Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean's hands have waited for this, clenched tight in fists when Sam sat too close, brushed up against Sam’s shoulder or forearm to bypass other places. His hands have waited for this, and they’re shaking with eagerness, clumsier than they've ever been with anyone else.

Sam is breathing so hard Dean's almost worried about him.

“I want this, Dean,” Sam says, like he's before a priest and hoping his soul isn't damned.

The shape of every syllable pushes and pulls the tender, soft flesh of Sam’s lips into Dean’s own. It’s like he’s kissing them into Dean’s mouth, over his tongue to melt into his bloodstream, like nourishment all on their own. 

“I’ve wanted this. You know that. You know, Dean. I wanted it first, longer—I wanted it by myself, just me—”

"Sam—"

Sam breathes like it takes effort, and then he says, "Wanting you was the very first thing I realized was wrong with me. It was how I knew there was something sick inside."

Fuck. Everything shifts, his understanding of how they want each other, and the realization that his wanting is the only real balm to Sam's wounds over this. Dean wants to fuck his baby brother, and that's probably want Sam desperately needs to hear.

Dean’s hands are only trembling a little. He puts them on either side of Sam’s face, his warm, stubbled cheeks. He spreads his thumbs out, so they settled in the grooves of Sam’s nose, just under where Sam’s eyes are blown black but made somehow still sad and scared by the crumple of his brow.

“I always—” Dean starts, and then for once in his miserable life, stops to choose his words more carefully. “You were always mine, Sammy.”

Sam makes a sound that might have been a laugh, but it’s choked—less like it got caught coming up and more like it got stuck being swallowed down. His eyes are shining. 

“I know,” he finally says. 

Dean nips at Sam’s lower lip slightly, tugging on it for a split second, just to hear how the air leaving Sam’s lungs—ghosting over Dean’s mouth—stutters for it.

“I don’t think you do,” Dean mutters, pushing one of his hands back across Sam’s face, around to the nape of his neck. He curls his fist in the soft, wavy tendrils of hair there, giving it a squeeze to make Sam wince. “I really don’t think you do, Sammy.”

Sam knocks their foreheads together, and it had to create even more tension in the grip Dean has on his hair. Maybe that’s the point. Sam, who fights and spits and lashes out; Sam, who pushes and pulls, makes it so hard; Sam, who does all that because he knows it will make Dean hold on tighter.

“Then tell me, you jerk,” Sam pants against his mouth. “Stop being such an assh—ah.”

Dean yanks hard on Sam’s hair, so hard it jerks Sam’s head back a little bit, and Sam goes tense and quiet, eyes squeezing shut. It makes the lines at the corners even more pronounced. Dean reached up to kiss them, one eye, and then the other, where he stops, keeping his mouth parted and damp there. 

“Don’t be a brat,” Dean tells him.

It’s the way he would say it when Sam was little and starting to tantrum for a third ice cream before bed. He’s testing—testing to see what feels good here for Sam, what this really is for Sam.

He wants to know if it’s the same strain of sickness that’s infected Sam the way it has Dean, latching on to every cell in his body and warping good things that should have been left alone, things that should have been kept safe.

Sam doesn’t disappoint. He moans, and sways forward, his mouth knocking into Dean’s too hard, their teeth clashing and their lips bruising.

“Bastard, bastard,” Sam gasps, his breath hot and morning-sour. 

Dean licks into it, and Sam keeps trying to speak around his tongue. 

“You—You did that on purpose.” Sam sounds so petulant and that shouldn’t make Dean’s dick harder, but it does, and the cotton of his pants gets wetter where they’re stretched over the head.

Dean bites Sam’s lip again, then grabs his skinny, sharp little hips and knocks his thighs apart to step between them. He shoves a little more, so that Sam is effectively sitting on the edge of the table.

“I’ll tell you,” Dean murmurs, “as long as you let me get you off while I talk.”

Sam’s eyes go unfocused for a second. “Dean.” His voice is so hoarse.

"Is that okay?"

Sam twists his face bitchily. "Jesus, Dean. What do you think? Yes."

"What did I say about bein' a brat?" Dean asks, and then dips his hand inside Sam's pants—he's fucking freeballing, of course he is—and grabs his dick.

He means it to be a power move, but joke's on him, because they both go stupid and silent for a minute. Dean can't over the weight and heat of it, like he hasn't touched his own dick a million times and many others' hundreds of times. Dean's had a lot of fucking sex in his time, and yet, for a blinding moment, he has no idea what to do.

Then, Sam says, "D-Dean," in this pathetic, needy voice and then again, in this demanding, slutty voice, "Dean."

Dean starts tugging at his cock instantly, his senses snapping back into place where they should be. Sam's brow crumples up, his mouth parting and his chest heaving dramatically, like he's overwhelmed by a few tugs.

"Gotta go easy on me," Sam breathes, trying to kiss Dean and absolutely failing with how slack his lips are. "Not gonna take much to make me come, okay?"

"Mm," Dean acknowledges, and has the terrible thought that even though this couldn't have happened when they were young, he's getting that experience anyway, with Sam so hair-trigger sensitive and desperate for it, like they're teenagers all over again.

It's a fucked up thought, and reminds him of his goal here.

"You were always mine," Dean repeats, kissing Sam's mouth with lazy, light pushes of his lips. "You remember a few years ago when you said I liked it? And you didn't know why?"

Sam breathes harshly, blinking sweat out of his eyes. "Yeah," he confirms.

"You were right," Dean tells him, and that makes Sam moan slightly, screwing his cock further into Dean's fist with a twitch of his hips. "I loved it. Even before I knew what I wanted, I loved it. Every single fucking part of you is for me."

"Oh God," Sam whines, head tipping up. His dick blurts precome over Dean's fingers.

Dean ducks to kiss his throat, licking up sweat. "Even when we were young, when we were teenagers. I wanted you to have friends, but I didn't like it. I wanted you to go on dates, but I didn't like it. I liked it when you wanted to hang out with just me, when you got upset if I was away on a hunt for too long. I liked it when your whole world was me."

"It was, it was," Sam tells Dean, head tipping down. He kisses messily over Dean's hair and ear and temple while Dean keeps licking at the soft, slick hollow of his throat.

"I wanted you to have a whole, happy life. But I didn't like thinking that any part of it might not involve me." Dean shuts his eyes, dropping his forehead onto Sam's shoulder. "Was so messed up, Sammy." He squeezes his brother's cock, tapping his thumb over the head to make Sam squeak.

Sam's broad, calloused hand slips under the back of Dean's shirt, roving over his skin. "Me, too. I was m-messed up, too. Dean."

"Because you wanted me?"

"So badly," Sam gasps, hand curling so his nails into Dean's skin. "You don't even know, 'm afraid it'll scare you off. I wanted--want you so bad."

Dean jerks his head up, grips Sam's chin and kisses him nasty, makes him gag from the push of Dean's tongue.

"I couldn't have given you this then," Dean admits. "But I would have loved knowing you wanted it, I know that's so sick. But it'd--it'd be mine, this piece, this part. Mine. Even when you were with other people I'd know. I'd know. I'm tellin' you, Sammy, you were always mine."

"Uh huh," Sam agrees his face shining and his eyes glassy.

Dean slows down his hand, so that Sam's brain can come back online.

"Ain't gonna scare me off, Sammy," Dean confirms. "I want it so bad it's sick. Sometimes there are days when it's all I think about, and it makes me stupid. You ever noticed days when I was just dumber that usual?"

"Every day," Sam interjects, little-brother snide.

Dean pinches him and continues. "Well, those days were probably because I felt like a pervert just looking at you, thinking such nasty things while you were minding your own business. I know you felt bad, but dude. I...you're my baby brother, how do you think that goes over in my head? I get it."

Sam pulls Dean into a kiss again, and this time, he's brutal, breathing noisily into Dean's mouth as he curls his tongue inside where he likes, and scrapes his teeth over Dean's lips and tongue. It's like the way he kissed Dean during the Trials, but unleashed.

It feels like years of want tumbling out all at once, impulses and desires vying for the spotlight. Dean goes pliant, and lets Sam have at him for a while, kissing back nicely, but allowing himself to just take it. He keeps pulling at Sam's cock gently, mostly because he's obsessed with it, the warm, velvety skin and the pulsing blood-hot stiffness of it.

“I wanna make you come in your pants,” Dean murmurs eventually. “Would be so hot to watch you lose it like that. Will you let me do that, Sammy? Let me make my baby brother cream up his pants?”

“Oh God,” Sam moans, and the tail end of it gets caught up on this disbelieving, breathless, incredibly fucking sexy little laugh. 

Dean pulls his hand out of Sam's boxers and shoves at Sam's shirt, until Sam graciously tugs it off. And like, Dean doesn't know whether it's meant to be a thank-you gift from the universe or a fuck-you curse that his little brother looks like that.

"Shit, yeah," Dean groans, catching Sam's mouth in another kiss, while he runs both his hands up and down Sam's body, absolutely perving on it. "Gonna let me?"

Sam nods fervently. "You really want that?"

In answer, Dean drops his hand to Sam's lap, and finds the shape of his hard cock through his pajama pants, lying long and hot against the crease of his thigh. Dean kisses Sam, and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, slow, just as he starts to rub Sam's cock with the heel of his hand.

"Fu-ck," Sam chokes out, turning the word into two syllables.

Dean's own dick is fucking pulsing, hard enough it's no longer pleasant, and he knows he's tenting his boxers obscenely. It flexes every single fucking time Sam moans, because he can't acclimate to that sound, it's too much.

"Ask me to make you come," Dean instructs, rolling his wrist to create a rocking motion over the head of Sam's dick, which is soaking the fabric through.

Sam's making senseless sounds, his head tilted back and his hands gone limp on Dean's shoulders. His thighs are tensing and twitching like he wants to rock his hips up and can't even do that.

"Sam," Dean snaps, desperate. 

“I'm...already—Almost—Almost,” Sam gasps, rolling his head forward, stained-glass eyes gone perfectly dark. “Faster, please. Please, make me come.”

Dean hisses his through his teeth and speeds up the heel of his hand on Sam’s dick through the fabric, pressing it down hard against his thigh and focusing on the top of it. He rubs circles over the head every few strokes.

“Coming,” Sam announces sharply, yanking on Dean’s hair with one hand and wrapping the other around Dean’s wrist, as if to ensure Dean’s going to keep touching him. “Oh God, yes,” Sam moans, and it sounds so fucking relieved. 

Dean moans with him as Sam’s dick tries flex beneath the crush of his hand, and then everything goes wet and hot. 

“Fuck, you’re coming,” Dean whines, his knees going weak enough he has to grip the counter beside Sam. “Making you come, I’m making you come, Sammy.”

It’s possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever said during sex, and he doesn’t care. He is, he’s making Sam come. He’s making Sam groan and twitch all over, making Sam’s eyes roll back and his mouth gape open. He’s making Sam cream up his pants, jizz soaking through the fabric onto Dean’s hand.

No one else is going to do this to Sam ever again. 

Sam hand tugs at Dean’s guiding his fingers along the length of his cock until he’s at the base, just above the swell of his balls. Sam shows him how to circle his fingertips there, making Sam sigh happily and rock his hips into the touch.

It’s so fucking hot, Sam teaching him all the little secrets of his body, trusting him with all those things only a lover is supposed to know. They’re Dean’s now, he’s their keeper and he’s going to learn them all, and create some new ones too.

Dean keeps massaging there at the base of Sam’s dick, and it seems to keep dragging it out for Sam, dragging all that good feeling.

“So hot, Sam,” Dean murmurs, amazed. He gives Sam’s slack mouth a kiss, laughing at the sloppy, unsuccessful way Sam tries to kiss back.

Dean gets to his knees, can’t fight the impulse anymore, and continues working that spot on Sam’s cock while he goes about sucking the come out of his boxers.

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says, finally using words.

Dean can imagine how it looks, how it seems, how thoroughly and needily he’s doing this. He doesn’t care. He trusts Sam to see this.

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, letting his thighs fall open to make Dean more comfortable. He pets over Dean, his hair and neck and shoulders.

Dean hums, content, and sucks, sucks, sucks until he can’t taste come anymore and the boxers are soaked. Then he pulls those down and kisses Sam’s cock clean, gentle as he can over the tender, half-hard length of it. Sam hisses when he licks over the head but doesn’t push him away.  

Dean kisses over Sam’s balls, just because he can, just because it feels right, and fleeting wishes he could get to Sam’s hole, and kiss that too. He can’t so inside he kisses his way back up Sam’s body. 

“Hi,” he says, bumping Sam’s nose with his own before kissing his mouth.  

One hand he slips into Sam’s hair, and the other he cups over Sam’s cock while it continues to soften, because it feels so fucking intimate he might burst with it.

“You really,” Sam says when the kiss breaks Dean takes his hand out of Sam’s hair to trail his fingertips over Sam’s neck and shoulder, watch it break into goosebumps. “You really want me.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, dude, I just made you come.” He rubs his thumb affectionately over the heft of Sam’s balls.

“No, I mean.” Sam swallows, eyes all over Dean’s face. “You really—It’s not—I mean. It’s like me. How I am. You really want me. Dean—”

Dean kisses him again, hands on either side of Sam’s face, and this time he puts some bite into it. Sam’s hands scramble on his body, find his waist and grip there hard. 

“Didn’t I say you were it for me?” Dean gifts the words into Sam’s mouth, soaks them onto his tongue to keep for good. 

“You did,” Sam rumbles. His hand slides down, finds Dean still hard in boxers. “Fuck, Dean, you did.”

“Can you go again?” Dean pants, hands all over Sam’s body, at his biceps and flanks and tits. 

Sam’s no better off, groping Dean like they’re at a club on the dance floor high on laced E and not a care in the world. Sam laughs. “For you, fuck yeah.” 

Before Dean can respond, Sam dips his hand under Dean’s boxers and wraps his hand around Dean's dick, moaning obscenely. He shoves his other hand in there too, cups the weight of Dean’s balls.

Dean tips his head back, panting.

Sam goes for his throat immediately, and in the hollow of it, confesses, “I used to think about your dick all the time. Used to imagine it, try to remember it the few times I saw it on accident. I’d lay there at night and think about your cock and get hard and couldn’t do anything about it because you were right there in the other bed. If we were out and you were sitting so your cock was pressing up against your jeans, making ‘em bulge. God, I’d get hard right there. Felt so embarrassed.” 

“Shit,” Dean hisses, head snapping back down. “Bedroom, come on. Bedroom.”

Sam laughs at Dean’s attempts to shove him out of the kitchen. “We’ve been doing alright without.”

“Need a bed for what I wanna do,” Dean assures him. “Let’s go.”

Sam doesn’t argue after that. They do their best to get to the bedroom, but it’s a mess. Sam’s already naked but Dean loses his own clothes in the process. They keep stopping to slam one another up against the wall, for a kiss or a grope or a dirty word. 

It’s like a ridiculous romantic movie, or like they’re dumb, wild teenagers who don’t have the patience for a few steps to a bedroom. 

It actually is a few steps to the bedroom when Sam presses Dean to the wall and apparently can’t take it anymore. 

“Gotta suck you,” he tells Dean. “Gotta, you don’t even know. Can’t wait.” 

Sam drops to his knees, and takes Dean in just like that, half his cock slid into warm, soft wetness all at once. 

“Ah, fuck,” Dean hisses, and slams his head back against the wall so hard it hurts a little. He gets his hands in Sam’s hair, combing frantically through it, then presses his fingers into the hollow of Sam’s cheek to feel the bulge of his cock.

Sam pulls off just to kiss open-mouth along the length of it, fucking slobbering all over him in his greed, tongue out and lips wet. He mouths at Dean’s balls, noses his way through the trimmed hair of Dean’s pelvis and licks up the trail of it leading to his navel then dips his tongue in there. 

“Christ, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, petting at his brother to encourage him to get whatever it is he’s clearly wanting so badly right now. 

Sam hums happily, and does another circuit like that before taking Dean back in his mouth, sucking at him smooth and deep, wet noises ringing in Dean’s ear.

Briefly Dean does think about all those years ago, when he’d stumbled on Sam on knees for some random dude in that bar. He can’t help it, thinking of the image that’s haunted him for years when he’s faced with the gorgeous one before him.

Then Sam takes him deep, all the way, and Dean’s brain glitches and he stops thinking about old memories that don’t matter. Sam’s mouth is the only thing that matters right now. 

Sam pulls off and stands up, jerking Dean with twists of his wrists, eased by his own spit. “Tell me how you want it,” Sam murmur, licking up Dean’s jaw to get to his ear. “My mouth. How do you like it?” 

Dean laughs, because the question is absurd. He helps himself to some more groping of Sam, gets a handful of ass and his nails scratching across Sam’s broad shoulders. “Any way. Any. Gonna get me off just cuz it’s you.”

Sam bites at the shell of his ear, tsk. “I know that, dumbass, and that’s not what I’m asking. I’m your brother, I don’t need you to be a gentleman.” He pants hotly for a minute, the sound of it rushing in Dean’s ear. “Tell me how you think about it when it’s just you. When you—you’re alone and wantin’ it. C’mon. Tell me.”

And, oh. Dean gets it, not just want Sam wants but why. He wonders how long it’ll take for Sam to feel secure in Dean’s wanting, in Dean’s feelings, finally returned—finally, as if it didn’t take less than two years for Dean to catch up after finding out. They’ll work on that later. For now, Dean gives him want he wants.

Still slightly hesitant about sharing this in particular but determined to be honest with Sam, Dean turns his head to his mouth is pressed to Sam’s own ear, nose in sweaty-smelling hair. 

“I fucked your mouth,” he admits. “In my head, that’s what I did.”

Sam moans, scraping his teeth over Dean’s jaw and drops right back to his knees, years of hunters’ strength making it gorgeously graceful. 

“Thought so,” Sam pants. “You’ve always been so pushy with me, huh? Wanted me to shut up and take whatever you decided.”

Before Dean respond, defend him or apologize or something, Sam swallows him down again, almost to the base. 

“Uhn,” Dean moans eloquently, feels his face dropping into an obscene expression of pleasure. Can’t help himself. 

Sam’s eyelids flutter, as he stares up at Dean, and Dean threads his fingers through Sam’s hair, cradling his head with his thumbs at Sam’s cheekbones. 

“You sure?”

It’s incredible, how Sam manages to put on the bitch face even with a cock in his mouth. Dean rolls his eyes, flicking Sam in the eyebrow for a moment before putting his hands back where they were and getting to business. 

He fucks his brother’s face nice and steady at first. Sam takes it easily, breath puffing out of his nose and his eyes hardly watering. He smacks Dean’s hip eventually, and well, fuck—Dean’s been making sure Sam’s fed the way he wants for three decades now. 

Sam whines when Dean starts up properly, short, sharp jabs that rock through Sam’s whole head. It gets worse. Sam can’t just take it well, he can take it pornstar well, worrying well.

Dean’s fucking his face like he’d fuck Sam’s ass—and God, what a ball-clenching thought—and Sam’s taking it fine. His face is scarlet and his eyes are streaming and there’s spit everywhere. He gags occasionally, but doesn’t push Dean sways.

Not many people can take dick like this. It’s learned, it’s fucking learned. Dean has enough brain function left to be pissed about that, and then he figures he’ll just do this enough times it balances out however many guys were here first, had this first.

Sam’s moaning, moaning like he’s getting fucked, and Dean supposes he is. 

“Fucking good,” Dean hears himself groan, combing through Sam’s hair best he can with how hard he’s fucking now. “Gotta be in there all the time now, Sammy, huh?”

Sam makes some sort of messed up noise, and he can’t fucking nod but he rubs up and down Dean’s thighs, blinking his eyes hard.

“Yeah,” Dean says softly. “Yeah, you want it.”

Sam shivers all over, eyes falling shut. Christ. Fuck. His baby brother’s a cockslut, for this at least. Dean shouldn’t know that let alone get to have it.

Dean yanks out, but keeps his dick pressed to Sam’s bruised, wet lips. On the pull out, Sam makes this awful, groaning gasp, like he’s desperate for air and dick all at once. His tongue comes out, pressing to Dean’s dick and he pants hotly, eyes dazed and still on Dean. 

Without warning, Dean uses his grip on Sam’s hair to tilt his head back slightly so he can slide right back, tucking his dick in that soft, wet space where it fucking belongs. Sam gags, and his hands fly up to grip Dean’s hips, keep him from pulling out.

No problem. Dean’s got Sam’s number now, he’s got it figured out. Dean slides his cock in the last inch, so he can fucking see the bulge of it in Sam’s throat and feel him struggling to breath through his nose brushing against his pelvis.

“Keep it there,” Dean moans, carding through Sam’s pretty hair, scratching at his scalp in comfort. “Keep it there for me, babe. Jus’ like that, that’s how I want it.”

Sam starts jacking himself off then, the sound loud and unmistakeable. He’s getting himself off while he chokes on his brother’s cock.

Dean rocks his hips, just the tiniest bit, to get some friction on the head of his dick, held sweetly in soft, scorching hot wetness. Sam’s eyes are streaming, his breathing erratic, but he’s jacking himself faster and faster. Dean’s—

“Gonna make me come,” he tells Sam. “Oh fuck, m’gonna blow, Sam—”

Sam slams a forearm across Dean’s hips and pins him roughly back against the wall. He yanks off, gasping like he’s dying, but before Dean even process it, Sam’s back on his dick, sucking it deep and brutal.

Dean’s moaning pitifully now, his vision tunneling as his toes curl and his balls pull up. One of Sam’s hands come up to cradle them, and then it slides back further, his thumb pressing up against his perineum and two of his fingers against Dean’s hole, firm on the tight muscle. Sam rubs, shoving his thumb up hard into Dean’s perineum as he hums around his dick.

Dean can’t even speak when he comes, choking out awful, gurgling noises and reedy gasps. His dick feels so fucking good, tingling, swelling pressure releasing and clenching over and over at the head and in his balls, washing out into his thighs and pelvis.

Sam’s swallowing it, but Dean feel how fucking much he’s coming, loads of it, and he knows some has to be slipping out. Dean’s vision clears enough that he looks down at focuses on Sam, whose eyes are glassy and heavy lidded, like he’s a little zoned out. He’s got come all over his chin.

“Come here,” Dean slurs, tugging at Sam’s hair. “Sammy, that’s enough. C’mon.”

Surprisingly, once Sam pulls off and wipes his mouth—unhelpfully, if Dean’s being honest, and stands up, his eyes are clear and he’s smirking, self-satisfied. He’s unreal. 

Dean’s still trying to catch his own damn breath. “Coulda warned me before you tried killing me through my own dick.”

Sam’s nose scrunches. “Half the fun is the surprise.” His voice is a fucking wreck. Dean’s kind of concerned about his throat.

Dean does his best to fix Sam’s hair, then swipes up the remaining come with his thumb, sucking it clean himself to see how that turns Sam on. 

“Where’d you learn that?” Dean finally asks, can’t stop himself. He keeps his voice soft. 

Sam face shutters just slightly. “Been a long time without you, dude.”

What’s Dean going to say to that that matters? Instead, he puts his arms around Sam and kisses him with purpose, feels how swollen and hot Sam’s mouth is. Fuck—he tastes like Dean’s come. 

Dean starts smiling into the kiss, enough that Sam breaks it and asks, “What?”

Dean licks over Sam’s bruised lips. “You taste like my come,” he tells Sam. Then, “I’m happy.”

Sam smiles against him, his lips a little trembling because they're overworked from getting fucked up. He holds Dean's face like it's precious, then pushes his tongue into Dean's mouth over and over, slow and deliberate, to let Dean get all the taste he can.

It's not exactly on Dean's list of favorite things to wonder if Sam's anything like this with anyone else, but Dean kind of feels for the people who've had him and let him go if he's even 1/10th this fucking incredible. Dean hums, and drops his hand down to feel for Sam's cock, which is more than half-hard. Impressive, considering he just got off not twenty minutes ago, and it's not like they're twenty-five anymore.

"Already?" Dean teases, tugging at him to feel him swell a tiny bit more.

Sam hisses, then smiles and it's damn sexy to keep feeling that in this kiss. "Didn't I tell you for you, fuck yeah?"

Dean laughs, short and loud. "You did," he concedes.

He shoves at Sam's shoulders, and keeps pushing and pulling at him until they finally get to the goddamn bedroom—Sam's.

Sam retaliates by shoving him onto the bed first, then climbing to lay over him, their legs tangling together while Sam holds himself up with an elbow by Dean's head. He is massive, big and broad, and blocking everything out of Dean's view except him. His body covers Dean's, and it's warm and firm, soft skin all over. Dean could die here, and in fact, would like to submit a request that when he goes, this is how he goes.

"When'd you get so hot, huh?" Dean mutters, moving his hands all over Sam's body, and pushing back Sam's hair behind his ears, though it's long enough to still hang down between them.

"Joke's on you," Sam tells him. "I always thought you were hot." It's teasing, but there's the ghost of something else there.

Dean really can't offer the exact same thing to Sam, but there is something else. And, like, he never says shit like this, not to his kid brother, especially. But right now--"I always thought you were beautiful," Dean lets himself say.

Sam's eyes flash, and he ducks to kiss Dean, firm and confident. He hums low in his throat, and rubs his half-hard cock against Dean's belly.

Dean's brain clicks. "You conned me into saying that just now, didn't you?" Dean accuses, nipping at Sam's lip.

His brother laughs, licking over Dean's mouth. "It took a lot less work than I thought it would," Sam whispers playfully.

"You little shit," Dean complains, and snakes his hand between their bodies to grip Sam's cock loosely. He doesn't pull at him, he just wants to hold Sam while he stiffens up all the way, wants to feel the twitches and pulses and how the skin gets hotter, tighter.

"Is it true?" Sam mutters, and he ducks his face to kiss Dean's cheek this time, and that's how Dean knows it's genuine.

Dean sighs, dragging his free hand up and down the curve and dip of Sam's spine, staring unfocused at the ceiling above him, so fucking blissed. "Of course it is," he assures Sam.

Sam sighs, one big hand squeezing at Dean's shoulder and then his waist proprietorially.

"Your turn," Dean tells him, turning his head so he can say it directly into Sam's ear. "Tell me what you want. What you've wanted, in your head. C'mon, be honest with me."

Sam shakes with a laugh. He brings his head up and looks down at Dean. "Everything," he says to Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes impatiently, giving Sam's cock a squeeze to watch his face tense up. "Yes, yes, it's a wonderful sentiment but—"

"I'm serious," Sam cuts him off, his hand going bruisingly tight on Dean's arm. "I don't think you get it. It's been two fucking decades of just you and me, in that tiny car, in those fucking motel rooms. I went crazy. I--I've. Every single thing we could do together, I've thought about and wanted, man. I swear to God."

That puts a swoop deep, deep into Dean's belly, and he swallows, trying to get a grip. "Oh man. Is the clown thing a fetish not a phobia?"

Sam absolutely smacks his arm, face going adorably grumpy. "You know what I mean, jerk. Everything within reason."

"Reason is relative," Dean says, and then tugs Sam down for a kiss before he can bitch. "I get it," he says softly against Sam's mouth. "I get it, Sam."

"I don't think you do," Sam croaks.

Dean huffs. "Pretty sure I do. But we'll just have to go at it as much as we can to find out, huh?"

Sam moans, cock twitches and swelling a bit in Dean's grasp.

"That's it," Dean encourages. "For right now, just...tell me what you want the most, Sammy. Or the longest, what you've wanted the longest. Something like that, c'mon. Tell me what to do for you."

As he speaks, Sam's cock keeps pulsing, rising slowly from half-hardness.

Sam pants, staring down at Dean with huge, dark eyes. "Dean," he says, shaky.

"S'okay," Dean tells him. "I wanna know, I like that you want me," he reminds Sam.

Sam swallows. "Your mouth," he grates out, his voice a rasp of pure fucking masculinity.

Dean's cock is is attempting to stir too, rebounding faster than it has in years. "Where?"

"Everywhere," Sam says readily. "But—I want on my dick, so bad. And I want it on my ass." He bites his lip. "I want your tongue in there."

God, fuck. Fuck. Dean hisses, arching up slightly. "Yeah?" he asks when he can think. "You want me to lick you out?"

"Shit," Sam curses, and his cock swells rapidly to full hardness, just like that. Sam's practically gasping he's breathing so hard, sweating beading across his face.

"Fuck me, that's so fucking hot," Dean mutters, then hooks his leg around Sam's knee and flips them on the bed.

Sam lays there, sprawled out and looking dazed, like he's still adjusting to the sudden intensity of arousal. His eyes focus on Dean. "Yeah," he says, like Dean asked a question. "I want that, too. But first, I mean, if—if we do anything like that today, I need you to fuck me."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean curses, squeezing his eyes shut as his brain tries to process all at once images of eating Sam out, getting fucked by Sam, and fucking Sam. His cock hurts, making a valiant effort to rise to half-hardness.

When he opens his eyes, Sam looks extraordinarily pleased with himself, putting his arms above his head and spreading his legs, before using one to wrap around Dean's hips and pull him in. Dean's enjoying the push-pull they're slowly creating over the upper hand here, and he lets Sam revel in it for a minute.

Then, he says, "Yeah? Want your ass eaten?"

Sam moans, going pink, blushing like he used to all the time. Dean refuses to believe Sam typically blushes over something as simple as ass-eating in general, not with what he's learned over the years about how Sam's kind of a freak in the sheets, so the logical conclusion that flustered, pretty response is for Dean makes his balls throb.

Done with the waiting, Dean drops a quick kiss to Sam's mouth, then drags it down Sam's body, attempting to get every square inch that he can on his way. He stops at a nipple, taking it between his lips, and is not expecting the way Sam whimpers, and slams a hand to the back of his neck, holding him there.

"Suck it," Sam tells him. "Oh God, Dean, do it."

Far be it from Dean to disobey an order. He opens his mouth wide, flattening his tongue over the nipple and then dragging it closed slowly, letting his tongue pull over it before he sets his teeth there instead. Sam goes crazy for that, so Dean does it again, and again, and again.

Sam sounds like a slut. Dean's in actual Heaven. He slides his hand down Sam's flat belly to get to his cock, which is rock fucking hard and perfect.

"Fuck, stop, I'm gonna come," Sam gasps.

Dean moans, because that's hot too, holy shit. He does as asked, letting go of Sam's dick, and moving his mouth from his nipple to the center of his chest, where he sucks sweat out of the hair there.

For or a minute or so, he busies himself with that while Sam breathes heavily, little whines throughout, until he seems to come back from the edge.

"You good?" Dean checks.

Sam chuckles, swiping a hand over Dean's shoulders. "Yeah. M'good."

Dean starts up his path of kisses again. He stops at the cut of Sam's hip bone, eyeing that pretty pink cock, and says, "I'm...I'm gonna get hooked on this. Like, it might be a problem."

Sam snorts. "Doubt it. Can you put your mouth where I asked?"

Pushy, irritating, obnoxious little brother. Dean licks up his cock first, because he wants to, real bad, and then does it again, because he likes it so much. Sam doesn't object, putting his hand in Dean's hair and moaning some more. Dean swallows Sam's cock down and bobs his head a few times, pushing hard to gag the way he likes.

"Oh shit," Sam mutters, thumbing at the corner of Dean's stretched mouth. "Anyone ever tell you you look really good with a dick in your mouth?"

Dean laughs through his nose, breathy, and sucks Sam even better, so that Sam shuts up and starts moaning instead. Sam really does have an incredible cock, Dean's kind of attached to it already. It gets so drippy that when Dean pulls off, a blurt of precome pools at the tip and falls down the length of his cock, allowing Dean to chase it with his tongue.

"Know we got plans," Dean says throatily, "but raincheck on you coming on my face, alright?"

Sam shivers, cock flexing. "Yeah, alright."

There's a soft, tender place at the crease of Sam's thigh, in between the base of his cock and the heft of his balls. It's exactly the kind of specific, personal spot Dean's keen on adding to his collection of Sam-things only he knows, and he takes a moment to press a kiss there, poking his tongue out to feel the contrasting textures of trimmed hair and thin skin.

Dean has a surreal moment of self awareness that he's spent years expecting that precisely this moment, and everything else they've done, was never going to happen. It's like there's a before and after now, a Dean who didn't have this and a Dean who does.

Dean pats the mattress, wordlessly asking for a pillow, which Sam provides. Dean shoves that under Sam's hips, wriggling close as he can get, and putting Sam's legs over him, so that Sam heels are bumping his back. He gets his hands on Sam's ass, and spreads him, peering at his hole, this singular part of Sam that Dean's never gotten even a glimpse at before. Thank God. This is his now too.

"Dean," Sam breathes, both hands sliding into his hair.

"Gotcha," Dean whispers, then laves his tongue over Sam's hole in a fat strip.

Sam sucks in a huge, rattling breath, and Dean grins into his brother's ass before going to work. Dean licks patiently, over and over, learning taste and feel, and how tight Sam is, how sensitive, how easily he twitches and pulses. It's salt and musk and sweat here, and Dean's mouth is going sour with it. He groans, his dick swelling even more, and sucks at Sam's hole down, like he's trying to kiss it, pulling it into his own mouth.

"Fuck," Sam's saying. "Fuck, fuck."

"C'mon, babe," Dean mutters, nibbling at velvety skin and kissing tight muscle sweetly. "Give it up, let me in."

Sam whines, and tugs on Dean's hair, and then his hole starts to go soft and slick, finally relaxing, pouting enough Dean can work his tongue in. "Fuck yeah, Sammy," he snarls.

When he starts tongue-fucking Sam's hole, gripping his ass hard enough it must hurt, Sam gets greedy. He legs come in tight, his hands gripping Dean's head and pulling him in, in. Dean hums, encouraging, and wriggles a hand up so he can tuck his thumb into Sam's hole, add pressure and keep it open. His other hand he slides between his own body and the mattress, wrapping it around his dick, raging hard again, so he can give himself something to fuck.

"More," Sam insisting. "Fucking more, Dean."

Dean moans, then gathers saliva in his mouth and spits it into Sam's hole, pushing it in as deep as he can go with his tongue. Sam seems to like the sucking best, so he goes for it, gets in so tight he can't breathe, nose crushed, and mouth occupied. He pulls and pulls with his lips, pushing his tongue out a bit into Sam's body as he goes.

"Oh, fuck," Sam drawls, body locking.

Dean gives him a frantic few sucks, then lifts up on his elbow, needs to see Sam. Sam's so far gone he doesn't even object, despite how close he must be.

"Sammy," Dean says, wrecked.

Sam sits up, using just his dumb, strong abdominal muscles like it's nothing, to look at Dean. He's fucked up. His lip is bitten bloody, and his eyes are smeared wet, and his hair laughably messy.

Sam's got a hand around his dick, right under the head, and he isn't stroking or even jerking, just tug-tug-tugging right where he's gripping. It's something Dean knows from personal experience means he's so turned on he's too sensitive for proper touch, but desperately craving it anyway.

"Dean," Sam croaks, reaching his free hand out to touch Dean's mouth, which must be quite the sight.

Happily, Dean sucks a few fingers in for a moment, then nips at them and says, "Let me make you come, alright?"

Sam nods, laying back down, and Dean goes back to where he belongs. He eats him out gracelessly and feverishly, doing whatever his lips and tongue feel like doing. He's fucking his own hand like he means it now, enough that he feels close, holy shit.

Sam cries out, and then he starts talking, "D-Dean...fucking, fucking eating your baby brother's—brother's ass out. Keep—Just like that, Dean—"

And that's when Dean's sure, sure that they're sick the exact same way over each other and it feels goddamn glorious.

"M'coming," Sam slurs, and it's really hot that that's apparently what he does, announces it as it happens.

Sam's hole flexes and pulses under Dean's mouth, his perineum clenching tangibly with it too. For how loud and crude he's been throughout this, he's surprisingly sweet as he comes, low, drawn out moans and shaky hands on Dean's head.

Fuck, Dean's going to come. He gets up when he's sure Sam's done, crawling up Sam's body, even as he jacks himself off. Sam puts an arm around his shoulders instantly, kissing him sloppily.

"Gonna come," Dean gasps into Sam's mouth, pulling at himself faster. "So hot, Sammy, gonna get me off."

"Wait," Sam breathes. "Dean—"

Dean shakes his head, so close he can feel the orgasm in his molars.

Sam's hand slides down and stills his hand on his dick. "Dean. Fuck me."

For a moment, the words almost do the job anyway, Dean's entire head rushing at them. "I'm—I'm so close, Sam—"

Sam puts his other hand to Dean's face. "Fuck me," he insists. "Fuck me."

Dean wrenches his hand off his dick, waits that he's back from the edge enough to think a little bit. "Can you even—?" Dean starts.

"Don't care if I come or not," Sam says brusquely. "I just...I just want you to fuck me."

Even if Dean wasn't fucked up and desperate right now, he couldn't argue with that. So simple, so true. Dean nods, and Sam's in action immediately. He slides over the bed until he reach the nightstand, where he pulls out a bottle of lube. Back under Dean, he goes about pouring lube on his fingers.

"Ah-ah," Dean protests immediately. He snatches the lube from Sam. "Unless you got some kind of objection, that's my job."

Sam arches an eyebrow. "You sure? You seem kinda messed up right now."

"Don't flatter yourself," Dean dismisses sternly.

Sam rolls his eyes but lies there patiently while Dean slops lube onto his fingers, and slips his hand down between their bodies.

Sam's not quite stretched, but he is open and welcoming from Dean's mouth. Dean loses his breath at the first clutch of it, his body, even just a finger, inside his brother's, finally. He drops his head to Sam's shoulder, and Sam wraps his arms around Dean, holding tight.

They've lost words. Dean hides his face in Sam's neck and sinks another finger into Sam, feeling around in there before fucking his fingers in and out, nice and easy. Sam's moaning, but trapped in his throat, Dean can only hear because he's right there, his face pressed close.

Sam kisses his ear, so Dean adds a third finger and speeds up the fucking. He was never supposed to be here, never, and he can't figure out why he ever thought because it's exactly where he belongs. Sam's more than half hard again, which has to hurt, and also makes Dean suspect the kid's just got a better refractory period than Dean does, or did even at Sam's age.

Dean curls his fingers up and Sam makes this tiny ah sound, so Dean does it again, and again, again. Sam keeps making that sound: ah, ah, ah in Dean's ear, his hole starting to flutter around Dean's fingers and his body rocking up, like he can't help it.

Eventually, Sam pushes at Dean's arm until he withdraws his fingers. Sam shoves Dean onto his back, not harshly but firmly, and climbs over him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmurs, hands coming up to hold Sam's face.

Sam smiles, one corner of his mouth lifting up, and covers one of Dean's hands with his own. His hair is a curtain.

When Sam drops down to kiss him, he shifts his body back at the same time, a hand reaching around to hold Dean's cock. The kiss breaks at the first push, though they don't pull away, their lips stuck there, touching and shaking. Sam sinks, sinks, sinks back, all slick and silk and heat.

"Oh fuck," Dean says, or tries, but it's mostly just air. He tips his head back on the mattress, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. "Not gonna last," Dean gets out, balling his hands into fists at his side.

Sam sits up, flushed all over and breathing frantically. He finds Dean's hands and rubs until they relax from their fists. "Don't want you to," Sam tells him, every word a moan. "Just wanted to feel. Just...Just...for a moment."

Dean rubs his hands over Sam's body in front of him, enjoying how they look there, busted knuckles and scars and prominent veins, as they smooth over Sam's narrow abdomen and tense thighs. He nods, understanding.

Sam rides him even and smoothly, keeping Dean deep for the most part, and rolling his hips to create friction. Dean's dizzy with the need to come, and Sam looks like he's high on some kind of drug.

When Sam reaches back and traces over where he's stretched around Dean, it feels like the air goes thick. Sam groans, his face crumpling, and says, "You're inside," just like that. And fuck, what is Dean supposed to do?

He starts pumping his hips up, fucking Sam in short, deep bursts from underneath. Sam hisses, his head tilting to the side and his tongue coming out to swipe over his bottom lip, his eyelids drooping.

"Sam," Dean says, using his brother's name like a curse and a plea all at once.

Breathing hard, Sam grabs Dean's hands in each of own then falls forward, pinning Dean's wrists to the bed above him.

"Like this," Sam whispers. "Fuck me like this."

It's a strain and a challenge, trapped under Sam's weight with no way to use his hands for leverage or maneuvering, but Dean knows that's the point. Sam wants exactly this, the determined, desperate way Dean fucks Sam anyway, driving into Sam's body stubbornly like it's his right.

Dean knows that's what Sam wants to see, how badly Dean wants him, how fucking entitled he feels to Sam's body and how well they fit together no matter how they do it. Dean lets him see it. Sam tilts his head, staring down at Dean with those kaleidoscope eyes flitting frantically over Dean's face, taking everything in.

The clutch of Sam's body is insane, and every pump in feels like the first time he's done it, he can't get acclimated to the sensation of being swallowed up by his brother. Sam's panting softly in his face, his dick hard and rubbing on Dean's stomach. He whines under his breath occasionally, and once or twice leans down to lick over Dean's slack mouth.

When Dean's balls give a sudden, dangerous throb, he gasps and twists his hips slightly on the next push in.

Sam moans abruptly, his mouth stretching wide and his eyes clenching shut. Oh God, he mouths, silent.

"Sammy."

Dean yanks his wrists from Sam's grip, and holds Sam's broad shoulders, then flips Sam into his back. He slides back in at exactly the same angle he stumbled upon before--because he is that fucking good, thanks--and Sam arches, clawing at Dean's back.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs. "I got your number now, huh?"

"Shut up," he tries to wheeze, blushing and bucking his hips.

Dean shushes him, putting a hand to Sam's cheek and hooking his thumb into Sam's mouth as he starts to fuck him properly. It's still not rough or violent like everything before, but Dean's getting them there, nailing Sam with solid, quick punches of his hips that jostle the bed slightly. Sam closes his lips around Dean's thumb, his eyes rolling back slightly, and his hands going softer on Dean's back, all the fight dropping out of him at once.

"I gotcha," Dean tells him, different this time. He sinks to his forearm and touches his mouth to Sam's temple, panting there while he fucks his little brother as good as he knows.

It gets faster soon enough, the slap of their skin louder and more obscene by the second. Sam's moaning again, a continuous sound that's leeching into Dean's every goddamn pore. Dean lifts up, so he can look down at Sam, fucked to pieces already.

"This is what you wanted," Dean pants, pulling his thumb from Sam's mouth and wiping it wet over his lips and chin, while Sam tries to kiss it. "When you'd think about my dick, your big brother's dick, and get hard, like you said, alone in your bed. This is what you wanted."

He doesn't say it mean or teasing. He says it urgently, quietly, something just for them. Sam understands him—how couldn't he?

"Yes," Sam answers, just as urgent, just as secret, and clenches tight around Dean's cock to make him groan.

"You got it," Dean gasps, dropping back down, his forearms on either side of Sam's head. "It's yours, Sammy."

Sam hisses, head turning to the side, eyes squeezed shut as he nods frantically. Dean ducks down, and kisses from his temple down his cheek and jaw, then sets about sucking bruises into Sam's neck, like they're teenagers and not grown men. Grown brothers.

The sounds coming from where they're joined are sloppy and opposite, and turning Dean on to a breaking point. It feels so fucking good in there, inside Sam, a tight little space he's punching out for his dick. Sam's body pulls on every thrust out, clinging to Dean's dick before swallowing it back happily on the push back in. The friction is a delicious, dirty thing setting Dean's teeth on edge.

Sam's dick is flexing on his belly, pooling out precome Dean can't believe he's able to spill after coming twice already. Sam's red all over, everywhere, his nipples tight, his chest heaving and his throat spasming over every breath.

He's so, so fucking hot. Dean's gonna film him some day. That's a must-do-before-you-die kind of thing.

Dean only twitches a little when he feels lube-slick, curious fingers on his ass. It's not like he's never done that before; he's had a lot of sex and this ain't that weird at all. But it's Sam, and it makes his heart race. He finds Sam's eyes with his own. Sam's whole face is a question.

Dean nods easily, kissing Sam's mouth, and slows down his hips enough for Sam to find his way in. The press in is as stunning as it was when he tucked a finger into Sam the first time, and now they're--they're inside each other, a closed circuit.

It's all You in me, me in you, and it's going to make Dean come.

Also, it feels fucking fantastic, the slight stretch, and the way Sam knows exactly what he's doing, long, broad fingers finding Dean's prostate in seconds.

"Jesus Christ," Dean curses, fucking Sam harder and deeper, but keeping the speed so Sam can follow easily.

Sam nods, mouth dragging along Dean's face, over his forehead and nose and eyelid. "Mine," he says quietly, then, "I-I'm close, Dean, I—"

Dean kisses him, hunkering down and pressing his hips deep at that angle he's seared into his brain, grinding nasty.

"Like that, yes, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," Sam whines in a tiny voice, a little delirious.

Their bodies are absolutely dripping with sweat, and Dean's already soring up, but he doesn't care. He tangles a hand in Sam's long hair and holds on tight while he makes his brother come.

"Coming, m'coming," Sam grits, his free hand clawing down Dean's back.

Sam curls up slightly, shoulders coming off the bed, as his dick pulses thin stripes of come between them. Sam puts his hand there halfway through, jerking himself through it greedily, like he wants to get it all out.

"Ah," Dean says, his balls clenching. "Ah, fuck."

Sam gasps, his eyes focusing on Dean's face instantly. His fingers curl hard and purposeful against Dean's prostate now, and Sam tightens his body up beautifully for Dean to fuck into it, messy and embarrassing now. Dean's lost rhythm, lost control, he just wants to come and it's building relentlessly, one of those long, hard climbs that means it's gonna hurt when he falls.

"Dean, Dean," Sam's murmuring, his come-sticky hand petting over Dean's hair and face and neck. Sam's bumps his nose against Dean's. "Come on. I got you, Dean. Me. I got you."

It's viciously, terrifyingly intimate chasing this kind of orgasm with his brother's arms around him and his brother's ass around his dick and his brother's fingers in his body and his brother's voice reminding him exactly who he's with.

Dean doesn't listen to the aching sound he makes when he comes, shoving hard into Sam's body and loading him up, his balls tight and his cock pulsing. Sam's hand is on his face, tracing over his eyes and nose and mouth, and he's muttering something. Inside of Dean, Sam rubs and rubs, working the orgasm out until Dean's just fucking can't anymore.

Dean falls heavily onto Sam, who takes the weight without protesting, but immediately, Dean rolls over, wrapping his arms around Sam to take him along. Dean lays out on his back, and tugs at Sam until Sam's draped over over him, their heads nestled together on the mattress.

"Stay like this, for a bit. Stay with me, okay?" Dean requests, even though Sam hadn't made even a single gesture at moving.

Sam does.

—

In the shower afterwards, Sam is clingy and perfect. Dean will make fun of him for it later, because Sam getting sex-sappy is too fucking funny, but for now it's a gift Dean indulges himself on greedily.

"Ten years old," Sam sighs, tipping his head back under the spray. "That's when I knew.

Dean tries not to frown as he keeps soaping up Sam's back. "That's pretty young to—"

"It wasn't sex, dude," Sam says mildly, not scolding. "I was messed up, but not like that." He pauses. "Not like that yet, anyway."

Dean can extrapolate what Sam means generally, and even though he'd like to know more, Sam's quiet and Dean tells himself not to push.

Sam clears his throat and turns around. The water kind of makes him look like a wet dog, and also about twenty years old all at once. Dean's having a hell of day, and it's not even 5 AM yet.

"Dad picked me up from school, then went to pick you up from yours, because at the time I was in elementary still and you were in middle."

Dean nods in agreement.

"You were fourteen and just figuring out what dating was, and that you'd be good at it. So annoying, coming home every day talking about girls. A guy, once. I remember that."

Dean does not remember that. It's true he had no problem being interested in guys from the start, but it's strange how he doesn't remember at all the guy he was going after when he was fourteen, but Sam does. He nods again, encouraging Sam to continue.

"You were obsessed with practicing your moves, thought you were just so damn smooth," Sam continues, shaking his head. "So one day, we go to pick you up at the usual turnaround, and there's this girl there with you. Redhead, taller than you. And you did this thing, trying to be all Casanova or whatever. You reached out and you touched her chin, like held it, so your thumb touched her lip. She went all pink, and then you brushed your knuckles against her cheek."

Sam's eyes are a little distant, like he can recall the memory in exact, vivid detail, like he can replay it in his mind. Dean wishes he could say the same. He's sure it's true, because he definitely remembers that phase, when he really did rehearse ways to chat up girls. Dean grimaces, not entirely pleased by the reminders of his youth.

"Sam," Dean prompts eventually.

Sam gives himself a shake, visibly. He grabs the body wash from Dean and pours it on his hands, then smears it over Dean shoulders and chest, not making eye contact.

"I was...jealous," Sam says, tentatively. "Or, I don't know. It wasn't that distinct. I was a kid, you know. I just—I saw you do that, and I thought, why isn't he like that with me? I thought, why doesn't he touch my face like that? I'd always had every part of you that other people had, because you were everything to me. I wasn't expecting there to be...this part of you that was meant for anyone else but me. And I hated that."

Dean sucks in a breath. "Sam," he murmurs.

Sam's turning him around to lather up his back. "So I'm sitting there thinking all that through, watching you just be sweet to this girl, and it twists up, just like that. And I want you to touch my chin like that. I want you to be sweet to me."

Sam rinses him clean on both sides, and then finally stops moving, thank God, and looks Dean in the eye. "I was old enough to know that wasn't right. I knew there was something wrong with me for wanting that, for feeling what was I feeling." He shrugs. "It got worse after that. By the time it did get sexual, it wasn't even a shock. I'd already been dealing with the hard part for years."

And what the fuck is Dean supposed to say? He can't make it any better. He can't tell Sam it's okay, not this time, not for something so far past and not for something he could have made okay if he'd known back then. Anything he says is going to fall short, and the way Sam's looking at him makes him think he's better off not saying anything at all.

Instead, Dean puts his hand to Sam's chin, touching his lip with his thumb. Sam closes his eyes, and Dean bumps his knuckles over his brother's cheek.

—

"Did I do this to you?" Sam asks when they're back in bed, naked and dry and warm under the covers. 

Dean pauses his hand where it'd been roving aimlessly over Sam's chest and tummy. "What?" he asks, looking at Sam, alarmed.

Sam is frowning, his arms folded under his head. Dean has the ridiculous urge to kiss the hair on his underarms. It turns out fucking Sam didn't relieve anything at all, just made it worse. Dean's really very okay with that.

"You didn't think about it," Sam points out. "You didn't want it. Wasn't even on your mind until I told you I was all fucked up. Did I...do this to you?"

"No," Dean says emphatically, tugging Sam towards him. "I can't tell you if it was always there or if it started all at once," he admits, "but I can promise you it was always going to happen, no matter what."

Sam looks at him, unsure. "How can you know that, Dean?"

Dean blinks. "I'm sorry, hasn't it been you bullying me the past however many years for being too obsessed with you?"

"Bull" Sam starts, spluttering. "Okay, first of all, that's not how it went. Second of all, that doesn't mean you wanted this." He gestures between them.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Do I have to give you the you were always mine monologue again, because I gotta be honest, that was improv and I'm not so sure it'll be as good the second time around."

"Dean—"

"Dude!" Dean says. "I didn't like it when you had friends. It made me mad when you had dates. What about that doesn't scream incestuous to you?"

Sam makes a face. "You can make a point without using that word."

"What? Incest?"

"Dean."

"I'm just saying," Dean says. "I wanted you too much already not to want you, you know."

Sam doesn't reply for once, just staring at Dean now with this nonplussed expression on his face.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, and waves a hand in front of Sam's face. "Hello?"

Sam laughs. "I just—don't know when you became capable of self-awareness."

Dean socks him in the arm.

"Hey!" Sam protests. "That hurt."

"Oh, it was a tap," Dean insists, like they're kids all over again. "Come here so we can go to sleep. It's seven in the morning and we haven't had a wink."

Sam scoots back against him, bitch face in full force. "I haven't forgotten how much you liked being the little spoon, too."

"We can can rock paper scissors for it another night," Dean dismisses.

Sam barks a laugh, loud and raucous. "Yes, dude. Great idea."

Dean bites his shoulder in retaliation, then reaches back to turn off the light.

"Dean."

Dean sighs. "Yes, Sammy."

"The world is still kinda ending," Sam points out. "Amara, and everything else."

"And everything else," Dean agrees.

Sam kicks him. "And it's still important that we keep it together. Be reasonable about each other. Have limits. We can't keep doing damage for each other."

Dean rolls his eyes into the dark of the room. "Are you just saying that because it's the right thing to say?"

Sam snorts, and finds Dean's hand, brings it up to kiss the palm. "Yeah," Sam admits. "Say you agree."

"I agree," Dean intones, and for effect, elaborates, "We gotta be less obsessed. We gotta keep from crossing lines for each other, you're right."

Sam shifts against him. "Are you lying?"

"Absolutely," Dean says immediately.

Sam turns in his arms, and kisses him. "Glad we understand one another," he murmurs.

Dean hums, kissing him some more on the mouth. He kisses his cheek and shoulder too, and then down his arm. Throwing dignity and rationality away, Dean grips Sam's wrist and lifts his arms up, then presses his mouth to the soft hair of Sam's underarm.

"Oh, dude!" Sam yelps, elbowing him in the head. "Weirdo."

"Mm. Pretty much," Dean agrees, and gets them arranged how he wants them, pulling Sam back against his chest, and kissing the shell of his ear before finally closing his eyes to sleep.

▅▅▅

The best part of bed sharing isn't the sex, or the good morning kisses, or the body warmth.

It's the nightmares.

They finally don't have to have them alone.

They fall into a routine for each of them.

Dean likes to be woken, reminded where he is and who he's with, and then soothed back to sleep. Sam likes to be woken, and then woken up some more, all the way, so he can be distracted for a good half hour or hour before trying to go back to sleep. ("It's fine," Dean has had to insist a dozen times. "It's fine, Sam. I don't mind, I'm not losing sleep. Now shut up and let me take care of you.")

—

"Sam." Dean tugs more firmly on Sam's wrist, and finally Sam stops his wretched, gasping cries and blinks awake.

Dean sits back, waiting carefully. Some nightmares are harder for Sam to come out of than others. Sam refuses to talk about most of his nightmares, but Dean guesses it's Lucifer in the nightmares it takes longer for Sam to reorient from.

He watches Sam closely, and breathes a sigh of relief when Sam finds him quickly, his eyes focusing on Dean's face. Not Lucifer tonight, then.

"Don't apologize," he says instantly, when Sam opens his mouth, because he knows Sam is going to.

Third night in a row with a nightmare, and Sam's probably tearing himself up thinking he's ruining Dean's life by taking an hour of his sleep.

Sam shuts his mouth, and even sleepy and still breathing hard from distress, manages to throw Dean a bitch face. Ignoring that, Dean finally comes back to him, carding a hand through Sam's hair.

"That was rough," he says lightly.

Predictably, Sam doesn't give any details, just shrugs, and struggles to make eye contact. He squirms closer to Dean, though, wrapping his whole big body around Dean's and tucking his cheek against Dean's chest.

This. This is the important part they were denying themselves. Dean would never be able to do this for Sam before, and if something ever happens that stops the sex or the kissing, Dean fucking hopes it doesn't take away this.

"You're all right," he tells Sam quietly. "You're here."

Sam likes less soothing than Dean does, but he needs some.

At least he had good practice for this, when Sam's wall first broke. It feels a bit like that, but less like the Sam's free-falling to nowhere and more like Dean's at the bottom, ready to catch him.

When he sees tears on Sam's cheeks, he steps it up a notch.

"Give me your hand," Dean tells him. When Sam doesn't move, he says more firmly, "Sam."

Slowly, Sam raises his arm, and Dean catches him by the wrist, then wraps his hand around Sam. He presses his thumb to that old scar, but gentle now. He traces the shape of it, no rubbing, no digging.

Between that and the steady way Dean combs at Sam's hair, Sam slowly starts to come down, to come back to him fully. Sam feels so young like this, like he's practically Dean's kid again. It's almost strange whenever he looks down and sees Sam, a grown man, with lines on his face and circles under his eyes and no youthful roundness to his features. Still so pretty.

"You want food?" Dean asks, when Sam takes a huge, relieving sigh.

Sam's mouth twists, and he side eyes Dean hesitantly.

"Just tell me," Dean instructs, tugging Sam's hair lightly.

Sam rolls onto his back, looking increasingly chagrined, but also like himself. "Yeah, okay," he sighs, as if in surrender.

Dean leans down and gives Sam a quick kiss, then another when Sam tugs at him. "Be right back," he promises.

Sam's sitting up in bed when he gets back, clear-eyed and yawning.

"What'd you get?" he asks with interest.

"Pop-Tarts," Dean reveals with a flourish.

They eat them in bed, and Sam bitches like eight times about the crumbs without doing anything about it.

Sam holds onto his arm loosely, tracing an aimless pattern onto Dean's forearm. It's exactly over where the Mark once was. He does it fairly often, but it seems mindless, and Dean's not sure if Sam knows he's doing it. Dean lets him. Maybe Sam's fingerprints will beat a new image into his skin, one that doesn't meant hurting Sam, one that doesn't mean losing himself to violence.

"Dean."

Dean blinks. "What?"

"You good?" Sam asks, raising his brows and gesturing to the half eaten Pop Tart Dean has in his hand, hovering near his mouth.

"Excellent," Dean tells him, and takes a massive bite to demonstrate.

Sam squints at him but lets it go, finishing off his own food. He looks down then, at where he's tracing Dean's skin, and Dean wonders if maybe Sam is aware. Before Dean can look at that more closely, Sam's pulling his hand away and leaning over towards the nightstand.

"What's up?" Dean says curiously, brushing his hands together to free them of crumbs. Sam's going to make him do the sheets in the morning.

When Sam turns back around, he has something in his hand, fingers curled around whatever it is to conceal it from Dean.

Sam looks at him warily. "Don't be mad," he prefaces.

"Why w—"

It's his amulet. Sam stretches out his long, shaking fingers and there it is, the pendant resting in the center of his palm, the old leather cord curled around it.

It's been six years, and sometimes when Dean looks in the mirror, he double takes when he sees it's not there. Then he has to relive all over again why it isn't there, and why it won't be there ever again. Six years.

"Sammy," he says, and it comes out all strangled and choppy.

"Are you mad?" Sam asks quickly.

Dean looks at Sam's face, finally tearing his eyes away from the amulet. "Why would I be mad?" he asks, dumbfounded.

Sam hesitates. "You threw it away," Sam whispers, and it's like no time has passed since that day at all, with the way his face looks.

Struggling to think at all coherently, Dean lets out a strangled laugh and says, "Yeah, and look how well our lives went after that."

Sam laughs too, a little watery-eyed. "I don't think the necklace had a whole lot to do with that, Dean. I don't think you putting this in the garbage determined our fates, you know?"

"It feels like it," Dean confesses. "How did—"

Sam shrugs. "I took it out of there as soon as you left. I thought I'd lost you for good, I thought you didn't...Anyway, I thought I might as well keep this."

Dean doesn't know if he's allowed to touch the amulet, so he puts his hand on Sam's knee instead, still spinning out in his head. Sometimes he feels the phantom weight of it on his chest, which sounds goddamn dramatic but is just plain old true.

"I'm sorry," Sam's saying now. "For all of that. For how I was, then. I know why you trashed it--"

"I trashed it because I'm stupid," Dean says, cutting Sam off. "Holy shit, dude. I know we haven't worked through all our crap and probably never will, but you gotta know--you gotta know I got regrets about everything that happened back then. Sammy, I'm sorry."

Sam looks at him, like he's fucking confused.

"Sam," Dean insists, putting his hands on either side of Sam's face. "Do you hear me?"

Sam nods, very slowly, very hesitantly, and Dean's starting to realize how deep this wound runs, how much damage was done. More than he can fix right here, right now, and isn't that a sour taste in his mouth. It seems his life's work isn't hunting, it's this: remaking himself and Sam, patching up all their wounds so they can sink into each other with no gaps or hard edges, not a single piece that doesn't fit together.

"Can I hold it?" Dean asks cautiously.

That does something to pull Sam out of whatever messed up headspace he's in, clearing up his eyes. He looks right at Dean, eyebrows raised. "Dude. It's yours. I want you to fucking put it on."

A startled laugh finds its way out of Dean's mouth, and Sam smiles at him, lines by his eyes deepened and white teeth flashing.

"Shit," Dean says in disbelief, shaking his head.

He reaches out and takes the amulet carefully from Sam's warm palm. It's no dramatic move to put in on. It slips right over his head and into place like it was never gone.

Dean looks down at the dull metal of it, resting against the bare skin of his chest. It's cool, not yet warmed to his body temperature, and that's an unfamiliar sensation. Dean thinks he took it off maybe twice in the time Sam first gave it to him until the moment he threw it away.

"Think it's still my style?" Dean quips, looking in up just in time for Sam to dive in and kiss him.

Sam kisses him sweet and slow, nipping at his lip occasionally like a habit, and Dean puts his arms around Sam's back, petting all that smooth skin he still can't believe he's allowed to touch. Eventually Sam kisses down his jaw, headed to what Dean knows is his favorite place underneath his ear.

Dean zones out a little, looking over Sam's shoulder and letting Sam have at him. His eyes pass over the nightstand and—

"You kept it with the lube?" Dean asks, laughing, because holy shit, Sam did.

"Dude. You are the fucking worst," Sam says immediately, and then kisses Dean quiet. Dean lets him, happily.

—

Later, Dean pulls Sam back into his arms, the amulet pressed between their bodies, and waits for Sam to fall back asleep, nightmare successfully chased away. 

“Sammy,” Dean whispers into his skin, like maybe if he says it the right way, it’ll bore itself into Sam’s skin, something for Sam to wear, too. “Sammy.”