Fic: Don't Let's Start (2/3)
Aug. 26th, 2007 11:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aeroport_artTitle: Don't Let's Start (2/3)
Characters: Sam/Dean
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con (of sorts)
Word Count: 3,787 (5,523 total)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Smutty fic inspired by some meta posted (here) some months back bymona1347 that I found incredibly fascinating. So I wanted to explore Dean's role as a beta dog through AlphaDog!Sam porn. Not that this hasn't been done already-- poisontaster and mona1347 nailed it with their Sex Pollen 'verse, but I wanted to try it out for myself :D Title taken from the They Might Be Giants song. Beta-ed by the lovely jewels667. Thanks hon!
Summary: Dean refuses to acknowledge his feelings towards his little brother and Sam doesn't know how, but somehow because of it, they're caught up in a web of wrong that he can't seem to untangle.
Part 1
The thing is, it hadn’t started off that badly. A forced kiss here, a rough handjob there— nothing that could actually be called, well. There were a lot of nasty things the brothers’ relationship could be called, but mind you, none of them were right. This was love.
Dean’s eyes watered as Sam viciously twisted his fingers and stabbed them into his older brother’s clenching ring, up past the second knuckles, with naught but long-dried saliva for lube.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam breathed. The sight of Dean’s hole swallowing him up would never cease to fascinate. “You love it, you love it when it hurts, don’t you?”
Dean whimpered and jumped away, trying to escape the painfully dry digits that Sam insisted on working into him, two at a time. Never enough lube, never enough—
“Nuh-uh, don’t even try,” Sam whispered hotly into Dean’s ear as he wrapped a hand around goose-pimpled waist and wrenched Dean’s ass back onto Sam’s fingers, deeper than before. He muffled Dean’s high-pitched keen with a hard kiss, Dean’s neck uncomfortably twisted, gasping for air when Sam finally pulled off.
“C’mon, Dean—“ shove “I’m just giving you—” pull “—what you want.” Sam pushed a third finger alongside the two and lapped at the seam where fingers met ass, and Dean burned from the wet intrusion.
Dean bowed his head and dropped it into crossed arms, ass high in the air, shaking and trembling. He cried out, the noise something between a gasp and a distressed moan, and the push-pull rhythm of Sam’s fingers faltered. Shit, Sam thought, worrying that this was too much, that he was being too rough...
-----
Little did he know, things would only get worse in time.
Hell, these vague misgivings were nothing compared to the appalled wonder that would eventually fill Sam as he would later wrack his brain as to how the hell they’d ever gotten so fucked up. Sam will ask himself, how did I let it get this far?
Then again, if you stop to think about it, nothing terrible in this world ever started off that way. These things were cultured; required baby steps. Even the most atrocious of crimes began simply with a slight deviation, or one newly imposed rule. After all, the Jews didn’t just happily hop into gas chambers; it’d started with paper stars, hadn’t it?
This was Dean’s paper star— finger-fucked dry by his baby brother as lewd words dribbled into his ears and filled his cock with blood.
Jesus, Sam knew Dean wanted it. Though Dean would deny left and right, swear up and down that he didn’t, that they weren’t—
“Fucking gorgeous like this, Dean, ” Sam whispered reverently as he (god) cupped Dean’s low-hanging balls, easily cradling them in his wide palm as Dean buried his face in his arms and sobbed.
Oh, fuck it. Sam would never figure out how they got from close brothers to fucked up lovers; he only knew that there’d been something to bridge the gap. Something that didn’t seem so wrong at the time.
“Dean,” Sam gasped, watching his brother spasm around his fingers. “You gonna—god— you gonna come?”
Taking Dean’s frantic, desperate moan as a yes, Sam quickly ducked his head down and tongued his brother’s nuts into his mouth. He felt Dean’s ass twitch against his cheeks as Dean spurted a load onto rumpled bedcovers and he thought, watching Dean slump forward into his own mess, this isn’t so wrong.
Making Dean moan like that, making him feel like that— there wasn’t anything wrong with fulfilling Dean’s unspoken, furtive desires. A wave of tenderness unexpectedly ebbed forth, and Sam bent forward and pressed his lips against his brother’s damp shoulder.
“Don’t kiss me,” Dean mumbled against blankets, already halfway into blissful unconsciousness.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam smiled, lips dragging over Dean’s quickly cooling skin. He watched his brother for a bit longer, then slipped behind his brother’s curled up body like a blanket, liberally draped over Dean’s skin, arm tucked in underneath the soft space of Dean’s side. Grinning wickedly, he thought of Dean waking up in his own dried come and how grossed out and embarrassed he’d be. Probably blame it on me somehow, Sam thought, hiding a snort between Dean’s shoulder blades.
He mulled over that thought awhile longer but feeling tired, Sam wriggled a nest out of tangled sheets and drifted into slumber, burying his face between Dean’s neck and shoulder.
Dean sighed in his sleep.
-----
And so, for awhile, they were good. More than good; Sam would sometimes think, this is great. He’d grown up with a desire, a wholly inappropriate want of his older brother, and he’d grown up thinking nothing would come of it. But something… something (gloriously) had.
For a few months there, Sam and Dean fell into a sort of routine. Furtive glances, charged with meaning, would lead behind rest stops to Dean’s scraped up knees as Sam fucked his mouth. Or sometimes on the road, Sam’s hand would snake down Dean’s fly and dare the older man to drive in a straight line, dare him to not total the car as he unwillingly orgasmed into Sam’s cupped hands, filling them with come; come that would be slowly and tantalizingly licked up between fingers as Dean tried not to watch, his ears burning.
For awhile they were good— as good as two brothers in love and in denial could be. But things change. Whether sharp and abruptly, or slow as molasses, things always change.
For Sam, it was gradual, like the growing of bones. Unnoticeable but for the day you stop, measure, and realize: you’re different now.
He’d like to say he noticed the difference as Dean became increasingly stubborn, and not because his feelings were being increasingly hurt. Either way, the more Sam wanted Dean, wanted his brother and not some second-rate substitute in the form of submission, the more he’d get pushed away.
What began as a game of cat-and-mouse slowly began to feel wrong, just wrong to the bone. Even if Dean craved it, needed it to justify their relationship, Sam was sick of fighting for every kiss or touch, every shove into his brother’s averse body.
“Dean,” he’d said the other night, soft syllables on his tongue as his dick softened and slipped out of Dean’s dripping ass. “God, you’re so…”
Dean’s eyes shot open in panic and he messily fumbled out from beneath Sam. “Not this shit again, Sammy.”
Sam swallowed the words in his throat and let them suffocate, reluctant as they were to remain unheard. Jesus. He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Then when, Dean?”
“Fuck you,” Dean bit back, his expression caged and dangerous.
At being rebuffed (once again), a sickening fury grew inside of Sam until it launched into full-fledged rage and frustration. Sam threw Dean back onto the bed and pushed his wrists down so hard he felt the bones tighten between his fingers. He felt something inexplicable, something a little like triumph sing through him at his brother’s outward alarm, those fuckable lips open in surprise.
That mouth was his, and Sam took those cocksucking lips with his own and in the harsh press of mouths, in the invisible space there, Sam pleaded for everything that he craved, that he needed like some fairytale wish, as if simple yearning would land him an admission of love.
Dean struggled to weasel out from underneath but he only succeeded in rubbing himself against Sam’s unyielding body. The blatant fight in Dean’s eyes, his desperation in getting away only infuriated Sam more. And so, he kept taking— kept taking until Dean cried with inexplicable shudders, until they were both too tired and fucked out to care anymore.
Sam scared himself, sometimes.
-----
Sam would do little things to justify himself. Once, he kissed Dean on the mouth, tenderly and quietly in the dead of the night with as much love as he could muster, but Dean had been awake (how could Sam have been so stupid? ).
“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean mumbled, voice so heavy with sleep that Sam could barely understand him.
“What?” Sam whispered, daring not to move despite the loudly throbbing heart on his sleeve.
Dean said nothing, only exhaled into Sam’s mouth. Sam fought down the quickly escalating elation and held himself still, before gently pressing in and kissing his brother again. Careful, slow, Sam coached himself. Don’t scare him.
Nonetheless, Dean groaned and grudgingly sat up, disentangling himself from his brother’s limbs. “Sam, we’re not. I mean, you can’t…” he struggled.
Sam growled, his impatience worn thin and raggedy through. He whispered hotly, “Why can’t you just get over the fact that you’ve been fucking your brother for the past four months, and move on? ”
Dean sat up straighter and looked at him, his eyes impassive and cold.
…Shit, so not the right thing to say. An angry Dean Sam could deal with, but this, when his brother blockaded himself into a corner? There were some things a person never learned to deal with, and Dean’s stubborn emotional barrier was not something to underestimate.
“Forget you ever said that, Sam,” Dean said, almost casually.
Sam swallowed hard, though the lump there threatened to choke him. “No,” he said hoarsely.
After a moment’s pause, Dean replied, “Fine.”
Fine?
And as if to prove the point, the day passed uneventfully— research and a long, unfruitful excavation broken up only by quick meals— however, Sam knew he wouldn’t get off so easy. You don’t shove a man’s fear in his face and expect him not to bite back in defense.
Naturally, Dean held up his end of the bargain.
-----
Sam dreamed:
Swimming in the ocean, stroke after stroke and lulled out to sea with only lapping water at his ears and the taste of salt on his tongue. It was dark blue out, endlessly navy hues and Sam was alone. He swam out until satisfied with his distance from the earthly shore of dirt and debris, away from the shit that tracked on his feet, all over his skin.
He swam out into the ocean and flopped onto his back to float, buoyantly and remarkably free from control and responsibility, just along for the ride. The cold water trickled into his ears and it tickled, uncomfortably wet, and the sounds of slapping waves grew louder and louder, until it was all he could hear, all he knew—
Sam woke.
In the next bed over, two bodies: a girl on all fours and Dean at the helm, his hands clutching ten bruises into her softly-shaped hips as he rocked back and forth, wet collisions and slick departures so obscene, Sam cringed.
He didn’t need to know the exact noise, the precise cadence of a girl’s churned juices sliding along the length of his brother’s dick. He really didn’t need to know.
Jesus, Sam seethed as he listened, the seconds teased into minutes, into louder and sloppier until Sam rolled onto his side and watched the dark silhouette of a six-legged beast arching in orgasm.
Another sound he could live without: the sound of Dean extricating himself out of a sopping pussy; a little bit suctioned so as to hear the precise moment of two bodies detaching—
Sounds Sam needed to not ever hear again. He felt something inside him crumble as he decided, Okay Dean, fine. Sam bit down hard onto his knuckles, needing the flush of pain to spur him forwards. If this is the only way I can have you, fine.
He flattened his mouth in thinly pieced determination and rolled back to face the wall.
He’d have his brother back. Even if it robbed Sam of his own humanity, Dean would be his.
-----
The first thing Dean thought as he woke was, Oh, I hope she’s gone. Hate it when they hang around. He let that thought settle for a moment, then turned over and threw an arm out, which landed with a mattress-y thump. He nodded in satisfaction.
It was uncomfortably warm out… the kind of warmth that came with sleeping in too long and too late. What time was it, anyway? Dean unfurled into consciousness with sleepy sighs and cat-like stretches before looking over to Sam’s side of the room.
“Morning, sunshine,” Sam said dryly from the other bed, chin on a fist and leaning forwards.
“Dude, how long you been starin’ at me? Freaking me out, man,” Dean complained with a raspy throat as he pulled his sheets up self-consciously.
Sam ignored his question, only smiling darkly and stating, “Last night, Dean.”
Dean swallowed nervously. “What about it?”
“Oh, you know,” Sam said as he slid off the bed and landed on his knees. “You know what you did.”
Yeah, Dean knew. Hell, he could still smell her sweat and sex on his sheets.
Sam made his way across the gap, reaching Dean and promptly grabbing a fistful of blankets before jerking them halfway off the bed.
“Hey!” Dean cried out in alarm, trying to stuff down the yes, finally that surged through him like electricity.
Some time ago, Sam had stopped touching him. Dean had obsessively combed through his memory for what he’d done to cause the sudden distance, but all it came down to was that one night Sam was kissing him, and the next, he wasn’t. By the time the second week of Sam’s nonchalance rolled around, Dean had given up on ever seeing lust darken Sam’s gaze again, or on feeling the tight pressure of Sam’s hand against the back of his neck.
But hey, this was a good thing, right? Right. After all, their recent indiscretions had handed Dean equal parts grief alongside the ecstasy and really, who needed all that excitement? He could make do with being fine; even just being alive was good enough.
Sam cocked his head to the side, glowering in impatience as his brother’s mind wandered. He tightened his hold on Dean’s blankets and pulled them all the way off, relishing the view as Dean went tense and actively fought against the instinct to cover himself up— Hell, I ain’t got anything to hide. Still.
“Gimme my blankets back,” Dean grumped. He sat up and swiped for the sheets but Sam threw them across the floor and grabbed Dean ‘round the wrist. “Dude, quit it,” Dean said, trying to twist his arm back, but Sam just gripped harder and pulled in until Dean was half-spilling off the bed.
“Don’t be obtuse, Dean,” Sam said as he wrestled his older brother’s legs until they swung over the edge of the mattress, pushing Dean’s knees apart and primly seating himself between them. “You know what’s coming, and you know you deserve it.”
Dean swallowed convulsively as he watched Sam scrabble for the nightstand drawer with one hand, the other one painfully squeezing all the blood pressure out of Dean upper thigh.
Dean knew he should put a stop to this. On the other hand, this was Sam taking from him— taking what he wanted from Dean, using him for his own needs, and it felt like the best goddamned feeling in the world. Hell, Sam had been taking from Dean since the day he blinked up at him from his baby crib… whether eating the last of the cereal or demanding Dean’s wracked energy as he was forced to play peacemaker between cataclysmic father-son standoffs, Dean had long since defined himself this way: mother, father, nurturer, brother. He recognized himself in taking care of Sammy, in needing to be needed, taken, and used to be worth something. Dean just wasn’t the type of guy to be lavished and willingly given love to, no— as Sam had once proven, the moment he stopped being a necessity Dean would be alone again
Mother, father, nurturer, brother— anything else and Sam would tire of him, regardless what pleading eyes and sappy overtures promised.
Dean flinched as he suddenly noticed Sam’s fist inches from his face, but his hand was just hovering there, closed around whatever it was he’d fished from the night stand. Condom, lube? He held his breath as Sam slowly, tantalizingly opened his palm.
Oh, shit.
Sam brought the small, metal vibrator he pinched between forefinger and thumb up to his face and licked the tip of it, relishing the apprehension in his brother’s gaze. He shouldered Dean’s legs apart and reached down, waiting for it…
“What the fuck Sam, stop it,” Dean cut in and Sam shut his eyes, steeled himself.
“Shut up, or it’s going in dry,” Sam growled before lifting his brother’s heavy ball sac with one hand and placing the vibrator against his entrance. The metal was cold and Dean jerked backwards but Sam held him in place, tweaked his balls painfully to make his point.
“Jesus, alright.” He scooted in again and Sam let go, placing his palm instead on the inside of Dean’s thigh and spread him wider, harder, until Dean thought he was going to pull a muscle.
All grumbling thoughts vanished as cool, spit-slicked metal carefully nudged up against his hole. Dean held himself very still as the vibrator slid in, millimeter by millimeter, until all Dean could feel was the warmth of Sam’s finger against his puckered entrance and a vague feeling of coldness inside.
Sam poured into Dean’s personal space, forehead lightly butting against Dean’s chin as he bit into his brother’s throat, sucked a tight, vicious little hickey that pinched like a mother fucker.
“Sa- Sammy…” Dean bit his lip. “Look, I won’t bring ‘em around anymore. Just quit it already—“
“No,” Sam said against the underside of Dean’s jaw, his breath traveling up over the ridge as he traced a ghostly trail of lips to Dean’s ear. “No,” he repeated there. Then he bit down hard on Dean’s earlobe.
Dean yelped and pulled back but Sam followed in like an avalanche of ruthless scrapes of teeth and swaths of warm tongue, raspy scratches of stubble. Dean struggled against the enormous weight but Sam only bore down, the material of his jeans painfully rough against Dean’s interested dick.
Then without warning, amidst the flurry of skin and fabric and bruises, Sam switched the vibrator on. Dean thrust up into an impossible arch, his mind blank from everything but Holy SHIT, as he choked back a sob. Sam only turned the vibrator up another spine-rattling notch and leaned forward, his breath heavy and damp against Dean’s ear. He whispered, “Now you know who you belong to.”
As if there’d ever been a doubt.
-----
Back at the diner Sam’s sitting alone, cock ring in his pocket like a hot iron brand that’s burning his thigh as Dean waits outside in the car.
“There ya go,” the waitress says with a strawberry pink smile and Sam barely looks up as he pockets the credit card, scrawling a fake signature and large tip on the receipt.
“Thanks,” he says, handing her the bill. She looks at Sam curiously as he hesitates, torn between joining his brother like a normal human being or hiding out at the diner until some cosmic intervention would abdicate him from all responsibilities, all duties he knew he had to perform; all of them waiting for him in the Impala just a few meters away.
No earthquake or meteorite comes. Sam sighs heavily and gets up, smiles politely as the waitress wishes him a good day, and pushes outside.
The rising sunlight’s irritating in his eyes; his hair fringe does nothing to block the blinding rays from his pupils. He squints, grimaces, then walks over to the Impala with gravel crunching underfoot. Inside the car, Dean’s staring straight ahead, sunglasses keeping his face stubbornly impassive.
“Hey,” Sam says. This isn’t going to be easy, and he knows it. Dean knows it too.
“We’re meeting the Graham’s at 9:30, you think we should take the—“
“Dean.”
Dean ducks his head down, exasperated as if they’d been arguing for hours already. Maybe they have, maybe the past six months have just been one long, drawn out dispute, and if that’s the case, Better to do this now, pull the plug, cut my losses, or something, Sam thinks.
Still, a little flicker of stubborn hope refuses to go out so Sam thinks, One more try. Just one more, and then he’ll do it.
“Dean, ” he repeats, leaning in and gently placing his hand on his brother’s shaking leg. Encouraged by Dean’s silence (and steadfastly ignoring the tightening of Dean’s hands on the wheel, knuckles ivory white), Sam touches his lips to the side of Dean’s mouth.
Let me in, shhh, open for me. Sam sinks in closer, tenderly applying more pressure until it’s a kiss, you could call it a kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth and Dean’s letting him—
“Sam.”
—and, of course. The proverbial flame of hope is snuffed clean like wet fingers on a wick, and Sam can smell the smoke in his nostrils. This will be the last so he makes it a good one; cups his brother’s chin in his hand and turns his face until he can get at Dean, get at that excruciatingly beautiful, expressive mouth that’s been torturing him for years, and Sam kisses him. He kisses his older brother hard and desperately, cutting his lips on Dean’s teeth because this is all he’ll get— all he’d ever gotten, really— and their last kiss should be no different.
When the heat of Dean’s tongue is heavy against his and Sam’s quietly mourning in the back of his throat, Dean shoves him off and extricates himself from his brother’s wandering hands just as outside, a family of four leaves the diner and walk past Sam’s window. The brothers watch the dust settle in their wake and when it’s calm again, Dean says, “The Graham’s, we’re gonna be late.” Oh, it’s a concession for him, yeah. No rebuff, no anger at his presumptuous little brother but god damn it, Dean knew, he must have known in the finality of Sam’s searching mouth, the low grief in his moan—
Sam swallows down the lump in his throat and says, “Yeah. We might not make it.”
On the road, if Dean’s pushing the Impala a little too fast for comfort, if Sam’s face is turned unnaturally far to the side and his coughs sound a little too wet, nobody’s mentioning it. Neither of them will mention any of this.
Back | Next
Characters: Sam/Dean
Author:
aeroport_artRating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con (of sorts)
Word Count: 3,787 (5,523 total)
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made, go 'way.
Notes: Smutty fic inspired by some meta posted (here) some months back by
mona1347 that I found incredibly fascinating. So I wanted to explore Dean's role as a beta dog through AlphaDog!Sam porn. Not that this hasn't been done already-- poisontaster and mona1347 nailed it with their Sex Pollen 'verse, but I wanted to try it out for myself :D Title taken from the They Might Be Giants song. Beta-ed by the lovely jewels667. Thanks hon!Summary: Dean refuses to acknowledge his feelings towards his little brother and Sam doesn't know how, but somehow because of it, they're caught up in a web of wrong that he can't seem to untangle.
Part 1
The thing is, it hadn’t started off that badly. A forced kiss here, a rough handjob there— nothing that could actually be called, well. There were a lot of nasty things the brothers’ relationship could be called, but mind you, none of them were right. This was love.
Dean’s eyes watered as Sam viciously twisted his fingers and stabbed them into his older brother’s clenching ring, up past the second knuckles, with naught but long-dried saliva for lube.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam breathed. The sight of Dean’s hole swallowing him up would never cease to fascinate. “You love it, you love it when it hurts, don’t you?”
Dean whimpered and jumped away, trying to escape the painfully dry digits that Sam insisted on working into him, two at a time. Never enough lube, never enough—
“Nuh-uh, don’t even try,” Sam whispered hotly into Dean’s ear as he wrapped a hand around goose-pimpled waist and wrenched Dean’s ass back onto Sam’s fingers, deeper than before. He muffled Dean’s high-pitched keen with a hard kiss, Dean’s neck uncomfortably twisted, gasping for air when Sam finally pulled off.
“C’mon, Dean—“ shove “I’m just giving you—” pull “—what you want.” Sam pushed a third finger alongside the two and lapped at the seam where fingers met ass, and Dean burned from the wet intrusion.
Dean bowed his head and dropped it into crossed arms, ass high in the air, shaking and trembling. He cried out, the noise something between a gasp and a distressed moan, and the push-pull rhythm of Sam’s fingers faltered. Shit, Sam thought, worrying that this was too much, that he was being too rough...
-----
Little did he know, things would only get worse in time.
Hell, these vague misgivings were nothing compared to the appalled wonder that would eventually fill Sam as he would later wrack his brain as to how the hell they’d ever gotten so fucked up. Sam will ask himself, how did I let it get this far?
Then again, if you stop to think about it, nothing terrible in this world ever started off that way. These things were cultured; required baby steps. Even the most atrocious of crimes began simply with a slight deviation, or one newly imposed rule. After all, the Jews didn’t just happily hop into gas chambers; it’d started with paper stars, hadn’t it?
This was Dean’s paper star— finger-fucked dry by his baby brother as lewd words dribbled into his ears and filled his cock with blood.
Jesus, Sam knew Dean wanted it. Though Dean would deny left and right, swear up and down that he didn’t, that they weren’t—
“Fucking gorgeous like this, Dean, ” Sam whispered reverently as he (god) cupped Dean’s low-hanging balls, easily cradling them in his wide palm as Dean buried his face in his arms and sobbed.
Oh, fuck it. Sam would never figure out how they got from close brothers to fucked up lovers; he only knew that there’d been something to bridge the gap. Something that didn’t seem so wrong at the time.
“Dean,” Sam gasped, watching his brother spasm around his fingers. “You gonna—god— you gonna come?”
Taking Dean’s frantic, desperate moan as a yes, Sam quickly ducked his head down and tongued his brother’s nuts into his mouth. He felt Dean’s ass twitch against his cheeks as Dean spurted a load onto rumpled bedcovers and he thought, watching Dean slump forward into his own mess, this isn’t so wrong.
Making Dean moan like that, making him feel like that— there wasn’t anything wrong with fulfilling Dean’s unspoken, furtive desires. A wave of tenderness unexpectedly ebbed forth, and Sam bent forward and pressed his lips against his brother’s damp shoulder.
“Don’t kiss me,” Dean mumbled against blankets, already halfway into blissful unconsciousness.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam smiled, lips dragging over Dean’s quickly cooling skin. He watched his brother for a bit longer, then slipped behind his brother’s curled up body like a blanket, liberally draped over Dean’s skin, arm tucked in underneath the soft space of Dean’s side. Grinning wickedly, he thought of Dean waking up in his own dried come and how grossed out and embarrassed he’d be. Probably blame it on me somehow, Sam thought, hiding a snort between Dean’s shoulder blades.
He mulled over that thought awhile longer but feeling tired, Sam wriggled a nest out of tangled sheets and drifted into slumber, burying his face between Dean’s neck and shoulder.
Dean sighed in his sleep.
-----
And so, for awhile, they were good. More than good; Sam would sometimes think, this is great. He’d grown up with a desire, a wholly inappropriate want of his older brother, and he’d grown up thinking nothing would come of it. But something… something (gloriously) had.
For a few months there, Sam and Dean fell into a sort of routine. Furtive glances, charged with meaning, would lead behind rest stops to Dean’s scraped up knees as Sam fucked his mouth. Or sometimes on the road, Sam’s hand would snake down Dean’s fly and dare the older man to drive in a straight line, dare him to not total the car as he unwillingly orgasmed into Sam’s cupped hands, filling them with come; come that would be slowly and tantalizingly licked up between fingers as Dean tried not to watch, his ears burning.
For awhile they were good— as good as two brothers in love and in denial could be. But things change. Whether sharp and abruptly, or slow as molasses, things always change.
For Sam, it was gradual, like the growing of bones. Unnoticeable but for the day you stop, measure, and realize: you’re different now.
He’d like to say he noticed the difference as Dean became increasingly stubborn, and not because his feelings were being increasingly hurt. Either way, the more Sam wanted Dean, wanted his brother and not some second-rate substitute in the form of submission, the more he’d get pushed away.
What began as a game of cat-and-mouse slowly began to feel wrong, just wrong to the bone. Even if Dean craved it, needed it to justify their relationship, Sam was sick of fighting for every kiss or touch, every shove into his brother’s averse body.
“Dean,” he’d said the other night, soft syllables on his tongue as his dick softened and slipped out of Dean’s dripping ass. “God, you’re so…”
Dean’s eyes shot open in panic and he messily fumbled out from beneath Sam. “Not this shit again, Sammy.”
Sam swallowed the words in his throat and let them suffocate, reluctant as they were to remain unheard. Jesus. He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Then when, Dean?”
“Fuck you,” Dean bit back, his expression caged and dangerous.
At being rebuffed (once again), a sickening fury grew inside of Sam until it launched into full-fledged rage and frustration. Sam threw Dean back onto the bed and pushed his wrists down so hard he felt the bones tighten between his fingers. He felt something inexplicable, something a little like triumph sing through him at his brother’s outward alarm, those fuckable lips open in surprise.
That mouth was his, and Sam took those cocksucking lips with his own and in the harsh press of mouths, in the invisible space there, Sam pleaded for everything that he craved, that he needed like some fairytale wish, as if simple yearning would land him an admission of love.
Dean struggled to weasel out from underneath but he only succeeded in rubbing himself against Sam’s unyielding body. The blatant fight in Dean’s eyes, his desperation in getting away only infuriated Sam more. And so, he kept taking— kept taking until Dean cried with inexplicable shudders, until they were both too tired and fucked out to care anymore.
Sam scared himself, sometimes.
-----
Sam would do little things to justify himself. Once, he kissed Dean on the mouth, tenderly and quietly in the dead of the night with as much love as he could muster, but Dean had been awake (how could Sam have been so stupid? ).
“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean mumbled, voice so heavy with sleep that Sam could barely understand him.
“What?” Sam whispered, daring not to move despite the loudly throbbing heart on his sleeve.
Dean said nothing, only exhaled into Sam’s mouth. Sam fought down the quickly escalating elation and held himself still, before gently pressing in and kissing his brother again. Careful, slow, Sam coached himself. Don’t scare him.
Nonetheless, Dean groaned and grudgingly sat up, disentangling himself from his brother’s limbs. “Sam, we’re not. I mean, you can’t…” he struggled.
Sam growled, his impatience worn thin and raggedy through. He whispered hotly, “Why can’t you just get over the fact that you’ve been fucking your brother for the past four months, and move on? ”
Dean sat up straighter and looked at him, his eyes impassive and cold.
…Shit, so not the right thing to say. An angry Dean Sam could deal with, but this, when his brother blockaded himself into a corner? There were some things a person never learned to deal with, and Dean’s stubborn emotional barrier was not something to underestimate.
“Forget you ever said that, Sam,” Dean said, almost casually.
Sam swallowed hard, though the lump there threatened to choke him. “No,” he said hoarsely.
After a moment’s pause, Dean replied, “Fine.”
Fine?
And as if to prove the point, the day passed uneventfully— research and a long, unfruitful excavation broken up only by quick meals— however, Sam knew he wouldn’t get off so easy. You don’t shove a man’s fear in his face and expect him not to bite back in defense.
Naturally, Dean held up his end of the bargain.
-----
Sam dreamed:
Swimming in the ocean, stroke after stroke and lulled out to sea with only lapping water at his ears and the taste of salt on his tongue. It was dark blue out, endlessly navy hues and Sam was alone. He swam out until satisfied with his distance from the earthly shore of dirt and debris, away from the shit that tracked on his feet, all over his skin.
He swam out into the ocean and flopped onto his back to float, buoyantly and remarkably free from control and responsibility, just along for the ride. The cold water trickled into his ears and it tickled, uncomfortably wet, and the sounds of slapping waves grew louder and louder, until it was all he could hear, all he knew—
Sam woke.
In the next bed over, two bodies: a girl on all fours and Dean at the helm, his hands clutching ten bruises into her softly-shaped hips as he rocked back and forth, wet collisions and slick departures so obscene, Sam cringed.
He didn’t need to know the exact noise, the precise cadence of a girl’s churned juices sliding along the length of his brother’s dick. He really didn’t need to know.
Jesus, Sam seethed as he listened, the seconds teased into minutes, into louder and sloppier until Sam rolled onto his side and watched the dark silhouette of a six-legged beast arching in orgasm.
Another sound he could live without: the sound of Dean extricating himself out of a sopping pussy; a little bit suctioned so as to hear the precise moment of two bodies detaching—
Sounds Sam needed to not ever hear again. He felt something inside him crumble as he decided, Okay Dean, fine. Sam bit down hard onto his knuckles, needing the flush of pain to spur him forwards. If this is the only way I can have you, fine.
He flattened his mouth in thinly pieced determination and rolled back to face the wall.
He’d have his brother back. Even if it robbed Sam of his own humanity, Dean would be his.
-----
The first thing Dean thought as he woke was, Oh, I hope she’s gone. Hate it when they hang around. He let that thought settle for a moment, then turned over and threw an arm out, which landed with a mattress-y thump. He nodded in satisfaction.
It was uncomfortably warm out… the kind of warmth that came with sleeping in too long and too late. What time was it, anyway? Dean unfurled into consciousness with sleepy sighs and cat-like stretches before looking over to Sam’s side of the room.
“Morning, sunshine,” Sam said dryly from the other bed, chin on a fist and leaning forwards.
“Dude, how long you been starin’ at me? Freaking me out, man,” Dean complained with a raspy throat as he pulled his sheets up self-consciously.
Sam ignored his question, only smiling darkly and stating, “Last night, Dean.”
Dean swallowed nervously. “What about it?”
“Oh, you know,” Sam said as he slid off the bed and landed on his knees. “You know what you did.”
Yeah, Dean knew. Hell, he could still smell her sweat and sex on his sheets.
Sam made his way across the gap, reaching Dean and promptly grabbing a fistful of blankets before jerking them halfway off the bed.
“Hey!” Dean cried out in alarm, trying to stuff down the yes, finally that surged through him like electricity.
Some time ago, Sam had stopped touching him. Dean had obsessively combed through his memory for what he’d done to cause the sudden distance, but all it came down to was that one night Sam was kissing him, and the next, he wasn’t. By the time the second week of Sam’s nonchalance rolled around, Dean had given up on ever seeing lust darken Sam’s gaze again, or on feeling the tight pressure of Sam’s hand against the back of his neck.
But hey, this was a good thing, right? Right. After all, their recent indiscretions had handed Dean equal parts grief alongside the ecstasy and really, who needed all that excitement? He could make do with being fine; even just being alive was good enough.
Sam cocked his head to the side, glowering in impatience as his brother’s mind wandered. He tightened his hold on Dean’s blankets and pulled them all the way off, relishing the view as Dean went tense and actively fought against the instinct to cover himself up— Hell, I ain’t got anything to hide. Still.
“Gimme my blankets back,” Dean grumped. He sat up and swiped for the sheets but Sam threw them across the floor and grabbed Dean ‘round the wrist. “Dude, quit it,” Dean said, trying to twist his arm back, but Sam just gripped harder and pulled in until Dean was half-spilling off the bed.
“Don’t be obtuse, Dean,” Sam said as he wrestled his older brother’s legs until they swung over the edge of the mattress, pushing Dean’s knees apart and primly seating himself between them. “You know what’s coming, and you know you deserve it.”
Dean swallowed convulsively as he watched Sam scrabble for the nightstand drawer with one hand, the other one painfully squeezing all the blood pressure out of Dean upper thigh.
Dean knew he should put a stop to this. On the other hand, this was Sam taking from him— taking what he wanted from Dean, using him for his own needs, and it felt like the best goddamned feeling in the world. Hell, Sam had been taking from Dean since the day he blinked up at him from his baby crib… whether eating the last of the cereal or demanding Dean’s wracked energy as he was forced to play peacemaker between cataclysmic father-son standoffs, Dean had long since defined himself this way: mother, father, nurturer, brother. He recognized himself in taking care of Sammy, in needing to be needed, taken, and used to be worth something. Dean just wasn’t the type of guy to be lavished and willingly given love to, no— as Sam had once proven, the moment he stopped being a necessity Dean would be alone again
Mother, father, nurturer, brother— anything else and Sam would tire of him, regardless what pleading eyes and sappy overtures promised.
Dean flinched as he suddenly noticed Sam’s fist inches from his face, but his hand was just hovering there, closed around whatever it was he’d fished from the night stand. Condom, lube? He held his breath as Sam slowly, tantalizingly opened his palm.
Oh, shit.
Sam brought the small, metal vibrator he pinched between forefinger and thumb up to his face and licked the tip of it, relishing the apprehension in his brother’s gaze. He shouldered Dean’s legs apart and reached down, waiting for it…
“What the fuck Sam, stop it,” Dean cut in and Sam shut his eyes, steeled himself.
“Shut up, or it’s going in dry,” Sam growled before lifting his brother’s heavy ball sac with one hand and placing the vibrator against his entrance. The metal was cold and Dean jerked backwards but Sam held him in place, tweaked his balls painfully to make his point.
“Jesus, alright.” He scooted in again and Sam let go, placing his palm instead on the inside of Dean’s thigh and spread him wider, harder, until Dean thought he was going to pull a muscle.
All grumbling thoughts vanished as cool, spit-slicked metal carefully nudged up against his hole. Dean held himself very still as the vibrator slid in, millimeter by millimeter, until all Dean could feel was the warmth of Sam’s finger against his puckered entrance and a vague feeling of coldness inside.
Sam poured into Dean’s personal space, forehead lightly butting against Dean’s chin as he bit into his brother’s throat, sucked a tight, vicious little hickey that pinched like a mother fucker.
“Sa- Sammy…” Dean bit his lip. “Look, I won’t bring ‘em around anymore. Just quit it already—“
“No,” Sam said against the underside of Dean’s jaw, his breath traveling up over the ridge as he traced a ghostly trail of lips to Dean’s ear. “No,” he repeated there. Then he bit down hard on Dean’s earlobe.
Dean yelped and pulled back but Sam followed in like an avalanche of ruthless scrapes of teeth and swaths of warm tongue, raspy scratches of stubble. Dean struggled against the enormous weight but Sam only bore down, the material of his jeans painfully rough against Dean’s interested dick.
Then without warning, amidst the flurry of skin and fabric and bruises, Sam switched the vibrator on. Dean thrust up into an impossible arch, his mind blank from everything but Holy SHIT, as he choked back a sob. Sam only turned the vibrator up another spine-rattling notch and leaned forward, his breath heavy and damp against Dean’s ear. He whispered, “Now you know who you belong to.”
As if there’d ever been a doubt.
-----
Back at the diner Sam’s sitting alone, cock ring in his pocket like a hot iron brand that’s burning his thigh as Dean waits outside in the car.
“There ya go,” the waitress says with a strawberry pink smile and Sam barely looks up as he pockets the credit card, scrawling a fake signature and large tip on the receipt.
“Thanks,” he says, handing her the bill. She looks at Sam curiously as he hesitates, torn between joining his brother like a normal human being or hiding out at the diner until some cosmic intervention would abdicate him from all responsibilities, all duties he knew he had to perform; all of them waiting for him in the Impala just a few meters away.
No earthquake or meteorite comes. Sam sighs heavily and gets up, smiles politely as the waitress wishes him a good day, and pushes outside.
The rising sunlight’s irritating in his eyes; his hair fringe does nothing to block the blinding rays from his pupils. He squints, grimaces, then walks over to the Impala with gravel crunching underfoot. Inside the car, Dean’s staring straight ahead, sunglasses keeping his face stubbornly impassive.
“Hey,” Sam says. This isn’t going to be easy, and he knows it. Dean knows it too.
“We’re meeting the Graham’s at 9:30, you think we should take the—“
“Dean.”
Dean ducks his head down, exasperated as if they’d been arguing for hours already. Maybe they have, maybe the past six months have just been one long, drawn out dispute, and if that’s the case, Better to do this now, pull the plug, cut my losses, or something, Sam thinks.
Still, a little flicker of stubborn hope refuses to go out so Sam thinks, One more try. Just one more, and then he’ll do it.
“Dean, ” he repeats, leaning in and gently placing his hand on his brother’s shaking leg. Encouraged by Dean’s silence (and steadfastly ignoring the tightening of Dean’s hands on the wheel, knuckles ivory white), Sam touches his lips to the side of Dean’s mouth.
Let me in, shhh, open for me. Sam sinks in closer, tenderly applying more pressure until it’s a kiss, you could call it a kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth and Dean’s letting him—
“Sam.”
—and, of course. The proverbial flame of hope is snuffed clean like wet fingers on a wick, and Sam can smell the smoke in his nostrils. This will be the last so he makes it a good one; cups his brother’s chin in his hand and turns his face until he can get at Dean, get at that excruciatingly beautiful, expressive mouth that’s been torturing him for years, and Sam kisses him. He kisses his older brother hard and desperately, cutting his lips on Dean’s teeth because this is all he’ll get— all he’d ever gotten, really— and their last kiss should be no different.
When the heat of Dean’s tongue is heavy against his and Sam’s quietly mourning in the back of his throat, Dean shoves him off and extricates himself from his brother’s wandering hands just as outside, a family of four leaves the diner and walk past Sam’s window. The brothers watch the dust settle in their wake and when it’s calm again, Dean says, “The Graham’s, we’re gonna be late.” Oh, it’s a concession for him, yeah. No rebuff, no anger at his presumptuous little brother but god damn it, Dean knew, he must have known in the finality of Sam’s searching mouth, the low grief in his moan—
Sam swallows down the lump in his throat and says, “Yeah. We might not make it.”
On the road, if Dean’s pushing the Impala a little too fast for comfort, if Sam’s face is turned unnaturally far to the side and his coughs sound a little too wet, nobody’s mentioning it. Neither of them will mention any of this.
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