All The Little Losses (Sam/Dean) Part 3/4
Jun. 22nd, 2020 05:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlFic title: All The Little Losses
Author name:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist name:amberdreams
Somewhere along the line, Sam figures out that Dean is missing the physical contact they used to have. Sam’s smart, after all. If he can’t really fake being the old Sam in conversation, he probably figures he can do it without conversation.
It’s little touches at first. Dean doesn’t notice immediately, because they feel so normal—a brush of shoulders as they walk side by side, a tap of their knees as they sit on a couch waiting to talk to a witness.
Dean realizes one day, because Sam abruptly shifts away from him when the suspect they’re there to meet with walks into the room and Dean feels the loss of that small point of contact like someone has yanked out one of his vital organs.
When did Sam start touching him again? Does he even know he’s doing it? Is it maybe a good sign that part of Sam does want that closeness—some kind of closeness—back?
Dean finds it hard to give up hope entirely when it comes to his brother.
He doesn’t say anything, just notices every time it happens. The touches get more frequent, like Sam is building up confidence. Probably thinking he’s putting one over on a clueless Dean. Dean thinks he should probably be angry, but Sam’s hand reaching down to help him up after a fight, fingers warm and strong clasped in Dean’s, feels too good.
“You’ve got tons of shit in your hair,” Sam says as they’re driving back to the motel after a knockdown, drag-out fight with a monster they’d never seen before and decided to fire everything they had at in hopes something would work.
Dean shakes his head like a wet dog when he gets out of the car, trying to loosen the fine dust and yellow powdery substance the slain thing gave off when it exploded, along with the twigs and dirt stuck in his hair.
“Damn it, Dean, you’re getting it all over me now!”
Dean chuckles; Sam doesn’t exhibit much emotion these days, so he gets a special kick out of indignation and annoyance, the only reactions Sam sometimes shows.
Sam’s too-long hair is shimmering gold thanks to Dean. Dean has the sudden thought that Sam looks like some kind of Adonis, glowing in the sunlight. It makes Dean smile.
Sam is still grumbling when he opens the door to their room. When Dean goes to take off his shirt to head for the shower, Sam puts a hand on his arm.
“Hang on, loser, let me help you,” Sam says, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d almost think that “loser” was said with fondness. Sam is getting good at this.
He lets Sam pull off his shirt without ruffling his hair any more than necessary. Sam balls the fabric up and puts it in the trash can.
“Hey, I like that shirt!”
“Fine, we can wash it later. Just get in the shower for godsakes,” Sam grumbles.
Dean goes, chuckling. Sam follows. “What, uh…”
“Just take off your clothes and get in,” Sam says, and this is… weird.
“Yeah, I will. I don’t need your help taking off my pants, Sam.”
Sam makes a face like Dean has said something incredibly stupid, and he still looks just as adorable doing it as he did when he was Sam. “I know that, Dean, but I can help get all that shit out of your hair.”
Dean blinks.
“We used to do that for each other,” Sam points out, and Dean’s stomach starts to flip for some reason.
“What?”
“Don’t you remember?” Sam goes on, oblivious to Dean’s sudden discomfort. They don’t talk about this shit. It’s a rule. “Plenty of times, you helped me wash crap outta my hair, or I helped you.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?” Sam persists. “Come on, Dean, you’re getting yellow stuff all over the bathroom.”
There’s no answer Dean can come up with on the spot, no reason why he should be hesitant to do something they’ve done before, something that was never a big deal. If there were times his thoughts strayed to how good it felt when Sam’s deft fingers washed his hair and massaged his scalp, or how Sam’s soft groan when Dean did the same made something in him warm abruptly, well, nobody had to know. Fuck it, he can do this. It’s not a big deal.
He shucks off his jeans and shorts and starts up the shower. Climbs in. He closes his eyes because that’s what they’ve always done, letting the hot water stream over him, sluicing over his head and shoulders. He forces himself not to start when he hears Sam stripping next to him, followed by the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back as Sam steps in too. Sam’s big hands land on his head, surprisingly gentle as they pluck the little bits of leaves and monster residue from his hair. Sam draws closer as he works; Dean can feel the heat of him, even in the hot water of the shower. Can sense the familiar presence. He’s choked up, suddenly, longing for something he can’t name.
Sam works slowly, patient as he makes his way from front to back. Dean loses track of time and place, the only thing registering the feel of his brother’s capable fingers softly scritching through his scalp. He has no idea if there’s even anything left to wash out anymore, but Sam keeps going, angling Dean’s head this way and that to inspect every inch. At some point, Sam’s body has bumped up against his own. Sam’s hip bone slides against his, sharp and hard, and Dean pictures the planes of Sam’s body he knows so well.
Sam shifts. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but he thinks that’s Sam’s dick that just brushed against his belly. Doesn’t want to know if his own is half hard from Sam being this close. This was a bad idea, but he can’t bring himself to care too much when Sam’s hands on him feel this good.
Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, front to back, down the sides. One finger traces slowly down Dean’s cheek and pauses at the corner of his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s way too close and way too soft and low.
Dean backs up, nearly slipping on the wet tile. “Uh, all done?” he manages.
He can sense Sam backing up too. A second later, there’s the sound of the shower curtain, and his sense of Sam’s body being right there is gone. It’s like the water temperature just went down twenty degrees.
“Yeah, think so,” Sam says from outside the tub.
Dean waits for the door to close before opening his eyes. He doesn’t jerk off, but it’s a near thing.
Sam doesn’t mention it, and Dean shrugs it off, puts it down to how much he misses his brother. They’ve never examined the way they are together too closely, and it’s fruitless to do that now, when Sam isn’t even Sam.
The little touches keep happening, though, and Dean doesn’t stop them. Sam gets most of them right; he has a good memory.
A few weeks later it’s Sam’s turn not to duck fast enough when they find themselves outnumbered by three snarling kitsune. Dean struggles with one and can’t get the upper hand, all the while hearing the other two across the room with Sam. By the time he finally manages to jab a silver knife through the thing’s chest and toss it off him, Sam has one of them dead on the floor—but the other has him pinned to the wall, one gnarled, sharp-clawed hand around his throat and the other slashing at his side.
Sam screams exactly the way he’s always screamed, and it rips through Dean like a bolt of adrenaline. Save Sammy, save Sammy, his brain yells, and he's moving before he registers it, knife buried in the creature's back so deep he's lucky it doesn't go all the way through and injure his brother.
The thing falls backward, and Sam slumps to the floor, one hand clutching at his side, his face contorted with pain.
“Sam!” Dean moves on instinct, pushing Sam’s hands away from where he’s hurt, trying to see how bad it is. “Lemme see, lemme see,” he says, but Sam keeps trying to swat him away. “Sam!”
The raised voice shocks Sam into freezing, and his eyes meet Dean’s for the first time. He looks almost scared, and Dean realizes it’s the first hint of vulnerability he’s seen in Sam since his soul didn’t come back with him.
“Sam, lemme see,” he says more quietly, and Sam lets his hands be pushed away.
“Shit, okay, it got you, but it’s not that bad.” Dean pulls his shirt over his head and folds it into a makeshift compress, then presses it over the gashes in Sam’s side.
“Hold that there. Keep some pressure on; let’s get you to the car.”
Sam doesn’t argue, lets Dean help him outside and to the Impala. He holds Dean’s shirt to his side the whole drive, wincing every time they go over a bump or Dean takes a turn too fast.
“You okay?” Dean asks, because he can’t help himself.
“Yeah,” Sam says, but the self-assurance Dean has grown accustomed to these past six months isn’t there.
Sam is uncharacteristically docile when they get back to the motel, allowing Dean to lift off his tattered shirt and remove the bloodied one. He grits his teeth when Dean disinfects the wound and sits quietly on the bed, shirtless and stoic, while Dean threads the needle.
“Gonna hurt a little,” Dean warns, and just barely keeps himself from adding the “Sammy.”
“I know,” Sam says, and tries a tight-lipped smile.
Dean appreciates the gesture.
He falls into the rhythm of this in the same way he does when it’s Sam holding the needle: in and out, as quickly and easily as he can, but no hesitation because that just makes it hurt more. His fingers are bloody by the time he’s done, but the stitches are neat and tight. Sam’s face is pale, his lower lip indented where he’s been biting it.
Dean sighs and goes to move away, and Sam reaches out and grabs his shoulder.
“Sam?”
“That’s how you used to touch me,” Sam says, way too softly. His eyes are glassy; from the alcohol he’s been swigging or the shock and pain, Dean doesn’t know.
“You need to rest,” Dean says, but he doesn’t try to pull away.
“I remember,” Sam goes on, like Dean hasn’t said anything at all. “I remember everything, you know. I know how you used to touch me. I just didn’t remember why it mattered to me.”
“You’re drunk, and you need to sleep.”
“I like it when you touch me,” Sam says and lets Dean push him down on the bed.
Dean draws the blanket over him, then retreats to the bathroom to shower off his brother’s blood. He can’t wash off Sam’s words as easily.
Apparently neither can Sam. Now that he’s come to the realization that there is something he does in fact like, he’s a dog with a bone. Dean isn’t sure if Sam was always this persistent or if it’s a side effect of the singlemindedness that seems to come with the lack of distracting emotions, but Sam is relentless.
He slides over on the seat when they’re driving until he can spread his too-long legs wide enough to knock their knees together, regardless of the fact that Dean is using his leg to press the gas pedal.
“Sam, cut it out.”
“What?”
Sam has very nearly perfected the innocent face that Sammy’s used on Dean since he was two, and that is just about the most frightening thing ever. Dean is antsy, constantly vacillating between Finally, Sam is more like Sam and You know he’s faking it—don’t fall for it! His mind keeps saying no no no, but every instinct in his body keeps saying yes, and Dean is starting to feel like he’s dissociating.
“I’m tryin’ to drive here.”
“I’m not stopping you,” Sam complains. He grudgingly shifts away from Dean, though. Dean immediately misses Sam’s warmth against his thigh and has to grit his teeth to keep from relenting.
“Why do you always have to have a stick up your ass?” Sam asks out of nowhere about fifteen minutes later.
“Me? It’s not me who has a stick up my ass—Mr. StickUpMyAssSoulless.”
Sam rolls his eyes (which also is just about a perfect imitation of real Sam at this point). “I’ve been trying to loosen up, you know.”
Dean looks over and… “Are you—are you pouting?”
Sam pouts harder.
Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel. It’s not fair, it’s really not. So many of the things he’s lost, so many of the things he misses every second of every day—those are the things the Sam next to him is offering.
Correction.
It seems like those are the things Sam is offering. Dean wonders if there has ever been a more perfect torture, to rip the person you love more than life itself away from you, make you miss him so much you nearly die from it, then give you back a replica of that person who looks just like them—feels just like them, smells just like them, sounds just like them—but is not them.
“I know you like it when I touch you too,” Sam insists, which sounds all kinds of wrong.
“No,” Dean answers, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “I liked it when he touched me.”
That sounds wrong too, Dean knows, but it’s too true not to say anyway.
“I am him,” Sam counters, and Dean shakes his head.
“I’m the closest you’re probably gonna get to him,” Sam says a few minutes later. “Why can’t you let that be enough?”
“Because I can’t,” Dean says. It’s not an answer, and if Sam were Sam, Dean would feel like a prick for not giving him a better reason. But this Sam doesn’t have feelings, so fuck it.
“You know you suck, right?”
No feelings, he repeats to himself as he presses his foot down harder on the gas pedal.
Sometimes Sam does it when they’re out in public, because he figures out when Dean is less likely to push him away and make it weird. He rests his hand on the small of Dean’s back as they stand side by side questioning a suspect, where the guy can’t see but it would look odd if Dean suddenly sidestepped. It feels strangely protective, a gesture that would be coded as brotherly and affectionate if this were still Sam. Dean’s body processes it like that, neurons firing to say “This is good, Sam is here, all is right with the world.” It’s not—his brain knows that—yet Dean can’t help the warmth spreading through his chest where his heart has been so cold for so long.
Goddamn Sam and his still-functioning-perfectly-well big brain.
They go to a hometown diner after, and Dean is distracted by a giant plate of comfort food: meatloaf smothered in homemade gravy, a tower of mashed potatoes drowning in it. He’s even eating the green beans, since they’re also swimming in the delectable gravy. There’s a big steaming mug of coffee to wash it down, and Dean hasn’t felt so satisfied by life in a very long time. That probably explains why he doesn’t kick Sam in the crotch when Sam’s foot keeps knocking against his own under the table. The booth is made for normal-sized people, not Sam-sized people, so Sam can stretch out enough to brush his knee against Dean’s too. He doesn’t try to make it seem accidental.
Dean finally looks up at him, and gravy dribbles down his chin. He has a reproach on the tip of his tongue, but then he has to use his tongue to lick the gravy off his bottom lip. Sam’s eyes track the movement, and Dean can see his pupils dilate as Sam mimics the motion, licking his lips too. He suddenly looks downright ravenous, and Dean is caught so off guard the reproach dies right there on his gravy-slick lips.
There’s a weird kind of power in being able to make Sam feel something. That has to be the reason Dean does it again, sweeping his tongue over his top lip, then more slowly over the bottom one, letting it rest there for a moment while he watches Sam’s reaction.
Sam’s lips part, and he lets out a shaky breath, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes flick back up to Dean’s.
“What,” Sam says, and his voice comes out with a quaver, no trace of the smug self-assurance that Dean loathes. “What are you doing?”
Dean smirks. “Eatin’ my dinner, Sam. What’re you doing?”
Sam looks downright flustered, and Dean cannot help but savor having the upper hand for once.
“Shit,” Sam swears, and his knees slide away from Dean as he has to shift on the seat to try to get comfortable.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, all fake innocence. He knows how to do this, even if he’s never turned it on Sam before. Even if he knows he shouldn’t. He tilts his head, cocks an eyebrow and regards Sam from behind the eyelashes he knows how to bat just so. Licks his lips again.
“I—I—” Sam shakes his head. “You’re—you’re teasing me, aren’t you? You don’t want—you’re just trying to get me—”
“Get you what, Sam?”
It’s cruel, probably. Definitely. Dean is playing with fire. It’s a terrible idea, but the rush he’s getting from having the power for once is too heady to give up.
Sam takes a big gulp of coffee and glares at Dean. He looks pissed as hell, like he’d upend the whole table if it weren’t bolted to the tile floor. He stands suddenly, balling up his napkin and throwing it down. “I’ll be in the car,” he announces, and Dean has to bite his lip again to keep from laughing.
Sam’s fed-suit pants do nothing to hide his erection as he gets up and walks away. Dean should be upset about that, he knows. Instead he feels giddy, a heady mix of power and excitement that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
Sam doesn’t say a word the whole way back to the hotel. Dean should not keep sneaking looks at the tent in Sam’s pants, but he can’t quite help himself.
That stunt backfires on Dean spectacularly just a few days later. He probably should have known: when you play with fire, you almost always get burned sooner or later.
Sam has been pissy ever since the diner, more wound up than usual. He’s stopped the casual touches that Dean was getting used to, trading them for glares across the car seat or diner table. Dean has never been afraid of his gigantic brother, and he’s not gonna start now… but this Sam is more unpredictable than his brother ever was, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little on edge.
That might explain how Sam gets the jump on him so easily, because when Dean comes out of the bathroom warm and woozy from a hot shower, he starts hard when Sam is suddenly right there, using all his height and bulk to tower over Dean.
“What the—” Dean gets out, and then Sam pushes him backward. His back hits the wall, and Sam just keeps on coming, crowding into him, arms like tree trunks braced on both sides of Dean’s head.
Dean could knee him in the nuts, but this is the most emotion he’s seen Sam display since he came back wrong, and that’s enough to make him pause to see what happens next.
The look in Sam’s eyes is beyond intense, gaze boring into Dean as though he can keep Dean pinned in place with that look alone. When Dean doesn’t move, Sam leans in, and it happens in slow motion, Sam’s lips parting as he bends his head to Dean’s shoulder. Dean can feel the warm puff of Sam’s breath on his bare flesh, thinks about how he’s only wearing a fucking towel and Sam’s fully dressed, and that just makes this weirder.
“Dean,” Sam says—growls—and his mouth hits Dean’s clavicle, warm and moist on the bare skin there. Dean flushes, warmth spreading across his chest, down his arms.
Sam presses his lips to Dean’s chest—not a kiss, almost like he wants to taste, and then he lifts his head and puts his mouth against Dean’s throat, pressed to the straining tendon as Dean tries to turn away.
It only gives Sam more room, and he crowds in tighter, his hips snugged up against Dean’s now, his whole giant body pressing Dean to the wall. Dean shivers at the sensation of Sam’s hot breath on his neck, against his ear. It’s a sensitive spot that a few of his partners have discovered over the years, and Sam doesn’t know that, but he’s a smart bastard and he realizes it now, exhaling and then—oh fuck—that’s Sam’s tongue slithering up the side of his throat and right up over the shell of his ear, tracing the curve. Dean can feel the gooseflesh rising on his skin, all over; a fine tremor runs through his body that he can’t control, and Sam feels that too.
Sam makes a sound that shouldn’t be audible, but right up against Dean’s ear it is, a rumbling, soft groan that seems to vibrate all through Dean’s body. He can feel it in his stomach, bare and vulnerable with the buckle of Sam’s belt digging into his flesh as Sam pushes against him harder. He can’t help the gasp when he feels Sam’s teeth replace his tongue, a sharp nip to the shell of his ear, to the lobe, and then a slide down the exposed column of his throat, the scrape just this side of painful.
There’s a possessiveness to it that makes Dean’s nipples pebble, his belly hollow out with a swoop of sensation. He should push Sam away; he should stop this, right now.
Sam seems to sense that too. He bites the round muscle of Dean’s shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to bring a bright burst of pain, and then he soothes it with an obscene lap of his tongue, spit-wet and hot against Dean’s flesh.
And then he fucking starts talking.
“I remember everything he ever thought,” Sam says, the words smashed against Dean’s shoulder. “Everything he ever felt. I never really understood it—the feelings part—but I know how he’d feel right now, doing this.”
Dean tries to turn his head away from the words, shrink from Sam’s tongue turning him inside out, but Sam puts one hand on his hip and pins him to the wall like it’s nothing.
“He wanted this. God, how he wanted this. He dreamt of it, fantasized about it.”
“No,” Dean manages to say, but it’s barely a whisper.
“Jerked off thinking about touching you—having you. Hated himself for it. Ran away to Stanford to stop himself from trying to take what he wanted.”
Dean’s dizzy—from the words, from the feel of Sam’s mouth on him. Sam bends lower, his tongue tracing a wet path over Dean’s bare skin. It flicks over a nipple, and Dean’s whole body goes tense, strung tight like a bowstring from that touch, from the forbidden things Sam is saying.
“He never knew,” Sam goes on, tongue swirling around the bud of Dean’s nipple. “Never was able to get his own feelings out of the way to see what was right in front of him. But I can. You want this too, maybe always have.”
“No,” Dean says again, but he can’t move, feels pinned to the spot like a butterfly spread on a canvas.
“I’m not him,” Sam whispers, “You can have this. I’m not your Sam.”
“What?”
“I’m not him,” Sam repeats. “But I can show you. Show you every single thing that Sam wanted to do to you. Make it feel just the same, just how it would have been if he’d had the balls to touch you himself.”
It’s wrong; Dean knows it’s wrong. But it feels so true—that’s the whole point. This is not Sam, not his Sam. This is a stranger who knows everything about Sam, looks like Sam, sounds like Sam, moves like Sam. Feels like Sam. Smells like Sam. Probably tastes like Sam.
Sam has gone from licking to sucking, drawing one nipple into his mouth and worrying it with teeth and tongue, then applying so much suction that Dean gasps. Nobody has ever sucked that hard, and it hurts but it feels like his nipple is directly connected to his dick too, both of them throbbing with every pound of his racing pulse. Sam goes back and forth from one to the other, and the longer he sucks, the sorer Dean gets and the more intense the sensation becomes. He moans despite himself, and that makes Sam lose it. He’s been measured, in control this whole time, but Dean’s involuntary sound breaks his control too.
Sam’s big paws yank off the towel still clinging to Dean’s hips, and he backs up just enough to unbuckle his own jeans one-handed and get the zipper down. He shimmies them low enough to get his dick out and then presses their bodies together again, but this time Dean’s cock is right up against Sam’s.
If he’s going to stop this, it has to be now, Dean’s brain helpfully supplies.
Sam pinches and twists a throbbing nipple with one hand and gets a fist around Dean’s erection with the other, and Dean’s brain goes silent as he gasps in a shuddering breath, his head banging back against the wall. Sam’s face is right there in front of him when he opens his eyes, Sam’s eyes dark with desire, with a desperation Dean has never witnessed. With lust. For him.
“He wanted this so badly, Dean—not just sex, but you. This.”
And then Sam kisses him.
There’s no going back then. Sam’s tongue dives in, plunders and claims and takes Dean’s breath away. Sam gets a hand around his throat and holds him still for it, his mouth working ruthlessly on Dean’s, and Dean is dizzy with it. This is how he wanted to kiss me.
As wrong as it is, Dean’s heart is broken with the knowledge of never having this with Sam, when they both wanted it. Never being able to kiss Sam back and show him how much Dean loved him.
He shows this Sam now, as though pouring it into this Sam will somehow telegraph it to his own. Sam staggers back at the unexpected onslaught, then groans and goes with it, both of them taking turns being in control of the kiss. It’s frenzied, decades of wanting making both their bodies desperate. When Sam breaks the kiss, Dean chases his mouth, almost falls, but Sam is there, hands on Dean’s hips as he sinks to his knees.
He looks up at Dean, eyes glassy. “He wanted this. Dreamt of it. Let me show you what he wanted.”
He waits for Dean to nod, and then sinks Sam’s pretty pink mouth down over Dean’s straining dick. He’s not all that good at it, but it doesn’t matter. Dean’s eyes are fixed on the incredible sight of Sam sucking his cock, his eyes watering as he takes it as deep as he can again and again, his big fist wrapped around the rest, starting up a relentless rhythm that’s going to push Dean over the edge way before he wants it to.
Dean’s hands go to Sam’s head without his permission, grasping handfuls of the long, silky strands that he’s always wanted to hold like this. Sam encourages him, moans around Dean’s dick and takes it deeper, tears trickling down the sides of his face as he willingly chokes himself again and again. One of his hands is still plastered to Dean’s hip; the other fondles his balls, the sensation rocketing through Dean and bringing him closer and closer to losing it. One finger trails farther behind, brushes over his hole and then pushes in just a little, and the thought that Sam—his Sam—wanted to touch him there hits Dean like a freight train.
It’s too much; Dean comes before he realizes he’s going to, gasping out a belated warning, but Sam doesn’t let him go. He swallows down what he can and lets the last of it dribble out onto his puffy lips. It’s a visual that’s going to stay in Dean’s head for the rest of his life, of that he has no doubt.
“Jesuschrist,” Dean says weakly, feeling like his legs are about to give out.
Sam licks his lips, and Dean’s dick gives a fruitless twitch. Sam rises slowly, jeans still open and his hard cock exposed, glistening with his arousal.
“Your chance to do everything you wanted to do to him,” Sam says.
Dean hesitates. This is different. This requires him to be the one who’s doing something, not just allowing something to be done.
Surprisingly, Sam is patient. His hair is damp, a mess from the clench of Dean’s fists in it. His cheeks are wet with tears, his mouth red and lips swollen. His eyes are dark, his expression still desperate.
He should look ridiculous with his dick hanging out, but Dean’s eyes are locked to the need he can see so clearly in Sam’s eyes, and it’s like all of him is hardwired to respond to that. Sammy needs something; Dean will give it to him.
He falls to his knees smoothly, and above him Sam honest-to-god whimpers, like he’s overcome at the reality of Dean actually doing this. The sound pushes the last of Dean’s hesitation away, and he gives in completely, hands stroking over Sam’s hips, tracing the cut of his hip bones as he nuzzles into the coarse curls between Sam’s thighs, his nose sliding along the silken hardness of Sam’s cock.
“Ohgod,” Sam says, sounding wrecked already.
He trembles as Dean tries to take his time, palming the rock-hard muscles of Sam’s thighs, urging Sam to spread his legs a little. Dean mouths along his abs, tongues at the grooves there as Sam groans again, nips at the curls that frame his dick and then runs his tongue over Sam’s tight balls.
“Please,” Sam grits out, and Dean can feel his legs shaking. The sense of power is intoxicating, half of Dean stuck on This is what it would be like to touch Sam and half of him glorying in reducing this version to pleading desperation. It’s more of a turn-on than he wants to admit.
He takes his time palming and suckling Sam’s balls, watching his dick twitch and dribble in response and the muscles of his abs clench as he forces himself not to thrust into thin air. It’s not until one of Sam’s big hands lands on Dean’s head, scratching through his hair and caressing his ear, that Dean gives in to what he wants to do too.
He’s always known how big Sam was, but somehow he never imagined how full he would feel when he finally had Sam’s cock in his mouth. Sam quivers, thrusts his hips forward enough that Dean chokes, then pulls back, his hands clenching and unclenching in Dean’s short hair.
“Fuck,” Sam says as Dean pulls back and then slides down again, and no matter how hard Sam pulls at him, Dean keeps the pace just this side of too slow, using only his mouth, teasing Sam to the brink and then slacking off until he’s sweat soaked, chest heaving.
“Please, Dean, please,” he begs, “Please, I—he wants it—he wants it so much, wants to see you take it, always wanted to, always, please…”
It’s meaningless babble, manipulative in the worst way, but it works anyway. The thought of Dean’s Sammy wanting this, wanting Dean to give him this pleasure, makes it impossible not to give in to it all. Dean wraps his fist around the length he can’t take and sucks hard, lets Sam thrust in and out and hold his head still for it, saliva trickling down his chin and tears running down his cheeks as he hangs on to Sam’s hip bones and rides it out. Sam fucking explodes in his mouth, making him choke harder, but he stays where Sam holds him, fingers leaving bruises on Sam’s hips, trying to breathe through his nose while it’s smashed into Sam’s crotch and full up with the heady smell of him.
When Sam finally lets him go, Dean falls back, gasping.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam says, also out of breath. He probably doesn’t mean it, but it’s a nice gesture.
Dean gets up slowly and grabs his discarded towel to wipe the slick and spit and tears from his face. “Now I need another fucking shower,” he says and suddenly feels the urge to laugh. Sam looks ridiculous, his now-spent dick still hanging out of his pants. And Dean is quite sure he looks ridiculous too. It seems less painful to laugh than to think about what they just did.
“Sorry,” Sam says again.
“You’re not,” Dean accuses, holding the towel in front of himself now that Sam has more than seen everything he could ever show.
Sam shrugs. “Not really.”
“He would be,” Dean says, and heads to the shower.
* * *
Part Four
Author name:
runedgirlArtist name:
amberdreamsSomewhere along the line, Sam figures out that Dean is missing the physical contact they used to have. Sam’s smart, after all. If he can’t really fake being the old Sam in conversation, he probably figures he can do it without conversation.
It’s little touches at first. Dean doesn’t notice immediately, because they feel so normal—a brush of shoulders as they walk side by side, a tap of their knees as they sit on a couch waiting to talk to a witness.
Dean realizes one day, because Sam abruptly shifts away from him when the suspect they’re there to meet with walks into the room and Dean feels the loss of that small point of contact like someone has yanked out one of his vital organs.
When did Sam start touching him again? Does he even know he’s doing it? Is it maybe a good sign that part of Sam does want that closeness—some kind of closeness—back?
Dean finds it hard to give up hope entirely when it comes to his brother.
He doesn’t say anything, just notices every time it happens. The touches get more frequent, like Sam is building up confidence. Probably thinking he’s putting one over on a clueless Dean. Dean thinks he should probably be angry, but Sam’s hand reaching down to help him up after a fight, fingers warm and strong clasped in Dean’s, feels too good.
“You’ve got tons of shit in your hair,” Sam says as they’re driving back to the motel after a knockdown, drag-out fight with a monster they’d never seen before and decided to fire everything they had at in hopes something would work.
Dean shakes his head like a wet dog when he gets out of the car, trying to loosen the fine dust and yellow powdery substance the slain thing gave off when it exploded, along with the twigs and dirt stuck in his hair.
“Damn it, Dean, you’re getting it all over me now!”
Dean chuckles; Sam doesn’t exhibit much emotion these days, so he gets a special kick out of indignation and annoyance, the only reactions Sam sometimes shows.
Sam’s too-long hair is shimmering gold thanks to Dean. Dean has the sudden thought that Sam looks like some kind of Adonis, glowing in the sunlight. It makes Dean smile.
Sam is still grumbling when he opens the door to their room. When Dean goes to take off his shirt to head for the shower, Sam puts a hand on his arm.
“Hang on, loser, let me help you,” Sam says, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d almost think that “loser” was said with fondness. Sam is getting good at this.
He lets Sam pull off his shirt without ruffling his hair any more than necessary. Sam balls the fabric up and puts it in the trash can.
“Hey, I like that shirt!”
“Fine, we can wash it later. Just get in the shower for godsakes,” Sam grumbles.
Dean goes, chuckling. Sam follows. “What, uh…”
“Just take off your clothes and get in,” Sam says, and this is… weird.
“Yeah, I will. I don’t need your help taking off my pants, Sam.”
Sam makes a face like Dean has said something incredibly stupid, and he still looks just as adorable doing it as he did when he was Sam. “I know that, Dean, but I can help get all that shit out of your hair.”
Dean blinks.
“We used to do that for each other,” Sam points out, and Dean’s stomach starts to flip for some reason.
“What?”
“Don’t you remember?” Sam goes on, oblivious to Dean’s sudden discomfort. They don’t talk about this shit. It’s a rule. “Plenty of times, you helped me wash crap outta my hair, or I helped you.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?” Sam persists. “Come on, Dean, you’re getting yellow stuff all over the bathroom.”
There’s no answer Dean can come up with on the spot, no reason why he should be hesitant to do something they’ve done before, something that was never a big deal. If there were times his thoughts strayed to how good it felt when Sam’s deft fingers washed his hair and massaged his scalp, or how Sam’s soft groan when Dean did the same made something in him warm abruptly, well, nobody had to know. Fuck it, he can do this. It’s not a big deal.
He shucks off his jeans and shorts and starts up the shower. Climbs in. He closes his eyes because that’s what they’ve always done, letting the hot water stream over him, sluicing over his head and shoulders. He forces himself not to start when he hears Sam stripping next to him, followed by the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back as Sam steps in too. Sam’s big hands land on his head, surprisingly gentle as they pluck the little bits of leaves and monster residue from his hair. Sam draws closer as he works; Dean can feel the heat of him, even in the hot water of the shower. Can sense the familiar presence. He’s choked up, suddenly, longing for something he can’t name.
Sam works slowly, patient as he makes his way from front to back. Dean loses track of time and place, the only thing registering the feel of his brother’s capable fingers softly scritching through his scalp. He has no idea if there’s even anything left to wash out anymore, but Sam keeps going, angling Dean’s head this way and that to inspect every inch. At some point, Sam’s body has bumped up against his own. Sam’s hip bone slides against his, sharp and hard, and Dean pictures the planes of Sam’s body he knows so well.
Sam shifts. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but he thinks that’s Sam’s dick that just brushed against his belly. Doesn’t want to know if his own is half hard from Sam being this close. This was a bad idea, but he can’t bring himself to care too much when Sam’s hands on him feel this good.
Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, front to back, down the sides. One finger traces slowly down Dean’s cheek and pauses at the corner of his mouth.
“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s way too close and way too soft and low.
Dean backs up, nearly slipping on the wet tile. “Uh, all done?” he manages.
He can sense Sam backing up too. A second later, there’s the sound of the shower curtain, and his sense of Sam’s body being right there is gone. It’s like the water temperature just went down twenty degrees.
“Yeah, think so,” Sam says from outside the tub.
Dean waits for the door to close before opening his eyes. He doesn’t jerk off, but it’s a near thing.
Sam doesn’t mention it, and Dean shrugs it off, puts it down to how much he misses his brother. They’ve never examined the way they are together too closely, and it’s fruitless to do that now, when Sam isn’t even Sam.
The little touches keep happening, though, and Dean doesn’t stop them. Sam gets most of them right; he has a good memory.
A few weeks later it’s Sam’s turn not to duck fast enough when they find themselves outnumbered by three snarling kitsune. Dean struggles with one and can’t get the upper hand, all the while hearing the other two across the room with Sam. By the time he finally manages to jab a silver knife through the thing’s chest and toss it off him, Sam has one of them dead on the floor—but the other has him pinned to the wall, one gnarled, sharp-clawed hand around his throat and the other slashing at his side.
Sam screams exactly the way he’s always screamed, and it rips through Dean like a bolt of adrenaline. Save Sammy, save Sammy, his brain yells, and he's moving before he registers it, knife buried in the creature's back so deep he's lucky it doesn't go all the way through and injure his brother.
The thing falls backward, and Sam slumps to the floor, one hand clutching at his side, his face contorted with pain.
“Sam!” Dean moves on instinct, pushing Sam’s hands away from where he’s hurt, trying to see how bad it is. “Lemme see, lemme see,” he says, but Sam keeps trying to swat him away. “Sam!”
The raised voice shocks Sam into freezing, and his eyes meet Dean’s for the first time. He looks almost scared, and Dean realizes it’s the first hint of vulnerability he’s seen in Sam since his soul didn’t come back with him.
“Sam, lemme see,” he says more quietly, and Sam lets his hands be pushed away.
“Shit, okay, it got you, but it’s not that bad.” Dean pulls his shirt over his head and folds it into a makeshift compress, then presses it over the gashes in Sam’s side.
“Hold that there. Keep some pressure on; let’s get you to the car.”
Sam doesn’t argue, lets Dean help him outside and to the Impala. He holds Dean’s shirt to his side the whole drive, wincing every time they go over a bump or Dean takes a turn too fast.
“You okay?” Dean asks, because he can’t help himself.
“Yeah,” Sam says, but the self-assurance Dean has grown accustomed to these past six months isn’t there.
Sam is uncharacteristically docile when they get back to the motel, allowing Dean to lift off his tattered shirt and remove the bloodied one. He grits his teeth when Dean disinfects the wound and sits quietly on the bed, shirtless and stoic, while Dean threads the needle.
“Gonna hurt a little,” Dean warns, and just barely keeps himself from adding the “Sammy.”
“I know,” Sam says, and tries a tight-lipped smile.
Dean appreciates the gesture.
He falls into the rhythm of this in the same way he does when it’s Sam holding the needle: in and out, as quickly and easily as he can, but no hesitation because that just makes it hurt more. His fingers are bloody by the time he’s done, but the stitches are neat and tight. Sam’s face is pale, his lower lip indented where he’s been biting it.
Dean sighs and goes to move away, and Sam reaches out and grabs his shoulder.
“Sam?”
“That’s how you used to touch me,” Sam says, way too softly. His eyes are glassy; from the alcohol he’s been swigging or the shock and pain, Dean doesn’t know.
“You need to rest,” Dean says, but he doesn’t try to pull away.
“I remember,” Sam goes on, like Dean hasn’t said anything at all. “I remember everything, you know. I know how you used to touch me. I just didn’t remember why it mattered to me.”
“You’re drunk, and you need to sleep.”
“I like it when you touch me,” Sam says and lets Dean push him down on the bed.
Dean draws the blanket over him, then retreats to the bathroom to shower off his brother’s blood. He can’t wash off Sam’s words as easily.
Apparently neither can Sam. Now that he’s come to the realization that there is something he does in fact like, he’s a dog with a bone. Dean isn’t sure if Sam was always this persistent or if it’s a side effect of the singlemindedness that seems to come with the lack of distracting emotions, but Sam is relentless.
He slides over on the seat when they’re driving until he can spread his too-long legs wide enough to knock their knees together, regardless of the fact that Dean is using his leg to press the gas pedal.
“Sam, cut it out.”
“What?”
Sam has very nearly perfected the innocent face that Sammy’s used on Dean since he was two, and that is just about the most frightening thing ever. Dean is antsy, constantly vacillating between Finally, Sam is more like Sam and You know he’s faking it—don’t fall for it! His mind keeps saying no no no, but every instinct in his body keeps saying yes, and Dean is starting to feel like he’s dissociating.
“I’m tryin’ to drive here.”
“I’m not stopping you,” Sam complains. He grudgingly shifts away from Dean, though. Dean immediately misses Sam’s warmth against his thigh and has to grit his teeth to keep from relenting.
“Why do you always have to have a stick up your ass?” Sam asks out of nowhere about fifteen minutes later.
“Me? It’s not me who has a stick up my ass—Mr. StickUpMyAssSoulless.”
Sam rolls his eyes (which also is just about a perfect imitation of real Sam at this point). “I’ve been trying to loosen up, you know.”
Dean looks over and… “Are you—are you pouting?”
Sam pouts harder.
Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel. It’s not fair, it’s really not. So many of the things he’s lost, so many of the things he misses every second of every day—those are the things the Sam next to him is offering.
Correction.
It seems like those are the things Sam is offering. Dean wonders if there has ever been a more perfect torture, to rip the person you love more than life itself away from you, make you miss him so much you nearly die from it, then give you back a replica of that person who looks just like them—feels just like them, smells just like them, sounds just like them—but is not them.
“I know you like it when I touch you too,” Sam insists, which sounds all kinds of wrong.
“No,” Dean answers, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “I liked it when he touched me.”
That sounds wrong too, Dean knows, but it’s too true not to say anyway.
“I am him,” Sam counters, and Dean shakes his head.
“I’m the closest you’re probably gonna get to him,” Sam says a few minutes later. “Why can’t you let that be enough?”
“Because I can’t,” Dean says. It’s not an answer, and if Sam were Sam, Dean would feel like a prick for not giving him a better reason. But this Sam doesn’t have feelings, so fuck it.
“You know you suck, right?”
No feelings, he repeats to himself as he presses his foot down harder on the gas pedal.
Sometimes Sam does it when they’re out in public, because he figures out when Dean is less likely to push him away and make it weird. He rests his hand on the small of Dean’s back as they stand side by side questioning a suspect, where the guy can’t see but it would look odd if Dean suddenly sidestepped. It feels strangely protective, a gesture that would be coded as brotherly and affectionate if this were still Sam. Dean’s body processes it like that, neurons firing to say “This is good, Sam is here, all is right with the world.” It’s not—his brain knows that—yet Dean can’t help the warmth spreading through his chest where his heart has been so cold for so long.
Goddamn Sam and his still-functioning-perfectly-well big brain.
They go to a hometown diner after, and Dean is distracted by a giant plate of comfort food: meatloaf smothered in homemade gravy, a tower of mashed potatoes drowning in it. He’s even eating the green beans, since they’re also swimming in the delectable gravy. There’s a big steaming mug of coffee to wash it down, and Dean hasn’t felt so satisfied by life in a very long time. That probably explains why he doesn’t kick Sam in the crotch when Sam’s foot keeps knocking against his own under the table. The booth is made for normal-sized people, not Sam-sized people, so Sam can stretch out enough to brush his knee against Dean’s too. He doesn’t try to make it seem accidental.
Dean finally looks up at him, and gravy dribbles down his chin. He has a reproach on the tip of his tongue, but then he has to use his tongue to lick the gravy off his bottom lip. Sam’s eyes track the movement, and Dean can see his pupils dilate as Sam mimics the motion, licking his lips too. He suddenly looks downright ravenous, and Dean is caught so off guard the reproach dies right there on his gravy-slick lips.
There’s a weird kind of power in being able to make Sam feel something. That has to be the reason Dean does it again, sweeping his tongue over his top lip, then more slowly over the bottom one, letting it rest there for a moment while he watches Sam’s reaction.
Sam’s lips part, and he lets out a shaky breath, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes flick back up to Dean’s.
“What,” Sam says, and his voice comes out with a quaver, no trace of the smug self-assurance that Dean loathes. “What are you doing?”
Dean smirks. “Eatin’ my dinner, Sam. What’re you doing?”
Sam looks downright flustered, and Dean cannot help but savor having the upper hand for once.
“Shit,” Sam swears, and his knees slide away from Dean as he has to shift on the seat to try to get comfortable.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, all fake innocence. He knows how to do this, even if he’s never turned it on Sam before. Even if he knows he shouldn’t. He tilts his head, cocks an eyebrow and regards Sam from behind the eyelashes he knows how to bat just so. Licks his lips again.
“I—I—” Sam shakes his head. “You’re—you’re teasing me, aren’t you? You don’t want—you’re just trying to get me—”
“Get you what, Sam?”
It’s cruel, probably. Definitely. Dean is playing with fire. It’s a terrible idea, but the rush he’s getting from having the power for once is too heady to give up.
Sam takes a big gulp of coffee and glares at Dean. He looks pissed as hell, like he’d upend the whole table if it weren’t bolted to the tile floor. He stands suddenly, balling up his napkin and throwing it down. “I’ll be in the car,” he announces, and Dean has to bite his lip again to keep from laughing.
Sam’s fed-suit pants do nothing to hide his erection as he gets up and walks away. Dean should be upset about that, he knows. Instead he feels giddy, a heady mix of power and excitement that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.
Sam doesn’t say a word the whole way back to the hotel. Dean should not keep sneaking looks at the tent in Sam’s pants, but he can’t quite help himself.
That stunt backfires on Dean spectacularly just a few days later. He probably should have known: when you play with fire, you almost always get burned sooner or later.
Sam has been pissy ever since the diner, more wound up than usual. He’s stopped the casual touches that Dean was getting used to, trading them for glares across the car seat or diner table. Dean has never been afraid of his gigantic brother, and he’s not gonna start now… but this Sam is more unpredictable than his brother ever was, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little on edge.
That might explain how Sam gets the jump on him so easily, because when Dean comes out of the bathroom warm and woozy from a hot shower, he starts hard when Sam is suddenly right there, using all his height and bulk to tower over Dean.
“What the—” Dean gets out, and then Sam pushes him backward. His back hits the wall, and Sam just keeps on coming, crowding into him, arms like tree trunks braced on both sides of Dean’s head.
Dean could knee him in the nuts, but this is the most emotion he’s seen Sam display since he came back wrong, and that’s enough to make him pause to see what happens next.
The look in Sam’s eyes is beyond intense, gaze boring into Dean as though he can keep Dean pinned in place with that look alone. When Dean doesn’t move, Sam leans in, and it happens in slow motion, Sam’s lips parting as he bends his head to Dean’s shoulder. Dean can feel the warm puff of Sam’s breath on his bare flesh, thinks about how he’s only wearing a fucking towel and Sam’s fully dressed, and that just makes this weirder.
“Dean,” Sam says—growls—and his mouth hits Dean’s clavicle, warm and moist on the bare skin there. Dean flushes, warmth spreading across his chest, down his arms.
Sam presses his lips to Dean’s chest—not a kiss, almost like he wants to taste, and then he lifts his head and puts his mouth against Dean’s throat, pressed to the straining tendon as Dean tries to turn away.
It only gives Sam more room, and he crowds in tighter, his hips snugged up against Dean’s now, his whole giant body pressing Dean to the wall. Dean shivers at the sensation of Sam’s hot breath on his neck, against his ear. It’s a sensitive spot that a few of his partners have discovered over the years, and Sam doesn’t know that, but he’s a smart bastard and he realizes it now, exhaling and then—oh fuck—that’s Sam’s tongue slithering up the side of his throat and right up over the shell of his ear, tracing the curve. Dean can feel the gooseflesh rising on his skin, all over; a fine tremor runs through his body that he can’t control, and Sam feels that too.
Sam makes a sound that shouldn’t be audible, but right up against Dean’s ear it is, a rumbling, soft groan that seems to vibrate all through Dean’s body. He can feel it in his stomach, bare and vulnerable with the buckle of Sam’s belt digging into his flesh as Sam pushes against him harder. He can’t help the gasp when he feels Sam’s teeth replace his tongue, a sharp nip to the shell of his ear, to the lobe, and then a slide down the exposed column of his throat, the scrape just this side of painful.
There’s a possessiveness to it that makes Dean’s nipples pebble, his belly hollow out with a swoop of sensation. He should push Sam away; he should stop this, right now.
Sam seems to sense that too. He bites the round muscle of Dean’s shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough to bring a bright burst of pain, and then he soothes it with an obscene lap of his tongue, spit-wet and hot against Dean’s flesh.
And then he fucking starts talking.
“I remember everything he ever thought,” Sam says, the words smashed against Dean’s shoulder. “Everything he ever felt. I never really understood it—the feelings part—but I know how he’d feel right now, doing this.”
Dean tries to turn his head away from the words, shrink from Sam’s tongue turning him inside out, but Sam puts one hand on his hip and pins him to the wall like it’s nothing.
“He wanted this. God, how he wanted this. He dreamt of it, fantasized about it.”
“No,” Dean manages to say, but it’s barely a whisper.
“Jerked off thinking about touching you—having you. Hated himself for it. Ran away to Stanford to stop himself from trying to take what he wanted.”
Dean’s dizzy—from the words, from the feel of Sam’s mouth on him. Sam bends lower, his tongue tracing a wet path over Dean’s bare skin. It flicks over a nipple, and Dean’s whole body goes tense, strung tight like a bowstring from that touch, from the forbidden things Sam is saying.
“He never knew,” Sam goes on, tongue swirling around the bud of Dean’s nipple. “Never was able to get his own feelings out of the way to see what was right in front of him. But I can. You want this too, maybe always have.”
“No,” Dean says again, but he can’t move, feels pinned to the spot like a butterfly spread on a canvas.
“I’m not him,” Sam whispers, “You can have this. I’m not your Sam.”
“What?”
“I’m not him,” Sam repeats. “But I can show you. Show you every single thing that Sam wanted to do to you. Make it feel just the same, just how it would have been if he’d had the balls to touch you himself.”
It’s wrong; Dean knows it’s wrong. But it feels so true—that’s the whole point. This is not Sam, not his Sam. This is a stranger who knows everything about Sam, looks like Sam, sounds like Sam, moves like Sam. Feels like Sam. Smells like Sam. Probably tastes like Sam.
Sam has gone from licking to sucking, drawing one nipple into his mouth and worrying it with teeth and tongue, then applying so much suction that Dean gasps. Nobody has ever sucked that hard, and it hurts but it feels like his nipple is directly connected to his dick too, both of them throbbing with every pound of his racing pulse. Sam goes back and forth from one to the other, and the longer he sucks, the sorer Dean gets and the more intense the sensation becomes. He moans despite himself, and that makes Sam lose it. He’s been measured, in control this whole time, but Dean’s involuntary sound breaks his control too.
Sam’s big paws yank off the towel still clinging to Dean’s hips, and he backs up just enough to unbuckle his own jeans one-handed and get the zipper down. He shimmies them low enough to get his dick out and then presses their bodies together again, but this time Dean’s cock is right up against Sam’s.
If he’s going to stop this, it has to be now, Dean’s brain helpfully supplies.
Sam pinches and twists a throbbing nipple with one hand and gets a fist around Dean’s erection with the other, and Dean’s brain goes silent as he gasps in a shuddering breath, his head banging back against the wall. Sam’s face is right there in front of him when he opens his eyes, Sam’s eyes dark with desire, with a desperation Dean has never witnessed. With lust. For him.
“He wanted this so badly, Dean—not just sex, but you. This.”
And then Sam kisses him.
There’s no going back then. Sam’s tongue dives in, plunders and claims and takes Dean’s breath away. Sam gets a hand around his throat and holds him still for it, his mouth working ruthlessly on Dean’s, and Dean is dizzy with it. This is how he wanted to kiss me.
As wrong as it is, Dean’s heart is broken with the knowledge of never having this with Sam, when they both wanted it. Never being able to kiss Sam back and show him how much Dean loved him.
He shows this Sam now, as though pouring it into this Sam will somehow telegraph it to his own. Sam staggers back at the unexpected onslaught, then groans and goes with it, both of them taking turns being in control of the kiss. It’s frenzied, decades of wanting making both their bodies desperate. When Sam breaks the kiss, Dean chases his mouth, almost falls, but Sam is there, hands on Dean’s hips as he sinks to his knees.
He looks up at Dean, eyes glassy. “He wanted this. Dreamt of it. Let me show you what he wanted.”
He waits for Dean to nod, and then sinks Sam’s pretty pink mouth down over Dean’s straining dick. He’s not all that good at it, but it doesn’t matter. Dean’s eyes are fixed on the incredible sight of Sam sucking his cock, his eyes watering as he takes it as deep as he can again and again, his big fist wrapped around the rest, starting up a relentless rhythm that’s going to push Dean over the edge way before he wants it to.
Dean’s hands go to Sam’s head without his permission, grasping handfuls of the long, silky strands that he’s always wanted to hold like this. Sam encourages him, moans around Dean’s dick and takes it deeper, tears trickling down the sides of his face as he willingly chokes himself again and again. One of his hands is still plastered to Dean’s hip; the other fondles his balls, the sensation rocketing through Dean and bringing him closer and closer to losing it. One finger trails farther behind, brushes over his hole and then pushes in just a little, and the thought that Sam—his Sam—wanted to touch him there hits Dean like a freight train.
It’s too much; Dean comes before he realizes he’s going to, gasping out a belated warning, but Sam doesn’t let him go. He swallows down what he can and lets the last of it dribble out onto his puffy lips. It’s a visual that’s going to stay in Dean’s head for the rest of his life, of that he has no doubt.
“Jesuschrist,” Dean says weakly, feeling like his legs are about to give out.
Sam licks his lips, and Dean’s dick gives a fruitless twitch. Sam rises slowly, jeans still open and his hard cock exposed, glistening with his arousal.
“Your chance to do everything you wanted to do to him,” Sam says.
Dean hesitates. This is different. This requires him to be the one who’s doing something, not just allowing something to be done.
Surprisingly, Sam is patient. His hair is damp, a mess from the clench of Dean’s fists in it. His cheeks are wet with tears, his mouth red and lips swollen. His eyes are dark, his expression still desperate.
He should look ridiculous with his dick hanging out, but Dean’s eyes are locked to the need he can see so clearly in Sam’s eyes, and it’s like all of him is hardwired to respond to that. Sammy needs something; Dean will give it to him.
He falls to his knees smoothly, and above him Sam honest-to-god whimpers, like he’s overcome at the reality of Dean actually doing this. The sound pushes the last of Dean’s hesitation away, and he gives in completely, hands stroking over Sam’s hips, tracing the cut of his hip bones as he nuzzles into the coarse curls between Sam’s thighs, his nose sliding along the silken hardness of Sam’s cock.
“Ohgod,” Sam says, sounding wrecked already.
He trembles as Dean tries to take his time, palming the rock-hard muscles of Sam’s thighs, urging Sam to spread his legs a little. Dean mouths along his abs, tongues at the grooves there as Sam groans again, nips at the curls that frame his dick and then runs his tongue over Sam’s tight balls.
“Please,” Sam grits out, and Dean can feel his legs shaking. The sense of power is intoxicating, half of Dean stuck on This is what it would be like to touch Sam and half of him glorying in reducing this version to pleading desperation. It’s more of a turn-on than he wants to admit.
He takes his time palming and suckling Sam’s balls, watching his dick twitch and dribble in response and the muscles of his abs clench as he forces himself not to thrust into thin air. It’s not until one of Sam’s big hands lands on Dean’s head, scratching through his hair and caressing his ear, that Dean gives in to what he wants to do too.
He’s always known how big Sam was, but somehow he never imagined how full he would feel when he finally had Sam’s cock in his mouth. Sam quivers, thrusts his hips forward enough that Dean chokes, then pulls back, his hands clenching and unclenching in Dean’s short hair.
“Fuck,” Sam says as Dean pulls back and then slides down again, and no matter how hard Sam pulls at him, Dean keeps the pace just this side of too slow, using only his mouth, teasing Sam to the brink and then slacking off until he’s sweat soaked, chest heaving.
“Please, Dean, please,” he begs, “Please, I—he wants it—he wants it so much, wants to see you take it, always wanted to, always, please…”
It’s meaningless babble, manipulative in the worst way, but it works anyway. The thought of Dean’s Sammy wanting this, wanting Dean to give him this pleasure, makes it impossible not to give in to it all. Dean wraps his fist around the length he can’t take and sucks hard, lets Sam thrust in and out and hold his head still for it, saliva trickling down his chin and tears running down his cheeks as he hangs on to Sam’s hip bones and rides it out. Sam fucking explodes in his mouth, making him choke harder, but he stays where Sam holds him, fingers leaving bruises on Sam’s hips, trying to breathe through his nose while it’s smashed into Sam’s crotch and full up with the heady smell of him.
When Sam finally lets him go, Dean falls back, gasping.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam says, also out of breath. He probably doesn’t mean it, but it’s a nice gesture.
Dean gets up slowly and grabs his discarded towel to wipe the slick and spit and tears from his face. “Now I need another fucking shower,” he says and suddenly feels the urge to laugh. Sam looks ridiculous, his now-spent dick still hanging out of his pants. And Dean is quite sure he looks ridiculous too. It seems less painful to laugh than to think about what they just did.
“Sorry,” Sam says again.
“You’re not,” Dean accuses, holding the towel in front of himself now that Sam has more than seen everything he could ever show.
Sam shrugs. “Not really.”
“He would be,” Dean says, and heads to the shower.
* * *
Part Four
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Date: 2020-07-17 06:15 am (UTC)He’s damn good at manipulating Dean, but Sam always has been, he’s just never cruel with it under normal circumstances. Which sadly we’ve seen a lot of abnormal times with these two. I hope Dean doesn’t come to regret this!
This is one of the best Soulless Sams I’ve read. He’s not evil, just soulless, so he has no cares to give. So well done!
no subject
Date: 2020-07-17 11:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-01-11 05:16 pm (UTC)The other thing I super loved here was the power play. Dean feeling heady that he had managed to illicit a response from soulless sam. I was wondering what the tipping point might be because (admittedly delicious) porn tropes aside, this is an even trickier situation to write them into bed, then even most first times. I’m always curious about the vehicle that is used to jump start a first time between the boys, but here it’s even more of an uphill struggle because the fact that this isn’t ‘his’ sam gives Dean the heebie-jeebies. So I was very curious what would push him over the edge and I find that combination of constant muscle memory and a sudden power trip very compelling. Especially if he does actually believe that this is what Sam had secretly wanted all along. But at the same time the whole encounter is a bit squirmy because we know it’s not sam who is finally getting this.
The other thing that I really like about the whole encounter was I wasn’t sure if the whole thing was a ploy on Soulless!sam’s part. Was he actually overcome with desire for Dean (he can still want things even if he doesn’t feel many emotions. And a physical reaction has to be one of the more primordial drives, so it’s possible) or is it all just calculated to bind Dean closer to him than ever (sam as every other little Sammy-ism he has been perfecting recently.) and I just don’t know 🤷🏻♂️😄👍🏻😁
no subject
Date: 2022-01-15 04:54 am (UTC)