![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlTitle: Five Times the Winchesters Pretended They Didn’t, and One Time That Didn’t Work
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:risowator
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 11,500
Sometimes, when Dean was feeling particularly down, he let himself think about that night. About the way Sam tasted; the noises he made when Dean ran his tongue across his teeth; the way his cock jerked hard when Dean sucked on his bottom lip; the way he shuddered when Dean tugged on his hair. Sometimes he thought about the look on Sam’s face after; the shy smile tinged with sadness when he said “Old news” and talked about feelings. Dean wouldn’t have been brave enough to do that, though he knew it was at least as true for him as it was for Sam.
Truth is, Dean had only been shocked for a second when Sam kissed him. There was a moment before Sam leaned down when it felt inevitable, when the air was so charged between them that not doing something seemed like the impossible choice. He wanted to say he felt guilty, that it had felt wrong, but that was a lie.
He never considered staying.
Dean fell in love with Cassie and Sam fell in love with Jessica, and if they loved each other, too, that was just the way things were. Neither of them talked about it when Dad went missing and Sam’s dreams of normal went up in smoke, and Dean chalked it up to Sam's teenage hormones and too much alcohol and counted his blessings that he was lucky enough to have it once. It was more than he figured he deserved.
Three years back on the road with his brother and Dean hadn’t thought about it more than a handful of times, when he was hurt or drunk or sure that Sam was about to walk out the door and Dean dared to think crazy thoughts about what might keep him there.
His feelings for Sam were so well hidden, it was surprising that the Siren pulled them out of him so quickly and accurately. He hadn’t realized how much he still longed for Sam’s affection and admiration; it was shocking to feel those emotions from the Siren, as heady a rush as those long-ago days at the beach, when Sam had been so loving. Before Stanford, before Ruby, before everything had gone so wrong between them.
“And it wasn’t some bitch in a G-string. It was you.”
The words still rang in Dean’s ears after the poison was out of his system. The rest of it had been a lie, but not that.
“You okay?” Sam asked, when Bobby had taken off and they were back at the motel.
“I’ll live.” His ribs ached from Sam’s fists; there was a thick, red cut across Sam’s throat from Dean’s knife.
“You think we would’ve done it, if Bobby hadn’t…”
“What, killed each other? That was the point, yeah.”
Sam sat down heavily on the side of one of the beds.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I should’ve figured it out sooner; I shouldn’t have been distracted…”
“Forget it,” Dean said, though he was having trouble following his own advice. “Just another monster with a fucked-up plan. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you, either.”
For a Winchester, it was pretty close to an apology.
Sam nodded and pulled off his boots. Dean threw off his jacket and pulled his shirts over his head.
“Was it true, what he said? That what you wanted was me?”
Dean was suddenly very tired. “He was a monster, Sam.”
“But that part was true, wasn’t it?”
When Dean didn’t answer, Sam kept talking.
“It was true for me, too. We wanted each other and he used it against us.”
Dean wasn’t as surprised as he should have been to find out that Sam hadn’t forgotten about that night at Stanford, either. He wasn’t surprised when Sam crawled into the twin bed with him and pressed against his back, or when one of Sam’s hands snaked around his waist and flattened against his stomach.
Dean shivered.
“We almost killed each other tonight,” Sam said, and he was so close his breath raised the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “I just wanna show you that’s not how I feel,” he whispered. “I want you to know.”
Dean laced his fingers with Sam’s and pulled Sam’s arm tighter around himself. He was trembling, wanting too much. The Siren had seen it; Sam could, too.
“It’s okay,” Sam said, and kissed Dean at the nape of his neck, then again, until goosebumps raced up and down Dean’s arms and his stomach swooped with excitement.
He could feel the muscles flex in Sam’s arms, and he thought about how they looked, round and firm and strong. Those strong arms were around him now, possessive as Sam kissed down over his shoulders and his hand slid up under Dean’s T-shirt. Dean couldn’t help gasping at that, and Sam chuckled, muttered “Sensitive,” with his mouth pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades. Sam’s big fingers pinched one of Dean’s nipples until it stiffened, pleasure zinging from his chest straight down to his dick. It was so good, he thought he might die from it; Sam’s hands on him, Sam’s cock hard against his ass. Dean thought about what it would be like to have Sam in him, and wondered if he wanted that; if he wanted all of it, everything he could have of Sam.
Sam turned him over, demanding, kissing Dean until his head spun, until he couldn’t breathe with how good it was. This time it was Sam’s tongue in his mouth, insistent and rough; a man’s kiss, not a boy’s. Dean ran his hands over Sam’s cheeks, cradled his face and felt the prickle of stubble there and thought, Yes, I want it; I want it all. Just this once.
“There’s lube in my jeans,” Dean said, muffled against Sam’s mouth, and Sam pulled back a few inches to stare. Saliva snapped between them, and it made Dean’s dick jerk in his shorts.
“Seriously? You want to…” Sam asked, and Dean felt a blush heat his cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the heat and need in his belly. The Siren hadn’t known the half of it.
“Yeah,” he said, because Sam probably needed to hear it, and then he pushed Sam off him to get the stuff himself.
It was a sloppy process, both of them too eager, so Dean rolled onto his belly and spread his legs and just let Sam get him ready.
“God,” Sam said, and Dean pictured what Sam’s fingers looked like holding a gun or rescuing a child, and thought about how those long fingers were inside him now.
“This is so fucking hot,” Sam said, probably because he thought Dean needed to hear it, but Dean was gone, already drunk on this much intimacy, this much Sam.
Sam fucked him on his back, face to face so they could kiss again, Dean’s legs wrapped around his brother, one hand clenched in Sam’s long hair. The burn staved off his climax and Dean was glad, wanting it to last, but Sam’s hips pumped faster and faster, his tongue in Dean’s mouth and his hands on Dean’s shoulders and his cock so deep inside that Dean could feel it everywhere, and all too soon Sam grunted and tensed and stopped kissing him, and raised his head just enough that Dean got to watch him come, eyes dark and face slack with pleasure.
Dean stripped his own cock as Sam came down, and when Sam wrapped his bigger hand around Dean’s, Dean’s climax hit him hard, striping his own belly as he groaned and closed his eyes because he knew Sam was watching.
In the morning, Dean said, “We’re not talking about it” before Sam could say anything different. He blamed it on the Siren and the fucked-up aftereffects of the combination of poison and adrenaline. Sam made a face, but he didn’t bring it up again.
It didn’t change anything, not really. Dean went to hell and Sam got himself addicted to demon blood, and then Sam leapt into Lucifer’s cage. There was Lisa, and then there was Amelia, and then there was Crowley and Dean lost the humanity that made him think fucking his brother was a bad idea.
“You know you can’t hide from me forever, little brother.”
Sam ducked into one of the bunker’s many bedrooms, listening to the demon’s—his brother’s—singsonged taunts. It was only a matter of time before the demon found him; that much was true.
He didn’t expect it to be in the next 30 seconds, as the door flew open and Dean slammed him up against the wall without any restraint. Sam’s head hit hard and he struggled to catch his breath with Dean’s forearm pressed to his windpipe.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean said, with a predator’s smile, and licked his lips.
Sam wondered if this was it, if after so many years of being killed and almost killed by too many monsters to count, that his actual death would be at the hands of the one person he trusted. They had just gotten back to being brothers again, for a few unguarded moments in that warehouse before Dean slipped away from him, and God, Sam wanted that chance.
“Don’t,” he choked out, and Dean eased up just enough that Sam could draw in a gasping breath.
“Don’t worry, little brother. I’m not gonna kill you. Not unless you misbehave.”
Sam thought that just about everything he planned to do if he got free would count under the demon’s definition of misbehavior, but he didn’t say anything.
“That’s not why I came after you.”
“I came after you,” Sam corrected, because it was true; he’d been looking for Dean ever since his brother’s body disappeared. Had misbehaved plenty trying to get him back, in fact.
“Potato, potahto,” Dean singsonged, and leaned in closer. So close their thighs were pressed tight, and Sam could barely hold Dean’s gaze without his vision blurring.
Dean sniffed audibly, then smiled again. “Mmm, smell so good, Sammy. Can smell the fear on you, but that’s not all, is it?”
Sam was suddenly certain that this was going places he hadn’t expected. Leave it to Dean to refuse to talk about their mutual attraction of the past two decades and then want to act on it the moment he’s demonic. He gritted his teeth and refused to answer.
Dean was unconcerned. “Oh no, that’s not all. There’s lust there, too, isn’t there, little brother? You don’t want to feel it, not right now, but it’s always there. You think I didn’t know? That I can’t see it on your face sometimes, the way you look at me?”
“The way I look at Dean,” Sam corrected, but the demon just chuckled.
“I am Dean,” he insisted, and rocked his hips against Sam’s. He was half hard in his jeans already; Sam could feel it. His own body reacted even as he recoiled.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Dean said, and Sam’s ability to breathe was abruptly cut off again while Dean moved against him obscenely, rubbing against him like a big cat.
“You want it as much as I do, Sam,” the demon whispered, nosing behind Sam’s ear until goosebumps raised the fine hairs there and Sam shivered.
“I do,” Sam rasped against the arm across his throat. “From him, not you.”
It felt strangely liberating to say it out loud; to have Dean hear it.
“Take what you can get, Sammy,” Dean said, and pulled Sam’s hand to his crotch, guiding it up and down the stiff length of his trapped erection. Sense memory assaulted Sam; the feel of Dean’s dick in his hand, slick with come, twitching with aftershocks. He groaned, and Dean let him go to lean in for a kiss. It wasn’t what Sam was expecting.
He kissed back without thinking, Dean’s hands tangled in his hair tugging him even closer. Sam let Dean get their pants unzipped; let him get a hand around their cocks. He wanted to keep going, wanted to push Dean down and get inside him.
It was playing dirty to push the demon into the trap when he was too close to orgasm to realize what was happening, and Sam had a moment of regret as his brother’s face stared up at him from the floor with a look of betrayal. Then his eyes went black and his mouth went foul, and Sam didn’t care that Dean was hard and desperate and wanting. He walked away and jerked off in the bathroom, the demon’s angry shouts echoing down the hallway.
They both pretended that one didn’t happen.
The night Dean fell into the open grave and broke his leg, he’d been arguing with Sam about stupid shit. Sam thought they should hunt a little less, take it easy a little more. “Haven’t we earned some rest?” he’d ask, and Dean would hear, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to do this with you anymore.”
So Dean would say no and Sam would huff and drop it for a while. That had been going on for about a decade. Sam hadn’t left, but Dean remained convinced that it was only a matter of time.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam swore when he pulled Dean out of the grave and threw the kerosene and salt in. He lit a few matches and tossed them down, and Dean was in too much pain to wish he’d been able to do it instead. When Dean looked up, Sam was staring at Dean’s leg.
“That’s a bad fucking break,” he said, and Dean thought, No shit. And then, Oh, shit. I’ll be laid up, useless. Time for Sam to go.
“I’ve had worse.” Dean shrugged, though his stomach was rolling from the pain. He fought down the nausea and attempted a cocky smile.
“No, you haven’t,” Sam said, and leaned down to give him a hand up.
Dean fell against him, dizzy, and Sam slung an arm around his shoulders. Sam was still strong, his shoulders broad and capable. Dean let himself lean in, feeling the warmth of Sam’s chest against his side as they walked slowly back to the car. Every slight jar of his leg was agony.
Sam laid him out on the back seat of the Impala, and Dean thought of a time a million years ago, Dad at the wheel and Dean on the back seat and his busted ankle propped up on some towels Sammy had folded for him. He thought of the way Sam had taken care of him then, and the way Sam’s fingers had felt on his thigh; the hungry look in Sam’s eyes that day.
“You okay?”
Dean shook off the memory. “Peachy.”
“Good,” Sam said, “because I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Dean’s protests fell on deaf ears, and Sam threatened to help him nowhere if it wasn’t into the ER.
“My brother,” Sam answered when the intake nurse asked who the patient was, and Dean thought he’d never get tired of hearing Sam say that.
Sam gloated afterwards, when it turned out Dean needed surgery for the compound fracture. The hospital kept him overnight, and Sam slept in the car and then hovered, asking Dean a thousand times if he needed more water or if Sam should go get him coffee. It was a relief to be discharged the next day and back in the Impala, and Dean frankly didn’t care where they went as long as he was with Sam.
“Here, let me help you,” Sam said when they stopped at a motel, as Dean tried to get his pants off over the cast. Then he went right on helping, unbuttoning Dean’s shirt and slipping that off his shoulders, too. Dean was too startled to protest, and Sam didn’t seem to notice that there was nothing wrong with his arms.
“Here you go,” Sam said, turning down the sheets and blankets of the bed farthest from the door. Dean noticed, of course he did; that was Sam’s bed, always had been.
“Come on, lie down,” Sam urged, and Dean did.
Sam propped his cast up on all the folded towels and adjusted the temperature in the room, then turned on the television and gave Dean the remote.
“I’m gonna go out and get some food and fill these prescriptions, okay?”
Dean nodded.
“You sure you’re okay? You look a little shell-shocked.” Sam’s brow furrowed.
Dean wanted to say, “I don’t know what you’re doing; I don’t know why you’re doing this for me,” but it sounded stupid even to him, so he just nodded again.
Sam came back with all Dean’s favorites and some really good painkillers, and Dean spent the next few days in a haze of I-can’t-feel-a-thing and Sammy-is-taking-care-of-me bliss. Sam wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom by himself; insisted on walking him there so he didn’t fall. Sam got them coffee and doughnuts that were still warm every morning, from someplace he said wasn’t too far away. Sam let Dean have the remote all day and all night, and didn’t grumble at all when Dean wanted to watch the Back To The Future marathon or Ghostbusters for the fiftieth time.
Dean waited for the other shoe to drop.
When it happened, it wasn’t the shoe he expected.
“So,” Sam said, a week later. He cleared his throat, and Dean’s blood ran cold so quickly he barely suppressed a shudder. Here it comes, he thought. He’s had it with me.
“I did something.”
“Um. Okay,” Dean said, because he knew what was coming. Sam re-enrolled in Stanford. Sam met a girl. Sam…
“I rented us a house.”
“It’s okay,” Dean began, and then his brain caught up to his ears and he dropped the doughnut he was holding. “Wait, you what?”
Sam sighed. “Look, I know I didn’t ask you, because I knew you’d say no, but you’re in no shape to go back to hunting right now and frankly I’ve been wanting a rest, so if you don’t like it that’s too bad, it’s already done. You can leave if you want, I guess, but I’d really like you to stay there. With me.”
“What?” Dean repeated, because the meds were making his brain fuzzy and he was sure Sam couldn’t be saying what it sounded like.
Sam sat down on the side of the bed and scrubbed a hand through his long hair. Dean wondered when Sam would grow up and cut it, and then secretly hoped that time wasn’t coming any time soon.
“Look, Dean, I know you’ve been opposed to settling down, but man, it’s true. We do deserve it. At least for a while. It’s only a rental.”
“But settling down… There’s no girl there with you, Sam. It’s not—that’s not settling down.”
Sam’s eyes got wide and he looked at Dean like he had three heads. “Seriously? That’s your definition of settling down? Pretty limited, don’t you think?”
“What?” Dean said again.
Sam narrowed his eyes and he suddenly looked pissed off. “Is that what you think? That every time I talk about settling down, it means I’m gonna find a woman to settle down with me? What, you think I need someone to cook and clean or something? How sexist can you be, Dean?”
Dean frowned. “No, that’s not why; I just… I mean, you settled down with Jess… and with Amelia…”
Sam ran his hand through his hair again, but he looked less angry.
“That was a long time ago. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but neither of us has been on a date in like five years, Dean. Maybe more.”
“What?” This time Dean was more shocked than confused. That couldn’t be true. “No way.”
“Way,” Sam insisted, and then he put a hand on Dean’s thigh, right above where the cast ended.
Dean couldn’t even manage a “What?” that time.
Sam’s fingers were gentle as he stroked slow circles on the bare skin of Dean’s thigh. The pads of his fingers caught in the fine hairs there.
“You think I still want someone other than you,” Sam said softly, without meeting Dean’s eyes. “After all this time, you still don’t believe it. How I feel about you.”
“Sam,” Dean whispered shakily, and he closed his eyes because it was too much. Too much to take in; too much after a week of Sam’s gentle hands and the tenderness in his expression every time he looked at Dean.
“Just think about it, please?” Sam asked, and Dean missed Sam’s hand on his leg the moment he took it away.
“Yeah, okay,” he said the next day. “For a little while, okay.”
Sam’s smile made his stomach flip so violently that he would have had to sit down if he hadn’t already been lying in bed with his foot propped up.
They moved in two days later. The house had a fucking white picket fence, and a little garden at the base of the front porch where some straggly flowers were attempting to grow. Sam went to the Home Depot like a million times that first week, and by the time he pronounced Dean well enough to come outside and sit in one of the weathered wooden rockers on the porch, the garden was abloom with a riot of different kinds of flowers in a rainbow of colors. Who knew Sam was a closet gardener?
“I like taking care of you, you know,” Sam said a few nights later, when Dean was lying on the couch with his foot up watching So You Think You Can Dance. He handed Dean a plate of homemade stew, which had way too many vegetables but smelled delicious anyway. Sam learned to cook as quickly as he’d learned to handle a gun, Dean thought with a burst of pride. “Thanks for letting me do it for a while.”
Dean shrugged, like it had been a real burden. “Just till I’m back on my feet.”
“Of course,” Sam agreed, and sat down on the end of the couch. He put the pillows that had been propping up Dean’s feet on the floor and put Dean’s feet on his lap instead.
“This okay?”
Dean sighed, put upon. He hid the blush rising on his cheeks behind the steaming plate of stew. “Whatever.”
He thought about it all night, when he should have been sleeping. Sam admitting it, like it was a secret. Like he was having as hard a time believing it as Dean himself. But it was out there now, in words that Dean could poke at and replay and ponder over. Sam liked taking care of him. Sam wanted to settle down… with him. Sam had talked more about serious shit in the past month than they had in the past four decades, and Dean’s head was still messed up about it all.
The cast came off four days before Dean’s birthday. They celebrated by going out to a restaurant in town, where Dean had one of the best steaks he’d ever tasted and drank some expensive wine that the waiter insisted was the perfect “pairing,” and Sam gushed about the fancy chicken-and-quinoa thing he’d ordered and drank less than Dean since he was driving. Dean was flushed with alcohol and good food and hours spent with Sam smiling across from him, and when Sam settled him on the couch and then followed him right down he didn’t push back fast enough, reflexes dulled with drink and contentment.
Sam straddled him easily with those mile-long legs and leaned in for a kiss, and Dean opened up for it without thinking, emotion bursting hot in his chest at the feel of Sam on top of him, of Sam licking into him hungrily.
“Mmmm,” Sam hummed against his mouth, one of his hands in Dean’s hair where it had grown out a bit. His other hand was already up under Dean’s dress shirt, and Dean’s stomach lurched with sudden arousal when Sam’s fingers brushed his nipples.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, like he approved of the way they pebbled and went taut as he pinched them. His other hand slid down the side of Dean’s face, palmed his jaw and tilted Dean up for a better angle to the kiss. It was claiming now, rougher, Sam’s tongue in his mouth and then Sam’s teeth worrying Dean’s bottom lip.
Dean didn’t have it in him to stop; knew he didn’t want to. Sam pulled back to kiss his jaw, down his throat, scraping with his teeth and then putting his wet mouth to Dean’s skin, until Dean was shivering.
“Wanna take care of you,” Sam muttered, fingers urgent as he unbuttoned Dean's shirt and parted the cotton, his tongue laving a trail down the center of Dean’s chest and stabbing into his navel, and the words went straight to Dean’s dick like some crazy aphrodisiac.
Sam mouthed over the bulge in Dean’s dress slacks, and Dean could feel the moist heat of Sam’s breath right through the cotton. His dick leapt, wet in his shorts, and Sam used his teeth to massage it through the trousers, bobbing his head up and down while Dean bit his lip and tried not to cry out from the pleasure.
“Can I?” Sam asked, and Dean said “God yes,” and got his hands on Sam’s head, tangled in his long hair, as Sam fumbled open his belt and button; slowly slid down his zipper.
“Just lay back and let me take care of you,” Sam ordered, and then he sank down on Dean’s cock, one hand wrapped around the length he couldn’t take.
Sam’s sucking my cock, Dean thought, and the words nearly pushed him over the edge. He clenched his fingers in Sam’s hair and hung on, and Sam sensed his desperation and eased off for a minute. He leaned down and planted a kiss on the pink tip of Dean’s dick, like he loved it, like he fucking loved doing this, and Dean slammed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see that. He knew he couldn’t keep control watching Sam do that.
“Lift up,” Sam said, and helped Dean lift his hips. Sam slid a pillow under him and then pushed him back down, Dean’s bad leg safely on the couch but his other foot braced on the floor so Sam could get between his legs.
Dean’s face was hot, even though Sam had fucked him before all those years ago, had seen all of him.
“Okay,” Sam said, and started licking Dean’s balls and over his hole, and Dean covered his face and tried not to fall apart every time Sam made little whimpers and moans that told Dean how much he was enjoying this.
His arousal burned so hot he felt on fire with it, his thighs shaking with the effort of not thrusting up, his stomach muscles clenching desperately as his body tried to come.
“Sam,” he begged, “Please, God, please,” and Sam chuckled right up against the cleft of his ass where he was wet and sticky and open, and slid one finger in.
“Sam!” Dean shouted, and that was it; he was grabbing for his own dick because there was no going back now.
Sam’s hand got there first, slicking up and down and over in a perfect rhythm that catapulted Dean right into fucking paradise.
He was too blissed-out after to realize that Sam was kneeling beside the couch stripping his own dick until it was almost too late; he reached out just in time to brush his fingers over the fat head of Sam’s cock before Sam grunted and came right into Dean’s hand.
“Fuck,” Sam cursed when he finally came down. “Thanks.”
“I think that’s my line,” Dean said. He felt like he might never leave the couch again.
Sam cleaned them both up and they watched something stupid on television and Dean couldn’t think about anything except how good he felt and what Sam’s face looked like when he came.
The last of the guests file out the door, smiles and 'Thanks for the great party' as they go.
Sam's hand is on his shoulder, big and warm.
“Did you hear me, Dean? I said, this is the last time we’re going to pretend that nothing happened.”
Carly and her mom are the last to leave, turning back to wave goodbye. Dean slips the latch on the door, then turns to face his brother.
“I said, I know. Something wrong with your ears, Sam?”
Dean’s teasing. His eyes are sparkling, too green. A little alcohol always does that to him; brightens his eyes until the green is unnatural, a contrast to his flushed cheeks.
“Yeah, I did, but I know you; you can change your mind and—“
Dean’s mouth pressed tightly to Sam’s stops the rest of his sentence.
Sam mmphs in surprise and then kisses back.
Dean pulls away a few moments later, but his arms are around Sam’s shoulders, his face too close. He’s smiling.
“Are you sure you really want to talk? I can think of a lot better things to do… in our house.”
Better late than never, Sam thinks as Dean kisses him again.
Author:
runedgirlArtist:
risowatorPairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word count: 11,500
Sometimes, when Dean was feeling particularly down, he let himself think about that night. About the way Sam tasted; the noises he made when Dean ran his tongue across his teeth; the way his cock jerked hard when Dean sucked on his bottom lip; the way he shuddered when Dean tugged on his hair. Sometimes he thought about the look on Sam’s face after; the shy smile tinged with sadness when he said “Old news” and talked about feelings. Dean wouldn’t have been brave enough to do that, though he knew it was at least as true for him as it was for Sam.
Truth is, Dean had only been shocked for a second when Sam kissed him. There was a moment before Sam leaned down when it felt inevitable, when the air was so charged between them that not doing something seemed like the impossible choice. He wanted to say he felt guilty, that it had felt wrong, but that was a lie.
He never considered staying.
Dean fell in love with Cassie and Sam fell in love with Jessica, and if they loved each other, too, that was just the way things were. Neither of them talked about it when Dad went missing and Sam’s dreams of normal went up in smoke, and Dean chalked it up to Sam's teenage hormones and too much alcohol and counted his blessings that he was lucky enough to have it once. It was more than he figured he deserved.
Three years back on the road with his brother and Dean hadn’t thought about it more than a handful of times, when he was hurt or drunk or sure that Sam was about to walk out the door and Dean dared to think crazy thoughts about what might keep him there.
His feelings for Sam were so well hidden, it was surprising that the Siren pulled them out of him so quickly and accurately. He hadn’t realized how much he still longed for Sam’s affection and admiration; it was shocking to feel those emotions from the Siren, as heady a rush as those long-ago days at the beach, when Sam had been so loving. Before Stanford, before Ruby, before everything had gone so wrong between them.
“And it wasn’t some bitch in a G-string. It was you.”
The words still rang in Dean’s ears after the poison was out of his system. The rest of it had been a lie, but not that.
“You okay?” Sam asked, when Bobby had taken off and they were back at the motel.
“I’ll live.” His ribs ached from Sam’s fists; there was a thick, red cut across Sam’s throat from Dean’s knife.
“You think we would’ve done it, if Bobby hadn’t…”
“What, killed each other? That was the point, yeah.”
Sam sat down heavily on the side of one of the beds.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I should’ve figured it out sooner; I shouldn’t have been distracted…”
“Forget it,” Dean said, though he was having trouble following his own advice. “Just another monster with a fucked-up plan. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you, either.”
For a Winchester, it was pretty close to an apology.
Sam nodded and pulled off his boots. Dean threw off his jacket and pulled his shirts over his head.
“Was it true, what he said? That what you wanted was me?”
Dean was suddenly very tired. “He was a monster, Sam.”
“But that part was true, wasn’t it?”
When Dean didn’t answer, Sam kept talking.
“It was true for me, too. We wanted each other and he used it against us.”
Dean wasn’t as surprised as he should have been to find out that Sam hadn’t forgotten about that night at Stanford, either. He wasn’t surprised when Sam crawled into the twin bed with him and pressed against his back, or when one of Sam’s hands snaked around his waist and flattened against his stomach.
Dean shivered.
“We almost killed each other tonight,” Sam said, and he was so close his breath raised the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “I just wanna show you that’s not how I feel,” he whispered. “I want you to know.”
Dean laced his fingers with Sam’s and pulled Sam’s arm tighter around himself. He was trembling, wanting too much. The Siren had seen it; Sam could, too.
“It’s okay,” Sam said, and kissed Dean at the nape of his neck, then again, until goosebumps raced up and down Dean’s arms and his stomach swooped with excitement.
He could feel the muscles flex in Sam’s arms, and he thought about how they looked, round and firm and strong. Those strong arms were around him now, possessive as Sam kissed down over his shoulders and his hand slid up under Dean’s T-shirt. Dean couldn’t help gasping at that, and Sam chuckled, muttered “Sensitive,” with his mouth pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades. Sam’s big fingers pinched one of Dean’s nipples until it stiffened, pleasure zinging from his chest straight down to his dick. It was so good, he thought he might die from it; Sam’s hands on him, Sam’s cock hard against his ass. Dean thought about what it would be like to have Sam in him, and wondered if he wanted that; if he wanted all of it, everything he could have of Sam.
Sam turned him over, demanding, kissing Dean until his head spun, until he couldn’t breathe with how good it was. This time it was Sam’s tongue in his mouth, insistent and rough; a man’s kiss, not a boy’s. Dean ran his hands over Sam’s cheeks, cradled his face and felt the prickle of stubble there and thought, Yes, I want it; I want it all. Just this once.
“There’s lube in my jeans,” Dean said, muffled against Sam’s mouth, and Sam pulled back a few inches to stare. Saliva snapped between them, and it made Dean’s dick jerk in his shorts.
“Seriously? You want to…” Sam asked, and Dean felt a blush heat his cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the heat and need in his belly. The Siren hadn’t known the half of it.
“Yeah,” he said, because Sam probably needed to hear it, and then he pushed Sam off him to get the stuff himself.
It was a sloppy process, both of them too eager, so Dean rolled onto his belly and spread his legs and just let Sam get him ready.
“God,” Sam said, and Dean pictured what Sam’s fingers looked like holding a gun or rescuing a child, and thought about how those long fingers were inside him now.
“This is so fucking hot,” Sam said, probably because he thought Dean needed to hear it, but Dean was gone, already drunk on this much intimacy, this much Sam.
Sam fucked him on his back, face to face so they could kiss again, Dean’s legs wrapped around his brother, one hand clenched in Sam’s long hair. The burn staved off his climax and Dean was glad, wanting it to last, but Sam’s hips pumped faster and faster, his tongue in Dean’s mouth and his hands on Dean’s shoulders and his cock so deep inside that Dean could feel it everywhere, and all too soon Sam grunted and tensed and stopped kissing him, and raised his head just enough that Dean got to watch him come, eyes dark and face slack with pleasure.
Dean stripped his own cock as Sam came down, and when Sam wrapped his bigger hand around Dean’s, Dean’s climax hit him hard, striping his own belly as he groaned and closed his eyes because he knew Sam was watching.
In the morning, Dean said, “We’re not talking about it” before Sam could say anything different. He blamed it on the Siren and the fucked-up aftereffects of the combination of poison and adrenaline. Sam made a face, but he didn’t bring it up again.
It didn’t change anything, not really. Dean went to hell and Sam got himself addicted to demon blood, and then Sam leapt into Lucifer’s cage. There was Lisa, and then there was Amelia, and then there was Crowley and Dean lost the humanity that made him think fucking his brother was a bad idea.
“You know you can’t hide from me forever, little brother.”
Sam ducked into one of the bunker’s many bedrooms, listening to the demon’s—his brother’s—singsonged taunts. It was only a matter of time before the demon found him; that much was true.
He didn’t expect it to be in the next 30 seconds, as the door flew open and Dean slammed him up against the wall without any restraint. Sam’s head hit hard and he struggled to catch his breath with Dean’s forearm pressed to his windpipe.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean said, with a predator’s smile, and licked his lips.
Sam wondered if this was it, if after so many years of being killed and almost killed by too many monsters to count, that his actual death would be at the hands of the one person he trusted. They had just gotten back to being brothers again, for a few unguarded moments in that warehouse before Dean slipped away from him, and God, Sam wanted that chance.
“Don’t,” he choked out, and Dean eased up just enough that Sam could draw in a gasping breath.
“Don’t worry, little brother. I’m not gonna kill you. Not unless you misbehave.”
Sam thought that just about everything he planned to do if he got free would count under the demon’s definition of misbehavior, but he didn’t say anything.
“That’s not why I came after you.”
“I came after you,” Sam corrected, because it was true; he’d been looking for Dean ever since his brother’s body disappeared. Had misbehaved plenty trying to get him back, in fact.
“Potato, potahto,” Dean singsonged, and leaned in closer. So close their thighs were pressed tight, and Sam could barely hold Dean’s gaze without his vision blurring.
Dean sniffed audibly, then smiled again. “Mmm, smell so good, Sammy. Can smell the fear on you, but that’s not all, is it?”
Sam was suddenly certain that this was going places he hadn’t expected. Leave it to Dean to refuse to talk about their mutual attraction of the past two decades and then want to act on it the moment he’s demonic. He gritted his teeth and refused to answer.
Dean was unconcerned. “Oh no, that’s not all. There’s lust there, too, isn’t there, little brother? You don’t want to feel it, not right now, but it’s always there. You think I didn’t know? That I can’t see it on your face sometimes, the way you look at me?”
“The way I look at Dean,” Sam corrected, but the demon just chuckled.
“I am Dean,” he insisted, and rocked his hips against Sam’s. He was half hard in his jeans already; Sam could feel it. His own body reacted even as he recoiled.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Dean said, and Sam’s ability to breathe was abruptly cut off again while Dean moved against him obscenely, rubbing against him like a big cat.
“You want it as much as I do, Sam,” the demon whispered, nosing behind Sam’s ear until goosebumps raised the fine hairs there and Sam shivered.
“I do,” Sam rasped against the arm across his throat. “From him, not you.”
It felt strangely liberating to say it out loud; to have Dean hear it.
“Take what you can get, Sammy,” Dean said, and pulled Sam’s hand to his crotch, guiding it up and down the stiff length of his trapped erection. Sense memory assaulted Sam; the feel of Dean’s dick in his hand, slick with come, twitching with aftershocks. He groaned, and Dean let him go to lean in for a kiss. It wasn’t what Sam was expecting.
He kissed back without thinking, Dean’s hands tangled in his hair tugging him even closer. Sam let Dean get their pants unzipped; let him get a hand around their cocks. He wanted to keep going, wanted to push Dean down and get inside him.
It was playing dirty to push the demon into the trap when he was too close to orgasm to realize what was happening, and Sam had a moment of regret as his brother’s face stared up at him from the floor with a look of betrayal. Then his eyes went black and his mouth went foul, and Sam didn’t care that Dean was hard and desperate and wanting. He walked away and jerked off in the bathroom, the demon’s angry shouts echoing down the hallway.
They both pretended that one didn’t happen.
The night Dean fell into the open grave and broke his leg, he’d been arguing with Sam about stupid shit. Sam thought they should hunt a little less, take it easy a little more. “Haven’t we earned some rest?” he’d ask, and Dean would hear, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to do this with you anymore.”
So Dean would say no and Sam would huff and drop it for a while. That had been going on for about a decade. Sam hadn’t left, but Dean remained convinced that it was only a matter of time.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam swore when he pulled Dean out of the grave and threw the kerosene and salt in. He lit a few matches and tossed them down, and Dean was in too much pain to wish he’d been able to do it instead. When Dean looked up, Sam was staring at Dean’s leg.
“That’s a bad fucking break,” he said, and Dean thought, No shit. And then, Oh, shit. I’ll be laid up, useless. Time for Sam to go.
“I’ve had worse.” Dean shrugged, though his stomach was rolling from the pain. He fought down the nausea and attempted a cocky smile.
“No, you haven’t,” Sam said, and leaned down to give him a hand up.
Dean fell against him, dizzy, and Sam slung an arm around his shoulders. Sam was still strong, his shoulders broad and capable. Dean let himself lean in, feeling the warmth of Sam’s chest against his side as they walked slowly back to the car. Every slight jar of his leg was agony.
Sam laid him out on the back seat of the Impala, and Dean thought of a time a million years ago, Dad at the wheel and Dean on the back seat and his busted ankle propped up on some towels Sammy had folded for him. He thought of the way Sam had taken care of him then, and the way Sam’s fingers had felt on his thigh; the hungry look in Sam’s eyes that day.
“You okay?”
Dean shook off the memory. “Peachy.”
“Good,” Sam said, “because I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Dean’s protests fell on deaf ears, and Sam threatened to help him nowhere if it wasn’t into the ER.
“My brother,” Sam answered when the intake nurse asked who the patient was, and Dean thought he’d never get tired of hearing Sam say that.
Sam gloated afterwards, when it turned out Dean needed surgery for the compound fracture. The hospital kept him overnight, and Sam slept in the car and then hovered, asking Dean a thousand times if he needed more water or if Sam should go get him coffee. It was a relief to be discharged the next day and back in the Impala, and Dean frankly didn’t care where they went as long as he was with Sam.
“Here, let me help you,” Sam said when they stopped at a motel, as Dean tried to get his pants off over the cast. Then he went right on helping, unbuttoning Dean’s shirt and slipping that off his shoulders, too. Dean was too startled to protest, and Sam didn’t seem to notice that there was nothing wrong with his arms.
“Here you go,” Sam said, turning down the sheets and blankets of the bed farthest from the door. Dean noticed, of course he did; that was Sam’s bed, always had been.
“Come on, lie down,” Sam urged, and Dean did.
Sam propped his cast up on all the folded towels and adjusted the temperature in the room, then turned on the television and gave Dean the remote.
“I’m gonna go out and get some food and fill these prescriptions, okay?”
Dean nodded.
“You sure you’re okay? You look a little shell-shocked.” Sam’s brow furrowed.
Dean wanted to say, “I don’t know what you’re doing; I don’t know why you’re doing this for me,” but it sounded stupid even to him, so he just nodded again.
Sam came back with all Dean’s favorites and some really good painkillers, and Dean spent the next few days in a haze of I-can’t-feel-a-thing and Sammy-is-taking-care-of-me bliss. Sam wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom by himself; insisted on walking him there so he didn’t fall. Sam got them coffee and doughnuts that were still warm every morning, from someplace he said wasn’t too far away. Sam let Dean have the remote all day and all night, and didn’t grumble at all when Dean wanted to watch the Back To The Future marathon or Ghostbusters for the fiftieth time.
Dean waited for the other shoe to drop.
When it happened, it wasn’t the shoe he expected.
“So,” Sam said, a week later. He cleared his throat, and Dean’s blood ran cold so quickly he barely suppressed a shudder. Here it comes, he thought. He’s had it with me.
“I did something.”
“Um. Okay,” Dean said, because he knew what was coming. Sam re-enrolled in Stanford. Sam met a girl. Sam…
“I rented us a house.”
“It’s okay,” Dean began, and then his brain caught up to his ears and he dropped the doughnut he was holding. “Wait, you what?”
Sam sighed. “Look, I know I didn’t ask you, because I knew you’d say no, but you’re in no shape to go back to hunting right now and frankly I’ve been wanting a rest, so if you don’t like it that’s too bad, it’s already done. You can leave if you want, I guess, but I’d really like you to stay there. With me.”
“What?” Dean repeated, because the meds were making his brain fuzzy and he was sure Sam couldn’t be saying what it sounded like.
Sam sat down on the side of the bed and scrubbed a hand through his long hair. Dean wondered when Sam would grow up and cut it, and then secretly hoped that time wasn’t coming any time soon.
“Look, Dean, I know you’ve been opposed to settling down, but man, it’s true. We do deserve it. At least for a while. It’s only a rental.”
“But settling down… There’s no girl there with you, Sam. It’s not—that’s not settling down.”
Sam’s eyes got wide and he looked at Dean like he had three heads. “Seriously? That’s your definition of settling down? Pretty limited, don’t you think?”
“What?” Dean said again.
Sam narrowed his eyes and he suddenly looked pissed off. “Is that what you think? That every time I talk about settling down, it means I’m gonna find a woman to settle down with me? What, you think I need someone to cook and clean or something? How sexist can you be, Dean?”
Dean frowned. “No, that’s not why; I just… I mean, you settled down with Jess… and with Amelia…”
Sam ran his hand through his hair again, but he looked less angry.
“That was a long time ago. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but neither of us has been on a date in like five years, Dean. Maybe more.”
“What?” This time Dean was more shocked than confused. That couldn’t be true. “No way.”
“Way,” Sam insisted, and then he put a hand on Dean’s thigh, right above where the cast ended.
Dean couldn’t even manage a “What?” that time.
Sam’s fingers were gentle as he stroked slow circles on the bare skin of Dean’s thigh. The pads of his fingers caught in the fine hairs there.
“You think I still want someone other than you,” Sam said softly, without meeting Dean’s eyes. “After all this time, you still don’t believe it. How I feel about you.”
“Sam,” Dean whispered shakily, and he closed his eyes because it was too much. Too much to take in; too much after a week of Sam’s gentle hands and the tenderness in his expression every time he looked at Dean.
“Just think about it, please?” Sam asked, and Dean missed Sam’s hand on his leg the moment he took it away.
“Yeah, okay,” he said the next day. “For a little while, okay.”
Sam’s smile made his stomach flip so violently that he would have had to sit down if he hadn’t already been lying in bed with his foot propped up.
They moved in two days later. The house had a fucking white picket fence, and a little garden at the base of the front porch where some straggly flowers were attempting to grow. Sam went to the Home Depot like a million times that first week, and by the time he pronounced Dean well enough to come outside and sit in one of the weathered wooden rockers on the porch, the garden was abloom with a riot of different kinds of flowers in a rainbow of colors. Who knew Sam was a closet gardener?
“I like taking care of you, you know,” Sam said a few nights later, when Dean was lying on the couch with his foot up watching So You Think You Can Dance. He handed Dean a plate of homemade stew, which had way too many vegetables but smelled delicious anyway. Sam learned to cook as quickly as he’d learned to handle a gun, Dean thought with a burst of pride. “Thanks for letting me do it for a while.”
Dean shrugged, like it had been a real burden. “Just till I’m back on my feet.”
“Of course,” Sam agreed, and sat down on the end of the couch. He put the pillows that had been propping up Dean’s feet on the floor and put Dean’s feet on his lap instead.
“This okay?”
Dean sighed, put upon. He hid the blush rising on his cheeks behind the steaming plate of stew. “Whatever.”
He thought about it all night, when he should have been sleeping. Sam admitting it, like it was a secret. Like he was having as hard a time believing it as Dean himself. But it was out there now, in words that Dean could poke at and replay and ponder over. Sam liked taking care of him. Sam wanted to settle down… with him. Sam had talked more about serious shit in the past month than they had in the past four decades, and Dean’s head was still messed up about it all.
The cast came off four days before Dean’s birthday. They celebrated by going out to a restaurant in town, where Dean had one of the best steaks he’d ever tasted and drank some expensive wine that the waiter insisted was the perfect “pairing,” and Sam gushed about the fancy chicken-and-quinoa thing he’d ordered and drank less than Dean since he was driving. Dean was flushed with alcohol and good food and hours spent with Sam smiling across from him, and when Sam settled him on the couch and then followed him right down he didn’t push back fast enough, reflexes dulled with drink and contentment.
Sam straddled him easily with those mile-long legs and leaned in for a kiss, and Dean opened up for it without thinking, emotion bursting hot in his chest at the feel of Sam on top of him, of Sam licking into him hungrily.
“Mmmm,” Sam hummed against his mouth, one of his hands in Dean’s hair where it had grown out a bit. His other hand was already up under Dean’s dress shirt, and Dean’s stomach lurched with sudden arousal when Sam’s fingers brushed his nipples.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, like he approved of the way they pebbled and went taut as he pinched them. His other hand slid down the side of Dean’s face, palmed his jaw and tilted Dean up for a better angle to the kiss. It was claiming now, rougher, Sam’s tongue in his mouth and then Sam’s teeth worrying Dean’s bottom lip.
Dean didn’t have it in him to stop; knew he didn’t want to. Sam pulled back to kiss his jaw, down his throat, scraping with his teeth and then putting his wet mouth to Dean’s skin, until Dean was shivering.
“Wanna take care of you,” Sam muttered, fingers urgent as he unbuttoned Dean's shirt and parted the cotton, his tongue laving a trail down the center of Dean’s chest and stabbing into his navel, and the words went straight to Dean’s dick like some crazy aphrodisiac.
Sam mouthed over the bulge in Dean’s dress slacks, and Dean could feel the moist heat of Sam’s breath right through the cotton. His dick leapt, wet in his shorts, and Sam used his teeth to massage it through the trousers, bobbing his head up and down while Dean bit his lip and tried not to cry out from the pleasure.
“Can I?” Sam asked, and Dean said “God yes,” and got his hands on Sam’s head, tangled in his long hair, as Sam fumbled open his belt and button; slowly slid down his zipper.
“Just lay back and let me take care of you,” Sam ordered, and then he sank down on Dean’s cock, one hand wrapped around the length he couldn’t take.
Sam’s sucking my cock, Dean thought, and the words nearly pushed him over the edge. He clenched his fingers in Sam’s hair and hung on, and Sam sensed his desperation and eased off for a minute. He leaned down and planted a kiss on the pink tip of Dean’s dick, like he loved it, like he fucking loved doing this, and Dean slammed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see that. He knew he couldn’t keep control watching Sam do that.
“Lift up,” Sam said, and helped Dean lift his hips. Sam slid a pillow under him and then pushed him back down, Dean’s bad leg safely on the couch but his other foot braced on the floor so Sam could get between his legs.
Dean’s face was hot, even though Sam had fucked him before all those years ago, had seen all of him.
“Okay,” Sam said, and started licking Dean’s balls and over his hole, and Dean covered his face and tried not to fall apart every time Sam made little whimpers and moans that told Dean how much he was enjoying this.
His arousal burned so hot he felt on fire with it, his thighs shaking with the effort of not thrusting up, his stomach muscles clenching desperately as his body tried to come.
“Sam,” he begged, “Please, God, please,” and Sam chuckled right up against the cleft of his ass where he was wet and sticky and open, and slid one finger in.
“Sam!” Dean shouted, and that was it; he was grabbing for his own dick because there was no going back now.
Sam’s hand got there first, slicking up and down and over in a perfect rhythm that catapulted Dean right into fucking paradise.
He was too blissed-out after to realize that Sam was kneeling beside the couch stripping his own dick until it was almost too late; he reached out just in time to brush his fingers over the fat head of Sam’s cock before Sam grunted and came right into Dean’s hand.
“Fuck,” Sam cursed when he finally came down. “Thanks.”
“I think that’s my line,” Dean said. He felt like he might never leave the couch again.
Sam cleaned them both up and they watched something stupid on television and Dean couldn’t think about anything except how good he felt and what Sam’s face looked like when he came.
The last of the guests file out the door, smiles and 'Thanks for the great party' as they go.
Sam's hand is on his shoulder, big and warm.
“Did you hear me, Dean? I said, this is the last time we’re going to pretend that nothing happened.”
Carly and her mom are the last to leave, turning back to wave goodbye. Dean slips the latch on the door, then turns to face his brother.
“I said, I know. Something wrong with your ears, Sam?”
Dean’s teasing. His eyes are sparkling, too green. A little alcohol always does that to him; brightens his eyes until the green is unnatural, a contrast to his flushed cheeks.
“Yeah, I did, but I know you; you can change your mind and—“
Dean’s mouth pressed tightly to Sam’s stops the rest of his sentence.
Sam mmphs in surprise and then kisses back.
Dean pulls away a few moments later, but his arms are around Sam’s shoulders, his face too close. He’s smiling.
“Are you sure you really want to talk? I can think of a lot better things to do… in our house.”
Better late than never, Sam thinks as Dean kisses him again.
