eventually. They’d kiss again and again until Sam was gasping and whining for Dean, and Jensen would take good care of him, call him sweetheart and just make him feel loved like he hasn’t felt in so long.

And when they all find each other again, Dean thanks Jensen. They give each other a handshake but don’t go beyond that and a simple nod. But Jared pulls Sam to him, cradles the back of his head and says, “It’s going to be okay, Sam, I promise. Always keep fighting. No matter what, you’ll always have Dean, despite whatever circumstances there are.”

Chapter Text

There’s an unmistakable relief settling in his bones when his phone rings and ‘DEAN’ flashes on the screen. It’s like for a moment he can breathe again, if only briefly.

It’s short lived, though, when the weight of what’s going to become of him settles back onto his shoulders.

“Dean,” comes out like a whisper, a prayer. Just knowing his big brother is breathing on the other end of the line is enough to tell Sam that it’s worth it. All the pain he’s been through all these years, both with and without Dean is all worth it because Dean’s alive. Dean’s breathing on the other end of the phone, driving the one thing that’s never steered him wrong like Sam has.

It’s worth every second of this fear, this pain, this impending death looming over his head because he stayed back and gave Dean the chance to get out, to live. If it wasn’t for Jenna and the baby, Dean would have stayed with Sam and fought alongside him, and they’d both have been in this predicament.

Sam’s grateful for the little things.

“Sam, you okay?”

Despite the situation, Sam feels the corner of his lips turn up in a shadow of a brief smile. Because after everything, after all this time, all the fights they’ve had over the years, Dean can still read him like a book even when he can’t see him. It’s enough to keep Sam going a little bit longer.

“I’m okay, Dean,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to himself. He hopes the distance between them will be enough to convince Dean. “Just a little banged up.”

“Listen, Jenna just called me.”

Dean’s voice has Sam on alarm. Here he is asking if Sam is okay, when something else is very wrong. “Is she okay? Is the baby okay? I thought you dropped them off--”

“Slow down, kiddo,” Dean whispers, as soothingly as possible. Sam feels incredibly selfish. “The kid was using some kind of telekinesis, I don’t know, man. She spelled out ‘FEED ME’ with the alphabet blocks in the bedroom and indented them in the wall across the room. Jenna said her toys were floating above her head.”

Sam doesn’t say anything for a minute; only Dean’s worried, “Sammy?” has him snapping out of it.

“I mean...it sounds like something out of the Exorcist.”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you thinkin’ demon?”

“Or...kid got infected by something. Who knows what was in that giant, crazy fart?”

Sam can’t help the smile that feels like it’s splitting his face, no matter how small it is. It feels like the first time he’s smiled in so long; at least the first time it’s counted in a while. He will always be grateful to Dean for being able to help him without even trying.

“Wow. Vivid. Thanks.”

“Look man, I know you’re flyin’ solo--” Dean worrying about Sam is the last thing Sam wants, especially now. Sam’s dying and Dean has no idea, and Sam can’t just tell him, can’t say goodbye. He doesn’t know if he’s more terrified to find out if Dean will turn back around and leave Jenna when she needs help, or if he’d disregard Sam completely.

He hopes in time Dean will forgive him.

“I’m fine, Dean. Look, don’t worry about me, just. Just help Jenna. And if you need anything, call me.”

“Will do.” Sam lets out a breath of relief. He’d rather die alone than ever let Dean see him like this. “How you doin’? How’s Zombieland?”

Instead of ‘I'm dying’ he says, “It’s good.”

The last thing he ever says to his brother shouldn’t be a lie. He looks to the man who’d been alive half an hour ago and feels his resolve weakening. He really doesn’t have much time, but Sam will never choose his life over another’s. He won’t be selfish and tell his brother he’s dying. He won’t.

And instead of ‘goodbye, Dean’ he says, “It’s great.”

If he says it enough, maybe he’ll start to believe it.

Chapter Text

Sam and Dean having a late night conversation in the Impala instead of sleeping. Dean knows how much Sam wants him in the backseat with him because Sam needs that closeness after everything. He needs to feel Dean’s heartbeat under his ear, the rise and fall of Dean’s chest as he breathes evenly in sleep.

“How many times do I have to tell you we’re not kids anymore, Sammy? We can’t sleep in the backseat together while Dad crashes up front like we did growing up.”

It’s the face that gets him, really. He was always weak when it came to Sammy’s puppy eyes. The kid had a talent since he was a baby to make Dean do whatever he wanted.

Can I have the last of the Lucky Charms, Dean? with bright eyes and dimples that Dean can’t say no to. Can I shower first, Dean, plasma is gross, with batted lashes and a coy teenagers’ smile. Can you kiss me again, Dean? fifteen years old and ruining Dean’s life all over again with those lips. Can we do that again, Dean? through loud pants and gasping breaths, with eyes created by the cosmos looking right through him.

The answer will always be yes when Sam looks at him with those eyes and smiles shyly with peeking dimples.

It’s too small a space to fit two grown men over six feet tall, but they make it work. Dean on his back, head angled against the door. He can feel Sam’s army man digging into the back of his head but he doesn’t mind because Sam’s pressed tight against his chest. He breathes in fluffy chestnut hair every intake of air, but Sam’s always smelled good to him so he doesn’t mind at all. Sam’s got a leg pressed in between Dean’s, their feet tangled together. He doesn’t know where he ends and where Sam begins; it’s something he’ll never get tired of.

He kisses the top of Sam’s head. He knows he shouldn’t have undressed Sam completely, but no matter where they are, Dean will never pass up an opportunity to touch the miles of beautiful skin his brother has. Sam’s perfect, even with his scars, and Dean makes sure to kiss the ones that affect Sam the most, each and every time. Cherish him as he deserves to be cherished.

It will be worth it in the end to kiss Sam awake before dawn breaks, and take him apart all over again before helping him get dressed between kisses and teasing touches to work their case.

Chapter Text

Dean doesn’t like the way Sam’s been jumpy since Meg had him riding shotgun in his own body. He knows his little brother has been mad about the demon getting the drop on him, about how he hurt both Dean and Jo while he wasn’t in control; he doesn’t know how many times he has to say that it wasn’t Sam. Sammy is stubborn. He always has been. It was why he and their father always butted heads.

He catches Sam rubbing the anti-possession pendant Bobby gave him between his thumb and forefinger more times than he can count, like Sam is making sure it’s still there. Like he’s scared.

If he’s honest, Dean is scared too. The pendants are small, could easily be lost. He tells himself they went this long before the first time one of them got possessed; what are the odds it happens again so soon? But he’s not dumb, and they’re more under the demons’ radar now than they ever were. They can’t be too careful.

They need something better, something harder to lose.

It isn’t until they’re in a bar in Bumfuck, Indiana about three months later that he gets an idea. Sammy is sitting alone at a high top, his laptop and dad’s journal spread out over the table. He’s researching the lore for the case that brought them here like the nerd he is, while Dean sits at the bar, drinking a cold one and chatting up the hot bartender that’s covered in tattoos.

Her name tag reads Danielle. Her breasts really fill out her tight t-shirt. Dean wants to see how much more of her body is covered by tattoos.

He thinks he almost has her hooked; she’s biting her red lips and leaning closer to him over the sticky counter. He’s ready to take her out back, or tell Sam to stay out of the motel for an hour or so, depending on her preferences -- wall sex behind a bar or shower sex or sex in a bed, Dean isn’t picky -- when he looks at her tattoos again. He sits back and squints, eyeing the permanent ink on her smooth skin, and thinks about the anti-possession pendants.

If there’s anything they can’t lose, it’s a tattoo.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, whisky smooth, upping the charm to the max, “Know any good places to get tattoos around here last minute?”

She looks taken aback for a moment, falters, then says, “Actually, my buddy owns a shop down the street. He closes at 10. No guarantees he can take you on such short notice, but I could give him a call if you promise to come back.”

The wink she sends him goes straight to his cock; it’s been so long since he got his dick wet, and almost three years on the road alone with his little brother hasn’t been helping his need.

“Call it in for two and you got yourself a deal, sweetheart.”

After she makes the call, he slaps money down on the bar with a quick wink to Danielle, before practically dragging his little brother out the door.

“Dean?” Sam asks, worried, as he hurries towards the Impala. “What’s going on? Is there another murder?”

“We’re getting tattoos, Sammy. Got a little less than an hour.”

“WHAT?”

“The charms have been working fine,” he says, patting Sam on the knee as he pulls out of the parking lot, “But we could lose them easily. I can see how anxious you are, Sammy. If we get an anti-possession symbol tattooed...”

Sam gives a single, jerky nod, but doesn’t offer anything else. He knows Sam isn’t big on pain. He also knows that Sam had to have come up with this idea at some point too, but was too nervous to say anything. Dean just wishes they did this sooner. Sam would have felt better.

They pull up to Jay’s Parlor less than five minutes after they left the bar. A brawny, bearded man is waiting for them at the counter. He’s covered in tattoos, too, which is honestly what Dean expected. His voice is gruff when he says, “You the boys Dani called about?” Dean gives him an affirmation and he nods in return, motions with a big hand for them to follow him around back. “What am I doin’ for ya tonight?”

Dean unclasps his charm and cautiously hands it to the artist. “We each need this symbol tattooed on us.”

The man nods, asks, “Any particular spot?”

He looks to Sam, considering where he’d like a piece of ink on his brother’s body. Thinks about how much he’d want to touch it but can’t. He closes his eyes and breathes. It’s going to torture him, but he says, “Chest. Over our hearts,” with more conviction than he thought he could have at the thought of Sammy shirtless with another man touching him.

Sam tilts his head at him but doesn’t question.

“Who’s first?”

Dean refuses to let this man touch his little brother without being sure that he’s safe and trustworthy, so he says, “I am,” before Sammy can even open his mouth. He watches Sam’s face as he removes his shirt, as Jay sanitizes his chest, as the outline is drawn. His eyes stay locked on Sam’s as the drawing is pressed to his chest and the artist begins the process.

The pain isn’t unbearable, the hand isn’t heavy, there isn’t much blood. He expected more pain and blood for his first tattoo, but Dean’s been shot, he’s been stabbed, he’s dislocated his shoulder and broken bones. The tattoo gun is nothing. He’s just concerned about Sammy.

When his chest is done it’s red and warm, swollen from abuse. He gets up off the chair after the guy tapes on cellophane and tells him the care instructions and gestures for Sam to take a seat. Sam looks nervous and jittery, but he just watched Dean go through it, so he can do it too.

His shirt comes off slowly, cautiously. There’s a tremble to his little brother’s form that has Dean worried he won’t be calm enough.

“Hey, Jay,” Dean says carefully. “Would it be okay if I sat right next to him?”

“If you need to hold your boyfriend’s hand, man, I ain’t gonna stop you,” Jay says, getting to work on cleaning and disinfecting Sam’s chest.

“We’re not--” Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off, “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”

“I was under the impression you were gonna do somethin’ for Dani, but I think she’ll understand since you’re with this guy, here.”

Dean shushes Sam when he tries to deny it again, and takes his hand. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

When Jay starts, the pain is instant in his little brother’s face. Instinctively, Sam’s hand reaches for Dean’s and Dean takes it without question. He rubs his thumb over the back of his little brother’s hand and whispers, “Shh, it’s okay, Sammy, I’ve got you,” every time he lets out a small whimper. Sam being in any sort of pain has always been something that stabbed Dean right in the heart. It always set off his big brother radar and made him want to put a stop to it. This being a necessary pain doesn’t make it any better.

As Jay fills in the last part of the tattoo, Dean lifts Sam’s hand up and presses it to his forehead before bringing it down low enough to kiss it softly. “You did so good, little brother,” he says against the clammy skin, “So good, baby boy.”

He doesn’t realize what he was saying until Sam gasps and he looks up to see shocked and emotional hazel eyes. He isn’t sorry and he won’t take it back, but he pulls away and lets Jay clean off the wound and cover it the same way he covered Dean’s as he gives Sam the same care and infection lecture he gave Dean.

Dean pays for their tattoos as Sam gingerly pulls on his t-shirt and jacket and meets them at the counter. It isn’t until they get out to the car that Sam finally opens his mouth. “What was that, Dean?”

“Please don’t mention it, Sammy. You were panicking like a girl and I had to calm you down before you passed out on the poor guy.”

“No, Dean,” Sam says, pulling in a deep breath. “That was something else. That was more than big brother Dean and I--” quietly, Sam says, “I liked it.” He sinks low in the passenger side of the bench seat and folds into himself. “Just-- drop me off at the motel and go meet the bartender.”

Dean doesn’t say anything else, but he does drive them back to the motel. Sam gets out quietly, pulling his laptop bag out of the backseat and heading right into the room without a word or a backward glance at Dean.

He waits a minute, sitting in the Impala to get his thoughts straight before he cuts the engine and follows his little brother into the room. Sam’s not in sight but the light’s on in the bathroom so Dean waits on his bed for Sam to come out. When he does, Sam startles, almost yells, “Dean! What are you doing here?”

“It’s my room too, Sammy.”

“Yeah, but--”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I never said I was going back to the bar. You made that choice for me. I’m right where I wanna be right now, kiddo.”

He stands up and corners Sam against the wall by the bathroom. “What’s this about you liking what I did in the shop?”

“I--” Sam bites his bottom lip and looks away. “It was... it was nice.”

“Oh, baby boy, I can give you so much more than nice.”

Chapter Text

Sam is pressed face first into the cold concrete wall, both hands twisted behind his back in one of his brother’s, while Dean breathes into his ear. He shivers at the feeling of the warm breath and Dean presses closer, Sam’s arms now trapped between his back and his brother’s chest. He hisses in pain as they’re twisted at a worse angle.

The alert system is going off, flashing lights, basking the hallway in a dark, blood red. He closes his eyes to block it out. A hand in his hair jerks his head back, lips against the sweaty flesh of his neck.

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean whispers, voice raspy and cold. He smells different. He is different. Dean doesn’t smell like he usually does, nothing like warm sandalwood and engine oil. More like death, like demon. And if he focuses he can make out the underlying scent, the stench of demon blood. It’s been so long that he shouldn’t remember but that’s something he will never forget.

The smell. The taste. The addiction. He craves.

Once a junkie, always a junkie, a taunting voice says. Demon. Ruby. Brady. Crowley’s little minions. They always dangle his transgressions in front of his face. Remind him of his weakness.

Remind him that he’ll never be clean.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, tries to stop the tear from falling. Fails.

“Dean--” he whispers, voice raspy and broken. Dean leans closer, cheek to cheek with Sam, then turns and licks away the fallen tear, pressing a hard kiss right where he licked. Sam shivers.

Dean steps back just enough to slice his forearm open with a blade. “Oh, baby,” he taunts, pressing his bleeding forearm to his shaking little brother’s mouth, forcing his mouth open by a rough grip on his chin, “am I gonna give you hell.”

Chapter Text

Dean’s hiding something from him.

His touches have been scarce, rare. He doesn’t casually touch Sam’s chest when he walks past him sitting down in the library anymore, doesn’t pat him gently on the hair to smooth his bedhead. He’s been distant, no less concerned than he normally is, but distant. He pulls away when Sam moves to lay a head on his shoulder, when Sam reaches for affection.

Sam’s losing him.

He’s been losing him since Dean came back from Purgatory.

Sam doesn’t know what to do.

“You’re hurting, Sam,” Dean would say. “You’re still healing. We can’t do that anymore.” Sam just hangs his head and lets the that doesn’t mean you can’t touch me hang in the air.

Dean just doesn’t want him anymore.

He lies in bed longer now, not having a real reason to want to get up and go out into the library or the war room. He doesn’t even want to go on runs around the grounds. The bunker is still so shiny and new, and Sam still has so much cataloging to do, but he’s not motivated. He has so many areas he can explore, see what interesting things he can find, but he just wants his brother to look at him. Dean can barely look at him anymore.

He’s hurt, but not in the physical way Dean thinks. Dean is hurting him.

“Sam,” Dean calls from outside his bedroom door. It’s almost two in the afternoon and Sam’s still in bed, in pajamas, Netflix on his TV with the “Are you still there?” glaring at him in the dark of his room. He hasn’t been motivated to click ‘yes’ because he doesn’t even think he’s here anymore. Soon, his TV will shut off from inactivity and he’ll be cascaded in darkness.

He doesn’t care.

“Sammy,” Dean tries again, then the sound of the door handle jiggling. It’s locked, he can’t get in. “Sam, if you don’t open this door I’m gonna kick it down and you’ll have no privacy!”

Begrudgingly, Sam rolls out of bed, plaid pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips, hair a mussed up mess, shirt baggy and wrinkled from hours under the covers. He knows he looks a mess. Opens the door to an angry older brother with a tray of food in his hand. Glass of iced tea and a plate of penne pasta with what smells like garlic sauce, garnished with tiny broccoli florets and parmesan cheese. Sam eyes the plate and then his brother curiously.

Dean clears his throat. “Look, man,” he says awkwardly, still not meeting Sam’s eyes. “You haven’t been out to eat and you need to eat to get better, okay? So just--” he gestures with the tray, “Eat.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

Dean gives him a barely there soft smile when Sam takes the tray and goes to close himself back into his room. When Dean goes to bed he’ll sneak the tray back out into the kitchen and wash it, then sneak back to his room. It’s a good plan.

Dean’s palm on his door keeps it open and Sam braces himself for an argument that he thought would come after he was done eating.

“Are you okay, Sam?”

“What? I’m fine.”

“No, I mean, are you okay?”

Sam’s eyes flash the telltale blue that means Ezekiel is taking over, Sam’s posture which had been slack straightens out and Dean rolls his shoulders, ready.

“Sam is doing better, Dean,” Ezekiel says, monotone as ever. “He is healing nicely inside, but hurting elsewhere. And that is something I cannot heal.”

Dean’s heart sinks. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, you didn’t tell me there was anything else wrong with him, man!” He steps closer to his little brother, wanting to reach out but knowing it would be weird with Zeke inside him. “What’s wrong with my little brother? Is he gonna be okay?”

“It is not a physical ache. Mental, psychological. Emotional. He is hurting in here, Dean,” he says gently, pressing Sam’s right palm to his chest. “And you are the only one that can heal him, I am afraid.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can feel everything that he goes through, I can see all his memories, feel what he is yearning. And he yearns for you.” Sam’s face shows no emotion while Ezekiel has the wheel and it hurts Dean more than he thought it would. “He is burning for your affection, Dean. He feels as if you do not want him anymore. It has slowed the rest of the healing process.

“He hungers yet he does not want to eat. He lacks the desire to get out of bed. You have ceased to touch him and it is tearing him apart.”

Dean takes a step back, shocked. “I don’t- I can’t, Zeke. I can’t touch him, not while you’re- and while I--”

“When I give Sam back control, I sink deep into his mind where I cannot see the surface. His moments with you are with you and him alone, I am not a part of that. I come only when you call, and only when I sense distress.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, says, “But I don’t deserve him. I’ve been lying to him, I let him be possessed... How can I deserve to touch him when what I’m doing is causing him damage?”

“You saved his life, Dean,” Zeke says, conviction in his voice. “Your brother would not be here right now had you not made the hard decision you made.” He takes a small step towards Dean. “In the eyes of Heaven, you two are soulmates. He needs you.”

Dean gets no warning before his brother’s beautiful hazel eyes flash blue again and Sam’s posture changes. He looks confused for a moment before saying, “I told you I’m fine, Dean.”

“Sammy...”

“Look--”

“Mind if I come in, kiddo? Spend a little time with you?”

Sam’s taken aback but he smiles softly nonetheless, the tension in his eyebrows lifting imperceptibly as he steps aside. “I’d like that.” And if Dean chooses to sit on the bed with Sam, shoulder to shoulder, as Sam eats his lunch, no one but the two of them has to know about it. Eventually he’ll talk to Sam about why he’s been the way he is, but for now he has a lot of lost time to make up for. He has to show his brother all the ways he’s important to him, and if that means breaking the no chick flick rule, well... no one has to know.

Chapter Text

Told you we can’t hunt together. It’s for your own good.

Had he heeded his own advice, and had Sam not ignored his warning, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

He shouldn’t have let Sam get back in the car with him. Should have just told him to leave instead of drive them back to the bunker. Now, he’s got this itch on his arm that doesn’t go away scratching at it, and he’s irritable and angry. He has Sam -- Sam, who said they’re not supposed to be brothers -- pinned to the wall next to the staircase by his throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his air but not enough to knock him out.

“D-De--”

“Not supposed to be brothers, huh?” he asks, cold. Red rims around his narrowed eyes show his lack of sleep, both from the drive back after seeing Garth, and from anger. Sam’s big hands are gripping his forearm, touching the Mark of Cain, sending sparks of heat through his body at the contact. He tightens his grip slightly and lifts, Sam’s tiptoes barely touching the floor. Sam tries to hiss in a breath, eyes closed tight against the pain and lack of oxygen. Dean leans up close and growls, “Well, since we ain’t brothers anymore, I can do what I want with you.”

Sam gets maybe a second of air before it’s ripped right from him again as he’s tossed face first onto the map table in the war room. Dean’s on him in seconds, pinning him roughly to the surface, hand in his hair holding his face down.

“What I’m gonna do to you, Sammy,” he whispers, voice gruff, “You’re gonna wish you never took ‘brothers’ off the table.”

Chapter Text

Home has always meant something different to you.

It’s been the open road, it’s been more motels in the continental US than any one person should see in their lifetime. It’s been a leather bench seat behind the steering wheel of a ‘67 Chevy Impala.

Home has been sharing a cramped backseat with your little brother while your dad sleeps up front with one eye open.

Home is your little brother’s messy curls as they fan out over your chest when he uses you as a pillow in the dead of winter. Home is the ratty old blanket that smells like gun powder and dust your dad pulled out of the trunk, while he uses only his leather jacket to keep himself warm.

It’s like sharing a motel bed when your little brother is scared of the monster in the motel closet, or the eyes he swears he sees under the bed when you turn the lights off.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” you say, hugging the smaller frame close, “I got you, little brother.”

Home is a warm place to sleep, good music, and even better company.

Home is when you have a place to call your own, that you share with someone you call your own.

The bunker is home not because it’s what you’ve always wanted, but because your brother is here with you. Home is wherever Sam is.

Home can be under the stars in an open field. Home can be in a tent on the side of the road when you’re both too tired to drive anymore. Home can be in a motel in Bumfuck, Nowheresville while you’re hunting a ghoul because it never really mattered where home was, all that mattered is who home is.

Sam is your home. Sam is all you will ever need.

Chapter Text

Imagine Sam riding Dean for the first time.

His hands holding himself steady on Dean’s shoulders as he slowly sinks down onto Dean’s dick. Dean’s hands holding Sam’s hips gently, guiding him where he needs to go because Sam can’t see himself like Dean can see him.

Sam hissing as the head breaches him and he stops his descent, tensing, and Dean soothingly whispers, “Keep going, baby, I got you,” into Sam’s ear. “You can take me, just go slow.” And Sam drops slow, just as Dean says, because he trusts Dean implicitly.

He slides down the rest of the way, sitting completely on Dean’s dick, thighs trembling where they bracket Dean’s. His breathing is labored as he adjusts; Dean is so much deeper inside with Sam’s full weight resting on him, taking him all the way.

“You feel that, Sammy?” Dean says in wonder, a warm palm pressing to Sam’s lower belly where he can see it’s partially bulged from his dick. “I’m right here inside you, sweetheart. You took me so well.” He adds pressure against the shape of his dick and Sam hisses out a breath that turns into a whine. Thrusting his hips up once, he forces Sam to bounce on him, landing hard and taking him somehow deeper, and they both groan in sync.

“You’re doing so good, kiddo,” he whispers against Sam’s throat. “Now you’re gonna ride me.”

Chapter Text

It’s the constant pain that forces him to stop looking for Dean.

The first three weeks after Dean and Castiel disappeared with the death of Dick Roman, Sam spent his time researching Purgatory, summoning demons, and praying to any angel that would listen. He was looking for any alternate entrance to Purgatory he could find, but no one knew anything and Crowley... well, Crowley never answered when Sam called, especially after he took Kevin.

He’s been beaten and bloodied, brutalized by the demons he managed to get his hands on. He blamed his weakness on the loss of his brother, but truthfully he hasn’t felt right in weeks.

His stomach aches, cramping in a worse way than the pain his heats put him through. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. Can’t even keep water down anymore, let alone food. The weight loss probably has a big hand in how he’s letting lowly demons get the drop on him and he’s just so sad all the time.
Sam just wants his big brother back.

This morning, though, this morning the pain is at an all time peak. He can barely get out of bed in the motel room he has been laid up in hoping for the flu or whatever is plaguing him to pass.

He barely makes it to the bathroom to throw up.

It isn’t until he stands back up after heaving for five whole minutes into the toilet bowl that he feels it, the uncomfortable wet feeling in his sweats. He clutches his stomach, curling up in pain, before he finds the strength to get his sweats off. They hit the floor and Sam almost does too when he sees the blood pooled in the fabric. “Wh- what the hell...” he whispers, panic stricken.

He pulls his boxer briefs off too and scurries to turn on the shower and get inside the hot spray. He doesn’t know where the blood came from because he knows he wasn’t cut anywhere below the belt, but now he’s more scared than anything. He curls up on the bathtub floor and cries until well after the shower water is clear again.

When the pain doesn’t stop after several more hours, and he bleeds through two more pairs of boxer briefs and sweats he realizes he actually needs help.

Miscarriage.

Sam had a miscarriage.

Fourteen weeks pregnant, he hadn’t even been showing. The doctor said he was malnourished, gave him some pamphlets on domestic abuse after asking about the bruises, and Sam just laughed, said the father wasn't in the picture.
Then he cried again.

He was carrying a piece of Dean with him all this time while he was looking for him... and now he has nothing again.

He’s completely alone.

He pays for another week in the motel. Flips the blood soaked mattress over so he doesn’t sleep in the evidence of his failure as a parent and brother.

He can’t carry a child to term let alone find his big brother when he needs him.
He continues not eating, does nothing but lies awake in a lumpy mattress with a dried bloodstain on the other side, staring at the ceiling.

He cries for Dean.

After the week is up, he leaves without looking back. He never wants to see this town again. He doesn’t think he ever wants to see Texas again.

He hits a dog.

If he didn’t think life could get worse, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Amelia and Riot are probably the only things that keeps him sane while he's alone. He doesn’t love her, but he could if he stays. He doesn’t know if he wants to be loved. He lost his and Dean’s child; he doesn’t deserve love at all.

When Dean comes back, months later, it hurts less having Dean hating him for “never even looking for him” than it would to tell him he lost the child they accidentally conceived out of love. He lets Dean keep thinking he didn’t look because Dean would hate him more if he knew Sam couldn’t keep their child alive. That Sam wasn’t nurturing enough to carry a growing fetus.

He’ll never forget the pain he felt.

It’s hard, pretending. Trying to get back into eating like normal. Amelia fed him, but most of it ended up on the floor with Riot eating all the evidence. He told her he just never gained weight because of his metabolism.

Here, back on the road with Dean, he has no dog to sneak his food to.
His stomach hurts all over again.

“C’mon, Sammy, you’re skin ‘n bones! Did your girlfriend neglect to feed you?”

He closes his eyes and takes another bite. It tastes like ash.

It all goes to hell when Crowley shows up. Sam’s a couple weeks into the trials and the first trial really took a lot out of him. He’s tired and weak and hurts all over again.

He hates this feeling.

“Moose!” Crowley greets, all fake smiles. “Squirrel! So good to see you, my favorite Americans. Glad to see you’re out of the hospital, Moose.” It’s laced with false concern, but it has Dean whipping his head to look at Sam. “Oh, does Squirrel not know about your stint?”

“Crowley...”

“I saw your bed in that dingy motel room, Sam, so much blood.” He shakes his head. “I’ve even got your hospital records right here.” His smile is malicious. “And I’ll burn them right here right now if you promise to stop these silly little trials.”

“Cr--”

“Give them to me,” Dean says. His voice is deep, gruff, and angry. Crowley looks from Dean to Sam, Sam whose eyes are practically pleading with Crowley to burn the records.

“Going once--”

"Please,” Sam whispers.

“Going twice--”

Dean rips the files from Crowley’s hand and Sam lunges. But he’s too weak, slow, and Dean’s strong and practiced from fighting for his life in Purgatory. He’s got the manila folder open and is reading every test result, every symptom, everything that Sam went through in that hospital on one of the worst days of his life: the day he realized he didn’t have his brother or his baby.

Sam’s crying, on his knees on the floor, begging, pleading for Dean to stop reading.

Green eyes meet Sam’s teary hazel ones and Sam sees emotion, real emotion there for the first time since he got Dean back.

“Sam,” Dean whispers. He hits the floor beside Sam, the papers falling and scattering everywhere while Dean grasps Sam’s hands in his own. “Why didn’t you tell me? You let me think you never looked, when...”

“I--” he swallows the tears, sniffles, looks down at their joined hands. “I could-couldn’t stand the thought of you kn-knowing,” he hiccups, “that I- that I let you down like that. That I couldn’t...” his hair falls in front of his face and he whispers, “Keep our child safe.”

Dean pulls Sam against his chest and just holds him as he cries. If Sam’s hair gets wet, well, none of them have to admit it’s because Dean’s crying too.

Chapter Text

Dean knows that Sam sneaks out. They’re hunters, Dean sleeps with one eye open at all times because he’s constantly worried that something is going to happen to Sammy, or something will attack them in their sleep. It’s second nature. Keep Sammy safe.

After the third time Sam sneaks out, Dean follows.

Sam doesn’t go far. Dean follows him ten motel room doors down. His brother knocks twice, then once, then three times, and the door opens. He hears Ruby’s fucking voice and he sees red, but he waits. Lets the door close softly behind them and slinks over to the window where the curtain is open just enough for him to see inside. He gives it a few minutes to make sure he doesn’t get caught before he looks.

Ruby is in Sam’s lap, kissing him, and Dean reaches for the demon knife he got from that very bitch. He itches to slice her open with it.

He gets his breathing under control and keeps watching. Ruby pushes against Sam’s chest, all the while unbuttoning his shirt, and gets him on his back. Cuts the t-shirt underneath with a knife from her pocket, and kisses down Sam’s chest. Dean shouldn’t be watching, but he can’t look away. He wants to know if Sam actually fucks her. He needs to know.

Sam lifts his hips and she pulls his pants down his legs that stretch for miles. Pushes against his knees and he spreads those thin legs, opens himself wide to her, and Dean covers his mouth to keep in the shout he wants to make.

She uses the same knife she used to cut Sam’s shirt to slice her arm open and coat her fingers in her blood, mouthing something to which Sam replies with a nod, and she fucking fingers him. Her slender fingers breach Dean’s little brother’s tight hole and Sam arches under her, grips the sheets below him and opens his mouth in what could only be described as a moan had Dean been able to hear it.

Despite his best judgment, Dean’s jeans tighten as all his blood seems to flow south. He presses the palm of his hand against his disobedient dick and hisses at the contact. Never in his life did he think that Sam wanted to get fucked.

That Sam would let a demon fuck him.

Ruby is four fingers deep inside Sam, and Dean watches as she angles her wrist and jabs, and that does something to Sam because he arches again. Only the heels of his feet and his head and shoulders are touching the bed and Dean can actually hear the scream his little brother makes. He watches in both horror and fascination as Sam comes, his dick completely untouched. His own dick twitches in his jeans and he wants to yell at it, tell it that he shouldn’t be turned on by his little brother being fingerfucked by a demon in a dead woman’s meatsuit. But the damage is done; he’s seen things he shouldn’t have seen, and they turned him on more than anything ever has before.

If Sam wants to get fucked so bad, Dean’s going to give him a real fucking later.

Chapter Text

Dean stands in the doorway of the bathroom, eyes roaming over Sam’s body clad only in pink lacy panties that Dean picked up on their last hunt. His sun-kissed skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat as he works his hole open with thin, long fingers, legs spread wide on their king size motel room bed.

“Dean,” he pants, trying to press deeper to reach that spot inside, but the angle is all wrong, and the panties are in the way. Dean’s instructions were clear: put on the panties and finger yourself. Sam never questions his big brother, always just does as he’s asked. His dick is straining against the pink lace, pre-come wetting the fabric and ruining it but Dean doesn’t care, he’s going to suck it all from the panties and then eat Sam out until he’s crying.

Sam’s free hand trails along his chest, stopping to pinch two fingers around a nipple, his chest arching. Dean’s dick twitches in his pants and he pushes away from the doorway to step closer to his baby brother. His hand finds its way into his pants and he grips the base of his dick and squeezes, trying to stave it off.

“C’mon, Sammy,” he coos, “Add a third for your big brother. Get yourself ready for me, baby.”

“Oh god, Dean,” Sam moans as he does as he’s asked, three fingers still not deep enough. His hand trails further down and he circles his belly button, his stomach dancing beneath the touch. Dean climbs onto the bed and crawls over Sam, careful not to touch him. Sam tries arching up into him, whining for contact, but Dean tsks and Sam settles back down with a whimper of Dean’s name.

“Good girl,” he teases and Sam gasps at the term, eyes wide as he stares up at Dean, who’s smirking down at him, smug. “Yeah, that’s right, baby. So pretty for your big brother in your pink panties, begging for my cock. That’s it, finger yourself, sweetheart.” His arms bracket Sam’s sides as he holds himself above him, just watching Sam pleasure himself. His little brother is the most beautiful human on the planet and Dean couldn’t be happier that he’s Dean’s.

He leans down just enough so that their noses brush and their breath mingles and Sam tries to arch up for a kiss but Dean huffs out a breath of laughter and pulls back. “Not yet, darlin’, get yourself ready for me so I can fuck my pretty little girl in his panties.”

Sam whimpers but does as he’s asked, tears of frustration shining in his pretty hazel eyes as he fingers himself with abandon, legs spreading impossibly wide beneath Dean.

It isn’t until the tears stream down his flushed pink cheeks and he’s sobbing with need that Dean takes pity on him and removes Sam’s fingers from his abused hole. “That’s my good girl, my pretty little Sammy,” he whispers, crawling backwards and pushing against Sam’s trembling thighs to give him the access he needs. “Oh, look at you, sweetheart,” he teases fingertips over the panties that covered Sam’s wet hole when Sam’s fingers slipped free. “You’ve ruined the nice lingerie I gave you. Do you think you deserve my dick, baby girl?”

“Yes, Dean!” Sam whines. “Please, big brother!” Dean smiles fondly at his little brother and licks at the wet part of the panties, teasing Sam’s hole with his tongue in the fabric. “Oh god, please!” He pushes the panties aside and licks into Sam’s desperate hole and Sam screams.

Chapter Text

That sounds like a bet to me, don’t you think? Sam and Dean betting on who the monster in the town in, or betting on pool, or whatever else. They don’t talk prizes, but Sam is an innocent little nerd so his ideal prize is for Dean to help him catalog and archive stuff in the library to organize the bunker better (only for one day, though! He’s not that much of a hardass, you know?) while Dean has this coy little smirk on his face as he daydreams about his prize..

So, whatever the bet may be, Sam loses. He’s pretty bummed that he won’t get to spend time organizing the library with Dean, but he’s low key just hoping Dean’s prize isn’t something horrible like letting Dean cut his hair.

Somehow, it’s worse.

Dean bought the maid dress before their bet was even made. He’d found it in a sex shop a few hunts ago and hid it in his room for safe keeping, to bring out when the time is right. It’s the traditional black dress with white frilly apron and black bow, except it’s shorter than an average maid dress, which means it will be even shorter on his little brother whose legs stretch for miles. Sam may be tall, but his waist is very thin and will fit in the women’s dress perfectly.

Sam’s face pales when Dean pulls out the costume, then turns an alarming shade of pink in his embarrassment.

“Dean--”

“A bet’s a bet, Sammy, don’t be a sore loser!”

“Dean, this is--”

“Perfect for my pretty little brother, right?” Dean teases, holding the dress out to Sam. “Imagine you bent over my knee in this, Sammy? My precious baby brother getting spanked like the bad little girl he is...”

Still blushing furiously, Sam snatches the outfit from Dean’s hands in hopes of shutting him up. Before he can walk away, Dean calls his name. He turns in a huff, says, “What,” without the inflection of a question.

Dean smirks and hands him a small balled up piece of black satin. “This too, baby girl.” Dean’s smirk widens as Sam unravels the satin to reveal slick black panties before glaring at Dean. “Don’t give me that bitch face, darlin’,” he says sternly, “Or I’m going to make sitting hurt for a week.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Dean, yes. I’m sure. Do it.”

Dean hesitates. He’s four fingers deep inside Sam, stretching him wide, and he presses the tip of his thumb right up against Sam’s quivering entrance. Sam hisses as the finger is slowly added, Dean’s fingers curling inside. This isn’t the widest Sam has ever been stretched but this is a burn he’s not used to, Dean knows.

“Okay, baby boy,” Dean whispers, leaning down to kiss Sam’s neck. “Just breathe with me, I gotta get you stretched for me.” Sam nods and Dean smiles against his sweaty flesh. “Good boy.”

He gets all five fingers inside and Sam clenches around him, tight. He strokes Sam’s flank with his free hand then kisses him on the lips to soothe him. Sam adjusts so beautifully, but what’s coming next is what Dean’s not looking forward to. He hates when Sam’s in pain, but his baby brother specifically requested this and who’s Dean to deny him anything? Surely not a strong man.

His hand opens up as much as it can inside Sam and he whines under Dean but doesn’t ask him to stop.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Dean asks gently. His hand comes out of Sam slowly, leaving his brother gaping, slick dripping from his abused, red hole. He squeezes the base of his dick with his free hand, stimulates his knot as he gets ready to push it in. It’s not completely swollen yet, not at full mast, but once he feels Sam’s tight heat around him it’ll expand entirely.

Sam’s panting below him, chest heaving with every breath he takes, and Dean can’t help leaning down to kiss him breathless. He opens up to Dean no questions asked and Dean plunders his mouth with his tongue, tasting every inch of his hot mouth. He uses it as a distraction to bend Sam almost in half, legs thrown over Dean’s shoulders, and pushes in with his dick. Sam gasps into the kiss and Dean keeps pushing, knows if he stops it’ll be worse.

He feels it. His knot growing. He keeps it just against Sam’s hole, doesn’t push in, and wait.

“Oh god, Dean, please,” Sam whimpers, trying to roll his hips but he’s trapped. “I need it, I need it, oh god.” He clenches hard around Dean’s dick and Dean hisses, gripping Sam’s thighs tight enough to leave bruises that he’ll have to kiss in the morning. He holds still, doesn’t give Sam what he’s begging for because he’s giving Sam what he asked him for before they started this. He’s a good mate, a just mate, even when his precious little omega is whining and writhing for his knot.

“Just a little more, baby,” he grits out. “A little more and you can have my knot.”

“Please...”

“Shh... it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Despite his better judgment, he pushes his knot harder against Sam’s hole and moans at the tight heat begging to engulf him. Shivers when he feels Sam’s hole almost seem to flutter and try to open for him.

Years of popping a knot and fucking Sam has taught him exactly when his knot is fully swollen. He can feel it, knows it can’t expand anymore, and he says gruffly, “Breathe, Sammy,” as he starts to push, “It’s going to hurt.”

He knows Sam should be on his knees for this, that the angle and the slide will be easier for both of them, especially after they’re completely knotted and want to lie down comfortably... but he needs to be able to watch Sam’s face. He needs to watch every aspect of this particular knotting as Sam’s face lights up in both pain and pleasure.

He needs to be able to kiss Sam through the pain.

Sam nods and Dean pushes. Sam’s been knotted before; Dean knots him almost every night. They sometimes fall asleep with Dean’s knot swollen inside him, locking his come inside, plugging Sam up nice and tight. But they’ve never done knot insertion after it’s fully engorged. He’s never wanted to hurt Sam like that, never even dreamed of doing it.

Until Sam begged him for it tonight. He used his precious puppy dog eyes that Dean never could say no to to beg Dean for his knot in this way.

And Dean caved, as he always does.

Sam’s eyes close tight in pain as Dean’s knot starts to stretch him wide in places he hasn’t been stretched before. He’s usually flush against Sam’s ass when his knot begins to inflate, never stretching his rim to this point. Sam’s trying to breathe through it as Dean suggested but this is a whole different kind of pain and Dean leans down, folding Sam in half, to kiss and lick his little brother’s tears away.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he soothes, bumping their noses together, trying to coax Sam to open his eyes. “Look at me, baby, show me those beautiful eyes for me, okay?” He nuzzles the tip of his nose along Sam’s tear-stained cheek and Sam’s eyes open to meet Dean’s. “That’s it, Sammy, I’ve got you.” He pushes the rest of the way in and before Sam can cry out, Dean swallows it with a kiss. He drinks in Sam’s whine and kisses him through the pain, stilling his hips completely once he’s flush against Sam.

He gives Sam a few moments to shiver his way through the pain, then pulls back slowly, watching his little brother’s face with nothing less than pure love and devotion. “You did it, little brother,” he praises, “You took my knot so well.”

Sam preens at the praise.

Chapter Text

Dean never noticed before that Sam gets up before first light and goes on runs. He knew Sam went on runs, just... not that they happened to be at the ass crack of dawn.

It wasn’t until Sam more or less moved into Dean’s room in the bunker that Dean realized. He’s always been a light sleeper, especially when Sam is under the same roof as him, so he notices slight movements, especially ones where his little brother is climbing out of Dean’s memory foam bed. He’d watch Sam pad across Dean’s room barefoot and leave, shutting the door softly behind him. He wouldn’t be anywhere in the bunker when Dean finally got up for coffee, and would come back in sometime after 8 wearing running shoes, track pants, a tank top, and a sheen of sweat on his body.

Sam has always been pretty, but something about him covered in sweat did things to Dean.

Every morning was more of the same -- except the mornings after Dean fucked Sam practically through the mattress and Sam was too sore to run -- Sam getting up to run, coming back while Dean’s enjoying his coffee in the kitchen,  greeting Dean with a smile before chugging a bottle of cold Poland Spring, and then heading off to shower.

Dean never gets the chance to enjoy sweaty Sam, and he mourns it every day.

“’Morning, Dean,” Sam greets, walking past Dean and opening the fridge. He takes a few swigs from a bottle of water and then puts the bottle back. “I’m gonna hit the shower and then see if I can find us a case or something.”

As he passed Dean again, Dean’s hand shot out automatically to grasp Sam’s thin wrist. “Sammy,” Dean says, tone low, “Do you stretch before you run?”

“Of course,” Sam replies, confusion lacing his tone as he tries to gently pull his wrist free. “I can’t risk pulling something. Just basic leg stretches...”

“So your muscles are loose,” Dean muses, tugging on Sam’s wrist hard enough for Sam to lose balance and fall onto his lap. He ignores Sam’s sputtering of his name and continues, “And your legs...”

“Dean--”

“Go back to my room, Sammy.”

“Dean, I’m covered in sweat--”

Dean leans in and presses his nose against Sam’s shimmering throat, breathing in his intoxicating scent. “Yeah, you are, kiddo,” he whispers against his little brother’s throat. “I wanna see just how stretched and loose your muscles are.” He nips at the flesh against his lips and Sam gasps above him, clenching his big hands on Dean’s shoulders. “Now go back to my room, but don’t get undressed. I’m gonna be the one to peel these clothes off’a you.”

Sam scrambles off of him and Dean is slow to follow. He finishes off his last couple sips of coffee and then makes his way down the silent hallway where his little brother is waiting for him. Sam’s sitting on the bed almost nervously. It’s been a few days since Dean got to fuck him, Sam having complained that he needed to get back out for a run and Dean ‘doesn’t know how to take it easy’ when they fuck. He’d told Sam that if he got some regularly he wouldn’t have to be so rough when he did get it.

He crosses the room in two long strides and stands before Sam, grasping his chin with a warm palm and tilting his head up to look at Dean. He leans down, claiming Sam in a deep kiss that leaves his brother gasping, long fingers clinging to the front of Dean’s shirt. He pulls away and smirks down at Sam’s dazed face, kiss-swollen lips parted, eyes glazed. Dean uses Sam’s distraction to pull off the sweaty tank top, admiring the planes of sweaty, flushed skin.

He presses a palm against Sam’s chest and pushes him so he falls onto his back on the bed. Sam falls gracelessly, hair fanning out onto the comforter. He doesn’t hesitate when he hooks his fingers into the waist of Sam’s track pants, pulling both them and Sam’s underwear off, leaving his little brother completely naked below him. Sam’s six mile long legs spread automatically for Dean once he’s bare and Dean climbs between them, settling himself onto Sam’s warm body. Sam’s mouth instantly seeks out Dean’s, their tongues dancing in a battle that Dean always wins; Sam always gives him total control and Dean will always be grateful.

One hand finds Sam’s sweaty hair while the other trails down Sam’s side, squeezing his hip roughly, before scratching down Sam’s thigh and settling at the back of Sam’s knee. “You’re all stretched, huh, Sammy,” Dean growls against Sam’s gasping lips. His fingers squeeze the back of Sam’s knee before pulling, lifting his leg up, bending it at the knee and pushing it as far as it will go. Sam gasps at the stretch, mouth wide, and Dean flicks his tongue out to lick at Sam’s pretty pink lips, licking at the top row of Sam’s teeth, and licking all the way in, kissing him again. He pushes harder against Sam’s knee, swallows the whimper falling from Sam’s lips.

He whispers, “You can take it, can’t you, baby?” as he pulls back an inch, admiring Sam’s flushed face and watery eyes. “I know you can take it, Sammy.” His other hand trails down the same way, treats Sam’s spread leg the same way and pushes it up, folds Sam completely in half. His palms spread open, fingers pressing against Sam’s hamstrings as he spreads Sam’s legs open straight. His little brother’s face is framed by his thighs, lust and longing prominent in his hazel eyed gaze. Dean presses a kiss to each thigh before his hands slowly trail down. “Don’t let your legs drop,” he warns, pressing a little harder so Sam curls, his ass lifting, his furled pucker exposed to Dean’s hungry eyes.

“I guess morning runs are good for you, kiddo,” he teases, “You’re so soft, so pliant, I can bend you however I want and you’ll be able to take it.” He squeezes the meat of Sam’s ass before pressing his face against the crack, tongue peeking out to push against Sam’s entrance.

“Dean!” Sam shouts, his ass clenching around Dean’s tongue. He pushes harder against Sam’s thighs, feels how tense the tendons are under his palms and licks further into the needy hole. “Oh god, Dean...”

Dean slides his hands all the way down Sam’s skinny legs until he wraps both ankles up in his grip, holding Sam down as he makes his way up Sam’s trembling body. He kisses his little brother’s mouth, feels the way Sam’s thighs shake under his shoulders with the strain from the position Dean is keeping him in. Kisses his way deep into Sam’s warm, wet cavern, swallowing every sound Sam makes as Dean presses his cotton-covered dick against his hole. He rubs himself against Sam, kissing him deeper, harder, while one hand releases an ankle to play at Sam’s hungry pucker. Sam gasps into the kiss as Dean presses in with two fingers, loving the heat swallowing up his digits.

He scissors them, purposely avoiding Sam’s prostate, then pulls them out to free his dick from the cotton of his sweatpants. The warmth from Sam’s winking hole calls to Dean as he presses the head against it and doesn’t give Sam a chance to even think before shoving all the way in. Sam moans loud, breaking the kiss as he shoves his head back into the pillow. Dean sets a brutal pace, keeping Sam folded in half; it somehow forces Dean deeper than he’s ever been before inside Sam.

He knows Sammy will be sore and probably try to keep Dean from fucking him for the next couple days, but fucking Sam when he’s this stretched and bendy Dean’s never gonna pass it up again.

Chapter Text

Dean’s memories come back in waves.

I chose the King of Hell over you.

The things he did to Sam, the things he said.

He dreams about killing his baby brother, wrapping his calloused hands around Sam’s throat and squeezing the life out of him like he accused Sam of doing to him.

It’s your very existence that sucked the life out of my life.

He wakes up in a cold sweat on a shout of “No!” as he kills Sam for the hundredth time in his dream. He’s panting, heaving for breath, staring at his bedroom door as if waiting for Sam to come crashing in in a hurry at hearing his big brother’s shout. Sam won’t come. Just like yesterday, like the day before, and the day before that. It’s been a week since he tried to kill his little brother and he feels no less guilt now than he did then.

And what I’m gonna do to you, Sammy... well, that ain’t gonna be mercy either.

Sam brings him breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Leaves the tray at his door with a knock and scurries off before Dean can get out of bed and swing open the door. He’s always seconds too late.

If Sam had a pattern, Dean would follow it. His little brother is smart, calculating. He doesn’t come at the same times every day. If Dean wants to catch him, he’s gotta leave his room for more than just to shower or take a leak.

Sam makes his coffee just the way he likes it, his eggs and bacon and toast all cooked exactly the way he prefers, sometimes grits instead of eggs, but he makes those perfect, too. Lunch brings different sandwiches each day -- Sam must have gone out for cold cuts and roast chicken -- which he serves with a can of Pepsi. Dinner varies daily, but it’s always served with a beer. Sammy knows him up and down, left and right, and Dean tried to kill him.

Dean tried to kill the one person he promised to protect.

Maybe I was just tired of babysitting you.

He chooses this time to wait by his door. It’s about lunch time, so he knows Sam will be coming... soon. He waits patiently and quietly. Focuses, ear almost against the door, for Sam’s footsteps. Sam’s been so quiet but Dean’s determined.

Then he hears it, the tray being placed on the floor. This is his moment.

Before Sam can even knock, Dean swings the door open quickly. Sam is in the process of standing up after placing the tray down. He looks both shocked and terrified, eyes wide in fear. He straightens up and pivots his body in an attempt to bolt, but Dean’s quicker. He’s always had fast reflexes. His palm, clammy from adrenaline, shoots out and grasps Sam’s way too thin wrist. Sam gasps and tenses, closes his eyes tight as if waiting for a blow. Dean feels as if Sam dealt a blow on him instead. His little brother is terrified of him. Dean has failed him.

Or having to yank your lame ass out of the fire since... forever.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. If possible, Sam stiffens even more, mouth in a thin line, shoulders tense. Dean wants to punch himself, remembers tauntingly calling his little brother ‘Sammy’ when he tried killing him a week ago. “Sam,” he remedies. “Sam, come on, talk to me, kiddo.”

Sam lets out the breath he seemed to have been holding and doesn’t exactly relax but some tension seemed to have left with the breath. He opens those beautiful hazel eyes that Dean has missed so much, but still doesn’t look at him.

“I, uh,” Sam tries, throat rusty from disuse, Dean assumes. “I made you roast beef and cheese.”

“Sam...”

“Just... leave the tray when you’re done, like always, okay?”

He won’t look at him or say his name. Dean can’t take it anymore.

Maybe it’s the fact that my mother would still be alive if it weren’t for you.

He yanks at the wrist in his hand. Sam trips forward, just barely missing the tray between them on the floor, and falls forward into Dean’s chest. Sam tries to scramble away, pushing at Dean’s chest with his free hand, but Dean tightens his grip and pulls him the rest of the way into his bedroom. Sam’s eyes are closed again, squeezed tight, and Dean closes the door.

He presses Sam gently into the door, holding him at the shoulders to keep him still, keeping in mind to keep his left hand gentle against Sam’s injured shoulder. For the first time in weeks, he gets a real good look at his little brother, at Sammy. The kid’s lost weight. His shirts that usually cling to his shoulders and chest are loose, too big on Sam now. He can’t remember the last time Sam was this thin, maybe ten years ago when he first picked him up from Stanford. Maybe high school.

Sam’s breathing is shallow, labored, as Dean rakes his eyes up and down his body. He has yet to open his eyes again and Dean hates that almost as much as he hates Sam’s apparent eating disorder.

“You haven’t been eating,” Dean chooses to say.

He watches as Sam’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, says, “I’ve been eating.”

“Yeah?” he asks, unconvinced. “Then why do you look like you haven’t had a bite in weeks?”

“Let me go and eat your lunch,” Sam says instead of an answer, eyes finally opening.

“Nope, not today, kiddo.”

“D--” he cuts himself off before he can say Dean’s name. “Please. Just.”

“I need you to talk to me, Sam. Why haven’t you been taking care of yourself? How did you hurt your arm?”

“I couldn’t, not while you were gone, I--” he cuts off again, looking down at the floor between them. “I need time. Please.”

“It’s been a week, Sam. I need you to talk to me. How did you get hurt?”

Sam sighs, says, “Cas and I were following a lead... demons got the drop on us and, well, I took the brunt of it. That’s it. I’m fine.”

He presses gently, not entirely unkindly, against Sam’s injured arm and Sam draws in a breath on a hiss, then whimpers when Dean releases the arm completely. “Yeah,” he says sarcastically, “You’re totally fine.”

“I just need the sling a few more weeks, then I’ll be fine.”

“Sam, look at me.”

“Please just eat.”

Dean pulls him away from the door to open it, leans down to grab the tray, then closes the door again, locking it this time. “Get on the bed, Sam.” Sam doesn’t move, standing statue still. Dean repeats, “Bed,” rougher. Sam hurries to obey and Dean smiles humorlessly, following his little brother to sit beside him. He sets the tray on the bed. “I’ll eat, Sam,” he says, softer now, “If you share with me.”

Sam shakes his head, long hair flopping side to side. Dean wants to smile at him and tangle his fingers in that hair. He makes fun of it, but he loves it so much, would never ask Sam to get rid of it.

“I won’t take no for an answer, kiddo. You’ve been starving yourself and I need to fix it.”

“I’m not sta--”

He cuts Sam off with a finger on his lips. “It’s okay, Sam,” he whispers, “I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Just let me. Please.” He’s pleading, he knows. It’s unbecoming of him, but also something he really only does when it comes to Sam. He would do anything to fix his baby brother, if only he knew how to fix this. “I’m never going to hurt you again, Sammy.”

For the first time in a long time, Sam doesn’t flinch when Dean says ‘Sammy’. It’s a start.