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It reached a boiling point on a Thursday in the Nowhere, Indiana town they've been stuck in for five weeks. Only five weeks and Dean has already made a name for himself here and it's the same one he's worn with pride since he was fifteen years old. The whispers of the pretty boy who lurks around the local dive bars and gives it up so easily to men and girls alike have turned into shouts.
Hey, Winchester, heard your brother took over from Casey Stephenson as the town bike.
Hey Sam, is it true your brother got hit with indecent exposure for blowing Lauren's dad behind the Walmart dumpsters?
Hey freakazoid, your brother got the clap from fucking Diane Barnes, Jenny saw him at the free clinic on Saturday.
Hey loser, your brother buy you that jacket with the cash he earned taking it up the ass from those truckers?
Sam likes to keep his head down at school, but there's only so much he can take. It's Butch Denver who shatters the last of his self-control with a remark about how it must run in the family because he's seen Sam making eyes at Mr Reed. The fight is dirty and over too soon. Butch bypasses the nurse's office for the emergency room, his nose and three fingers broken. Sam's got a busted lip and black eye that Dean will cluck his tongue over, call him sloppy, tell him he's better than that, that he's tarnishing the good Winchester name, as if what Dean does hasn't already got it in the gutter.
Dad's been gone for a week, so Dean is the one who picks him up and sits impatiently through the meeting with the principal about Sam's inexcusable behaviour. Sam sits silently with his head down, hands fisting handfuls of his too-big jeans. They were Dean's last year and they're too loose on his waist but too short on his legs. He's taller than Dean now, and Dean hates it.
Dean tries to put his hand on his shoulder to guide him to the car but Sam just shoves him away and stomps ahead of him. He slams the door and Dean yells at him about it. Dad gifted Dean the Impala on his eighteenth and he has taken better care of it for the last three years than he takes care of himself.
Dean doesn't make him talk on the drive back to the motel. He plays his music - Black Sabbath today - purposefully too loud for conversation, singing along brokenly, picking random lines to sing without rhyme or reason. Only his hands clenched on the wheel indicate his anger.
Sam locks himself in the bathroom and washes his face. When he comes out, Dean's got some ice wrapped in a t-shirt and he gestures for Sam to sit on the bed.
"I don't need you mother henning me," he snaps and takes the improvised ice pack from his hands. He presses it a little too hard over his swelling eye.
"You wanna tell me what happened?" Dean asks. He doesn't sound particularly angry at him, or even disappointed.
"Does it matter?"
"Did he start it?"
"Yes."
"Who swung first?"
"Me," he admits.
"So you started it."
"More than one way to start a fight."
Dean nods. "He talkin' shit?"
"Uh huh."
"He deserve it?"
"Uh huh."
"Okay then," Dean says with a shrug, and that’s the end of that.
Later, Dean is sifting through his clothes for something clean to wear. He tugs on the black t-shirt that's a little too tight and worn thin enough that you can see his nipples. It means one thing only: Dean's looking to get fucked tonight.
"I'll be back later. Don't wait up," Dean says as he sprays himself with aftershave he probably stole from one of the men he fucked two states ago. It smells like citrus and wood. Sam thinks Dean smells better without it, but Sam's been weird about Dean for years so that's no surprise.
"You ever take a night off from being a slut?" Sam asks scathingly before he can get his brain-to-mouth filter back online.
Dean bristles, eyebrows swooping into a frown, lips tight.
"The fuck did you just say?"
In for a penny, in for a dollar. Maybe he can provoke Dean into a fight to wear off the leftover bad buzz of energy from the pitifully short fight with Butch. You’d think a guy who ran his mouth like that might have the stones to back it up, but apparently not. He folded like a wet rag in less than two minutes.
"You heard me. Been gone almost every night since we got here. You really that fucking desperate for it?"
Dean's up in his space in a flash, hands fisted in the collar of his shirt. Sam hears something tearing.
"Who the fuck do you think you're talkin' to?" Dean hisses, inches away from Sam's face so he feels a mist of saliva hit his face. It's so fucking satisfying that Dean has to look up at him now.
"The town bike, according to everyone at school," Sam answers mildly. He watches the realisation set in and Dean has the humility to at least look a little shamed but he doesn't let go.
Sam wraps his hands around Dean's wrists and pries him off. That's another immensely satisfying revelation of growing up: Sam's as strong as Dean is now, maybe stronger, because he's been using exercise to blow off steam for a couple years and dad stopped making Dean workout around the same time.
"That why you got into a fight?"
"It's a small town. Word gets around, and you're not exactly keeping a low profile."
Sam still has Dean's wrists in his hands. Dean tries to pull away and Sam holds on tight enough that it's gotta hurt. Dean looks at him, confused and pissed off and--
his eyes are dilating.
"Let go before I make you," Dean demands, mustering up some bravado. Sam scoffs and Dean gets an indignant little scrunch to his face.
"Why? So you can go find some guy old enough to be your dad to fuck you in the backseat?"
"I don't-"
"What'd I just say? Small town. People talk."
Dean tries once more to pull away and Sam's patience is dried up. He turns them and slams Dean into the wall, hands by his head. Dean's pupils expand like he just took a hit of black tar right in his artery. Sam leans in close, voice pitched low and dangerous right into Dean's ear.
"Does dad know you're taking it in the ass, Dean? Does he know you get to your knees for strangers with wives waiting for them at home? I bet he doesn't. What do you think he'd do if he knew you were a fucking whore?"
Dean looks honest to God scared. It's thrilling, a power trip that goes straight to Sam's cock.
Dean also looks undeniably turned on. Maybe Sam's not the only fucked up one in the family. He wonders what's got his blood hot: what Sam is saying, or the fact it's Sam saying it.
"Don't you dare tell him," Dean hisses, and he obviously means to sound threatening but it's too close to begging for that to work.
"You don't think he's gonna find out anyway? Way you've been going out every fucking night like a bitch in heat, coming back walking funny and stinking of jizz? It's only a matter of time. People are already talking, Dean. You made sure of that. Makes me think you want him to know."
Dean's shaking his head and Sam laughs, brittle cruel and like no sound he's ever made before. Dean still looks scared and Sam's hard enough to hammer nails. He pushes up against Dean, chest to chest and hip to hip, and feels Dean's own erection throbbing in his tight jeans. His eyes widen, all white around his irises, panic mingling with fear, and it's a good look on him. He has the eyes of a prey animal.
"Beg me for it," Sam demands.
"Sam-"
Sam releases one of his hands to seize hold of his face, his long fingers spanning the width of his jaw, curling harshly under his ear.
"Little too late to pretend you don't want it, Dean," he taunts, and grinds against him for emphasis. Dean chokes back a moan, eyelids fluttering. His jaw ticks. It’s smooth tonight, and Sam’s noticed he keeps it stubbled for the girls but baby smooth for men.
"Please," he whispers, eyes downcast in humiliation. His cheeks are flushed red. It's pretty as hell. Dean's always been way too pretty for his own good. It's no wonder good for nothing men can't keep their filthy hands off him. He's like a wet dream with his pouty lips and sad bambi eyes straight out of Eastern European gay porn. He's the kind of guy you want to take care of but you also want to make cry. Warring instincts, and Sam knows which one is winning.
Sam has wanted Dean since he was thirteen years old. Four long, torturous years of living in suffocatingly close quarters, sharing beds, sharing showers when there wasn't enough hot water to go around. He's been good. He's kept his hands to himself, if not his eyes. He lost his virginity two years ago to a girl, then a month later fucked a guy whose eyes were green enough that if he squinted, he could pretend it was Dean looking up at him. Sam's a lot better than Dean at keeping his trysts on the down low. He's pretty sure Dean had no idea he's not virgin until right this moment. Virgins don't act like this.
Dean's pretty little please hangs hopefully in the air. Sam makes him sweat.
"Get on your knees."
He steps back just far enough to give him space and Dean drops like a marionette with cut strings. His knees thud loudly on the dingy motel carpet but he doesn't even wince. Sam thinks that Dean should grow his hair out again, like the way he wore it when he was seventeen, boyband curtain bangs, the perfect length to grab a fistful of.
Dean's hands twitch up like he wants to get inside his pants but he stops, fisting them in his lap instead - waiting to be told what to do. Sam feels a smirk tugging his split lip all lopsided mean; he knew Dean would be like this.
"Go on then," he says, snide amusement staining the words with malice.
Dean goes for his button, pops it open with a flick of his thumb, drags the zipper down with a shaking hand. He hesitates a little before taking in a deep breath like he's stealing his nerves and then reaches into Sam's boxers for his cock. His eyes widen comically, bugging out of his head. Sam knows he's big. Of course he is, he's a big guy, it's just proportional. The way Dean's looking at it makes his ego swell. Of course Dean's into it: his brother's a greedy cockslut.
"Jesus, Sam," he mutters. He wraps his hand around it and strokes like it's an experiment, a learning experience. Dean's got big hands but they look almost small holding Sam's cock. "How've you been hiding this thing?"
"You gonna just stare at it?" he asks and Dean opens his mouth with a no doubt sarcastic comeback but he takes his opened mouth as invitation and pushes Dean down by the back of his head.
His cock pushes into his mouth, teeth scraping because he wasn't ready, but Dean's instincts kick in and he gets them tucked away under his lips. His eyes roll back in his head as Sam fills his mouth, and fuck, he knew Dean would look perfect sucking dick. His imagination did fuck all to prepare him for the real thing: he's had Sam's cock in his mouth for all of three seconds and he looks like he's soaring high as a kite, blissed out and needy.
Sam pushes and Dean slides further down his length until his tip nestles in the spongy give of the back of his throat. He holds him there, feels the panic-flutter of his throat coaxing precum to spurt out.
"Do you suck or do they fuck your throat?" Sam asks, and Dean blinks up at him, unable to answer with his mouth stuffed. "Let's find out."
Sam keeps Dean in place and starts thrusting into the hotwetheaven of his mouth, knocking into the back of his throat like a battering ram and Dean gags, eyes tearing up, and his stubborn throat doesn't open up for him willingly.
"Thought you'd've learned how to deepthroat by now, Dean, the amount of dicks you've sucked. I'm disappointed. Guess they all get one look at you like this and blow their load in ten seconds, huh? Face like that, you don't ever have to work for it."
Dean whines, the noise garbled by another gag. His face is getting red, reflexive tears leaking from his eyes. How pretty. Dean's always been a pretty crier.
He's clinging onto Sam, hands fisting the front of his jeans, fingers spasming when his throat does. Sam pushes in deep and pushes Dean's head forwards but his throat stays locked up tight.
"Swallow," he commands.
Dean blinks up at him, breathing hard through his nose. He swallows and Sam pushes down into his throat with a drawn out moan. Dean answers with a wet, violent choking sound that makes Sam's cock twitch. He thrusts within the tight clench of Dean's throat, not pulling back far enough to give him any relief, and Dean's slapping at his thighs now, beet red from oxygen deprivation and panic. Sam buries himself as deep as he can go, grinding in hard, Dean's nose rubbing into his pubes, and then he pulls out entirely.
Dean heaves in air and coughs, hacking out frothy, thick spit onto the floor. Sam's always enjoyed watching people struggle with his cock. What's the point in being hung if you're not a sadist about it?
Sam hauls him up by the collar and Dean stumbles to his feet. He looks utterly wrecked already. He pushes him to the bed and Dean falls back onto it when his legs collide with the frame. He sprawls back on his elbows with his legs slut parted, looking up at Sam like he's seeing him for the first time. In a way, he is.
"Take off your clothes."
Dean does as he's told with the eagerness of someone who likes obeying orders. He always has, always jumping to whatever commands dad barks at him, never being thanked for it, just doing it for the love of the game and because he's hardwired that way. Sam should thank dad, really, because he knows Dean wouldn't be like this if it wasn't for that bastard.
Fuck, but Dean is gorgeous. He lays back down in the same position, legs wide, braced on his elbows, his head tilted back like he's imitating the come-hither gesture of porn starlets from the days when the girl wanting it mattered. He's got golden, freckled skin all over, his lean chest hairless but an unsurprisingly neatly trimmed thatch of dark hair between his legs framing the thick swell of his leaking cock. Runs in the family, then. Sam's still far bigger.
Sam kicks off his pants and yanks off his shirt. He takes a moment to appreciate Dean appreciating him, cock dribbling at the undisguised want in Dean's eyes. He's been working hard on his physique, not wanting to be one of those tall guys who look like signposts, all height and no bulk. Dean's always been vain and it rubbed off on Sam somewhere down the line.
He climbs over Dean, slotting between his legs, which automatically hug his hips. Dean is still wearing his amulet and it makes his heart thud fondly. What he's about to do to Dean might make him think that sentimental fondness and overwhelming love isn't there, so he makes their first kiss far sweeter than Dean expects, if the surprised little squeak he makes is any indication.
Dean's lips are soft as any girl's, tempting him to nip at them with his teeth. He holds off on that, content to twine their tongues together for now. He always knew Dean was a good kisser, has heard enough girls talking about it over the years and seen Dean sucking face hundreds of times. He lets his teeth sink into Dean's plump bottom lip and worries it gently. Dean, predictably, moans whorishly at the hint of pain. Sam bites down harder and Dean yelps. He licks the blood up with the tip of his tongue.
Sam doesn't know if he would be like this if it wasn't for Dean.
There's a part of him that resents him for making him the monster he is, but it's not as loud as the part that knows this is all him, and that part is a whisper compared to the fact that Sam loves Dean so much it terrifies him.
Maybe it was the exposure to dad's battered porn tapes and skin mags he kept in a hidden compartment in the trunk, pilfered by Dean when he was thirteen, witnessed by Sam at nine. Tame stuff, comparatively, dad was just a regular guy but he seemed to be into pretty young things with green eyes and Sam couldn't fault him there. Maybe it was the fact he caught dad looking at Dean a little too intensely over the years, eyes dark and hungry, and maybe that was when Sam first started looking to see what exactly it was dad saw and when he saw it too, he couldn't stop looking. Maybe it was the fact that Dean spared no gory detail when he first started fucking girls, all big brother bravado and tall tales of she scratched me up like a wild cat - it was hot as fuck and she put her hands around my neck as she rode me in the backseat, she was strong for such a tiny thing, didn't know if I'd blackout or come first. Sam wondered if Dean realised how often he got treated like a chew toy by his partners, or how his eyes got all dreamy when he talked about that stuff. Maybe it's the fact Sam was raised with violence in place of the mother he never had, learned to fight by sparring Dean, earned dad's pride for drawing blood and painting bruises in a way he never earned it for good grades. Positive reinforcement for his darkest urges.
Whatever made him this way, the fact of the matter is Sam thinks about hurting Dean just as much as he thinks about fucking him. All his wires got crossed somewhere down the line and he's just a tangle of screwed up desires. The first time a guy let him choke him while he was fucking him, Sam came embarrassingly quickly, but stayed hard as diamonds and kept fucking him until he tapped out.
Whatever fucked Sam up fucked Dean up too in a perfectly complementary way, because when the trail of kisses Sam is peppering Dean's throat with turn into sharp bites, Dean moans for it, hips bucking up, sliding their cocks together in the tight space between their bodies.
Sam pulls back far enough that he can get a hand on Dean's body, sliding down his chest and bypassing his cock to probe between his cheeks, where he discovers the slick, loosened pucker of his hole.
"You fingered yourself in the shower."
Dean bites his lip, renews the sluggish trickle of red. "Wanted to be ready. They don't usually, uh, wanna bother with opening me up."
Sam has to grit his teeth and count backwards from ten. Dean's learnt the hard way that the kind of men he likes to fuck just wanna get their dicks inside him and don't give a shit if it hurts. Dean has been fingering himself open in the shower while Sam was in the other room. Dean could take his cock right now, easy as any girl.
Sam pushes two fingers all the way inside of him and Dean gasps. He's still so fucking tight; he definitely rushed it. Maybe he likes it to hurt a little. Maybe he's just that impatient to get filled up.
"Oh, God," Dean moans as Sam works his fingers in and out roughly.
"Do you let them fuck you raw?"
Dean shakes his head. "M'not stupid."
"What about girls?"
"No."
"Good." Dean shudders beneath him, his hole fluttering sweet and tight. "I'm gonna fill up your tight little pussy 'til you're fucking dripping."
Dean sucks in a shocked breath but he clamps down on Sam's fingers and his cock jerks and leaks like he's about to come.
"Please, Sammy, I - God, need you inside me, c'mon, just fuck me already," Dean begs.
"Where's your lube?"
"Don't need it." Sam's about to argue that he's definitely gonna need it but then Dean says, "want it to hurt," and Sam's brain goes offline.
He sits back on his knees and drags Dean along with him, hips angled up, shoulders and head on the bed. He grasps behind one of his thighs and folds it towards his shoulder, exposing Dean's hole just enough that he can spit and hit a bullseye. Dean curses and calls him disgusting and hot in the same breath. Sam spits once more into the palm of his hand, slicks his cock, and presses inside of Dean. He watches Dean's hole struggle to take the wide head of his cock, refusing to open up until he slaps Dean's thigh hard and there we go, Dean opens up to him with a shock-pain-yes cry. Sam keeps pushing pushing pushing until he is fully sheathed and Dean is making pained, thin noises. His legs are shaking and his back is arched beautifully, and his head is thrashing side to side like he can't stand it but his cock is still hard and drooling for it.
"Shit, you're fucking tight," Sam grunts, eyes closing for a moment to focus on the vice grip of Dean's ill prepared hole as it tries to push him out.
"Don't move," Dean gasps desperately. "Holy shit, I can feel you in my fucking throat."
Sam might have stayed still a little longer if not for Dean asking for mercy. He pulls almost all the way out and buries himself deep inside again just to hear Dean's betrayed howl of pain-pleasure. It's an honest to God effort to get through the no entry chokehold of his insides that fight against him for every inch.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean cries.
His whole body is tense inside and out, shivering like a kicked dog. He looks up at Sam with wide eyes, hurt and confused and pissed off and pleading and awed and turned on, like he doesn't know how he feels or what he wants.
That's okay, Sam knows what he needs.
Sam fucks him roughly; it should be ruinous but it only feels righteous. Deep, punishing strokes that have Dean wailing and clutching the sheets under his head, twisting like he's trying to get away but not making any real effort to. There's a little too much friction, the lube Dean used earlier not enough to make it easy, but that just makes it so fucking good Sam thinks that a wet pussy can't compare to Dean's struggling hole as it sucks him in and tries to push him out like it can't make up its mind.
Dean is so beautiful like this. Most people would be made ugly by the contortion of features - screwed up brows, gaping mouth, wet eyes - and the exertion red flush and the prey tuck of his chin, but not Dean.
He tilts Dean up further to get a good look at his hole stretched mercilessly around his thick cock and groans deep in his chest at the sight. It looks obscene, raw red and so taut Sam thinks that if he were any bigger it would just tear him open. He thumbs where they're joined together and Dean makes a sweet little overwhelmed sound and tightens around him so hard the air punches right out of Sam's lungs.
"Made to take me, made for me, Dean."
"Fuck, Sam," Dean gasps.
"Gonna fucking ruin you for anyone else. No other cock will ever fill you up so good, Dean, you're always gonna feel empty without me."
"Do it, c'mon Sammy, fuck me--"
Sam cuts his words off with a hand around his throat and Dean's eyes roll back in his head and rattle with the force of Sam's thrusts, knocking noises out of his chest that die in the collapsed tunnel of his throat. Sam summons up every feeling of resentment, envy, and frustration he's ever had over his untouchable brother and pounds it into him like he can transfer all the bad in him into Dean, and Dean takes it beautifully, a martyr to his brother. Transfusion of sickness, madness shared. No going back now.
Sam loosens his chokehold but keeps his hand there to feel air vibrate through Dean's bruised throat, squeezes just once to fuck with him, to see his eyes widen. Face like that was made to look scared.
They don't look away from each other. Dean doesn't try to close his eyes and pretend it's not Sam fucking him like he hates him. Sam could never deny himself the connection. It's messy and raw and them. Sam thinks it was a mistake that they weren't born conjoined but this is the best way to rectify that. He wants to forever be enmeshed with his brother, nothing between them nowhere to go nobody else but Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam, forever and always.
He leans in close and kisses Dean but it's not so much a kiss as it is another way to consume him, like taking communion, blood and body of my brother, and Dean moans into it so sweetly like Sam isn't still tearing him up. Sam grinds in deep, sharp rotations of his hips, stirring up Dean's insides and making him moan sweeter. Dean gets a hand in Sam's hair and another on his bicep, fingers digging in hard and needy. God, who knew Dean could be so sweet? Is he always like this? Have other people tasted his nectar and gotten as drunk off it as Sam? He can't stand the thought.
Deans legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossed to hang on, and he pulls him closer.
"Sammy," he sighs when Sam breaks the kiss, achingly soft and saccharine, like they're making tender love and Sam isn't brutalising him and getting off on the tears glistening on his cheeks.
Sam always suspected that Dean would fuck like there were cameras on him, imitating porn, and he didn't want that. So it's a relief that he's too overwhelmed to put on a show. This is what he wanted: Dean, just Dean, an exposed nerve to prod and pinch.
He wants to make Dean cry for real.
It's a shame to give up eye contact but he pulls out and turns Dean over anyway. Dean sobs with the dragging withdrawal and Sam shoves his cheeks apart to get a look at his raw, gaping hole before he manhandles Dean onto his knees, face to the bed and back arched like a cat in heat. He spits on his hole again but it's not enough to make the push inside easy and Dean sobs, fist thumping on the bed, teeth biting the sheets. He could ask for lube and Sam would probably give it to him, but he doesn't, so he doesn't. He wanted it to hurt. Sam wants to hurt him. It's a symbiotic fuck.
Sam holds onto Dean's hip with one bruising hand and plants the other between his shoulder blades, keeping him arched just right, and fucks him with punishingly hard thrusts that make Dean howl for it. His head turns to the side and Sam gets a good view of half his face, eyes squeezed shut as if to dam the stream of tears and fuck, that's it, that's what Sam needed. He grabs both of Dean's wrists and lays over him, knocking Dean's knees wider and fucking him deep with shallow rolls of his hips, body weight pinning him down and making him take it.
"So pretty, Dean, so hot when you cry, fuck, wanna make you cry on my cock every fucking day for the rest of our lives, wanna live inside of you, make you mine forever, Dean, baby," he babbles into Dean's ear.
"God, Sam, I can't--"
"You take it so good, so fucking good, such a good little whore for your brother, aren't you?"
Dean sobs and clenches so tight around Sam that he gasps and sees stars. Dean comes without a single touch to his cock, insides milking Sam over the edge and he slams in once, twice, keeps himself deep as he floods Dean with his come, staining him inside like Sam has been stained for years, forever.
He lets his weight drop and Dean’s breath punches out of him. He’s shaking badly from his toes to his scalp. Sam kisses the nape of his neck, nosing into the sweat damp hair and breathing in that familiar big brother scent, then he rolls off him and drags Dean with him. Dean makes a pained whine when Sam’s cock pulls out and Sam so badly wants to see the wreck of his hole with Sam’s come stickying him up, but he wants to hold Dean more. Dean curls up small and Sam presses in close, arms wound around him, kissing his neck and shoulder while Dean shakes and shakes and shakes.
He doesn’t feel bad about it. It felt right. He gave Dean a chance for more lube and prep and he turned it down and didn’t ask him to stop. He might not have stopped but still, Dean didn’t ask.
This is the best part of being bigger than Dean now. He fits so perfectly in his arms.
“That was…” Dean starts, stops, teeth clacking with the force of his shaking. “Jesus, Sam.”
“You okay?”
Dean sort of laughs, sort of sobs. “I don’t know.”
Sam pulls back and reaches down to thumb Dean’s cheeks apart, checking for tearing or blood. There’s a little blood, tinging his come pink, but nothing he’s worried about. Slave to his urges, he slides two fingers inside of Dean, pushing his come back into him, and Dean whimpers.
“Sam,” he gasps, just his name, like there’s no other word he knows. “Sam, Sam,” he repeats more urgently.
“Shh, you’re good. So good, such a good boy,” Sam murmurs, gently easing in deeper until the pads of his fingers rub against Dean’s prostate. Dean jerks and whines, trying to pull away, but Sam grabs him with his free hand and pins him down.
“I can’t, Sam please, I can’t,” he sobs.
“Yes you can. It’ll help,” Sam croons, rubbing and thrusting into his sweet spot. He watches Dean’s cock twitch and thicken with each press.
“Fucking sadist,” Dean hisses, hips pushing back now, chasing the too much too soon pleasure.
Sam grins and smacks his thigh. God, he loves Dean’s thighs, they’re so firm and thick. He’ll fuck between them one day.
He didn’t intend to do this, really did just want to check if Dean was hurt inside, but now his cock is hard again and Dean’s moaning all soft and overwhelmed and he can’t resist. He slots up behind him and pushes inside, his come slicking the way and making him glide in easy. Dean cries out and reaches behind himself for Sam, grabbing his arm until Sam takes hold of his hand and wraps his arm over him instead, still holding his hand. Dean clenches it tightly and makes short unh unh nhh sounds with each thrust, angled perfectly to batter his sweet spot relentlessly.
Sam pulls his hand away and Dean tries to grab it again but stops when Sam gets a hand around his cock and strokes in time with his thrusts, growing faster and more erratic until Dean comes with wordless shout, spilling all over Sam’s hand as he works him through it. He goes boneless and Sam rolls him onto his front, prone, and fucks into him hard again, chasing his own climax. The headboard slams against the wall and Dean cries into the folded crook of his arm. Sam gets a fist in the longest part of his hair and tugs his head back.
“Wanna hear you cry, Dean, don’t hold back,” he says, low and filthy into his ear.
He puts his other hand around his throat, not hard enough to cut off the pretty sound of his cries, just enough of a threat that Dean clamps down around him in animal panic. Sam grinds in deep and comes, biting down on Dean’s shoulder.
This time, when he pulls Dean into his arms, he lays on his back with Dean’s head on his chest and waits until Dean stops shaking to fall asleep.
They don’t sleep for long. Sam wakes up when Dean moves as if he’s trying to get out of his arms and he tightens them reflexively. Dean huffs a laugh.
“I’m thirsty,” he says.
“Wait here,” Sam mumbles, and kisses his forehead. Dean’s breath hitches.
He fetches two bottles of water and doesn’t trust Dean to catch one in this state, so he presses it into his waiting hand. Dean drinks half of it. He doesn’t look at Sam.
“This is fucked up, Sam,” he says eventually.
“We’ve always been fucked up.”
Dean laughs bitterly. “Not like this.”
“I’ve wanted to do that for four years, Dean. It’s not new to me.”
Dean looks at him, eyebrows high in surprise. “Four years?” Sam nods. “Jesus, Sam.”
Sam shrugs. “You didn’t exactly need convincing, so I’m guessing it’s been a while for you, too.”
Dean turns away and stares at nothing. “Couple years, maybe,” he admits. “What the hell’s wrong with us?”
“Plenty of things. I don’t think this is one of them,” he lies. He knows it’s fucked up but he’s okay with that. If Dean wants it to, it’s not so bad. They can be fucked up together. It’s the way it’s always been.
Dean can’t walk properly so Sam half-carries him to the bathroom to shower. He’s thought a lot about fucking Dean and hurting him too, but he’s also done a lot of looking after Dean, though maybe not enough in comparison to what Dean does for him. They handle most of their own cleansing until Sam takes the cheap bar soap from Dean, lathers his hands, and cleans between his legs as gently as he can manage. Dean hisses when he pushes two inside and Sam shushes him again, assures him he’s just getting him clean even as he thinks of the futility of this kindness.
They curl up together in the other bed and Dean is the one who holds him this time, always the big brother even in the aftermath of Sam’s darkness.
"You don't go out to get what you need any more," Sam tells him.
For a moment, it looks like Dean is going to argue, get bitchy about Sam being controlling and possessive and he wouldn't be wrong. Sam is both of those things and more. He's just done with pretending he's not.
"Okay," Dean relents, the words sighed out of him.
"Whatever you need, Dean. I can give it to you. All you gotta do is give yourself to me."