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runedgirlTitle:But Blood Is Thicker
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:chomaisky
Pairing:Sam/Dean, minor Dean/OFC and Dean/OMC
Rating:NC17
Dean is already there. Bands around both arms bind him to a pole; in one hand he holds the first blade in an iron grip. He’s agitated already, from holding the blade or being bound or both. He’s straining against the bonds, struggling as he tries to break free. His bare chest rises and falls quickly.
When the people tumble through the door, he doubles his efforts, growling and hissing and literally spitting in his rage.
The humans flee to the far end of the gym, some of them pounding desperately on the back doors while others stare at Dean, sobbing and hanging onto each other.
The bonds release suddenly, clearly triggered by someone outside the room, and Dean springs forward with a roar, the first blade raised as he runs across the gym. The people scream and scatter, the teenage kid knocked down in the melee and scrambling on his hands and knees trying to get away. Dean heads right for him, sensing the weakest prey just like they were taught.
Sam rips off the wig and glasses and throws himself in front of the boy only seconds before Dean gets there. He’s still on his knees when he reaches up to block the blade’s swing downward, so it catches the boy on the shoulder instead of taking off his head like Dean clearly intended.
“Stop it! Dean! Don’t!”
Sam just barely gets to his feet, fastens both hands around Dean’s forearm to block the next swing of the blade. He can feel the mark pulse hot under his fingers.
“Dean, they’re humans, you can’t kill them, do you hear me? They’re people, Dean—people!”
If Dean hears, he doesn’t give any indication. He tears his arm away from Sam’s grip and feints backwards, and Sam nearly loses his footing from the way he was leaning into his brother.
The teenager has scuttled away, though, so Sam counts it as a win. Until Dean’s boot catches him square in the stomach and he goes down hard, the breath knocked out of him. He rolls to the side just in time as the blade crashes down, and it hits the tile floor with a loud clatter. Dean goes down with it, roaring again as he tries to keep his grip on the handle. Sam ignores the burning in his chest that says he needs to stop and breathe, and fights his brother for the weapon.
That enrages Dean even more, and he manages to get to his feet, but this is life and death now and Sam won’t let go. His hold on the blade drags him upright with Dean, the two of them locked together with their hands wrapped around its handle. Dean is so focused on the blade that he doesn’t get out of the way fast enough when Sam kicks him in the shin, and then in the nuts, because life-and-death doesn’t allow for fighting rules. Dean’s face goes pale and he gasps, and Sam can feel his grip falter. It’s just the opening Sam needs, forcing both his hands beneath Dean’s and then throwing them wide. Dean’s hands fly open with Sam’s, and the blade clatters to the floor beneath them.
“Nooooo,” Dean howls, though he can’t completely straighten up yet and he’s clearly in agony. Sam kicks him in the crotch once more to give himself enough time, and Dean nearly falls, a strangled groan ripped from his throat as he claws at Sam blindly.
“Gimme your hand,” Sam orders, though he doesn’t think Dean can understand him and he has no illusion that Dean would obey in any case, but it helps him remember what he’s there for. He gets his left hand around Dean’s right forearm and clasps him tight where he can feel the raised flesh of the mark. Its searing heat burns into his flesh, and all Sam’s instincts tell him to let go, but he grits his teeth and hangs on.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It’s Crowley’s voice, but it sounds far away, the blood pounding in Sam’s ears in time with the throb of agony in his hand.
“You can’t take it from him, he’s not willing!” Crowley yells, but Sam hangs on, desperately hoping his theory is right and Cain wasn’t lying.
Dean has stopped fighting, stands unmoving and staring at Sam with those fucking black eyes. He’s shaking; Sam can feel the shudders running through him, but his fingers are wrapped as tightly around Sam’s forearm as Sam’s are around his own.
The pain is making it hard to speak, but Sam forces the words out. One sentence of Enochian, two in Latin.
“No,” Crowley yells. “You can’t, it won’t work, you can’t!”
But Sam is looking only at Dean, willing him to hear.
“Joined as one, I share the burden willingly,” Sam shouts, over Crowley’s protests and the screams of the terrified people and the shrieks of the equally fearful demons.
Dean’s mouth opens, his eyes wide. Sam doesn’t know if he understands, but he doesn’t let go. There’s a loud popping sound from above, the fluorescent lights exploding and shards of glass raining down on them like snowflakes. It’s nothing compared to the explosion of pain in Sam’s arm, though. Nothing compared to the roaring sound in his ears, like a thousand locomotives bearing down on them, like his eardrums are blowing just like those lights. Still, he hangs on, the fire brighter now beneath his skin, sparking white-hot as it travels down his arm, and Sam can smell his own flesh burning.
Dean gasps and jerks, only their clasped hands holding them together, and then as suddenly as it began, the fire burns itself out and throws them apart. Sam lands on his back on the gym floor, clutching his arm. Dean is ten feet away, lying on his side with his eyes closed.
“Dean!” Sam tries to get to him, but Crowley gets there first, pulling Dean roughly to his feet.
“Finish him!” Crowley orders, shoving Dean toward Sam. “I’ve had enough of this. We told him to stay away, just do it!”
Crowley puts the blade in Dean’s hand.
Dean jerks upright, fingers tightening on the grip, and Sam’s heart sinks. He’s failed. He’s lost Dean to this darkness, and right now he doesn’t care if he lives or dies.
“Ohmygod, he’s gonna kill that man,” one of the women huddled at the back of the gym yells. “Somebody do something!”
It’s a futile plea, but it shakes Sam out of his resignation. There are other lives on the line here. He gets to his feet as Dean comes toward him, slowly raising the blade.
Sam’s eyes drop to the weapon like he’s magnetized, and his arm throbs hotly, the flesh stinging.
I want it, Sam thinks, and his arm burns. He pushes up his sleeve, rubbing frantically where it’s starting to feel like it’s on fire.
Dean’s eyes follow, and he pauses, looking uncertain.
“Do it,” Crowley orders, but Dean seems frozen, staring at Sam’s arm, the blade still raised.
Sam reaches out for the blade without thinking, instinct and a compulsion stronger than he’s ever felt telling him that he needs it. The pain in his arm redoubles and suddenly the exposed flesh of his forearm begins to glow, the unmistakable imprint of the mark appearing as the skin is seared away.
“No!” Crowley yells, but there’s no stopping it now.
Sam lurches forward and gets his hand around the handle of the blade, interlaces his fingers with his brother’s so they’re holding the weapon together.
“Sam,” Dean gasps, and the power swirls around them, tightens their grip until it’s ironclad, and they move as one. Toward Crowley.
The King of Hell looks shocked, backing up as the Winchesters come at him, their steps in unison, holding the blade before them.
“No,” Crowley says again. “It can’t be. It’s impossible.”
Sam finds his voice, amidst the throbbing in his arm and the insistent voice pounding in his ears. Kill, kill, kill.
“Not impossible. Not for soulmates,” he grits out, and Crowley’s face goes pale.
He disappears just as they bring the blade down, bone and teeth slicing through what is now empty air. The force of the assault brings them both to their knees, still clutching the blade.
“Let go,” Sam manages, trying to follow his own advice and loosen his grip on the blade. “Dean, we have to let it go,” he says again, prying one finger after another away, though it’s like pulling out his own teeth.
Dean is trembling, muscles locked tight.
“Dean, come on, let it go.”
Dean shakes his head slowly, the blade quaking in his hand.
Sam leans closer, lays his hand on top of his brother’s again. “Dean, let me share the burden.”
It’s an agonizing wait before Sam feels Dean’s grip slowly loosen. When the blade finally drops to the floor, Sam kicks it away from them.
“One of you,” he calls to the group of gaping people, “grab that and put it in a bag or something. Or wrap it in clothing, I don’t care, just cover it up. Hurry.”
The two women rush forward and cover the blade with a sweater. One of the men takes off his jacket and they wrap that around it, too.
Sam lets go of Dean long enough to get the back doors open, and they all spill out onto the loading dock.
“Come on, this way,” he urges, and they start to run, the man carrying the blade wrapped in his jacket. Dean lets Sam guide him outside, too, stumbling up the hill and down the driveway. Sam expects demons to come after them, but apparently the abrupt departure of their King has created enough confusion that they don’t follow. Sam leads the panicked group through the opening he’s found in the fence and they scatter, traumatized but alive.
The man carrying the blade is all too happy to hand it over, and Sam throws it in the trunk of the rental car he left parked nearby, still wrapped in the stranger’s jacket. He can feel its pull right through the denim. His fingers itch to unwrap it, pick it up, wield it like he’s supposed to.
Dean is silent as they drive, arms crossed in front of him. Sam knows he can feel it too, the lure of the blade, thrumming beneath his skin. He just hopes Dean will be strong enough to let him do what he knows he needs to—and that he can do it before the pull becomes too strong to fight.
Two hours later, they stop. They both know this place.
It was called Lookout Point when they were teenagers, Dean a randy eighteen and Sam fourteen and curious. The locals parked up here to make out, and Dean headed here every time Dad let him take the Impala. Once Sam stowed away in her backseat and peered out from beneath the blankets piled there once the car’s rumbling stopped. He could see the stars through the windshield, beyond the silhouettes of his brother and Mandy Jones kissing, the sky a clear blue-black and beyond a sheer drop to the Pacific crashing on the rocks below. Sam was fascinated by the way Mandy’s hands caressed Dean’s hair, running through the short strands that Sam knew were soft even with the hair gel Dean used to make them stand up on top. Fascinated by the way Dean put his hands on her face and tilted her mouth up to his, so careful and gentle.
Sam watched while Dean’s hands traveled down Mandy’s shoulders, then fumbled to the front of her shirt and slid under, and she moaned when he squeezed the swell of her breasts with both hands. Dean whispered, “Let me make you feel good,” and slid one hand lower, and Mandy gasped and said “Oh god, right there.” Sam nearly gasped, too, smothering the sound with the blanket just in time as Mandy made noise and the Impala’s leather seats creaked. When he dared to lift the blanket again, Mandy had disappeared, and it took Sam a second to realize that she had her head in Dean’s lap, and ohgod. Sam had never considered that he’d see his brother do this. This was real, this was sex. He stared, not even wanting to blink, as Dean’s head thunked back against the seat and he groaned and cursed, his voice breaking, and then he made that punched-out noise that Sam recognized from the hundreds of times he’d listened to Dean jerk off in the next bed. Sam came in his jeans that night, huddled under the blanket, cheeks burning with shame and arousal.
It seems fitting that they’re here now, and Sam is burning once again.
Dean follows when Sam gets out and opens the trunk.
“Sam,” he says, and his voice is gruff, strained. “What are you gonna do?”
“You know what. What we have to do.”
“But, Metatron. Gadreel. Crowley…”
Sam shakes his head. “Not this way. Too dangerous. Too much collateral damage. Don’t try to stop me, Dean.”
Dean stands still while Sam lifts the jacket and the blade from the trunk. The thrumming under his skin gets worse as he carries it to the edge of the cliff, like the blade has a life of its own, screaming out its insistence that it stay with its rightful owners. Sam keeps walking, ignoring the increasing pain, the burn of it, the desperation.
Behind him, he can hear Dean call out, and it’s the fear that Dean will change his mind that gives Sam the strength to actually do it. He hefts the bundle into the air, watches the jacket fall away and the blade shine in the moonlight as it arcs out over the sea and falls gracefully.
Sam waits, wishing he could hear the sound of the splash far below. Slowly, the burn in his arm fades to a dull ache instead of a blinding pain. Dean is standing beside him, looking out over the water.
“What the hell did you do, Sam?” he asks. He’s clutching his arm with one hand, covering the mark there.
“What I had to.”
* * *
Neither of them is the same. It’s not like Sam’s desperate act left them ordinary men. It’s not like the darkness they share has been cut down to nothing.
Dean’s eyes brighten slowly over the course of the next few days, but he remains cold and silent, going through the motions.
Sam doesn’t feel much better. He dreams about the blade, about picking it up and slicing Crowley’s throat, about hacking Gadreel’s head off and watching it roll away. It’s a little like the year he spent soulless, but worse—he feels now, but what he feels is dark and violent, every aggressive urge magnified, barely restrained by the empathy he’s desperately holding onto. The mark aches, and he needs to do something, but he doesn’t know what.
From the looks of it, Dean’s dreams are the same. He doesn’t sleep much, paces half the night and drinks whiskey like it’s water.
If this is what Dean has felt like for the past six months—if Dean has felt more than this—Sam’s not sure how his brother managed to stay sane.
On the third day, they go back to the mansion to pick up the Impala. Sam sneaks them in through one of the perimeter gaps. They’re vigilant for demons, but the house seems deserted, no sounds but the songbirds in the tall trees and the soft splashing of the fountains. It’s eerily peaceful, now that Crowley and his demons are gone. Dean gets behind the wheel and starts her with his spare key and she rumbles to life.
It’s the first time the corner of Dean’s mouth turns up—just a hint, but it’s there.
They drive north, and then east. Somewhere in Ohio, Dean pulls a tape from the glove box and pops it in. Sam has never been happier to hear a scratchy, imperfect version of ‘Renegade’ in his life.
“Hungry?” Dean asks a few hours later. It startles Sam so much he bumps his elbow painfully against the door handle. They’ve barely said a word to each other in almost a week. Sam can’t remember the last time Dean was hungry for anything other than revenge or alcohol.
“Yeah, I am.” He’s surprised to find that it’s true.
Dean glances over at Sam, assessing. Then he nods. “We’ll stop at the next diner.”
The simple familiarity of pulling into the gravel lot feels important. The red vinyl benches of the booth, the aromas of onions frying on an open grill and too-strong coffee. Dean across from him, sprawled carelessly with an arm up on the seat back as he grabs a menu. It’s overwhelming how good it all feels. Sam didn’t think he’d have this again; maybe there was a time when he didn’t think he wanted it. Those doubts are gone now, leaving a deep certainty that this is where he belongs, on the road with his brother.
“What?” Dean asks, and Sam realizes he’s been staring. “I got something on my face?”
Sam wants to laugh and say Yeah, that pretty mouth of yours, and I’d like to bite those lips redder. He’s surprised at the gut punch of his desire, a visceral longing unfurling deep and low, making his stomach growl with hunger. It’s hard to remember why he shouldn’t want his brother.
“So hungry you can’t even talk, Sammy?” Dean teases, but his own stare is too intense, like he’s trying to look through Sam instead of at him.
Sam clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is hoarse anyway. “I’m hungry.”
Neither of them looks away. Sam’s not sure what he’s saying, or what Dean’s hearing.
The mark burns, and Sam shifts in his seat, restless.
“Me, too,” Dean admits, and his smile is dark, dangerous.
A frisson of excitement slithers down Sam’s spine, leaves his stomach tense and fattens his dick in his jeans. All the reasons this is insane flash through his brain, but it’s like he’s watching the thoughts from far away. They’re disconnected from the heat pooling in his groin, the insistent rush of blood pounding through him. Sam can feel the mark throbbing, aching with an unsatisfied need. He wants to clasp Dean’s arm to his own again, press their flesh together right there where the mark is burning… and lower, where the rest of him wants Dean just as badly.
“I’m Elsa, what can I get you boys?”
The waitress is young and pretty, short skirt and great legs, her uniform tight to show off the kind of figure Dean invariably drools over. Dean’s eyes never leave Sam.
“Ham-and-cheese omelet, grits, hash browns, biscuit, and as much coffee as you can keep coming,” Dean says, and licks his lips.
Sam can feel the blush run up his neck, over his cheeks. The way Dean’s looking at him is infuriating. Exciting. He wants to lash out with his fists and make his brother bleed; he wants to put his mouth on Dean’s and taste it. It’s dizzying, how bad Sam wants it all.
“Uh, yeah, the same, but no hash browns or biscuit. Maybe some fruit, though, if you have it.” How he’s managing to order and sound totally normal when Dean is staring at him like that is beyond Sam’s understanding, but the waitress writes it down and walks away. If she shakes her head in disapproval, neither of them sees it. And Sam finds he doesn’t give a damn.
Elsa returns to fill their coffee cups, and Sam can’t force himself to pay enough attention to thank her. She huffs and walks away, and Sam sips his coffee without taking his eyes off his brother. Dean does the same.
Elsa comes back with their plates and puts them down without a word, apparently having gotten the message that they’re not interested in chatting. The vestiges of Sam’s rational side tell him he should be more polite.
Dean kicks him in the shin. “Stop thinking so much,” he orders, and starts shoveling omelet into his mouth.
They finish their breakfasts without much more conversation. Sam leaves a big tip because he remembers that he always does, but they leave the diner without a glance at Elsa—or anyone else.
It’s like Sam can’t see anything else when Dean’s close, can’t think about anything except how badly he wants to get even closer.
They turn the Impala toward Texas, where they last heard of Gadreel. Sam rolls down the window, hoping the evening breeze will cool the heat that’s threatening to consume him. The car is stifling, keeping him too close to his brother, and too far away.
“Hey, turn in,” Sam says close to midnight. “That’s as good a motel as any.”
When Dean doesn’t swerve quickly enough, Sam grabs the wheel, his hand falling on top of Dean’s.
The contact is like an electric shock, and they both recoil, the sudden burst of heat too much.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean swears, eyes wide.
“Turn in,” Sam chokes out, and it’s not just the mark that’s heated, it’s all of him. His cock is hard as nails, aching. A quick glance between Dean’s thighs tells him he’s not the only one.
“I think I—I feel like I need to touch you,” Sam says, because the impulse is too much, impossible to keep the words contained.
Dean visibly flinches, yanking the wheel to skid the Impala into the lot. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Sam. It’s the fucking mark. Just… just shut up, okay? We’ll get a room, you can take first shower.”
Sam huffs. “Like that’s gonna cool me down. It’s not on me, Dean, it’s in me—and it’s not gonna let go until we…”
“Shut up, Sam! We’ll figure it out, we’ll find a way. Shit, this is why you shouldn’t have done this.”
Dean turns off the engine but doesn’t get out. He’s got one hand in a death grip on the steering wheel like it’s anchoring him.
“You don’t want this,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. There’s no question what he’s talking about.
“It’s not just the mark.”
Dean doesn’t look at him. “Of course it’s the mark, Sam.”
“No, it’s not. Not just that. I’ve thought about this for a long time. Beat myself up about it, ran away to Stanford to get away from it. Felt sick about it. But now… it’s different now. I don’t feel that bad about it anymore. Actually, I don’t feel bad about it much at all.”
That gets Dean to dart a glance in Sam’s direction. “You’re actually telling me that you’ve thought about it. Before.”
Sam nods and shrugs. “Ever since I was old enough to know what sex was.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean swears. “You shouldn’t be telling me this, Sam, I can’t—I can’t keep…” He slams his other hand down hard against the wheel. The Impala shakes, springs protesting. “Goddammit, Sam, I can’t think straight anymore!”
“Then stop thinking,” Sam suggests, and dares to slide a hand across the bench seat, letting his fingers brush against his brother’s leg.
Dean jumps and gasps, then abruptly bangs his forehead against the wheel.
“If you’ve never thought about it, I’ll take that shower,” Sam offers, because maybe his instincts are wrong. Maybe this isn’t something Dean ever wanted, before. If it’s just the mark, maybe they need to stay away from each other. Just the thought of it makes Sam feel like he’s dying, knives twisting in his belly and his chest constricting painfully.
Dean keeps his head down. “Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it so much I should’ve stayed in hell.”
Sam lets his fingers brush the denim of Dean’s jeans lightly again, and Dean’s fingers re-clench around the wheel. “You still feel that way? Guilty?”
Dean shakes his head. “No. Can’t feel much of that anymore. Not since the mark.”
Sam’s fingers trail higher, slight pressure against the inside of Dean’s thigh, and the muscles there quiver.
“It’s gonna be like fireworks when I touch you for real,” Sam promises. He can feel the urge to push Dean down and take what he desperately wants like a physical thing, pounding in his blood. It feels impossible to ignore, impossible to damp down. There’s still a small voice telling him this is wrong, this is crazy, but Sam can barely hear it through the sound of his own racing heart.
Dean turns to look at him, eyes dark with desire. Sam knows the mark on Dean’s arm is burning for him; he knows the rest of Dean is on fire, too.
“You wanted me all this time,” Dean says finally. “I should beat the shit outta you for making us wait so long.” He’s smiling, but it’s dark, the thrum of power and violence running strong beneath the lust. Sam can feel the same darkness pulling at him, as insistent as the wanting.
“Oh yeah?” Sam raises his eyebrows and slides his hand higher, until his fingers just barely graze the outline of Dean’s dick, straining at his jeans. “Think you can take me? I don’t think so. Maybe it’s me who should take it outta your ass, never letting me know all this time. Making me think I was the only one.”
“Promises, promises,” Dean singsongs, and Sam wants to smack that smile right off his pretty face. It’s far from the first time he’s wanted to punch his brother, but he’s caught off guard by the suddenness of it, the intensity. He wonders what will happen if they do this, if the mark will push them into violence or pleasure and if either of them will be able to tell the difference.
Dean shoves Sam’s hand away, so abruptly that it hits the steering wheel, knuckles cracking against the plastic.
“Fucker!” Sam hisses, and manages to land a slap against Dean’s cheek. Dean’s breath whistles through his nose, but his grin doesn’t falter.
“Atta boy, Sammy,” he says, “Show me who’s boss.”
The words make the mark—and Sam’s cock—throb painfully.
“If you can,” Dean continues, smirking as he climbs out of the car.
Sam thinks he should be having second thoughts, or maybe freaking out. For more than a decade, he’s pushed this desire away, denied it and sublimated it and even forgotten it sometimes. Now that it’s clear it’s going to happen, he doesn’t feel anything but eager. Desperate. He rubs the mark simmering warm beneath his shirtsleeve and wonders how much of his lack of guilt is the mark and how much is knowing that Dean wants this too—has apparently wanted it as long as Sam has.
“I’ll grab the key,” Dean says, and Sam watches him swagger across the parking lot, the bow of his legs and the curve of his ass, the breadth of his strong shoulders. It’s the same view Sam had night after night in his bad dreams, but this is nothing like that. This isn’t Dean walking away; this is Dean coming back.
Heat curls in Sam’s belly, makes his fists clench. He wonders whether they’ll fight or fuck.
Dean comes back dangling the key and waggling his eyebrows, and he looks so stupidly sure of himself and so ridiculously sexy, and Sam has to be up against him then, crowds in behind him and presses Dean against the door. Dean’s heat bleeds into Sam’s chest, makes Sam push his hips forward and plaster himself against his brother.
“Get the fuck off me,” Dean growls as his head thumps against the door and he fumbles to get the key in the lock, but Sam can’t see for how horny he is.
Dean can’t go easy, though, of course he can’t. He’s itching for a fight as much as Sam is, jams an elbow into Sam’s stomach and knocks him a few steps back, enough for Dean to get the key in the lock and push open the door. They tumble through, dropping their duffels on the floor, and Sam has just enough presence of mind to kick the door closed before Dean is on him.
“Sonofabitch,” Dean growls, both hands fisted in Sam’s shirts, hauling him in and then slamming him back against the wall. Sam’s taller, but he’s forgotten how strong Dean is, solid muscle as he holds Sam there. “Tellin’ me we’re not brothers.”
There’s fire in Dean’s eyes, and not all of it is lust, and Sam thinks damn, it’s gonna be fight.
Sam gets his hands wrapped around Dean’s wrists, trying to keep him immobilized so he can’t slam Sam’s head into the wall again. He can feel the same fire licking through his veins, making him want to hurt Dean and fuck him senseless all at once. There are too many things unsaid between them, too many to fuck away and forget, and they both know it.
“You fucking put an angel inside of me, you bastard!” Sam yells. “After all those times you fucking knew I’d had every ounce of control taken away from me. Azazel and Meg and—Jesus, Dean, fucking Lucifer! How could you?”
Dean’s breathing hard, his face inches from Sam’s. He’s so close Sam can hardly see him, his eyes nearly black—with lust or rage or the power of the mark, Sam doesn’t know.
“I had to!” Dean roars, so loud that Sam can feel his eardrums ache. “You were gonna let yourself fucking die, Sam, and I had to—I had to try to save you. Don’t ask me not to, don’t you fucking ask me that! You always fucking leave me, Sam, you always fucking do.”
It’s an impasse they’ve been at before, but not like this. Not with adrenaline pumping hot through their veins, twisted up with violence and lust and love and hate, and Sam gives up on words. His hands dig into Dean’s wrists until he can see tears glisten in Dean’s eyes, but his brother doesn’t let go.
The pain from Sam’s grip and the way Dean’s still reeling from Sam’s condemnation is enough to give Sam a slight upper hand, though, and he takes it. A foot around Dean’s leg and Sam unbalances him; Dean goes down hard and Sam follows, still locked together. He’s heavy enough to knock the wind out of his brother, and Dean’s grip finally loosens as they hit the floor with a thud.
It’s all the advantage Sam needs. He pins Dean’s hands to the floor and sits on him, low enough on his hips that Dean can’t buck him off even when he does get his breath back. Sam gets one foot planted on Dean’s thigh to make sure, letting the toe of his boot dig in to keep him down.
Dean pants harshly, face red with anger. Sam wants to lean down and kiss the breath back into him, get his legs spread and keep him pinned down.
“Fucker,” Dean hisses, and tests the hold. Sam bears down on his wrists and his thigh until Dean stills.
“Lemme up,” Dean orders. Even on his back he’s bossy.
“Not until you listen to me,” Sam warns. “Besides, I like you like this, underneath me. I think you like it too.”
“Fuck you,” Dean growls, twisting as much as he can and kicking his free leg against the floor, though that doesn’t do much good.
They haven’t settled anything, but the red haze in Sam’s head is making it hard to think of anything but taketaketake and every time he looks at Dean beneath him he forgets what they’re fighting about. The mark throbs on his arm, and his dick is so hard it feels like he’s gonna bust out of his jeans.
“Not this time,” Sam says, and rips Dean’s shirt right down the middle. “You can have your turn later, though.”
Dean’s shocked into silence for a second, frozen long enough that Sam gets his belt and jeans undone, lifting up enough to tug them down Dean’s hips. Dean realizes his hands are free then and retaliates. He fights dirty, grabbing a fistful of Sam’s long hair and throwing him to the side while trying to get to his feet. Unfortunately for Dean, his jeans are tangled around his knees and his momentum only throws him off balance.
“Asshole!” Sam yells, the left side of his head on fire where it feels like Dean yanked out half his hair. He gets hold of Dean’s torn shirt and hauls him to the bed. Sam doesn’t free Dean from his jeans, since they’re doing an excellent job of keeping him right where Sam wants him. Instead, he pulls his own shirts over his head and shucks off his pants before climbing onto the bed. Dean is wriggling like a fish out of water, trying to get out of his jeans, but his boots are still on and he’s well and truly stuck. Sam would laugh if he weren’t so horny and furious.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Sam warns, and then he’s on top again, legs around Dean’s hips and fighting to get a grip on Dean’s madly batting hands.
Dean can’t manage more than frantic twisting, but one of his fists connects with Sam’s nose, and the burst of pain that floods Sam makes the world go even redder. There’s blood in his mouth, and the taste of it wipes out logical thought and leaves only a drive for violence more compelling than anything Sam has ever felt. He grabs Dean by one arm and rolls him, pinning him face down and yanking an arm roughly behind his back. Sam knows how to fight with his brother, how to hurt him just enough but not too much—they’ve been doing this all their lives. But the mark zings, crackling with energy, and it’s as audible as a voice in his head saying, “Do it do it do it, harder” and Sam nearly forgets himself and pulls too far, past the breaking point.
Dean sobs, muffled against the shitty bedspread, and the raw pain in his voice makes Sam stop at the last second and ease up.
“Stop fighting or we’re gonna hurt each other.”
Dean listens this time, going limp beneath him. It’s a good thing it’s midafternoon and the motel is pretty much deserted; with the mark’s influence riding them both, things could get really ugly if someone called the cops.
Sam scoots down lower, straddling Dean’s upper thighs, pausing for a moment to appreciate the picture Dean makes. The muscles in his pinned arm bulge with the strain, bunching at his shoulder, and at the end of the smooth slope of his spine his ass is bare -- pale and rounded, the backs of his strong thighs exposed. Sam brings his hand down on one cheek because it seems wrong to waste the opportunity, and Dean yelps and arches off the bed, renewing his struggles to kick out of his jeans. So Sam does it again, and again, months of anger making him impervious to the pain in his hand. The mark pulses with every blow, a hot, sweet pleasure that settles in Sam’s belly, warm with satisfaction and arousal.
Dean grunts with each smack. It’s good, but it’s not what Sam wants. It’s not what they need.
Dean’s ass is red when Sam stops, the imprint of Sam’s hand clear on the small of Dean’s back where one blow landed high. Both of Dean’s hands are fisted in the bedsheets. Sam wonders when he let go of Dean’s arm; how long Dean has been taking the spanking because he wanted it. Dean’s shoulders rise and fall with each gasping breath, his face turned to the side, eyes tightly closed.
“Open your eyes,” Sam says, breathing nearly as hard as Dean, and Dean does. His lashes are clumped, long and thick.
Sam runs a hand down his brother’s sweat-slick spine, and Dean shudders. He caresses the bright-pink flesh and Dean moans, Sam’s fingers stroking slow circles there, feeling the fiery heat.
Dean doesn’t move as Sam crawls down the bed to take off his brother’s boots and jeans; stays on his stomach and pants while he waits, and fuckfuckfuck Sam could come just from looking at him.
It’s a struggle to go slow. It’s not just the mark screaming for him to just take Dean now, force his way in and take what he desperately wants. Sam grips Dean’s slim hips instead and hauls him up. Dean goes willingly, getting to his hands and knees before Sam presses between his shoulder blades to put his face to the bed.
“Bitch,” Dean mutters, but he stays there, red ass in the air, hanging on to the bedspread like he might fly away if he doesn’t. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs.
When Sam licks a wet trail over one flaming buttock, Dean’s whole body seizes up and he gasps. The sound ripples through Sam like a physical touch. He dips his tongue between Dean’s pink cheeks, holding them apart with both hands, and Dean shakes as Sam works the tip of his tongue inside.
“God! Fuck!” Dean shouts, and Sam would grin if his lips weren’t busy. It’s a heady rush of power, doing this to his brother. Sam pulls him open and licks and bites and sucks until Dean’s wailing, loud and completely unashamed, wriggling and pushing his ass back against Sam’s face as he writhes desperately. The taste of him is dark, familiar but so much more intense, and Sam is more addicted to this than to the throb of power in his arm, the mark making its demands known.
He keeps going until Dean is reduced to sobbing, “Do it, please. Sam – Sammy -- please.”
The sound of his brother’s begging makes the mark zing, brings a hot flush to Sam’s arm that rushes down his whole body, makes his hips roll with a brutal stab of desire. He lets go long enough to grab the lube from his discarded duffel and pushes a finger in beside his tongue.
“More, more,” Dean pleads, and Sam knows his hands are big but Dean opens up for him, takes him deep and keens for it, and Sam wonders if Dean has done this before. A burst of red-hot jealousy rips through him at the thought, and he forces another finger in, rough with the need to claim. Dean cries out, arching his back, but he doesn’t pull away.
It’s the way Dean sounds, so desperate, that pushes Sam over the edge. He draws out his fingers and coats his dick, and just the touch of his own hand almost makes him blow. Dean is still begging when Sam anchors Dean’s hips with both hands and tries to push inside. Three tries before it works, and it doesn’t even look possible, but it’s happening and Sam couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Dean doesn’t ask him to go slow, just curses his way through it, swears and sobs muffled against the bedspread. Sam bottoms out and falls forward, collapsing against Dean’s back as he fights for control.
“Ready?” Dean growls through clenched teeth.
“Yeah,” Sam manages, just barely, the heat and clench of Dean’s body around him stealing his words, frying his brain. “So -- so good.”
He can feel Dean’s muscles tense and twitch around him, loosening just enough to let him move.
Dean is a mouthy fucker once they get going, cursing a blue streak and telling Sam to “C’mon, do it, yeah, give it to me, harder, c’mon,” goading him until Sam is pounding him so hard Dean’s head is slamming against the headboard.
“That all you got, Sammy?” Dean demands, grabbing the headboard to anchor them both.
It’s always been easier to shut Dean up with actions than words. Sam reaches around and grabs his brother’s dick, and sure enough, Dean’s reduced to incoherent moans as soon as Sam starts jacking him. He’s slick already, on the edge, and it only takes a minute before Dean yells and bucks and comes, his body seizing up around Sam’s cock, and that’s it for Sam too. The orgasm is so intense it feels unbearable, and Sam’s sure even his heart stops with the force of it, everything narrowed down to pure sensation.
Sam never wants it to end. Dean’s knees go out from under him with the force of his own climax and he rolls to the side, but Sam rolls with him, pushing his softening cock back inside where it’s so hot and slick and feels so good. Dean groans when he feels it, pliant as he lets Sam lift his leg to slide back in.
“Holy shit,” Dean says a few minutes later. He’s limp and sweaty, still panting. Sam’s running a hand over his flank, soothing the red skin there. There will be bruises, too, tomorrow.
The mark is quiet, thrumming with satisfaction like the rest of Sam’s body; sated. He wonders if it’s from the sex or the violence. Or both.
“You okay?”
Dean snorts. “Of course I’m okay, you think I can’t take a little rough sex?”
It sounds just like Dean, and the familiarity of it brings a burst of warmth that has nothing to do with the mark.
“No, I know you can,” Sam assures him. “Just making sure.”
“Insecure much?” Dean retorts, and Sam smiles against the nape of his brother’s neck. With Sam’s dick still halfway up him, Dean’s a smartass.
The need to fight and win that was so all-encompassing an hour ago has passed, though, and Sam shrugs. “Maybe. When it comes to you.”
Dean shifts then, and they both grunt when Sam slips free with a wet squelch. Dean twists to face Sam, and Sam is struck by the flush still on his cheeks, the swell of his lower lip from his own teeth.
“Why’d you do it?” Dean asks. His voice is gravelly; too much wailing and begging, Sam thinks, and his cock twitches with aftershock.
“What? Fuck you?”
Dean shakes his head. “You know what. Why’d you stop me? You’ve got it now, too.”
Sam wants to make a joke of it, say something stupid or mean to ruin the moment and get them back to more familiar footing. But Dean’s expression is dead serious, and Sam doesn’t know how long this quiet inside them both will last.
“You’re my brother,” he says, and it’s the answer. It always has been.
Dean blinks, and then closes his eyes. His lashes are still matted, dark against his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have. I just—“
Sam puts a finger against Dean’s swollen lip. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. I never meant I wouldn’t save you. I’ve said it before—there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I just don’t want you to make choices for me that I don’t want.”
Dean opens his eyes and bites the tip of Sam’s finger. “Didn’t stop you from making this choice for me,” he points out.
“Are you saying you’d rather be Crowley’s demon bitch forever?”
Dean makes a comically exaggerated disgusted face, then frowns. “No, but I didn’t want—I would never have chosen this for you, Sammy.”
“I know. But it was my choice this time.”
Dean shakes his head. “Stupid bastard.”
“You’re stuck with me now,” Sam says quietly. “It’s like you said once—we’ll keep each other human. Mostly.”
Dean tries to look angry with him, but it doesn’t quite work.
Sam smiles. “Tomorrow, Gadreel. And after that, Crowley.”
The mark on Sam’s arm begins to tingle. It’s not a burning like before; this is a slowly spreading warmth, like someone rubbed the hairs on his arm until they’re standing up with static electricity. Sam can see the raised skin glowing, a dark pink against the tan of his forearm. Dean’s staring at it, too, and when he moves, Sam can see the mark on his brother’s arm darkening and pulsing, like they’re calling to each other.
“Here,” Sam says, and lays his arm on top of his brother’s, the marks aligned. It’s not the electric shock they felt before; it’s like their bodies are melting together, the red lines complementary, a feedback loop of sensation running between them, pulsing like a living thing.
“Sleepy,” Dean mumbles, and his eyelids are already drooping. Sam thinks he’ll probably regret not cleaning up, but separating himself from his brother seems impossible, unthinkable.
The mark has made it more obvious, more physical. But Sam’s not kidding himself anymore. They were never meant to be parted – not by angels or demons or fate itself.
Sam twines his fingers with Dean’s and sleeps.
Author:
runedgirlArtist:
chomaiskyPairing:Sam/Dean, minor Dean/OFC and Dean/OMC
Rating:NC17
Dean is already there. Bands around both arms bind him to a pole; in one hand he holds the first blade in an iron grip. He’s agitated already, from holding the blade or being bound or both. He’s straining against the bonds, struggling as he tries to break free. His bare chest rises and falls quickly.
When the people tumble through the door, he doubles his efforts, growling and hissing and literally spitting in his rage.
The humans flee to the far end of the gym, some of them pounding desperately on the back doors while others stare at Dean, sobbing and hanging onto each other.
The bonds release suddenly, clearly triggered by someone outside the room, and Dean springs forward with a roar, the first blade raised as he runs across the gym. The people scream and scatter, the teenage kid knocked down in the melee and scrambling on his hands and knees trying to get away. Dean heads right for him, sensing the weakest prey just like they were taught.
Sam rips off the wig and glasses and throws himself in front of the boy only seconds before Dean gets there. He’s still on his knees when he reaches up to block the blade’s swing downward, so it catches the boy on the shoulder instead of taking off his head like Dean clearly intended.
“Stop it! Dean! Don’t!”
Sam just barely gets to his feet, fastens both hands around Dean’s forearm to block the next swing of the blade. He can feel the mark pulse hot under his fingers.
“Dean, they’re humans, you can’t kill them, do you hear me? They’re people, Dean—people!”
If Dean hears, he doesn’t give any indication. He tears his arm away from Sam’s grip and feints backwards, and Sam nearly loses his footing from the way he was leaning into his brother.
The teenager has scuttled away, though, so Sam counts it as a win. Until Dean’s boot catches him square in the stomach and he goes down hard, the breath knocked out of him. He rolls to the side just in time as the blade crashes down, and it hits the tile floor with a loud clatter. Dean goes down with it, roaring again as he tries to keep his grip on the handle. Sam ignores the burning in his chest that says he needs to stop and breathe, and fights his brother for the weapon.
That enrages Dean even more, and he manages to get to his feet, but this is life and death now and Sam won’t let go. His hold on the blade drags him upright with Dean, the two of them locked together with their hands wrapped around its handle. Dean is so focused on the blade that he doesn’t get out of the way fast enough when Sam kicks him in the shin, and then in the nuts, because life-and-death doesn’t allow for fighting rules. Dean’s face goes pale and he gasps, and Sam can feel his grip falter. It’s just the opening Sam needs, forcing both his hands beneath Dean’s and then throwing them wide. Dean’s hands fly open with Sam’s, and the blade clatters to the floor beneath them.
“Nooooo,” Dean howls, though he can’t completely straighten up yet and he’s clearly in agony. Sam kicks him in the crotch once more to give himself enough time, and Dean nearly falls, a strangled groan ripped from his throat as he claws at Sam blindly.
“Gimme your hand,” Sam orders, though he doesn’t think Dean can understand him and he has no illusion that Dean would obey in any case, but it helps him remember what he’s there for. He gets his left hand around Dean’s right forearm and clasps him tight where he can feel the raised flesh of the mark. Its searing heat burns into his flesh, and all Sam’s instincts tell him to let go, but he grits his teeth and hangs on.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It’s Crowley’s voice, but it sounds far away, the blood pounding in Sam’s ears in time with the throb of agony in his hand.
“You can’t take it from him, he’s not willing!” Crowley yells, but Sam hangs on, desperately hoping his theory is right and Cain wasn’t lying.
Dean has stopped fighting, stands unmoving and staring at Sam with those fucking black eyes. He’s shaking; Sam can feel the shudders running through him, but his fingers are wrapped as tightly around Sam’s forearm as Sam’s are around his own.
The pain is making it hard to speak, but Sam forces the words out. One sentence of Enochian, two in Latin.
“No,” Crowley yells. “You can’t, it won’t work, you can’t!”
But Sam is looking only at Dean, willing him to hear.
“Joined as one, I share the burden willingly,” Sam shouts, over Crowley’s protests and the screams of the terrified people and the shrieks of the equally fearful demons.
Dean’s mouth opens, his eyes wide. Sam doesn’t know if he understands, but he doesn’t let go. There’s a loud popping sound from above, the fluorescent lights exploding and shards of glass raining down on them like snowflakes. It’s nothing compared to the explosion of pain in Sam’s arm, though. Nothing compared to the roaring sound in his ears, like a thousand locomotives bearing down on them, like his eardrums are blowing just like those lights. Still, he hangs on, the fire brighter now beneath his skin, sparking white-hot as it travels down his arm, and Sam can smell his own flesh burning.
Dean gasps and jerks, only their clasped hands holding them together, and then as suddenly as it began, the fire burns itself out and throws them apart. Sam lands on his back on the gym floor, clutching his arm. Dean is ten feet away, lying on his side with his eyes closed.
“Dean!” Sam tries to get to him, but Crowley gets there first, pulling Dean roughly to his feet.
“Finish him!” Crowley orders, shoving Dean toward Sam. “I’ve had enough of this. We told him to stay away, just do it!”
Crowley puts the blade in Dean’s hand.
Dean jerks upright, fingers tightening on the grip, and Sam’s heart sinks. He’s failed. He’s lost Dean to this darkness, and right now he doesn’t care if he lives or dies.
“Ohmygod, he’s gonna kill that man,” one of the women huddled at the back of the gym yells. “Somebody do something!”
It’s a futile plea, but it shakes Sam out of his resignation. There are other lives on the line here. He gets to his feet as Dean comes toward him, slowly raising the blade.
Sam’s eyes drop to the weapon like he’s magnetized, and his arm throbs hotly, the flesh stinging.
I want it, Sam thinks, and his arm burns. He pushes up his sleeve, rubbing frantically where it’s starting to feel like it’s on fire.
Dean’s eyes follow, and he pauses, looking uncertain.
“Do it,” Crowley orders, but Dean seems frozen, staring at Sam’s arm, the blade still raised.
Sam reaches out for the blade without thinking, instinct and a compulsion stronger than he’s ever felt telling him that he needs it. The pain in his arm redoubles and suddenly the exposed flesh of his forearm begins to glow, the unmistakable imprint of the mark appearing as the skin is seared away.
“No!” Crowley yells, but there’s no stopping it now.
Sam lurches forward and gets his hand around the handle of the blade, interlaces his fingers with his brother’s so they’re holding the weapon together.
“Sam,” Dean gasps, and the power swirls around them, tightens their grip until it’s ironclad, and they move as one. Toward Crowley.
The King of Hell looks shocked, backing up as the Winchesters come at him, their steps in unison, holding the blade before them.
“No,” Crowley says again. “It can’t be. It’s impossible.”
Sam finds his voice, amidst the throbbing in his arm and the insistent voice pounding in his ears. Kill, kill, kill.
“Not impossible. Not for soulmates,” he grits out, and Crowley’s face goes pale.
He disappears just as they bring the blade down, bone and teeth slicing through what is now empty air. The force of the assault brings them both to their knees, still clutching the blade.
“Let go,” Sam manages, trying to follow his own advice and loosen his grip on the blade. “Dean, we have to let it go,” he says again, prying one finger after another away, though it’s like pulling out his own teeth.
Dean is trembling, muscles locked tight.
“Dean, come on, let it go.”
Dean shakes his head slowly, the blade quaking in his hand.
Sam leans closer, lays his hand on top of his brother’s again. “Dean, let me share the burden.”
It’s an agonizing wait before Sam feels Dean’s grip slowly loosen. When the blade finally drops to the floor, Sam kicks it away from them.
“One of you,” he calls to the group of gaping people, “grab that and put it in a bag or something. Or wrap it in clothing, I don’t care, just cover it up. Hurry.”
The two women rush forward and cover the blade with a sweater. One of the men takes off his jacket and they wrap that around it, too.
Sam lets go of Dean long enough to get the back doors open, and they all spill out onto the loading dock.
“Come on, this way,” he urges, and they start to run, the man carrying the blade wrapped in his jacket. Dean lets Sam guide him outside, too, stumbling up the hill and down the driveway. Sam expects demons to come after them, but apparently the abrupt departure of their King has created enough confusion that they don’t follow. Sam leads the panicked group through the opening he’s found in the fence and they scatter, traumatized but alive.
The man carrying the blade is all too happy to hand it over, and Sam throws it in the trunk of the rental car he left parked nearby, still wrapped in the stranger’s jacket. He can feel its pull right through the denim. His fingers itch to unwrap it, pick it up, wield it like he’s supposed to.
Dean is silent as they drive, arms crossed in front of him. Sam knows he can feel it too, the lure of the blade, thrumming beneath his skin. He just hopes Dean will be strong enough to let him do what he knows he needs to—and that he can do it before the pull becomes too strong to fight.
Two hours later, they stop. They both know this place.
It was called Lookout Point when they were teenagers, Dean a randy eighteen and Sam fourteen and curious. The locals parked up here to make out, and Dean headed here every time Dad let him take the Impala. Once Sam stowed away in her backseat and peered out from beneath the blankets piled there once the car’s rumbling stopped. He could see the stars through the windshield, beyond the silhouettes of his brother and Mandy Jones kissing, the sky a clear blue-black and beyond a sheer drop to the Pacific crashing on the rocks below. Sam was fascinated by the way Mandy’s hands caressed Dean’s hair, running through the short strands that Sam knew were soft even with the hair gel Dean used to make them stand up on top. Fascinated by the way Dean put his hands on her face and tilted her mouth up to his, so careful and gentle.
Sam watched while Dean’s hands traveled down Mandy’s shoulders, then fumbled to the front of her shirt and slid under, and she moaned when he squeezed the swell of her breasts with both hands. Dean whispered, “Let me make you feel good,” and slid one hand lower, and Mandy gasped and said “Oh god, right there.” Sam nearly gasped, too, smothering the sound with the blanket just in time as Mandy made noise and the Impala’s leather seats creaked. When he dared to lift the blanket again, Mandy had disappeared, and it took Sam a second to realize that she had her head in Dean’s lap, and ohgod. Sam had never considered that he’d see his brother do this. This was real, this was sex. He stared, not even wanting to blink, as Dean’s head thunked back against the seat and he groaned and cursed, his voice breaking, and then he made that punched-out noise that Sam recognized from the hundreds of times he’d listened to Dean jerk off in the next bed. Sam came in his jeans that night, huddled under the blanket, cheeks burning with shame and arousal.
It seems fitting that they’re here now, and Sam is burning once again.
Dean follows when Sam gets out and opens the trunk.
“Sam,” he says, and his voice is gruff, strained. “What are you gonna do?”
“You know what. What we have to do.”
“But, Metatron. Gadreel. Crowley…”
Sam shakes his head. “Not this way. Too dangerous. Too much collateral damage. Don’t try to stop me, Dean.”
Dean stands still while Sam lifts the jacket and the blade from the trunk. The thrumming under his skin gets worse as he carries it to the edge of the cliff, like the blade has a life of its own, screaming out its insistence that it stay with its rightful owners. Sam keeps walking, ignoring the increasing pain, the burn of it, the desperation.
Behind him, he can hear Dean call out, and it’s the fear that Dean will change his mind that gives Sam the strength to actually do it. He hefts the bundle into the air, watches the jacket fall away and the blade shine in the moonlight as it arcs out over the sea and falls gracefully.
Sam waits, wishing he could hear the sound of the splash far below. Slowly, the burn in his arm fades to a dull ache instead of a blinding pain. Dean is standing beside him, looking out over the water.
“What the hell did you do, Sam?” he asks. He’s clutching his arm with one hand, covering the mark there.
“What I had to.”
* * *
Neither of them is the same. It’s not like Sam’s desperate act left them ordinary men. It’s not like the darkness they share has been cut down to nothing.
Dean’s eyes brighten slowly over the course of the next few days, but he remains cold and silent, going through the motions.
Sam doesn’t feel much better. He dreams about the blade, about picking it up and slicing Crowley’s throat, about hacking Gadreel’s head off and watching it roll away. It’s a little like the year he spent soulless, but worse—he feels now, but what he feels is dark and violent, every aggressive urge magnified, barely restrained by the empathy he’s desperately holding onto. The mark aches, and he needs to do something, but he doesn’t know what.
From the looks of it, Dean’s dreams are the same. He doesn’t sleep much, paces half the night and drinks whiskey like it’s water.
If this is what Dean has felt like for the past six months—if Dean has felt more than this—Sam’s not sure how his brother managed to stay sane.
On the third day, they go back to the mansion to pick up the Impala. Sam sneaks them in through one of the perimeter gaps. They’re vigilant for demons, but the house seems deserted, no sounds but the songbirds in the tall trees and the soft splashing of the fountains. It’s eerily peaceful, now that Crowley and his demons are gone. Dean gets behind the wheel and starts her with his spare key and she rumbles to life.
It’s the first time the corner of Dean’s mouth turns up—just a hint, but it’s there.
They drive north, and then east. Somewhere in Ohio, Dean pulls a tape from the glove box and pops it in. Sam has never been happier to hear a scratchy, imperfect version of ‘Renegade’ in his life.
“Hungry?” Dean asks a few hours later. It startles Sam so much he bumps his elbow painfully against the door handle. They’ve barely said a word to each other in almost a week. Sam can’t remember the last time Dean was hungry for anything other than revenge or alcohol.
“Yeah, I am.” He’s surprised to find that it’s true.
Dean glances over at Sam, assessing. Then he nods. “We’ll stop at the next diner.”
The simple familiarity of pulling into the gravel lot feels important. The red vinyl benches of the booth, the aromas of onions frying on an open grill and too-strong coffee. Dean across from him, sprawled carelessly with an arm up on the seat back as he grabs a menu. It’s overwhelming how good it all feels. Sam didn’t think he’d have this again; maybe there was a time when he didn’t think he wanted it. Those doubts are gone now, leaving a deep certainty that this is where he belongs, on the road with his brother.
“What?” Dean asks, and Sam realizes he’s been staring. “I got something on my face?”
Sam wants to laugh and say Yeah, that pretty mouth of yours, and I’d like to bite those lips redder. He’s surprised at the gut punch of his desire, a visceral longing unfurling deep and low, making his stomach growl with hunger. It’s hard to remember why he shouldn’t want his brother.
“So hungry you can’t even talk, Sammy?” Dean teases, but his own stare is too intense, like he’s trying to look through Sam instead of at him.
Sam clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is hoarse anyway. “I’m hungry.”
Neither of them looks away. Sam’s not sure what he’s saying, or what Dean’s hearing.
The mark burns, and Sam shifts in his seat, restless.
“Me, too,” Dean admits, and his smile is dark, dangerous.
A frisson of excitement slithers down Sam’s spine, leaves his stomach tense and fattens his dick in his jeans. All the reasons this is insane flash through his brain, but it’s like he’s watching the thoughts from far away. They’re disconnected from the heat pooling in his groin, the insistent rush of blood pounding through him. Sam can feel the mark throbbing, aching with an unsatisfied need. He wants to clasp Dean’s arm to his own again, press their flesh together right there where the mark is burning… and lower, where the rest of him wants Dean just as badly.
“I’m Elsa, what can I get you boys?”
The waitress is young and pretty, short skirt and great legs, her uniform tight to show off the kind of figure Dean invariably drools over. Dean’s eyes never leave Sam.
“Ham-and-cheese omelet, grits, hash browns, biscuit, and as much coffee as you can keep coming,” Dean says, and licks his lips.
Sam can feel the blush run up his neck, over his cheeks. The way Dean’s looking at him is infuriating. Exciting. He wants to lash out with his fists and make his brother bleed; he wants to put his mouth on Dean’s and taste it. It’s dizzying, how bad Sam wants it all.
“Uh, yeah, the same, but no hash browns or biscuit. Maybe some fruit, though, if you have it.” How he’s managing to order and sound totally normal when Dean is staring at him like that is beyond Sam’s understanding, but the waitress writes it down and walks away. If she shakes her head in disapproval, neither of them sees it. And Sam finds he doesn’t give a damn.
Elsa returns to fill their coffee cups, and Sam can’t force himself to pay enough attention to thank her. She huffs and walks away, and Sam sips his coffee without taking his eyes off his brother. Dean does the same.
Elsa comes back with their plates and puts them down without a word, apparently having gotten the message that they’re not interested in chatting. The vestiges of Sam’s rational side tell him he should be more polite.
Dean kicks him in the shin. “Stop thinking so much,” he orders, and starts shoveling omelet into his mouth.
They finish their breakfasts without much more conversation. Sam leaves a big tip because he remembers that he always does, but they leave the diner without a glance at Elsa—or anyone else.
It’s like Sam can’t see anything else when Dean’s close, can’t think about anything except how badly he wants to get even closer.
They turn the Impala toward Texas, where they last heard of Gadreel. Sam rolls down the window, hoping the evening breeze will cool the heat that’s threatening to consume him. The car is stifling, keeping him too close to his brother, and too far away.
“Hey, turn in,” Sam says close to midnight. “That’s as good a motel as any.”
When Dean doesn’t swerve quickly enough, Sam grabs the wheel, his hand falling on top of Dean’s.
The contact is like an electric shock, and they both recoil, the sudden burst of heat too much.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean swears, eyes wide.
“Turn in,” Sam chokes out, and it’s not just the mark that’s heated, it’s all of him. His cock is hard as nails, aching. A quick glance between Dean’s thighs tells him he’s not the only one.
“I think I—I feel like I need to touch you,” Sam says, because the impulse is too much, impossible to keep the words contained.
Dean visibly flinches, yanking the wheel to skid the Impala into the lot. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Sam. It’s the fucking mark. Just… just shut up, okay? We’ll get a room, you can take first shower.”
Sam huffs. “Like that’s gonna cool me down. It’s not on me, Dean, it’s in me—and it’s not gonna let go until we…”
“Shut up, Sam! We’ll figure it out, we’ll find a way. Shit, this is why you shouldn’t have done this.”
Dean turns off the engine but doesn’t get out. He’s got one hand in a death grip on the steering wheel like it’s anchoring him.
“You don’t want this,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. There’s no question what he’s talking about.
“It’s not just the mark.”
Dean doesn’t look at him. “Of course it’s the mark, Sam.”
“No, it’s not. Not just that. I’ve thought about this for a long time. Beat myself up about it, ran away to Stanford to get away from it. Felt sick about it. But now… it’s different now. I don’t feel that bad about it anymore. Actually, I don’t feel bad about it much at all.”
That gets Dean to dart a glance in Sam’s direction. “You’re actually telling me that you’ve thought about it. Before.”
Sam nods and shrugs. “Ever since I was old enough to know what sex was.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean swears. “You shouldn’t be telling me this, Sam, I can’t—I can’t keep…” He slams his other hand down hard against the wheel. The Impala shakes, springs protesting. “Goddammit, Sam, I can’t think straight anymore!”
“Then stop thinking,” Sam suggests, and dares to slide a hand across the bench seat, letting his fingers brush against his brother’s leg.
Dean jumps and gasps, then abruptly bangs his forehead against the wheel.
“If you’ve never thought about it, I’ll take that shower,” Sam offers, because maybe his instincts are wrong. Maybe this isn’t something Dean ever wanted, before. If it’s just the mark, maybe they need to stay away from each other. Just the thought of it makes Sam feel like he’s dying, knives twisting in his belly and his chest constricting painfully.
Dean keeps his head down. “Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it so much I should’ve stayed in hell.”
Sam lets his fingers brush the denim of Dean’s jeans lightly again, and Dean’s fingers re-clench around the wheel. “You still feel that way? Guilty?”
Dean shakes his head. “No. Can’t feel much of that anymore. Not since the mark.”
Sam’s fingers trail higher, slight pressure against the inside of Dean’s thigh, and the muscles there quiver.
“It’s gonna be like fireworks when I touch you for real,” Sam promises. He can feel the urge to push Dean down and take what he desperately wants like a physical thing, pounding in his blood. It feels impossible to ignore, impossible to damp down. There’s still a small voice telling him this is wrong, this is crazy, but Sam can barely hear it through the sound of his own racing heart.
Dean turns to look at him, eyes dark with desire. Sam knows the mark on Dean’s arm is burning for him; he knows the rest of Dean is on fire, too.
“You wanted me all this time,” Dean says finally. “I should beat the shit outta you for making us wait so long.” He’s smiling, but it’s dark, the thrum of power and violence running strong beneath the lust. Sam can feel the same darkness pulling at him, as insistent as the wanting.
“Oh yeah?” Sam raises his eyebrows and slides his hand higher, until his fingers just barely graze the outline of Dean’s dick, straining at his jeans. “Think you can take me? I don’t think so. Maybe it’s me who should take it outta your ass, never letting me know all this time. Making me think I was the only one.”
“Promises, promises,” Dean singsongs, and Sam wants to smack that smile right off his pretty face. It’s far from the first time he’s wanted to punch his brother, but he’s caught off guard by the suddenness of it, the intensity. He wonders what will happen if they do this, if the mark will push them into violence or pleasure and if either of them will be able to tell the difference.
Dean shoves Sam’s hand away, so abruptly that it hits the steering wheel, knuckles cracking against the plastic.
“Fucker!” Sam hisses, and manages to land a slap against Dean’s cheek. Dean’s breath whistles through his nose, but his grin doesn’t falter.
“Atta boy, Sammy,” he says, “Show me who’s boss.”
The words make the mark—and Sam’s cock—throb painfully.
“If you can,” Dean continues, smirking as he climbs out of the car.
Sam thinks he should be having second thoughts, or maybe freaking out. For more than a decade, he’s pushed this desire away, denied it and sublimated it and even forgotten it sometimes. Now that it’s clear it’s going to happen, he doesn’t feel anything but eager. Desperate. He rubs the mark simmering warm beneath his shirtsleeve and wonders how much of his lack of guilt is the mark and how much is knowing that Dean wants this too—has apparently wanted it as long as Sam has.
“I’ll grab the key,” Dean says, and Sam watches him swagger across the parking lot, the bow of his legs and the curve of his ass, the breadth of his strong shoulders. It’s the same view Sam had night after night in his bad dreams, but this is nothing like that. This isn’t Dean walking away; this is Dean coming back.
Heat curls in Sam’s belly, makes his fists clench. He wonders whether they’ll fight or fuck.
Dean comes back dangling the key and waggling his eyebrows, and he looks so stupidly sure of himself and so ridiculously sexy, and Sam has to be up against him then, crowds in behind him and presses Dean against the door. Dean’s heat bleeds into Sam’s chest, makes Sam push his hips forward and plaster himself against his brother.
“Get the fuck off me,” Dean growls as his head thumps against the door and he fumbles to get the key in the lock, but Sam can’t see for how horny he is.
Dean can’t go easy, though, of course he can’t. He’s itching for a fight as much as Sam is, jams an elbow into Sam’s stomach and knocks him a few steps back, enough for Dean to get the key in the lock and push open the door. They tumble through, dropping their duffels on the floor, and Sam has just enough presence of mind to kick the door closed before Dean is on him.
“Sonofabitch,” Dean growls, both hands fisted in Sam’s shirts, hauling him in and then slamming him back against the wall. Sam’s taller, but he’s forgotten how strong Dean is, solid muscle as he holds Sam there. “Tellin’ me we’re not brothers.”
There’s fire in Dean’s eyes, and not all of it is lust, and Sam thinks damn, it’s gonna be fight.
Sam gets his hands wrapped around Dean’s wrists, trying to keep him immobilized so he can’t slam Sam’s head into the wall again. He can feel the same fire licking through his veins, making him want to hurt Dean and fuck him senseless all at once. There are too many things unsaid between them, too many to fuck away and forget, and they both know it.
“You fucking put an angel inside of me, you bastard!” Sam yells. “After all those times you fucking knew I’d had every ounce of control taken away from me. Azazel and Meg and—Jesus, Dean, fucking Lucifer! How could you?”
Dean’s breathing hard, his face inches from Sam’s. He’s so close Sam can hardly see him, his eyes nearly black—with lust or rage or the power of the mark, Sam doesn’t know.
“I had to!” Dean roars, so loud that Sam can feel his eardrums ache. “You were gonna let yourself fucking die, Sam, and I had to—I had to try to save you. Don’t ask me not to, don’t you fucking ask me that! You always fucking leave me, Sam, you always fucking do.”
It’s an impasse they’ve been at before, but not like this. Not with adrenaline pumping hot through their veins, twisted up with violence and lust and love and hate, and Sam gives up on words. His hands dig into Dean’s wrists until he can see tears glisten in Dean’s eyes, but his brother doesn’t let go.
The pain from Sam’s grip and the way Dean’s still reeling from Sam’s condemnation is enough to give Sam a slight upper hand, though, and he takes it. A foot around Dean’s leg and Sam unbalances him; Dean goes down hard and Sam follows, still locked together. He’s heavy enough to knock the wind out of his brother, and Dean’s grip finally loosens as they hit the floor with a thud.
It’s all the advantage Sam needs. He pins Dean’s hands to the floor and sits on him, low enough on his hips that Dean can’t buck him off even when he does get his breath back. Sam gets one foot planted on Dean’s thigh to make sure, letting the toe of his boot dig in to keep him down.
Dean pants harshly, face red with anger. Sam wants to lean down and kiss the breath back into him, get his legs spread and keep him pinned down.
“Fucker,” Dean hisses, and tests the hold. Sam bears down on his wrists and his thigh until Dean stills.
“Lemme up,” Dean orders. Even on his back he’s bossy.
“Not until you listen to me,” Sam warns. “Besides, I like you like this, underneath me. I think you like it too.”
“Fuck you,” Dean growls, twisting as much as he can and kicking his free leg against the floor, though that doesn’t do much good.
They haven’t settled anything, but the red haze in Sam’s head is making it hard to think of anything but taketaketake and every time he looks at Dean beneath him he forgets what they’re fighting about. The mark throbs on his arm, and his dick is so hard it feels like he’s gonna bust out of his jeans.
“Not this time,” Sam says, and rips Dean’s shirt right down the middle. “You can have your turn later, though.”
Dean’s shocked into silence for a second, frozen long enough that Sam gets his belt and jeans undone, lifting up enough to tug them down Dean’s hips. Dean realizes his hands are free then and retaliates. He fights dirty, grabbing a fistful of Sam’s long hair and throwing him to the side while trying to get to his feet. Unfortunately for Dean, his jeans are tangled around his knees and his momentum only throws him off balance.
“Asshole!” Sam yells, the left side of his head on fire where it feels like Dean yanked out half his hair. He gets hold of Dean’s torn shirt and hauls him to the bed. Sam doesn’t free Dean from his jeans, since they’re doing an excellent job of keeping him right where Sam wants him. Instead, he pulls his own shirts over his head and shucks off his pants before climbing onto the bed. Dean is wriggling like a fish out of water, trying to get out of his jeans, but his boots are still on and he’s well and truly stuck. Sam would laugh if he weren’t so horny and furious.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Sam warns, and then he’s on top again, legs around Dean’s hips and fighting to get a grip on Dean’s madly batting hands.
Dean can’t manage more than frantic twisting, but one of his fists connects with Sam’s nose, and the burst of pain that floods Sam makes the world go even redder. There’s blood in his mouth, and the taste of it wipes out logical thought and leaves only a drive for violence more compelling than anything Sam has ever felt. He grabs Dean by one arm and rolls him, pinning him face down and yanking an arm roughly behind his back. Sam knows how to fight with his brother, how to hurt him just enough but not too much—they’ve been doing this all their lives. But the mark zings, crackling with energy, and it’s as audible as a voice in his head saying, “Do it do it do it, harder” and Sam nearly forgets himself and pulls too far, past the breaking point.
Dean sobs, muffled against the shitty bedspread, and the raw pain in his voice makes Sam stop at the last second and ease up.
“Stop fighting or we’re gonna hurt each other.”
Dean listens this time, going limp beneath him. It’s a good thing it’s midafternoon and the motel is pretty much deserted; with the mark’s influence riding them both, things could get really ugly if someone called the cops.
Sam scoots down lower, straddling Dean’s upper thighs, pausing for a moment to appreciate the picture Dean makes. The muscles in his pinned arm bulge with the strain, bunching at his shoulder, and at the end of the smooth slope of his spine his ass is bare -- pale and rounded, the backs of his strong thighs exposed. Sam brings his hand down on one cheek because it seems wrong to waste the opportunity, and Dean yelps and arches off the bed, renewing his struggles to kick out of his jeans. So Sam does it again, and again, months of anger making him impervious to the pain in his hand. The mark pulses with every blow, a hot, sweet pleasure that settles in Sam’s belly, warm with satisfaction and arousal.
Dean grunts with each smack. It’s good, but it’s not what Sam wants. It’s not what they need.
Dean’s ass is red when Sam stops, the imprint of Sam’s hand clear on the small of Dean’s back where one blow landed high. Both of Dean’s hands are fisted in the bedsheets. Sam wonders when he let go of Dean’s arm; how long Dean has been taking the spanking because he wanted it. Dean’s shoulders rise and fall with each gasping breath, his face turned to the side, eyes tightly closed.
“Open your eyes,” Sam says, breathing nearly as hard as Dean, and Dean does. His lashes are clumped, long and thick.
Sam runs a hand down his brother’s sweat-slick spine, and Dean shudders. He caresses the bright-pink flesh and Dean moans, Sam’s fingers stroking slow circles there, feeling the fiery heat.
Dean doesn’t move as Sam crawls down the bed to take off his brother’s boots and jeans; stays on his stomach and pants while he waits, and fuckfuckfuck Sam could come just from looking at him.
It’s a struggle to go slow. It’s not just the mark screaming for him to just take Dean now, force his way in and take what he desperately wants. Sam grips Dean’s slim hips instead and hauls him up. Dean goes willingly, getting to his hands and knees before Sam presses between his shoulder blades to put his face to the bed.
“Bitch,” Dean mutters, but he stays there, red ass in the air, hanging on to the bedspread like he might fly away if he doesn’t. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs.
When Sam licks a wet trail over one flaming buttock, Dean’s whole body seizes up and he gasps. The sound ripples through Sam like a physical touch. He dips his tongue between Dean’s pink cheeks, holding them apart with both hands, and Dean shakes as Sam works the tip of his tongue inside.
“God! Fuck!” Dean shouts, and Sam would grin if his lips weren’t busy. It’s a heady rush of power, doing this to his brother. Sam pulls him open and licks and bites and sucks until Dean’s wailing, loud and completely unashamed, wriggling and pushing his ass back against Sam’s face as he writhes desperately. The taste of him is dark, familiar but so much more intense, and Sam is more addicted to this than to the throb of power in his arm, the mark making its demands known.
He keeps going until Dean is reduced to sobbing, “Do it, please. Sam – Sammy -- please.”
The sound of his brother’s begging makes the mark zing, brings a hot flush to Sam’s arm that rushes down his whole body, makes his hips roll with a brutal stab of desire. He lets go long enough to grab the lube from his discarded duffel and pushes a finger in beside his tongue.
“More, more,” Dean pleads, and Sam knows his hands are big but Dean opens up for him, takes him deep and keens for it, and Sam wonders if Dean has done this before. A burst of red-hot jealousy rips through him at the thought, and he forces another finger in, rough with the need to claim. Dean cries out, arching his back, but he doesn’t pull away.
It’s the way Dean sounds, so desperate, that pushes Sam over the edge. He draws out his fingers and coats his dick, and just the touch of his own hand almost makes him blow. Dean is still begging when Sam anchors Dean’s hips with both hands and tries to push inside. Three tries before it works, and it doesn’t even look possible, but it’s happening and Sam couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Dean doesn’t ask him to go slow, just curses his way through it, swears and sobs muffled against the bedspread. Sam bottoms out and falls forward, collapsing against Dean’s back as he fights for control.
“Ready?” Dean growls through clenched teeth.
“Yeah,” Sam manages, just barely, the heat and clench of Dean’s body around him stealing his words, frying his brain. “So -- so good.”
He can feel Dean’s muscles tense and twitch around him, loosening just enough to let him move.
Dean is a mouthy fucker once they get going, cursing a blue streak and telling Sam to “C’mon, do it, yeah, give it to me, harder, c’mon,” goading him until Sam is pounding him so hard Dean’s head is slamming against the headboard.
“That all you got, Sammy?” Dean demands, grabbing the headboard to anchor them both.
It’s always been easier to shut Dean up with actions than words. Sam reaches around and grabs his brother’s dick, and sure enough, Dean’s reduced to incoherent moans as soon as Sam starts jacking him. He’s slick already, on the edge, and it only takes a minute before Dean yells and bucks and comes, his body seizing up around Sam’s cock, and that’s it for Sam too. The orgasm is so intense it feels unbearable, and Sam’s sure even his heart stops with the force of it, everything narrowed down to pure sensation.
Sam never wants it to end. Dean’s knees go out from under him with the force of his own climax and he rolls to the side, but Sam rolls with him, pushing his softening cock back inside where it’s so hot and slick and feels so good. Dean groans when he feels it, pliant as he lets Sam lift his leg to slide back in.
“Holy shit,” Dean says a few minutes later. He’s limp and sweaty, still panting. Sam’s running a hand over his flank, soothing the red skin there. There will be bruises, too, tomorrow.
The mark is quiet, thrumming with satisfaction like the rest of Sam’s body; sated. He wonders if it’s from the sex or the violence. Or both.
“You okay?”
Dean snorts. “Of course I’m okay, you think I can’t take a little rough sex?”
It sounds just like Dean, and the familiarity of it brings a burst of warmth that has nothing to do with the mark.
“No, I know you can,” Sam assures him. “Just making sure.”
“Insecure much?” Dean retorts, and Sam smiles against the nape of his brother’s neck. With Sam’s dick still halfway up him, Dean’s a smartass.
The need to fight and win that was so all-encompassing an hour ago has passed, though, and Sam shrugs. “Maybe. When it comes to you.”
Dean shifts then, and they both grunt when Sam slips free with a wet squelch. Dean twists to face Sam, and Sam is struck by the flush still on his cheeks, the swell of his lower lip from his own teeth.
“Why’d you do it?” Dean asks. His voice is gravelly; too much wailing and begging, Sam thinks, and his cock twitches with aftershock.
“What? Fuck you?”
Dean shakes his head. “You know what. Why’d you stop me? You’ve got it now, too.”
Sam wants to make a joke of it, say something stupid or mean to ruin the moment and get them back to more familiar footing. But Dean’s expression is dead serious, and Sam doesn’t know how long this quiet inside them both will last.
“You’re my brother,” he says, and it’s the answer. It always has been.
Dean blinks, and then closes his eyes. His lashes are still matted, dark against his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have. I just—“
Sam puts a finger against Dean’s swollen lip. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. I never meant I wouldn’t save you. I’ve said it before—there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I just don’t want you to make choices for me that I don’t want.”
Dean opens his eyes and bites the tip of Sam’s finger. “Didn’t stop you from making this choice for me,” he points out.
“Are you saying you’d rather be Crowley’s demon bitch forever?”
Dean makes a comically exaggerated disgusted face, then frowns. “No, but I didn’t want—I would never have chosen this for you, Sammy.”
“I know. But it was my choice this time.”
Dean shakes his head. “Stupid bastard.”
“You’re stuck with me now,” Sam says quietly. “It’s like you said once—we’ll keep each other human. Mostly.”
Dean tries to look angry with him, but it doesn’t quite work.
Sam smiles. “Tomorrow, Gadreel. And after that, Crowley.”
The mark on Sam’s arm begins to tingle. It’s not a burning like before; this is a slowly spreading warmth, like someone rubbed the hairs on his arm until they’re standing up with static electricity. Sam can see the raised skin glowing, a dark pink against the tan of his forearm. Dean’s staring at it, too, and when he moves, Sam can see the mark on his brother’s arm darkening and pulsing, like they’re calling to each other.
“Here,” Sam says, and lays his arm on top of his brother’s, the marks aligned. It’s not the electric shock they felt before; it’s like their bodies are melting together, the red lines complementary, a feedback loop of sensation running between them, pulsing like a living thing.
“Sleepy,” Dean mumbles, and his eyelids are already drooping. Sam thinks he’ll probably regret not cleaning up, but separating himself from his brother seems impossible, unthinkable.
The mark has made it more obvious, more physical. But Sam’s not kidding himself anymore. They were never meant to be parted – not by angels or demons or fate itself.
Sam twines his fingers with Dean’s and sleeps.
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Date: 2014-08-15 02:52 am (UTC)