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When he gets back to the room, Sam’s still sprawled out on the bed, fully clothed on top of the covers. The light on his bedside table is still on, illuminating the deer head right above it, empty black eyes glaring at Dean. He closes the door and Sam shifts, groaning.
“Dean,” he murmurs, barely lifting his head.
“Yeah, ‘s me, Sammy.”
He shrugs off his jacket, hangs it over the nearest chair. He glances at the bottles on top of the dresser. They aren’t empty. It’s tempting.
In the bathroom, he stands in front of the sink and runs the tap. He grabs the plastic cup from the shelf above the sink and fills it with cold water, drains it before looking back up into the mirror. His skin is pale and there are bags under his eyes. Probably ain’t just the light. The last couple of months have been exhausting. They’ve been working case after case, but despite their efforts, the number of people they couldn’t save is adding up fast. And on top of that, there’s the times he’d nearly lost Sam over the past few weeks. Sarge’s words still echo through his head in those quiet moments when he can’t keep his mind from wandering back. Look, I understand he’s your brother, and I’m sorry, I am. But I gotta take care of this—
He doesn’t even have to close his eyes to recall the determined look on Sarge’s face, to see him reaching for his gun, pointing it at Sam. Then Gordon. He’d managed to keep that son of a bitch from shooting Sam when he’d been with Ava, but he’d been completely useless when Sam almost walked into Gordon’s trap. He still feels sick at the thought, still sees it all crystal clear in his mind, the explosions, thick smoke, plaster falling off the ceiling, pieces of wood scattered all over the place. He’d been sure he’d lost Sam.
He washes his face, brushes his teeth. Maybe that’ll keep him from drinking.
Lately, it feels as if there’s just no way it’ll all work out. It feels as if he will lose Sam, sooner or later. It’s been getting harder and harder to look in the mirror and tell himself it’ll be fine. His name is in the federal database now, and they know what he looks like, too. He needs to watch out for the both of them. Dad’s words echo through his head whenever he looks at Sam— Watch out for Sam, you’re his brother, you have to take care of him. You have to save him, Dean. And if you can’t—
Take some responsibility for yourself, Dean, Sam had said when Dean finally told him what Dad said, and that had hurt because that’s exactly what he’s always done. For himself and for Sam. But it’s just— It’s the one order he could never take from Dad, and Dad should’ve known.
Ever since Dad died, he can’t stop thinking about the way things used to be. The three of them, always on the road, driving for miles and miles. Sam and him in the backseat, Dad at the wheel, sure where they were going, always so sure. They’d sleep while Dad kept driving all night, and sometimes, when Dad had parked somewhere in the middle of nowhere to get some sleep too, Dean would wake up disoriented, opening his eyes and seeing nothing but black, but then he’d realize Sam was right there beside him, Dad still in the front seat. All good, he’d tell himself. We’re all here, it’s all good. He’d feel the heat of Sam’s body and he’d listen to his soft snoring, his dad’s heavy breathing, and he’d feel safe— safe and reassured and whole.
But Dad’s gone. He doesn’t know how the hell to deal with that, how he’s ever going to, and fuck, he just wishes they were kids again. He never really thought— it’s a stupid thought, maybe, because he’s always known hunters, he’s always known what their lives are like, and yet, somehow, at fourteen, at sixteen, at eighteen, still, he’d really believed that someday, this would all be over.
He can’t lose Sam. He needs to stay sharp, focused, especially now that there might be other hunters after Sam. He can’t fuck up. Anxiety rises in his chest at the thought of not being able to save Sam, in whichever way, locking up his throat, making him break out in a sweat. He grips the edge of the sink, muscles tensing in his arms and shoulders. There’s only one person who can save Sam, Dean tells his reflection, but the guy staring back is doing a piss poor job at saving people recently.
When he walks back into the room, Sam’s wriggling around again. He’s kicked the sheets off the bed completely.
“Dean,” he whimpers, needy the way he was as a kid, not wanting Dean to leave while Dad was already gone.
“I’m here,” Dean shushes, “go to sleep, Sammy.”
“Can’t,” Sam whines into the pillow, “m’head’s spinning like crazy.”
The bedsprings squeak as Dean sits down on his bed. He’s tired, so fucking tired, and still pissed off at Sam for getting drunk and saying what he said. It’s an empty promise, the one he made Sam, and Sam oughta know it.
“Don’t be a little bitch about it now,” he says, watching as Sam tries to get comfortable on his stomach, still struggling with the cast around his forearm. Sam whines again. He lifts his hips a little to pull out his casted arm from under him, then grinds his hips down against the mattress.
“It’s too hot in here,” he murmurs, and he turns onto his back, his shirt riding up and twisting around his slim waist. Dean’s mouth runs dry. Sam looks feverish, the way he’s pulling uselessly on the buttons of his shirt, his cheeks flushed, hair a sweaty mess.
“You’re a needy bitch, you know that?” Dean says, his voice sounding rough.
Sam messes with the buttons of his denim shirt. He gets a few of them undone after a couple tries, but then he gets frustrated and gives up. He rubs a hand across his face and drops his hand with the cast around it to his bare stomach, fingertips just about grazing the shape of his dick.
“You would be too, if you’d been wearing a cast around your good hand for fucking ages.” He licks his lips, adjusts himself in his jeans. He’s not looking at Dean, he’s still got his eyes closed, seems to be completely unaware of how disheveled he looks, and Dean feels sick.
“Jesus, Sammy,” he breathes, staring at his mess of a little brother sprawled out on the bed. God, he wants a drink, too, eyes the bottles on the dresser on the other side of the room. Instead, he rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“You would be worse,” Sam says, and Dean snorts.
“Figured you would’ve taught yourself a whole bunch of new tricks by now,” he says, and Sam groans and flips him off, which he’s got no problem doing with the cast, he’s shown Dean plenty.
They used to get drunk together, sometimes, when Dad was away. Dean would buy a sixpack and a bottle of whiskey, they wouldn’t drink any of Dad’s stuff, and they’d get comfortable on the couch or one of their beds or, in summer, sit outside their motel room. Sam would get all dopey and smiley, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder and humming random songs with his eyes closed, or try to take up all the space on the couch, sprawling his long, long legs across Dean’s lap, wriggling around, getting comfy. Sometimes, Sam would be a little bitch and put his smelly feet up to Dean’s nose or try to tickle Dean with his toes, or he’d assert Dean was only trying to get him wasted and not getting nearly as drunk himself. He’d whine about his heavy limbs and spinning head and he’d cling to Dean like a five year old, arms around his neck, insisting Dean needed to get properly wasted too. He’d grab for the bottle and push it up to Dean’s lips, and Dean would think one of us needs to stay in control, but he’d take another swig, and another, and Sam would beam like an idiot.
Sam twists and turns, flips onto his stomach again, his jeans riding low. Dean stands up, averting his eyes. There’s a lot of bottles on the dresser – Jäger, whiskey, tequila. Dean picks the whiskey, pours himself a glass.
It was good, back then, to see Sam like that, drunk and happy and carefree. Sam was tense and pissed off a lot around that time, but once Dad was gone again, he’d instantly seem more relaxed around Dean. They’d drink and laugh and Dean would bask in it, soak it all up, knowing it wouldn’t last forever, this feeling of being a big brother, of being able to coax his nerdy, uptight little brother into letting go a little. They’d get a little reckless, but it’d be fine, no big deal. They’d get a little bit too close, he’d feel Sam’s heat against him, see his pink cheeks, the sweaty strands of hair in his face, and Dean would push them back and Sam would pretend he didn’t like Dean doing that, but that was a lie. When Sam got really wasted, he’d lie down with his head in Dean’s lap and Dean would cup his cheeks, feel the way they’d burn up. He’d comb Sam’s hair back with his hands, making Sam pretty much purr like a goddamn cat.
He remembers one time in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Sam climbing into his lap, bottle in hand, making Dean tip his head back as he pressed the rim of the bottle to Dean’s lips. Drink, he’d said, grinning and eyes twinkling, and Dean had done exactly as he’d asked before pushing Sam off of him. Jeez, Sam had said, wasn’t gonna let you choke on it, but then he looked down at Dean’s lap and he saw, of course he saw, and worse— he just kept staring, open-mouthed and drunk off his head. Oh, he’d whispered, sounding all young and sort of guilty, his eyes hazy, and Dean didn’t know what the hell to do except folding his arms across his lap.
Show me, Sam had said then, fingers clenching onto the bottle in his hand and Dean said what the hell, Sam, no, but Sam wouldn’t back off, eyes still fixed on the shape of Dean’s dick, clear in his jeans. I’ll show you mine, he said, like this was some kind of game boys played, like they were just some boys in school, classmates, friends, neighbors, whatever, just not brothers. He was hard too, Dean saw then, and he felt his stomach pull. Sam dropped the bottle, and Dean heard it thunk to the floor but neither of them cared how much of the whiskey spilled out. Sam thumbed open the button of his jeans, started to unzip, and Dean didn’t do anything to stop him.
Dean leans onto the creaky old dresser as he drinks, steadying himself. Sam shifts, then props himself up on his elbows. His legs are still splayed wide. Dean looks away.
“Pour me another one?” Sam asks, sounding like he needs it, but Dean snickers.
“Are you kidding me? You’re not having any more.”
Sam huffs at that. “You used to love to get me drunk,” he says petulantly, and Dean’s stomach sinks.
It’d happened four more times after that time in Arkansas, always like that— Dad gone, getting drunk together, Sammy getting all up into his personal space, and whenever Dean would get hard from Sam’s endless wriggling around, just trying to get comfy, Dean, Sam would see, would smirk, twisting up Dean’s insides, and he’d ask Dean to show him and Dean would. He’d unzip, slowly, watching Sam, the way his tongue flicked out to lick his lips, eyes fixated on Dean’s dick as he pulled it out. He’d just— hold it, for a little bit, hold it just for Sam to watch, and as he started stroking himself, Sam would fumble open his pants too. That’s all they’d do. Just jerking off together, watching each other but never touching.
He tried to tell himself it couldn’t hurt, whenever he’d lie awake, the days, weeks after. It was weird, it was probably more than a little fucked up, but— nothing really happened. No one had to know, and Dad wouldn’t ever find out. That’s what he kept telling himself, those months, but still it scared him— how much he kept thinking about it, how hot it got him. The crazy things he wanted to do to Sam, and how, once Dad got back, he’d always feel as if Dad would see right through him, sense something about him, and yet the threat of Dad finding out wasn’t enough to stop him.
He knew he needed to put a stop to it before they’d go too far, and then, one night in Nebraska, when Dad had left for another hunt and Dean had once again gotten them a bottle of booze, when Sam had gotten way too bold, sliding off the couch and moving between Dean’s spread legs, hands coming up to Dean’s thighs, palms warm and damp on the denim of his jeans, Dean had felt nauseous and scared and he’d pushed Sam’s hands away, don’t, that’s sick, Sam, he’d said, because he’d known no wasn’t enough to keep Sam away, and it slipped off his tongue easily because that’s what he’d been telling himself in his head ever since all of this started. Sam had looked at him all dazed and a little upset, no longer pink-cheeked but pale as a ghost, and Dean had hauled Sam back up to his feet and he’d locked himself in the bathroom like a fucking coward.
“I’d still watch out for you,” Dean says defensively. “Wouldn’t let you get drunk out of your mind.”
Sam snickers. He keeps looking at Dean, biting his lower lip as he tips his head back a little. Dean sees a glint of teeth, sees his eyes darken.
“Already was. Out of my mind.”
Dean’s stomach clenches. That what you wanna call it? he wants to bite out, but he can’t find his voice. He clears his throat, knocks back the rest of the whiskey. He can feel Sam’s eyes burning on him as he swallows it down. The room feels too hot, too stuffy, his mouth’s dry and there’s too much sick shit twisting up his stomach. Sam’s not saying anything, but Dean knows what he must be thinking about. We’re not kids anymore, he wants to say, but at the same time he thinks, what does it even matter? Who the hell am I holding back for?
“Dean, I need—”
“I told you, you’re not having any more. I’ll get you a glass of water,” he says, but he feels rooted to the spot, the way Sam’s looking at him, all needy little brother with those pleading eyes and parted lips, and Sam says, “No, Dean, I need— look at me, Dean,” but he already is, he’s fucking staring, he’s pretty sure, hasn’t really been able to take his eyes off Sam’s open mouth, the flush on his cheeks.
“Am lookin’,” he says, eyes trailing down his brother’s broad chest, the mostly unbuttoned shirt, his bare forearm with the thick veins popping up from the alcohol, the heat.
It’s crazy, how seven, eight years have passed, and he only wants him more. One and a half years of being back on the road together, acting as if it’s not something he still thinks about; one and a half years of averting his eyes whenever it gets too much, the mere sight of Sam, stretching his muscles in the morning or emerging from the bathroom in just a towel, or even simply sitting at the table or on the bed, reading, always buried in a book. Countless hours in the car, just the two of them, close but hardly close enough. Nights of getting drunk together and wondering how much Sam still remembers.
“Dean, look, if there’s something wrong with me, something really wrong—” he stops and shakes his head, at a loss. He sits up on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes. Dean takes one more sip of whiskey, straight from the bottle, then sits down on his own squeaking bed so they’re eye level. He puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, feels the heat radiating from his body.
“We talked about this, Sam,” he says, trying to calm him down, but Sam says no, Dean, eyes full of drunken distress.
“What if something’s always been wrong with me,” he says, his voice nearly breaking, and Dean feels eighteen again, eighteen and scared of the feelings he couldn’t control, of not being able to stop any of it.
“None of it is your fault, Sam,” he says, thumbs digging into Sam’s collarbones, trying to get through to him, but his eyes are hazy. Dean has to resist the urge to shake him, to tell him to shut up, shut up and just go to sleep, tell him what he’s told him a million times before— it’ll all be better in the morning.
“But what if I can’t stop myself,” Sam says, hands coming up to tug on the collar of Dean’s shirt, alcohol on his breath but his voice clear, sincere, and Dean— fuck, Dean’s been trying to get him a little drunk, every now and then over the past months, been trying to lighten the mood, wanting to see just a glimpse of that giddy, sappy boy again, but maybe that boy is gone. Sam keeps tugging on his shirt, hands balled into tight fists, the look in his eyes so desperate, frantic, as if Dean doesn’t get him, doesn’t get him at all, and instead he sees a glimpse of the boy he pushed away, all those years ago.
He grabs Sam by the shoulders more firmly and pushes him back, down onto the bed, and Sam keens like a kicked dog but he goes easily. His head hits the pillow and he’s flat on his back again, lips parted but no more whining coming out, only his heavy breathing as he watches Dean, stunned, and Dean’s on the bed before he can stop himself, knees on either side of Sam’s slim hips, and Sam whimpers oh when Dean twists his fingers into his sweaty hair and kisses his open mouth. Sam’s just— gasping into his mouth at first, trembling and shocked, but then he kisses back. He’s messy and hungry and his fingers are clutching at Dean’s shirt, keeping him close, his casted arm awkward between them. Dean groans and kisses him harder, licking into his mouth, tasting him, finally, finally. Sam’s hips are bucking up into him and Dean can feel just how hard he is. Feeling it, actually feeling it makes his gut clench and twist the same way it did all those years ago, when Sam first said show me, so, so wrong but a thrill like nothing else. He grinds down against Sam, letting his brother feel him. Sam shudders underneath him, eyes fluttering, and he looks so beautiful and so far gone it makes him feel unleashed, out of control.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean grits out, and he sits back a little to put his hands all over Sam’s broad chest, his massive fucking biceps. He leans in to lick along the line of his throat, bites and kisses just under his jaw where he can feel Sam’s pulse racing, all while pulling on Sam’s shirt, ripping off the last couple fastened buttons. Sam laughs and whimpers at the same time, a sound that drives Dean crazy.
“Oh my god, Dean,” Sam moans as Dean pushes his hands under Sam’s shirt, feeling his flat stomach, his chest, all that solid muscle. His hands are on Dean’s hips now, so fucking wide, all of him so fucking huge Dean can hardly believe he gets to touch all that skin, feel him flex those damn muscles, pull that big body close. Hold him down, make him feel so, so good. There’s so many things he wants to do to Sam, Sam wouldn’t believe just how many nights he’s been fantasizing about things not even remotely close to this, to actually touching his brother. Most nights, he would tell himself that even just jerking off together would be enough, but now that he’s got Sam underneath him, panting like crazy, he knows that the stuff they did as kids will no longer do. God, Dean needs to be the one to ruin him.
He kisses Sam again until Sam’s breathless, panting into his mouth, so fucking needy with his hips bucking up and his hands clutching at Dean’s belt. Dean gets a hand between their bodies, pressing his palm to the swell of Sam’s dick, feeling the heat of it, feeling it jerk as he murmurs Whaddaya want, huh, Sammy? You gonna let me touch it?
Sam moans, so much deeper than the stifled moans Dean remembers, then blabbers Dean and please and fuck, and Dean squeezes once more just because he can, then sits up. Sams stomach looks so flat, his hips so narrow that Dean could maybe yank his jeans down just like that, but he quickly thumbs open the button on Sam’s jeans and tugs the zipper down, thrilled. He pulls Sam’s jeans and underwear down at once and Sam’s cock slaps fat and heavy against his stomach. He wraps a hand around it, and fuck, the way it feels in his palm, so hot and hard it makes his own dick leak.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he breathes, “shit, I knew you were big, but this, damn,” and Sam chokes on a moan, stomach visibly tightening as Dean starts to stroke him. God, he feels so good in Dean’s hand, looks good too, all vein-y and angry-red like Sam maybe really hasn’t touched himself in ages. He jerks Sam, slow but firm, but he needs to be even closer to him, feel that big, strong body against him, and he lets go of Sam, makes him roll over onto his side, and Sam says, Dean, what, don’t go but Dean shushes him as he quickly opens his own jeans, and then he tugs Sam’s jeans halfway down his thighs and lies down behind him. Sam sucks in a breath when Dean spits into his hand, slicking himself up. He moans when Dean spoons him, dick nestling against his ass, a perfect fit. It’s so easy, wrapping an arm around Sam and holding him close, grinding against him, making Sam tremble and writhe against his body. Dean feels lightheaded with it, the way Sam feels so good against him, firm and huge and real.
He wraps his hand around Sam’s dick again, rubs his thumb over the leaking head, then starts jerking him a little firmer than before, and maybe Sam really, really hasn’t been jerking off lately because he’s acting all touch-starved, hips stuttering up as Dean strokes him, the most obscene noises spilling out of his mouth, and then he’s bringing the casted arm up to his face and he’s biting down onto the damn plaster and he’s already spilling all over Dean’s hand.
“Sammy,” Dean groans as he keeps stroking Sam through it, “fuck, that’s a big fuckin’ load,” and Sam whimpers like it’s the most embarrassing thing Dean’s ever said about him. He’s still got his eyes closed, body shaking, and god, he looks so goddamn beautiful like this, Dean knows he won’t be able to take any of it back, there’s no way he’ll ever be able to stop, not now that he knows what Sam feels like, so strong and alive under him. He ruts up against Sam like a damn animal, feral and diseased, dick sliding hot and heavy and Sam’s moaning like he’s fucking him for real, canting his hips, giving him better access, and then he’s saying Do it, Dean, fuck, just— and Dean nearly loses it, then. “No way,” he groans against Sam’s neck, holding onto Sam’s hips too tight, “you’re drunk, Sam, fuck,” and Sam keens, not at all sounding sobered up after his orgasm.
“You can’t pretend you don’t remember,” he grits out as Dean keeps slotting his dick into the cleft of his ass, “tomorrow, Dean, you can’t pretend nothing happened,” and Dean digs his blunt nails deeper into Sam’s skin, choking out “I won’t, Sammy, I won’t,” as he starts to come, pulsing hot and wet all over his little brother’s ass. Sam’s whimpering as Dean’s dick slides through the mess he’s made and Sam’s throwing back his head like he fucking loves it. Dean rests his forehead against the nape of Sam’s neck as he rides out his orgasm, his own breath puffing hot into his face. He’s got one arm still around Sam’s shoulder, keeping him against his chest. He can smell the stench of sweat coming off their bodies, the whiff of come. Sam’s a mess, come still wet on his stomach and between his legs. Dean’s thinking they can’t possibly fall asleep like this, sticky and overheated, but Sam’s breath is already slowing down and when Dean says Sammy, c’mon, gotta get us cleaned up, he hums but doesn’t move at all.
Dean brushes Sam’s sweaty hair back with his fingers, something he’s wanted to do all evening. Sam’s come has dried on his hand, he realizes. God, they’re gonna have a lot to talk about in the morning, or maybe— maybe this promise will replace the one he made Sam earlier, and there’s nothing much to talk about at all. He settles against Sam’s heavy body, thinking he’ll probably lie awake for a while, but that’s fine. They’re good, he thinks, or together, at least. On the same page, or something like. His head’s pretty quiet as he listens to Sam’s steady breathing.