Archive of Our Own

“C’mon, Sammy!”

Sam was all the way down the hallway and around the corner now but he could still hear Dean’s voice clearly in the distance. The damn thing somehow carried even farther when he was a demon, or maybe it was just Sam’s fear augmenting his senses—he was a prey animal now, stronger hearing to compensate for the lack of eyes on the sides of his head.

“Let’s have a beer, talk about it.”

His body was heading for the garage, which was stupid, because it wasn’t like he was going to drive away. Dean didn’t want to leave until he’d found Sam, but Sam couldn’t leave. This had to end somehow, even if it was looking more and more like that ending was going to be Sam bleeding out alone on the cold tile floor.

“I’m tired of playin’. Let’s finish this game!”

Well. At least they were on the same page.

As Sam jogged up the steps leading to the garage three at a time, it took him a second to realize how much closer those last words had sounded, and just— how? The bunker was huge; Sam could have gone anywhere. Could Dean fucking smell him? No, it was more likely that he just knew how Sam thought, because he always had (usually better than Sam did himself even if he would die, probably literally, before he fed Dean’s ego with that kind of knowledge), and being a demon wouldn’t change that. It had always been an asset—annoying and intrusive sometimes, yeah, but invaluable during a hunt, and it felt like the worst betrayal yet to have it used so Dean could hunt him.

Sam was moving toward the Impala, drawn to it automatically for the comfort he knew it couldn’t currently provide. It was still parked where he’d left it to drag Dean out and into the dungeon, and more than anything Sam just wanted to curl up in the back and pretend everything was as it should have been, just another night between hunts, parked at a rest stop until they could make it back to the bunker the next day. He was barely ten feet away, knew the keys were still on the front seat where he’d left them and knew it didn’t matter anyway because he wasn’t going to use them, when there was something in the air behind him, not a sound really but a shifting, and he swung around, knife held out defensively in front of him, clumsy feeling, wrong-handed.

Dean was poised right behind him, all malicious innocence with hammer held at the ready like he’d been just about to swing it at the back of Sam’s head, but face faux-pleasant at the same time, sharpened edges and amiability.

“Goin’ for a drive, Sammy?”

Sam didn’t answer him, didn’t dare with his heart about to burst out of his throat, but it’s not like Dean was looking for conversation anyway. Sam scrambled back a few steps, mentally searching for options—new options, better options, less insane options—and coming up blanker than he’d ever thought possible. Dean was faster than him to begin with (just a little, just enough to piss Sam off if it ever became a competition, and it usually did when it was something Dean knew he could win), but this Dean could have been on him in less than a blink. As Sam looked at him, eyes cruel but mouth grinning, he knew the only reason this Dean hadn’t taken him out already, hadn’t 'won,' was because there was no entertainment in that.

Sam had hoped, of course he had, that it was the blood treatments, that the hesitation to kill him was humanity coming back in a way that meant more than just being able to step over a devil’s trap. But Sam couldn’t kid himself with that no matter how much he wanted to, couldn’t delude himself that he meant anything at all to this Dean.

But that didn’t mean Sam was incapable of understanding him.

“All right, well, this’s been fun…”

Sam knew what it was to crave something—solitude, change, power, blood—and he could work with that if nothing else.

“But y’know, shit to do, so—”

Dean gave a kind of overdone apologetic shrug, and then he was crossing the distance between them too fast, Sam barely managing to lift his knife arm high enough to catch the handle of the hammer on his forearm before the head of it could come down on his face instead. He shoved it back, knowing he was only able to because Dean let him. But Dean was already lifting the hammer to strike again, and Sam stumbled back, almost tripping into the Impala, pain throbbing in what had previously been his only good arm. He was panting, more scared than he’d ever been on any normal hunt, more scared than he’d ever felt about anything. He had to say it, there was nothing else left.

Dean stepped forward again, a strange kind of patience in the action, and Sam flattened himself back against the car, hands up, knife in the left just a useless afterthought at this point. “No, Dean, wait! You can— There’s something else we can do.”

Dean sneered at him, but he just shifted his weight to his other hip, didn’t go for Sam again immediately, and that was something at least. “Oh yeah?” He said it like he was humoring him, probably thought he was letting Sam stall for his own amusement. “And what’s that?”

Sam straightened a little, made himself look Dean right in the eyes, and most of all, did not let himself think. “You can fuck me.”

Dean froze, body going instantly, unnaturally still. All that moved was his face: eyebrows lifting and mouth falling open just a little, and Sam felt a weird kind of detached pride that he had managed to evoke such a Dean-like expression of shock from this twisted version of him. But then the surprise cleared, was replaced by the most slow, predatory grin, a face normal Dean even at his worst couldn’t have come close to making, and Sam’s stomach dropped through the floor as Dean’s eyes flickered black to match it.

“You want me to fuck you, Sammy?”

The switch was too fast. Sam had expected astonishment, dismay, derision, thought he’d have to really convince Dean that it would be much more fun for him to fuck Sam than to kill him, but Dean seemed just… immediately on board. The initial surprise was completely gone (and the black eyes too after a few seconds, thank fuck), replaced with a simple expression of cruel amusement, and it was throwing Sam completely off, if he could have ever been on about this to begin with.

“No I— I don’t want— I just meant—” He was backpedaling, verbally if not physically, because his feet couldn’t save him anymore, and now Dean was moving toward him again, but this time it was with a swagger. Sam had seen that look more times than he could count, but it had never been directed at him, and suddenly all he could feel was the sweat running down his spine, cold and clammy with trepidation. He was quickly realizing that part of him, maybe most of him, hadn’t thought past the initial proposition at all. It had been a crazy idea formulated somewhere right around when there’d been a hammer flinging chips of door at his face, and he’d had no real time between then and now to think about what would happen if Dean actually said yes.

Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.

“You just meant what? Not many other ways to interpret somethin’ like that, Sammy.”

He was obviously really enjoying himself now, grin a little more tempered, a little less harsh and a lot more charming, and God that was worse. “I meant it’d— Be for you. I would— For you.” He sounded like an idiot, didn’t even know what he was saying. Even worse, he was looking away now, couldn’t stop himself even if it went against every survival instinct he had to take his eyes off an enemy, because there was just enough in Dean’s face to make him appear as far from an enemy as someone could get, and Sam couldn’t deal with it. He wanted the cold-blooded monster back, not this almost-Dean, misplaced and misdirected.

“Aww, for me? Just out of the goodness of your heart, huh? Ain’t that fuckin’ sweet.” He laughed, and Sam looked back, because that laugh had barely been Dean at all, and that was safer. Then Dean took another step toward him, eyes teasing, strangely playful, and that was not. “But here’s the thing,” he murmured, voice dropping low, conspiratorial. “What exactly gave you the idea…” He leaned in, a secret just for them, eyes tracking all over Sam’s face like he didn’t want to miss a single fluctuation. “…you could possibly deserve that?”

Sam sucked in a breath, completely shocked despite everything. He had no answer for him, none at all, but Dean didn’t seem to expect one anyway, or maybe he just liked listening to himself more regardless. “You think you deserve my cock, Sammy?”

This time Sam reeled back like the question had slapped him, caught so shamefully off guard for something that had been his own goddamn idea to begin with, upper body bending backwards over the Impala because there was nowhere else for him to go. Dean smiled wide at the reaction and stepped forward again, barely any room left between them. He seemed to remember with the movement that he was still holding the hammer, glancing down at it and then back up to Sam, smile going sly. “Maybe I should just fuck you with this instead.”

Sam felt his eyes widen, but he was just frozen there, unmoving, silent. He wouldn’t. He fucking wouldn’t. Dean’s grip shifted and Sam’s gaze was drawn downward to watch it, his wide palm flexing around the wooden length for a second before he flipped it up into the air a few inches and caught it again by the metal head. He brandished the handle at Sam in the narrow space between them—smooth and polished but ancient and dirty, a bunker relic they’d never needed to replace. Sam opened his mouth and not a single word came out.

Dean lifted his other hand, closed it around the handle, grip loose and instantly, wildly evocative. He stroked it slowly up and down a few times, and Sam couldn’t stop watching it. “Maybe you’d like this better, huh? I don’t hear you sayin’ any different.”

“Dean.” He sounded pleading, probably looked it too, and he fucking hated it, but he’d seen this glint of consideration in Dean’s eyes when he’d looked back up at him, and this Dean… God he would probably fucking do it.

“‘Deeaan,’” he mocked, whinier by far than Sam could have possibly sounded, and just like that Sam was given enough of his brother back to find himself scowling at the insult.

“You know I don’t want the fucking hammer,” he spat, clinging to the irritation, the tinge of anger that deadened the terror.

“No?” Dean stepped right up into his space now, looking up at him and still managing to make Sam feel three feet tall, the way only his always-bigger brother had ever been able to. “Then what do you want?”

Sam could count his fucking freckles from here, the green of his eyes and pink of his lips both so vivid up close, the latter parting under Sam’s gaze, tongue peeking out through his open teeth.

“Tell me.”

Sam’s eyes snapped back up to Dean’s, startled somehow, caught staring even though that had been the entire point of Dean’s proximity.

“Dean, Jesus, I—“

In a flash of movement Dean had the handle of the hammer up and pressed against Sam’s throat, the heat of his chest inches away. His right hand must have been braced on the car because his arm was snug against Sam’s down at his side, Sam’s other arm already pinned by his sling.

“Tell me.”

Sam tried to breathe, to swallow against the pressure of the wood. It wasn’t constricting anything, not yet, but his fear sure fucking was.

“Your— I— You.”

Dean tsked, his head falling to the side a little, everything an affectation. “Uh uh, not good enough.” He pushed the hammer in enough to have Sam trying to tilt back over the car again, gasping when Dean just followed, whole body bending over him, chest pressed fully against his now. “You can do better than that. My what?”

“Jesus Christ.” He was panting, could feel his chest expanding again and again into the solid wall of Dean’s, completely calm against him. Their faces were too fucking close, Dean’s eyes too sharp, the only thing Sam could see. He tried to buck Dean off him with his chest but he didn’t budge, and all he managed to do was choke himself with the hammer. “Fuck,” he coughed, eyes starting to water. Dean watched him, all rapt expectation, and the weight of it was worse than the immovability of his body. “Your— your dick, okay?”

“Yeah?” He smiled, but less like he was laughing at Sam this time and more like he was just pleased. “What about it?”

Sam’s eyes almost rolled on their own, automatic little-brother annoyance, so incredibly out of place. “Jesus fucking— I want it, all right? I— I want your cock, Dean.”

Sam saw the exact moment the words switched something in Dean, his eyes darkening drastically, and Sam was terrified they were going to go black again. But no, they were just dilating with normal, human arousal, and that was— Sam didn’t know what that was, couldn’t let himself think about what that was. Dean breathed out, a shaky little puff of air over Sam’s lips, but Sam didn’t even have a full second to be confused by the weird nervous quality of it before Dean’s hand was in his hair, fingers immediately tight and unyielding. It left Sam’s knife arm free, but still he left it limp at his side, let Dean pull his head back, expose the entire line of his neck, hammer still pressed to his Adam’s apple.

“This what you want, Sammy?” Dean leaned in, but he didn’t kiss him, didn’t put his mouth on him at all, just dragged the side of his face over Sam’s, stubble rough and catching on his. He made it up to Sam’s ear, breath hot, nose in Sam’s hair like he was smelling him, and Sam was melting back into the car, couldn’t make himself stop. Dean’s lips just barely brushed his ear, soft and warm and the only thing Sam could feel. “Yeah… You really do, don’t you?”

Sam’s eyes were closed, heart racing so bad it was choking him, more threatening by far than the hammer. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t know how to fight this, didn’t know what parts of it he’d even be fighting. Dean’s own breathing was fast enough that Sam could feel the roughness of it on his ear, but the rest of him was so still, body like concrete holding Sam in place. His forehead pushed into Sam’s temple, strange and hesitating for just a second, and then he was pulling back enough to drag his lips down Sam’s jaw, contact sudden and deliberate. They were closed, would have been chaste if they’d belonged to anyone else, but Dean wasn’t anyone else and the intimacy of it was insane, electrifying. Sam’s eyes flew open and he just barely managed to bite down on a gasp, feeling the muscle clench under Dean’s mouth.

Dean moved slow, unhurried to Sam’s chin, and Sam was utterly and debilitatingly afraid that he’d kiss him on the mouth, but he leaned away instead, palm on the back of Sam’s head tilting it forward again so he could look him in the eye. It was like he was searching for something there for the briefest moment, but Sam had no idea what that could be and the expression was gone before he could even begin to guess. It was exchanged for what would have been a perfect replica of his previous viciousness if not for his pupils blown so terribly wide open. His fingers retightened in Sam’s hair, knuckles digging in at the back of his skull, and Sam’s eyelids fluttered, completely mortifying, at the delicious stinging pain of it.

Dean visibly clocked the response but he didn’t sneer at Sam this time, didn’t mock him for it, just asked, voice so goddamn rough, “Want your big brother’s cock that bad, huh?”

Sam’s mouth fell open and he actually whimpered, he heard it like it came from someone else, and Dean’s eyes did change then, shuttered full demon-black in an instant. Sam shivered, horrified despite himself at the sight, the wrongness of it just never getting any easier. But it was only a second, and then it was just Dean again, huge pupils ringed in perfect emerald green, except this Dean was looking at him like he’d eat him alive if he could; blatant, affronting lust written all over him.

He kept the hammer in place, perfunctory now—they both knew Sam wasn’t going anywhere—and leaned over to pull open the back door with an unconscious, extension-of-his-body kind of reach. “C'mon, you’re gonna show me how much.”

He finally moved the hammer, tossed it carelessly behind him onto the concrete, and Sam felt his own hand open at the ringing clang-thunk of it before he’d given it any conscious instruction, knife dropping next to his feet. He breathed out then, a little piece of tension loosening as he finally let himself accept that he never would have used it anyway no matter what Dean had done to him.

Dean didn’t seem to notice or care, hand in Sam’s hair pulling him up off the car until he’d gotten him around the open door. He let him go just to shove him back by his chest instead, and Sam stumbled, barely managing to duck his head and shoulders just as the backs of his legs hit the bench. He grunted, left arm fumbling up to grab the back of the seat as he tried to stay upright against the momentum, but Dean was already stepping up in front of him and grabbing his shirt, keeping him there.

“On your knees, Sammy.”

Sam shivered again, reason so entirely different this time, because Jesus fuck, they were actually going to— He obeyed, disturbingly immediate, like it wasn’t even a fucking question, scooting back and folding his legs into the car until he could get them under himself, and Dean barely waited for him to make it there before his hand was back in Sam’s hair, pulling him forward. Sam felt the rough-soft scratch of denim against his face for half a second before he suddenly realized what else he was feeling, and then Jesus fucking Christ. Dean was hard, completely rigid, no give at all under Sam’s cheek, his nose, his jaw as Dean dragged Sam’s face all over himself. Sam didn’t know if that kind of physical eagerness was a demon thing or just a Dean thing, and wondering about the distinction was making him lightheaded, but he let Dean pull him around, listening to the near-silent little huffs of breath coming from above until he couldn’t take it anymore, had to turn against the pull just enough to get his lips on him instead. He mouthed along the insanely hard length, heard Dean suck in this kind of sobbing breath and turn it into a snarl at the last second. “God Sam, fuckin’ desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Sam was telling himself he wasn’t actually, that this was just muscle memory, it had nothing to do with Dean at all, a dick was a dick—anything he could tell himself, he was, but his tongue was pressed flat and sloppy to denim now, Dean so fucking hot even through the material, and he had never once stopped thinking about whose jeans he was drooling all over.

Dean had both hands in his hair, letting Sam shamelessly saturate the front of his jeans, sucking at the thick layer like he could make it through if he just tried hard enough, and Sam wasn’t thinking about it, he wasn’t fucking thinking about it, that this was a pair of jeans he’d seen a hundred times before because it was his brother wearing them.

“Fuck, Sammy, all right.” Dean tore his head back and Sam looked up at him, awkward at the hunched-over angle, mouth still open, spit quickly cooling on his lips. Dean looked both ferocious and a little dazed, eyes tracking fast over Sam’s face. “Gonna give it to you, you want it that bad.”

Sam absolutely did not fucking whine at that, deep in the back of his throat, uncontrolled, uncontrollable—but if he had, he would have been grateful that Dean hadn’t seemed to hear him over the clinking of his belt buckle, both hands ripping it open, impatient. Sam reached up to tug it from its loops, mostly out of a practical desire to not have it hitting him in the face, and was surprised when Dean barely seemed to notice, too busy unbuttoning and unzipping himself, head tipping back on a little gasp, Sam dropping the belt down by his legs.

Dean shoved his boxers down without ceremony, jeans tight enough that there wasn’t all that much room through the open fly, and Sam mourned the relative inaccessibility of his balls until he realized so belatedly that he was looking at his brother’s hard dick, and the knowledge of it almost punched the breath right out of him. It was fucking perfect, thick and long and exceptional, of course it was, Sam couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t known it would be, and his mouth started watering immediately, perversely Pavlovian.

“Jesus, look at you.” Dean lifted his hand to cup Sam’s jaw, thumb on his bottom lip, pad scraping over his bottom teeth, and Sam was momentarily thrown off by the uncharacteristic smoothness of his skin until it clicked: no weapon calluses, demons heal. Any other time the realization would have made him feel hollow, but he couldn’t really feel it now, not with Dean’s dick right in his fucking face.

And Dean obviously wasn’t thinking about the difference, too busy looking down at Sam with this savage kind of awe, eyes glued to Sam’s parted lips where his thumb was slowly sliding back and forth. “Want your big brother’s cock in this slut mouth of yours so fuckin’ bad, don’t you Sammy?”

He’d asked it like he didn’t really expect a response, but Sam was looking up at that filthily reverent expression and he couldn’t pretend, couldn’t lie to either of them, not for this. He fucking wanted. The answer tumbled out of his mouth without hesitation. “Yeah, fuck, please.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dean’s hand tightened on his face like it was involuntary, then it was slipping back into his hair again, gripping hard, tugging him forward. Sam opened wider for him, moaning at the anticipation before Dean had even touched his tongue, and then everything in Sam’s awareness was velvet-soft skin and the perfect solid weight of a cock—fuck, not just anyone’s, Dean’s—sliding past his lips. He could feel a drop of pre-come smearing in a line down the center of his tongue and a part of him felt strangely relieved, like somewhere he’d wondered if demons worked the same way when it came to fluids, but that was a crazy thing to wonder because Ruby definitely hadn’t had a problem when they’d—not the time, not the fucking time.

He moaned again, couldn’t help it, as Dean pushed all the way in like he belonged there, rocking his hips a little so the slick-soft head made a circle at the back of Sam’s throat. It tickled, it was so fucking sexy, it was exactly what he wanted. Fuck, fuck.

Sam relaxed his throat against the reflexive spasm, kept himself perfectly still, his eyes struggling to stay open, find Dean’s face again. Dean’s mouth was slack, eyes half-lidded and mesmerized, and that look of fucking bliss before Sam had even done anything—it was too much, it meant too much, a face like that on his brother while he looked at Sam.

Sam whined around him, wanted Dean to hear it this time, to feel it, because he needed him to move, the hand still tight in Sam’s hair so obviously not giving him permission to do it himself. Dean’s hips twitched forward just the tiniest bit, at the sensation of the noise or just the fact of it, Sam didn’t know, but that was all he did, and then his other hand was coming up to rest on Sam’s face, thumb tracing around his lips where they were stretched open around him, and fuck.

“Shh, I know. Want me to fuck this pretty mouth, don’t you?”

Sam did, more than fucking anything, and he had to close his eyes to keep himself from begging with them, because Dean’s voice was endlessly deep and rough and genuine and Sam didn’t care if he was putting it on, it fired all his fucking synapses, and it was too much.

“Hey, uh uh, look at me.”

Sam’s eyelids opened instantly, self-preservation discarded again like it was nothing, eyes back on Dean’s face before he’d thought about it at all. Dean made a sound that was probably supposed to be a growl but came out more like a purr, and Sam felt it down his spine like a physical touch, the hand on his face slipping back into his hair too, gentler, rewarding.

“God, yeah, stay just like that.”

He started moving then, just a shallow little flex of his hips out and back in again, and Sam groaned his desperate assent, kept his eyes open no matter how much he wanted to close them, to really feel it, and stayed precisely where Dean had put him.

The thickness of him was already causing that delicious aching in Sam’s jaw, smooth length dragging at the inside of his bottom lip as Dean pulled almost all the way out with this deliberate kind of slowness, pushed back in, eyes on Sam’s mouth, watching himself disappear. Sam wanted to grab his ass and pull him in properly, hold him there, too deep for too long until he couldn’t breathe around him—but he wouldn’t have been strong enough for it even if he’d had both hands, not with this Dean, not if Dean decided not to let him, and there was just enough Sam left outside of the moment to wish that the knowledge of that wasn’t nearly as hot as all the rest of it combined.

He managed one more slow in and out like that, cock just barely brushing the back of Sam’s throat and then gone again, testing his patience like nothing fucking else, before he too seemed unable to take it. His hips suddenly snapped forward, hot friction on Sam’s lips making him grunt, surprised. He wrapped his tongue around him as best he could before he pulled out again, slicking him up better for the push back in, not shallow at all anymore, head slipping into the opening of Sam’s throat for a precious second before he took it away again.

Sam had to wonder if it was only this Dean or just Dean in general that struggled to maintain any kind of gradual, but he was certainly not fucking complaining, the complete opposite of it, as Dean pushed back in so deep Sam had to actively suppress the need to gag for the first time, entire head of Dean’s cock snug in the entrance to his throat. He held it there, breath coming out in a shaky, satisfied kind of exhale, and Sam’s blink was a little too long at the sound of it before he caught himself, opened his eyes again to see Dean’s gaze still locked intently on his.

He didn’t pull out again, kept his eyes on Sam’s and pushed in farther instead, slick and hot and perfect. Sam breathed through his nose and took it, pulling a little against the hold on his hair until Dean got the message and loosened his fingers just enough to let Sam angle his head better. He was too tall to do this properly from up on the seat, but he got himself as low as he could, let one knee slide off the bench until his upper thigh was pressed into the leather instead with his foot still up behind him, precarious, the hands in his hair all that were really keeping him balanced.

Dean was too big to ever make it all the way in with an angle like that, but it felt like he must be pretty fucking close when he finally couldn’t go any farther, burning heat completely overtaking the entire passage of Sam’s throat, throbbing steady and fast. Sam concentrated on breathing around it, his eyes starting to water slightly from the strain, still open and on Dean’s. Then his leg slid a little further off the seat, and his jeans, already tight in the awkward position, pulled just a little tighter, and Sam realized all at once that he was completely and unbelievably fucking hard.

It was like someone yanked on a line from his stomach to his balls, a viciously abrupt coalescence of arousal that had his throat constricting immediately, a desperate fluttering in place of a gasp. Dean groaned when he felt it, finally had to take his eyes off Sam to tip his head back.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” he breathed, ragged, gone, and Sam could probably come just fucking like this, just watching the line of Dean’s neck as he swallowed, dull prickling on his scalp, Dean’s cock all the way down his throat.

His hand fumbled up to Dean’s hip, so much more panicked by the thought of coming untouched in his pants like the worst kind of teenager than about his loss of concentration and subsequent growing inability to breathe. Dean looked back down at the touch, and as soon as he saw whatever expression was on Sam’s face, his fingers tightened all the way in his hair again, making sure he couldn’t move.

“You’re okay, Sammy, doin’ so good.” His knuckles brushed over Sam’s scalp, so soft in contrast to how tightly he was holding on. “Just a few more seconds, feels so good in there.”

Sam made some kind of insistent noise, because talking to him like that was making it so much worse, and Dean had no fucking idea. He was looking at Sam with this kind of greedy pleasure and something that couldn’t be interpreted as anything but pride, and everything about that miracle of big-brother approval in this context was so deeply fucking wrong, and so deeply fucking good. Sam’s balls were drawing up, he could feel it, his gut in knots, whole body tensing.

He got his fingers up under both of Dean’s shirts, dug them into the bare skin over his hipbone, pleading. Still Dean stayed in place until Sam’s nails were in his skin too, and then he was hissing and laughing at the same time, though it couldn’t have possibly hurt him.

“All right, fine, breathe.” He pulled Sam away from him, cock sliding fast and wet from his throat with a horrid amount of noise. He was grinning a little, the expression utterly obscene with his blown pupils and half-lidded eyes, cock standing hard and slippery inches from Sam’s face, and Sam finally slammed his own eyelids shut again and kept them there this time, fucking done trying to withstand it all.

“I’m— I was— fuck.” He was panting from sheer orgasm proximity rather than being truly out of breath, and it took him a second to realize he was trying to explain what had almost happened, and how fucking insane that was.

Thinking about the horrifying possibilities of what Dean would do with that kind of information took the edge off so fast it was like he’d been dunked in ice-cold clarity. Holy fuck, what was he doing? He needed to calm down, needed to have some fucking control over himself. He hoped Dean wouldn’t question it, that he’d just assume Sam had been afraid and nothing else, but he wasn’t really willing to give him time to come up with scenarios.

He curled the hand still on Dean’s hip around the back of the bone and pulled, pushing forward against Dean’s grip so he could get his tongue on the underside of his cock. Dean exhaled, surprised, fingers twitching in Sam’s hair, and Sam licked at the head a few times, waiting for Dean to stop him. When he just held Sam’s head in the same place, unmoving, Sam moved his hand to circle the base of his dick, guided him down and in, closing his mouth around the couple inches he could reach.

Dean inhaled sharply and his fingers tightened even harder, but he didn’t pull Sam away, and Sam realized it was the first time he’d actually had Dean in his hand like that. He couldn’t help taking advantage of it, swirling his tongue slow as he got all four fingers around him, soft skin pulled so tight, slick with his spit.

There were still a couple of inches between his hand and his mouth, and Sam was marveling at it, not used to touching someone else’s dick and having it be almost as big as his own. He sucked lightly, stroked upwards to meet his lips, and guessed it made sense, they were brothers, and fucking God, he did not need to be going there right then.

But he was, he was definitely going there, feeling the stretch of his lips and the weight in his hand and thinking about how Dean was thicker than him on top of being only a couple inches shorter at most. He was actually managing to feel some kind of little-brother jealousy over it, because Dean would be that fucking perfect, but all it was doing was making him suck harder, squeeze his hand a little tighter, and that was something he really actually wouldn’t be thinking about.

Dean waited it out for maybe a single minute, Sam’s hand stroking what he couldn’t get to with his mouth, tongue pressed to the head, licking up a drop of pre-come, bigger this time, enough to taste a peculiar edge of acridness, like sour smoke. It made Sam groan a little, because there was no way that was a normal part of Dean’s human physiology, and then Dean was breathing out this harsh, aborted kind of breath, and moving in Sam’s hand. He thrust into Sam’s mouth, still slick and smooth under his fingers, and Sam held onto him until Dean pushed in too far on the next thrust for his hand to fit. He got it back on Dean’s bare hip instead, felt the stretch of skin over bone under his palm as Dean pulled out, pushed in again, harder, again, faster. Sam didn’t try to slow him down or hold him back, just closed his eyes and breathed and felt how good it was to be used, wet glide against his lips, thick heaviness on his tongue, Dean hitting the back of his throat again and again, his quiet little huffs of breath so loud without the sight of him to diminish them.

The sounds were so similar to the ones Sam had heard so many, too many times before—in the second motel bed when they were both supposed to be sleeping after a long day; sitting at the table researching when Dean hadn’t pulled the bathroom door closed all the way, low water pressure in the shower not quite enough to conceal him; late at night outside Dean’s cracked bedroom door when Sam was passing by on his way back from the library or the kitchen; inside the shower room when he went in to brush his teeth or rinse off after a workout and took too long to realize what was happening, had to sneak back out, hoping Dean hadn’t noticed him.

So many years on the road, most of them spent sharing a room, never out of each other’s space even once they had the bunker—there’d been endless opportunities to hear him, every one of those sounds caused by Dean’s own hand, but now it was Sam making him sound like that, those soft little grunts like he was holding back, the same way he always had. Maybe he thought he still had to; maybe it was just that trained into him. He’d spent nearly three decades suppressing pleasure in Sam’s vicinity, and maybe it was a bit unfair to expect him to just flip a switch simply because Sam was suddenly the one causing it. The entire thought process was insane, completely upside-down, and all Sam could think about was hearing Dean moan loud and out of control because he wanted Sam to hear him, and it was the worst fucking thought he’d ever had. He opened his eyes then, felt the corners leak just a little. He wanted to see if Dean’s face was more honest than his mouth, but he didn’t really get a chance to observe him at all.

“Fuck,” Dean gasped, hips stuttering, right as Sam’s eyes focused on his. He had been looking down at him, maybe had never stopped, and apparently he hadn’t expected Sam to look back, because he seemed caught off guard, eyes wide and mouth open. The white of his teeth was weirdly stunning, unexpected and beautiful, and Sam felt just as shocked by the sincere expression as Dean looked. He heard the muffled sound of his own moan, same as he’d just been wishing he could hear from Dean, because he had slowed down and Sam’s jaw was aching and his lips were tingling and he didn’t want it to stop.

Sam’s thumb brushed over Dean’s hipbone, gentle and encouraging, and it felt too sweet even as he was doing it. Dean’s breath shuddered out, just a little, like he really hadn’t meant it to, and then his mouth was closing, jaw clenching and fingers tightening so hard in Sam’s hair that Sam’s eyes watered for real, sensation like a fucking boomerang, pain all the way back around to pleasure instantly. Sam gasped, barely audible, feeling it deep in his balls, the reminder of his own arousal almost as intensely surprising as the first discovery.

Dean leaned into the car, propping his left knee up on the seat and forcing Sam’s head to follow him, thrusting up into his mouth as he pushed him down. Sam gagged immediately, had no way of suppressing it this time as Dean hit the back of his throat hard, held himself there and rolled his hips up, ground Sam’s face down. Sam’s hand fumbled for Dean’s leg, more reflex than anything, trying to brace himself even a little bit, but his arm just ended up crossed over and bent awkwardly against his own chest, just as useless as the one in the sling. He gave up on it, held onto Dean’s thigh purely to feel the flex of the muscle instead, tense under denim as Dean used it to push up into his mouth again and again, no hesitation or build up anymore, palm unforgiving on the back of Sam’s head.

He was a little louder now, mouth open, breathing hard, and somewhere amidst the choking and not breathing and spectacular rush of non-survival he was experiencing, Sam wondered if Dean had stopped caring how much noise he was making, or if he just stopped being able to help it. His dick was sloppy-slick under Sam’s lips, and the sound of that was bad enough, Dean fucking into his mouth and throat so fast and hard that Sam was drooling completely beyond his own control, body trying to defend itself and failing fantastically.

“Christ Sam, your fuckin’ mouth.” Sam couldn’t see him anymore, face held down too hard, but he knew Dean was looking at him again, voice aimed at the top of his head as he watched and listened and felt, and it was so mind-numbingly fucking hot because Sam couldn’t do anything about any of it. Dean continued, voice so rough it barely even sounded like him, “Made for this, huh?”

Sam didn’t know if Dean meant just his mouth or him, all of him, his whole existence coming down to nothing more than a hole in his face to be fucked, and Jesus fucking Christ, he couldn’t take it, how could Dean possibly know exactly what he wanted to hear? He realized his nails were digging into Dean’s leg, pressed in so hard they were probably digging into skin even through his jeans, and Sam tried to pull them back, knowing that’s how he made him stop before, but Dean didn’t even seem to notice this time, or if he did, he didn’t care, and fucking shit.

He was pulling in as much air through his nose as he could, but it wasn’t much and he thought he might suffocate just like this and be perfectly fucking fine with it. If Dean was going to kill him today anyway, this sure as fuck would be Sam’s preferred way to go.

Here lies Sam Winchester, choked to death on his demon brother’s dick.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to come. He wanted Dean to never stop doing this. He wanted Dean to come.

It was finally that last thought that had him sobbing, wrung out and overstimulated, no real breath in his lungs for it, Dean babbling filth at the edge of his consciousness. “Yeah Sammy, that’s right, fuckin’ love it, don’t you?” Sam was moaning agreement, felt the vibration in his chest more than anything, didn’t even know if he was making any sound, doubted he had the air left for it. Dean’s thigh was jumping under his hand, muscle straining with effort or restraint or both, and Sam just held on, tried to ground himself in the radiating heat of him, the texture of the denim, but felt himself dipping under anyway, getting lost. Dean was breathing fast and rough above him, voice harsh and far away, “Goddamn whore, takin’ it like this. Fuck, fuck.”

And all at once Sam’s mouth was ripped away, Dean’s fingers tight in his hair pulling him up and off so hard Sam almost folded over backwards with the force of it. His eyes were streaming and he tried to blink the worst of it out of the way, his deprived lungs struggling to take in the sudden flood of air. He coughed, throat raw, and Dean was just staring at him, chest rising and falling so violently Sam could see it even through the blur of tears. Dean untangled his fingers, let go of him, Sam’s scalp prickling with returning blood, and Sam took that as permission to swipe the back of his arm under his nose, knowing his whole face was probably an impressive kind of mess but not caring much past preventing snot from running down into his mouth.

Dean finally looked away from him, dragging one of his freed hands through his own hair, and Sam couldn’t help thinking he looked fucked up, very much the kind of fucked up Sam felt, and it was bewildering to look at, because that was his brother and yet Sam had never felt so much pride in his life making someone look that wrecked. He could disappear in that feeling, in all the different directions, bad and sick and sickeningly good, but Dean barely gave himself a second and then either he was past it or he decided to pretend to be, eyes and hands back on Sam.

He pushed Sam with another casual little shove to the chest, and Sam fell back immediately against the disproportionate strength of it—demon strength, not Dean strength—legs trapped under himself uncomfortably as Dean ducked his head into the car after him. Before Sam could move them himself, Dean was pulling them out with this kind of unthinking automaticness like Sam was a doll that needed to be rearranged, and he wished how very small that made him feel didn’t make his entire body vibrate and a whole new rush of blood throb in his cock.

Sam tried to scoot himself back to give Dean room but Dean was settling himself over his unfolded legs like it was nothing and Sam just tried to make himself breathe steadier instead, feeling weirdly self-conscious somehow like he hadn’t just had Dean’s dick down his throat. Dean reached for the front of his shirt and then looked down, and Sam thought his hand must have caught on the sling strap when he gave an annoyed little growl at it. He reached around Sam’s back with both hands and all the warning Sam had was the pressure of his fingertips before there was the sound of tearing and then the dull sting of blunt nails against his bare skin. He arched away from it instinctively and knew it must have been that more than anything that had Dean pressing in harder, scratching deep enough he was probably just barely drawing blood as he pulled the ripped pieces of Sam’s shirts forward around his shoulderblades.

Sam clenched his jaw and concentrated on keeping his eyes open against the pain, the exact rightness of the amount something Dean seemed to have a talent for. He distracted himself in the wrong direction thinking about how that kind of self-control didn’t seem like a demonic trait at all but rather something that very much fit with the rest of the brother Sam knew, except now it took more control to hold back the damage he could really be doing— and realized too late he was panting, wound all the way up again just from Dean’s nails in his back.

Dean tugged the left sides of both shirts under the strap and Sam struggled to get his arm out of the sleeves so awkwardly in reverse, Dean already having moved on to the other side, yanking the material hard from inside the sling with an even harsher ripping sound and wrenching Sam’s shoulder in the process. He winced and Dean ignored him, gathering the mangled scraps in one hand and then discarding the whole bundle in the front somewhere, two shirts now thoroughly dead. Sam thought he should probably be grateful Dean even let him keep the sling on at all.

Dean pivoted around behind himself then, going immediately for Sam’s boots and tearing them off, and Sam was glad that he wasn’t wearing a pair with laces, because no doubt Dean would have had similar patience with those as he’d had with Sam’s shirts. And while Sam was thinking about what a pain it would have been to replace them, part of him was also thinking about how he very likely wouldn’t even be alive to need them replaced even if he’d had to, and what a fucking mess this entire line of thought was with his brother in his lap systematically removing all of his clothes, because that same brother was also very likely going to be the one killing him.

Dean stripped his socks off next, and it felt like a strangely intimate touch, but Sam didn’t have too much more time to spend in his own head, thank God, because then Dean’s hands were on his belt, steady and nimble, opening his jeans and shoving them and his boxers down under his own thighs. He turned around again to get them farther down Sam’s legs and they were both distracted for a second by the struggle to get them all the way off, Sam finally kicking them the rest of the way to fall to the concrete outside the Impala. Then Dean turned back to him, half-kneeling, half-standing hunched over him, one leg in the footwell, and Sam realized with a heart-squeezing kind of terror that he was laid out fully naked under his brother, and it was possibly the most vulnerable he had ever felt. No wonder Dean had taken even his socks—he had obviously wanted naked, and it was so much worse because Dean was still completely clothed, his eyes all over Sam’s bare skin and Sam unable to see anything of him except his cock, still shamelessly on display between them.

Dean sat back on Sam’s shins to get a better view and Sam was a heartbeat away from shielding his dick like the one-handed version of a teenager in a locker room when Dean’s eyes made it there anyway. Sam couldn’t keep himself from looking down at it too, finding it almost purple-red and straining desperately—what any reasonable person would call embarrassingly hard. It twitched, leaking pre-come as they both watched, and Dean snarled, “Fuckin’ Christ, Sam,” like he was angry about it, and mostly Sam had to agree: he wasn’t that happy about it either.

Then in the next moment, Dean had somehow shifted so his knees were inside Sam’s legs and he was gripping Sam’s thighs, jerking him down the bench until his back was nearly flat. He started lining himself up before Sam’s legs were even fully spread and Sam’s heart leapt into his throat. “Jesus, Dean! You can’t just—” He gripped the seatback and tried to shuffle his way back up the bench but Dean grabbed his hip and held him in place, glancing up with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. He was still holding his own dick for aim with his other hand so Sam grabbed that wrist instead, squeezing hard enough it would have bruised instantly if Dean’s skin had still been capable.

Dean rolled his eyes, looking entirely undeterred. “C’mon, Sammy. You can take it.” He moved forward the last few inches like Sam’s hand on him was nothing, the thick head of his cock nudging at Sam’s totally dry, completely unprepared hole, and Sam tried very, very hard not to panic.

“Fuck Dean, wait, just—” Sam dropped his wrist and twisted to the side, reaching awkwardly over himself to get to the floor. He’d seen the duffel there when he’d put Dean in the back earlier, thrown carelessly in the floor with crumpled boxers sticking out of the barely done up zipper. It had struck him like everything else about the Impala had, how very not Dean the disordered bag had been, but as he fumbled blindly for it now, he hoped that this Dean was Dean enough to still have the bottle of lube he’d always kept in the side pocket.

“Oh thank Christ,” Sam said, fingers closing around the cool plastic. Dean laughed in a way that was very much at him, not with him, but he waited for Sam to come back up with the bottle, offering it breathlessly. Dean took it from him, looking, confusingly, both impatient and amused, but he otherwise stayed in place, head of his cock hot and insistent, and Sam’s panic didn’t lessen at all. It’s not like he expected some kind of slow, romantic opening up, but anything would be better than—

“Fine, if you want prep so bad, you can do it yourself.” Dean tossed the bottle onto his chest and then was moving himself back on the bench, knocking one of Sam’s legs off the seat and bending the other out of the way so he could sit up next to the still-open door. When Sam just laid there clutching the lube, one leg up and exposing him even worse than he’d already been, Dean rolled his eyes again and gestured with his chin toward the back of the front seat. “Go ahead. On your knees, lean over the seat. Lemme see you.”

Sam struggled belatedly to get into a sitting position, heart racing too fucking fast. “You’re not serious.”

“Sure I am, Sammy. Here.” He took the lube back and pulled Sam completely upright by nothing but a hand on his bicep, turning him on the bench until both feet were on the floor. Sam wished he could say the fear of the situation had killed his hard-on even a little, but if he was being honest with himself, he might even be a little (impossibly) harder than before just from Dean yanking him around and giving him orders, which really wasn’t great. Dean was just leaning back in the seat watching him, and Sam was staring back, trying to come up with a good enough reason to say no. He didn’t have one.

God, okay, I’m doing this.

Before he had any more time to think about it, he bent forward over the seat, bracing the one arm he had so he could get his knees up under himself, legs spread by necessity so they’d even fit on the bench. Dean exhaled softly behind him, and it sounded a little surprised, like maybe he hadn’t actually expected Sam to do it, and God, this would be worth it just for that sound alone. Sam turned back to him, balancing somewhat painfully with his slung arm on the seat in front of him, and held his hand out for the lube. Dean took an extra second to visibly drag his eyes away from Sam’s ass, and Sam’s stomach tightened with both arousal at catching him looking so avidly and nerves that he was about to give him something to really look at.

Dean flicked his eyes from Sam’s hand to his face and then ignored him completely, flipping the bottle open with a little click that Sam heard but didn’t see, because it was already being held behind his back. After half a second, slick liquid dripped down the very base of his spine and he tried and failed not to flinch, shivering as it slid down his crack and over his hole, cool and ticklish. When it reached his balls, just a drop or two dribbling under and then off, he had to stop and just breathe for a second, so hypersensitive from being so hard for so long that even such a phantom touch had him going a little insane.

Dean must have been watching the liquid’s path—and Sam could not think too closely about the details of that, not yet—because the second it stopped, he was upending the bottle again over Sam’s still outstretched hand and Sam managed not to jump this time as his first two fingers were coated. He told himself it wasn’t eagerness at all but rather the lube (too much, Jesus Dean) dripping all over the floor and the edge of the leather seat that had him reaching behind himself immediately.

“Yeah, Sammy, do it,” Dean breathed, so much more encouraging than taunting this time, and Sam had to wedge his bottom lip between his teeth to keep himself quiet before he’d even made contact. If Dean was wondering why Sam was reaching awkwardly over his own back instead of underneath himself as the position probably called for, he didn’t say anything about it, and Sam appreciated it, because the answer ‘if I even brush my dick right now I might come’ was not ammunition he wanted to just freely hand over. It’s not like this wasn’t already damning enough to begin with, that he was even willing to do this at all. As his hand bumped into his crack, clumsy and backwards, there was a certain prideful, competitive part of him that felt like he had to put on a show just to prove that he could, that when he’d accepted the challenge, he’d meant it.

And then his middle finger actually found his hole, and that competitive part was stamped down almost completely by the rest of him remembering he was horny out of his fucking mind. He circled once, sensation rippling slow as he affected an air of teasing he didn’t actually have any patience for and hoped his breathing sounded less like he’d been sprinting for miles than it did inside his own head. He did it again, too sensitive, overwhelmed before he’d even started, and then he just couldn’t anymore—performance over. He let his finger slip past the ring of muscle and then just kept going, in to the second knuckle all at once, heat squeezing so tight around it but finger slick enough to do it anyway. Dean said Jesus at the same time Sam said “Oh fuck,” and he regretted his own voice immediately for echoing so loud it almost blocked out Dean’s entirely.

It had been a fucking while, long enough for his brain to have forgotten just as much as his body would have regardless, and Sam was breathless instantly like it was so much more than a single finger inside of him. Dean’s eyes on him somehow made the intrusion feel huge, fucking monumental, and it wasn’t even all the way in. He forced a breath out, fruitlessly trying to relax, and made himself go slow as he pulled it back out, insides clinging like they weren’t willing to give it up. It felt fucking incredible already, all sensation and triggered muscle memory and anticipation, and he pushed back in too fast again, not caring about the slight sting, just needing to get past it to more. The angle of his wrist was so awkward and he didn’t care about that either, pulling out and pushing back in as far as he could, doing it again and getting in even farther, more slippery each time.

His breath was coming out in these frantic little huffs he was doing his best to ignore, but as he finally pushed in as deep as he could reach, circled his finger inside himself, nerves fucking throbbing, he couldn’t make himself regret not holding in his gasped out moan when it elicited an answering rush of air from behind him, fervent and forceful and sounding like it was most of the way to a word before Dean abruptly cut it off. God, Sam wanted to hear him, wanted to know what he was thinking, watching his brother do this to himself, wanted it so bad and knew it would be the worst fucking thing to know.

The angle was terrible, finger the wrong way around for any real prostate access, but it didn’t matter at all, every brush inside him so magnified, shocking and bright. It had been a long time since he felt this, but still he couldn’t remember it ever being so fucking intense—arresting, debilitating, even as something in him demanded moremoremore. He wanted to stay pushed in deep forever, wrist straining as he rubbed relentlessly at himself just to feel the heat and the texture of it, but he needed more like the worst kind of compulsion.

Hurriedly, reluctantly, somehow both things at once, he dragged his finger back out almost all the way, pulling to the side to stretch himself open as he ran the tip of his index finger along the rim, still slick with lube. He heard Dean suck in a breath and then listened to the silence of him holding it that followed, broken only when Sam pushed the tip of the second finger in alongside the first. “God yeah, Sammy,” he breathed, and he sounded so fucking worshipful that Sam had to look back at him, terrified to see him and feeling like he’d die if he didn’t.

His posture was full indolence—slumped down in the seat, legs open wide, hand on his dick—but his eyes were riveted so fucking intensely on Sam’s fingers and he wasn’t even stroking, just kind of squeezing, thumb pressed up under the head, like he couldn’t keep himself from doing it, and holy fuck, it was fucking unbelievable, that they were doing this, any of this. Sam felt like he was self-immolating and Dean was just sitting there watching him burn.

He pushed both fingers back in slow, so slow, knuckles feeling huge, no room for them. Dean watched, not looking up, so Sam watched him, his parted lips, the two little lines creasing that spot between his eyebrows, eyelashes resting thick and heavy over deep green. He was beautiful and that wasn’t new, but somehow it hurt so fucking bad to acknowledge it in that moment, the thought of it dancing in and then out again like Sam’s mind was choosing ignorance for its own protection. His eyes skipped away too, and Dean was breathing hard, Sam could see it in his chest, but he couldn’t hear it, his own breathing too loud or maybe Dean’s control of his too complete.

He couldn’t concentrate on it for long anyway, fingers barely halfway in before he suddenly had to face forward again just to make space in his head for the feeling. It was so good, that perfect slow stretch, rough fingertips on soft insides, hot squeeze around skin and bone. He kept going, twisting his fingers around each other, a little easier that way, slick and hot and so tight he had no fucking idea how Dean would ever be able to—

Oh God, somehow he’d managed to forget why he was even doing this. His fingers pushed in the rest of the way on their own, because his body at least knew lack of eagerness was a fucking lie, and there it was, his knuckle bumping against his prostate like he’d planned for it, and Jesus. Some kind of noise came out of his mouth but he wasn’t listening anymore, awareness shrunken down to his fingers spreading and coming back together, pulling back out, bent to press back into that spot on the way. It was so hot in there, fingers driving back in like it was automatic, like this was something they did all the time, but it wasn’t, and Sam was fucking alight with it like it was brand new.

His eyes were closed and all he could hear was the gently filthy sound of slick skin on skin as he began to fuck himself in earnest, pleasure hot and racing. He felt it in his whole body, way more than he should, the push in, the pull out, down to his toes, up to his scalp. He was so fucking hard it had almost become this separate part of him, both unforgettable and somehow too present to even dedicate his attention to. Somewhere he knew he was leaning painfully on his shoulder, his toes bent uncomfortably against the seat, his hair tickling him where it’d fallen over his face, he knew these things, somewhere, but he just didn’t care. He was chasing this, only this, this feeling now.

The knowledge of his audience was buried with the rest of it, so the only warning he had was distant and barely even processed, a shifting of the seat next to his knee, and then his entire asscheek flared bright red with pain. He tried to suck in a breath as his eyes snapped open, head whipping around to see Dean sitting up now, focused. The pain was such a shocking contrast to the totality of the pleasure that it took him way longer than it should have to realize Dean had just spanked him, and then he was already doing it again. The second hit was maybe a little softer than the first, but it didn’t matter because it landed precisely where the first one had, and Sam’s entire body flinched at the specificity of the pain like he hadn’t literally been stabbed and shot several times in his life.

He tried to get some kind of protest out around the sheer surprise of it but didn’t manage a single sound, staring at Dean for seconds too long before he realized he should be pulling his fingers out, should be saying no. Dean was staring back, lust, challenge, demand, until Sam’s hand finally moved, fingers pulled out halfway, and then his eyes flashed to it like lightning, and his own hand followed just as fast. He grabbed Sam’s wrist tight, used it to push his fingers right back in, and of course now Sam could make noise, a choked moan like Dean had done something much more dramatic than put Sam’s fingers right back where he’d already had them.

He dropped his wrist but it was just to switch hands, his left coming up to take the right’s place and pull Sam’s fingers out for him this time, then push them back in again, quick and deep. Sam finally managed to be less surprised when Dean spanked him again, but now it was the opposite cheek, pain perfectly fresh and new. He dragged Sam’s fingers almost all the way out of him one more time and then the pressure on his wrist was gone, and Sam had a disjointed second of wondering why he’d let go until he realized he’d been pulling against Dean’s hold, trying to fuck himself on his own again.

He groaned then, finally let himself just take it, head dropping down between his shoulders, pushing his fingers in rough as Dean’s palm came back down on his skin, harsh and grabbing on the pull back. It was fucking amazing, how perfectly just enough the pain was, and Sam wished it wasn’t, wished he wasn’t losing it completely over the easy display of control, Dean so precisely holding back the kind of damage he could really be doing to give Sam exactly as much as he wanted him to have.

The skin of his ass was raw and stinging already, and Sam could hear himself making the most embarrassing noise on each smack because Dean wasn’t stopping, his hand alternating between cheeks, measured and consistent, like he knew what he was fucking doing, and Sam felt like his entire spine was melting. His fingers stayed in but he almost immediately couldn’t do more than twitch them inside himself, every little movement a spark he swore he could feel in his fucking teeth. It probably hadn’t even been a full minute and Sam already felt like he couldn’t possibly take any more. Dean either needed to stop or he needed to let Sam make himself come, because he couldn’t keep hanging on the fucking edge like this, he couldn’t—

And then it stopped. Sam genuinely thought Dean had read his mind for the second it took his hearing to catch up to his brain, and then he realized he must have just read the horrendous whining noise Sam hadn’t even known he’d been making. Fuck.

Dean brought his left hand up to Sam’s inflamed skin, cool in contrast to the one he’d just been using, and squeezed at the tenderness, kneading and possessive. “Dean—” Sam gasped, before he even knew what he was trying to say, but then his fingers were moving properly again, trading one shock of sensation for the other, and anything he’d had to say was lost anyway. He pulled them out too fast, everything so fucking sensitive, almost intolerable as he plunged them back in, unable to stop himself, pain still radiating from his abused cheeks, encouraged by Dean’s hand.

Then the hand was gone and there was one in Sam’s hair instead, pulling his head up and toward Dean until he had to arch his back, neck stretched long, exposed, and it was like the single utterance of his name had released him in some way, the near-silent Dean gone all at once, words spilling out, voice jagged and rough. “So fuckin’ hot, Sammy. Look so good takin’ it like that, with those long fuckin’ fingers inside you. They feel good, huh?”

Something in Sam’s brain skipped at that, at the specificity and the intensity of it. Did Dean— Had he been— Did Dean think about Sam’s fingers? Think about them inside Sam, inside—Jesus, he couldn’t have—inside himself?

“Oh fuck.” Sam felt his cock twitch violently at the thought, dripping into open air between him and the front seat. Instantly, blindingly, he wished Dean’s hand was on it more than he’d ever wished anything in his fucking life, and then as soon as he did he tried to scrub it out of his head, banish the image of it, the soul-crushing want of it. But he couldn’t, God he fucking couldn’t, he wanted it so fucking much, wide palm and thick fingers and warmth and safe and brother and fuck fuck fuck.

The hand in his hair gentled just a little, stroking down and then up under it to grab the back of his neck, sweaty now, sticky against Dean’s dry palm. “That’s right, baby boy, makin’ yourself feel so good.” Oh Jesus fucking Christ, baby boy. That was too much, way too fucking much, it’d been almost twenty years since he’d— “Do a third, lemme see it. So good, gettin’ yourself so ready for me.”

“Dean, I can’t, I’m—” But he already was, ring finger wiggling in alongside the other two. He whimpered at the stretch, burning sharply because he was going too fast, too hard, not enough lube on that finger to begin with, but it felt so fucking good and he just didn’t care anymore.

Then it was like yet another switch had flipped and Dean growled, grip moving around to the front of Sam’s throat. The bottom of his hand was just resting there against Sam’s windpipe but it was enough to have him shuddering at the possibility of it, the strength he knew was behind that hand. Dean could kill him, right fucking now, so easily, it would be nothing for him, and there was something so fucking wrong in Sam for how the realization just made him shove his fingers deeper, body too tight around them, everything tense everywhere.

Dean shifted again, the heat of him that had been hovering at Sam’s side only really noticeable in its absence, and then both of his hands were on Sam’s ass, fingertips pressing in, spreading him open. He spoke, vicious, from far enough back to see, “God, my baby brother, such a fuckin’ slut, look at you.”

It was horrible, humiliating, so far past hot Sam didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t stop him, let Dean do it and fucked himself harder because he hated it, fucking loved it. He could feel his thighs shaking, felt like his entire body was about to collapse.

“Gonna make yourself come, aren’t you? Right here in front of me.” His voice was so mean, pure fucking danger, and God he was right. Sam hadn’t touched his dick for even a second and he was going to come anyway, three fingers deep in himself and not even using his dominant hand to do it, the feeling of hungry eyes all over him finally too much, his heart beating too fast, lungs shredded.

“Dean,” he moaned, helpless, heard the whine in it this time, couldn’t make himself care. Dean snarled at him, and there was just enough not human in it to have goosebumps erupting all over Sam’s body, hair standing on end. Then Dean leaned forward, leather creaking softly with it, and bit Sam just inside where his fingers were holding him open. It was just a nip, soft by comparison to anything else he’d done, but holy fuck, it was so close to Sam’s hole, muscle stretched red-hot and glaringly sensitive, and it was absolutely over-the-top too fucking much. The feeling of sharp teeth and hot breath ricocheted to his cock instantaneously and he was just fucking gone, fingers stuttering to a stop as his body squeezed too hard around them to keep moving.

His first shot of come hit the back of the seat so audibly that part of him winced internally for a Dean that didn’t even currently exist, the one he imagined would have been righteously pissed about the mess, and then he wondered if maybe he wouldn’t have cared if he’d been the one causing Sam to make it, and then he didn’t wonder anything at all because his body finally took over and made his brain shut the fuck up. His slung arm slipped off the seat in front of him and he barely caught himself by his shoulder, body collapsing in on itself and cock pulsing so hard the second time it felt like it was taking his soul with it.

Dean’s hands had left his ass at some point and there was a slick sound behind him, just at the corner of his waning consciousness, and for a second he thought Dean must have found the lube again and was jacking himself off with it while he watched Sam come, which was possibly one of the most unbearably hot thoughts he’d ever had, but then Sam’s fingers were yanked out of him with no warning at all. He didn’t even have time to gasp before he felt himself lifted off the seat, too fucking effortless, denim-clad knees sliding over into the backs of his thighs and then the hands on his hips pulling him down, one leaving at the last possible moment so Dean could guide his cock in, in, in, all of it, all at once, the tender skin of Sam’s ass meeting the sharp coolness of his open zipper somehow the first thing Sam felt.

And then everything he had ever fucking been was just wrenched right out of him. He was nothing. He’d been in shock before and this wasn’t that, this was astral fucking projection, his mind just leaving, completely and utterly done.

But hours, seconds later, Dean’s voice was in his ear, “Yes, fuck yes, good boy,” and Sam realized his body was still very much engaged, clenching shockingly hard around the blinding hot intrusion inside him, still somehow mid-orgasm like he hadn’t just stopped fucking existing. His heart kickstarted back into place and Dean was outright fucking moaning, entire body aligned under Sam’s, nothing but heat and tension and power, thrumming with it, so forceful Sam didn’t know how it wasn’t crackling like a downed power line. “Just like that, Sammy. Just keep fuckin’ comin’, fuck.”

God and he did, he was, Dean holding him down and grinding up into him and Sam was just choking, couldn’t find enough air in the mostly closed-in space of the car, felt like he might never breathe right again. His hands clawed for something, anything, found Dean’s thighs under his and just tried to hold on, grip weak, out of focus. It’s not like he was a total anal virgin but he could count on one hand the number of times he’d done this, and holy fuck, if he’d thought Dean had been big when he’d had him in his mouth or his hand, that had been nothing compared to this.

This was life-ending, the uncontrollable feeling of himself tightening again and again around Dean’s cock, so severe he thought surely he’d be causing damage if Dean had been human. He’d never felt so viciously full, so completely consumed by another person, and his body didn’t fucking care about the pain, a new jet of come striping hot over his thigh, another one already burning down his length, dripping onto his balls. It hurt so fucking much, and yet he couldn’t stop coming, head lolling back on Dean’s shoulder, unable to hold it up. Dean sunk his teeth into the base of his neck, sucked hard, hips rolling up into him, fucking endless. Sam couldn’t fucking descend, stuck in eternal orgasm, doomed to come forever impaled on his brother’s cock, pain ripping up his spine and body melting down into it like it didn’t even understand what pain was.

He felt like he might pass out, thought maybe he already had, Dean’s hips never stopping, his tongue on Sam’s neck now, lapping over what was probably an incredible hickey judging by the fact that Sam could even feel the soreness of it around the pain still shooting down his thighs in little zaps of electricity. He had absolutely no idea how much time had passed, but at some point he had apparently stopped coming, more or less, entire body trembling with an aftershock as soon as he noticed it existed again.

“Mm, still with me, Sammy?” His voice was low, words teasing, but the tone didn’t quite make it there, caught somewhere closer to soothing, which clearly he heard and didn’t like, because a hand came up from Sam’s hip and roughly tweaked a nipple. Sam’s body arched into it as he gasped, counter fucking productive, Dean’s cock shifting even deeper inside of him and sending a whole new array of pain-pleasure out like a wave.

“Yeah, there you are,” he murmured, voice pitch-black, but then he seemed to regret that too, thumb rubbing softly over the peaked nub like an apology. Sam shuddered hard, too fucking sensitive, and thought that the mood whiplash would kill him for sure if Dean didn’t do it more directly before then. He spread his hand flat over Sam’s pec and dug his fingertips in a little, other hand tightening almost imperceptibly on his hip so he could still lift him how he wanted, like Sam weighed fucking nothing, and Sam thought his blood might actually be evaporating he felt so fucking hot.

He was a little looser now, he could feel it, Dean lifting him up just a couple inches at a time, slow and patient about it, like he had all the time in the fucking world, even while the rest of his body flatly contradicted him. Dean’s thighs were rock solid and straining under his, his chest expanding rapidly again and again into Sam’s back, the fingers on Sam’s chest and hip tightening sporadically in their holds, nearly everything about him betraying whatever façade he thought he was maintaining. But then again, something about the chaos of the conflict made Sam think it might not have been an act at all—maybe this was a war Dean didn’t even know he was waging with himself, and Sam was just forced to bear witness, along for the fucking ride.

“Still hard, aren’t you Sammy? Even after you came so good for me.” He nuzzled at Sam’s neck, all faux-sweet until one of his canines dug in, sharp and sudden. “Gonna make you do it again.”

Sam sobbed, couldn’t help it, it sounded so much like a threat, and he was just so goddamn weary already. He rolled his head down, so heavy he could barely lift it off Dean’s shoulder, and saw that Dean was right, his hard-on hadn’t flagged a fucking centimeter, because Dean was still pushing up inside him, so smooth and rhythmic, cock dragging along his prostate so exactly right each time that Sam had started to wonder deliriously if Knights of Hell had x-ray vision for a power. It was unbelievably fucking good, being stretched open and kept there like he’d never even come close to feeling before, and he didn’t even know when the pain had stopped being the center of the universe, absorbed by the pleasure until it was nothing more than this dull ache of fullness he could feel all the way up to his ribcage.

He didn’t feel capable of forming an actual response, but Dean as usual didn’t seem to mind. He murmured, “C’mon, let’s set some records,” like it was more to himself than Sam, and Sam had no idea what that even meant and still managed to be a little scared by it. He was working up the energy to ask for clarification when Dean slipped his arm down under his chest, hand splayed flat over the side of his ribs for the briefest moment before Sam was abruptly lifted off his cock and instantly lightheaded from the searing absence.

And then he was somewhere else, turned and deposited facing the closed door, one knee under him already and the other struggling to join it, limbs wobbly and dumb. Dean slung his arm low around Sam’s waist, drawing him nearer on the bench, his other hand pressed between his shoulderblades to lean him farther down. Sam let Dean put him where he wanted him, bracing his unslung forearm on the door and just concentrating on trying not to get a faceful of window, until Dean went to pull his arm away and the sleeve of his shirt just barely brushed Sam’s cock. Jesus Christ, had he ever been this fucking sensitive before? He flinched away like Dean had whipped him, but he couldn’t do anything else about it because Dean was already grabbing one of his hips and sliding back inside him with one smooth thrust.

His temple thudded into glass with the force of it and he didn’t remotely fucking care, the meager amount of breath he’d managed to scrape back into his lungs slammed right back out of him. Obviously the sensation of very possibly having his organs rearranged was not one he was going to get used to anytime soon, but the sheer world-destroying pain of it was significantly less this time, and Sam had nowhere near enough blood left inside his brain to ask for more than that. Dean began rocking his hips shallowly, just the barest friction all the way inside him, and for a second Sam thought he was actually giving him time to reacclimate, which considering everything else so far seemed concerningly out of character. Then he heard the click of a plastic cap and felt lube dripping down right where they met, pleasantly cool on his overworked skin, and thought that was definitely more in line with this Dean—doing something that would normally be considerate from anyone else and making it feel like just another threat.

He pulled out enough to get his hand in between them too, Sam hearing the slick sound of his fingers moving up and down his own length. His hand circled closer in to Sam’s body, and it would have probably been entirely perfunctory and done in seconds if his knuckles hadn’t bumped Sam’s abused rim. He hissed loudly before he could stop himself and Dean laughed, husky and a little malevolent, then put his thumb deliberately over where he had Sam stretched. He rubbed it softly along the skin, pushing back into him slow at the same time, and Sam groaned, thumping his forehead into the window. It was so raw and oversensitive but more than that it was too fucking intimate, Dean’s unerring attention and overly delicate touch, physically gentle because he knew mentally that was worse.

“Takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ, huh Sammy? Open so wide for me.” He pressed his thumb down a little harder, half on Sam and half on himself, feeling himself slide back out, sound of his voice tilted down, watching. “Wish you could see how good you look.”

Sam made a stupid, desperate sound and wished he hadn’t, because Dean’s tone was entirely too taunting to be real praise, but Sam’s dick sure didn’t fucking care, and his mind was distressingly close behind regardless. Dean pushed back in just the tiniest bit faster, thumbed harder at Sam’s rim, massaging little pinpricks of pain into him. “Could always take some pictures, share the view.”

Sam tensed up completely, high fucking alert. “Don’t you—” and then he had to stop and swallow down the flaming burst of horrified arousal that shot through him at the image of Dean lounged somewhere, hand on his dick, looking at pictures of himself inside his brother’s body, intentionally holding onto that piece of Sam, of this moment, just to get himself off with later. “—fucking dare.”

Dean laughed again, but both of his hands smoothed up Sam’s back, the tactile equivalent of holding them out to show he had no weapons—in this case his fucking phone camera. But he didn’t otherwise agree with Sam’s refusal, just left it hanging there, the possibility of it, like a total asshole, his fingertips digging into Sam’s traps as he bottomed out, harder than before.

“Goddamnit, Dean,” he bit out, but he heard how weak it was, already losing the will to fight about it with the feeling of him slick and burning inside him, still moving slow but truly fucking him now, so different than the slow grind from before. It was so different to feel the full length of him so fucking deep and then feel all of it again on the slide back out, his body clinging to every inch. Dean had clearly moved on already anyway, thumbs pressed hard into muscle and then the rest of his nails dipping in alongside them, eight perfect little half-moons of pressure. He dragged them down and over the swell of Sam’s traps, deep enough to mark but not quite enough for blood this time, and Sam worried for a second he was planning to slice through the strap of his sling, but he just skipped right over it like it didn’t even exist. His nails caught briefly on the minor grooves he’d carved when he’d ripped Sam’s shirts off, and Sam tried and failed not to moan way too pathetically, turning his face into the cool window like it could somehow muffle the way he was instantly trembling for it.

Dean scratched all the way down, same consistent pressure, and Sam knew he could tear him to fucking ribbons like that, worse by far than he’d done to his shirts, and knowing he could but wasn’t was getting Sam off worse than anything. Dean picked his nails up and did it again, just outside the last two set of scratches, like he was filling space, painting himself a picture. The pain wasn’t much at all, but it was enough, and the dedicated preciseness of it even as he was pumping in and out of Sam’s body steadily faster and faster was driving Sam completely insane, certi-fucking-fiable. Dean had one more space to fill, just down the center of Sam’s back, and he used a single hand for it, all four fingers until he made it halfway down, where he turned it so the nail of his index finger was on an edge and he could press it deep enough to cut, just a little, all the way down to Sam’s tailbone.

Sam barely even felt the shallow tear opening up because Dean let out this low groan behind him just as it did, rolling into Sam hard and then staying there. Sam felt the rough scrape of his open fly on his ass as he circled his hips, like he had to stop everything else to savor the sight of Sam’s blood rising to the surface, or like maybe even he was a little overwhelmed. Sam had forgotten how to breathe again, thought he may have skipped straight past to hyperventilation without noticing.

“Fuck,” he gasped suddenly, pain catching up to him seconds too late, delayed so far behind the pleasure. His voice seemed to kick Dean back into gear, his fingers wrapping around Sam’s hips and pulling him back even as he slid out of him, making Sam’s body chase him and then dragging it right back off again. He wasn’t gripping hard, but it was such a solid hold that Sam wasn’t actually sure he could have moved against it, and he was far enough gone to admit to himself that he didn’t even want to try. He was so stupidly turned on by Dean moving him around on his dick like Sam was made of plastic and filled with air that he was just letting himself slump further and further into the door, cheek pressed to glass and accepting that he would have been face down in the leather if there’d been room for it, with no regard whatsoever for his spectacular lack of dignity.

Dean quickly picked up a rhythm, Sam unable to do much more than make useless, fucked-out noises he couldn’t suppress and try to keep himself pliable, and he could barely feel his limbs, so that part wasn’t much of a struggle. Dean was breathing hard and fast behind him, that same soft grunting from before so audible now that Sam could almost trick himself into believing he was just as into this as Sam was, just as stripped down, figuratively and literally, just as lost in the baseness of it, just two people fucking and nothing else. But that wasn’t it at all, was it? They were as far from just two people as two people could get, and Sam knew that every single part of him hadn’t forgotten that for a fucking second.

And then all at once Dean just stopped. His hands tightened almost painfully hard on Sam’s hips as he halted himself still halfway inside him with this quietly gasped Shit, fuck that Sam heard like it was inside his own head. He just stayed there, breathing hard, for a few of the longest seconds Sam had ever experienced, and Sam didn’t dare move either, completely enthralled by the stillness of him and the building suspicion (and reeling implications thereof) that his big brother had just stopped himself from coming inside him.

They were still frozen there when Sam suddenly became aware of a staticky sort of crackling coming from his left, and then with no other preamble, there was music coming from the Impala’s speakers. It wasn’t overly loud but Sam still jumped, utterly bewildered, because the car wasn’t on. He lifted his head to look over the front seat at the tape deck like somehow that would answer some questions for him, but it just made him more confused, because the radio dials were skipping wildly back and forth on their own and there was very clearly not even a tape in the fucking thing. He stared at it, the weirdly funky opening riff of the song continuing unheeded, completely defying all laws of— Oh.

He faced forward again and Dean finally moved then, a hand running up Sam’s side to feel over the layer of goosebumps that had broken out there (and everywhere else on Sam’s body, because Jesus Christ). “Seriously, Dean?” he scoffed, trying to save some fucking face, but he couldn’t lie to himself, and that was the real problem. His skin was reacting normally, trained to respond with trepidation to this level of supernaturally caused electromagnetic interference like he was a reasonable fucking person, but the rest of him had never bounced right back from total bemusement to raging arousal so fast in his life, and he had no idea what to do with it.

He absolutely didn’t understand why he would find it so hot to experience Dean doing the kind of thing they’d seen ghosts and demons do a thousand times, but God, he really did. It was just such a careless use of power, engaged for such a frivolous reason, and in such a twisted context that Sam never thought he’d be a part of for so many reasons, and something about all of that did something to him he couldn’t even begin to unpack. Dean just hummed a little, saying nothing, and Sam imagined he was probably wearing one hell of a smirk as he started rocking his hips again, apparently distracted enough by the casual Sam tormenting to keep going. Sam leaned one flushed cheek on the cool window glass and decided to try to focus on actually listening to what was playing rather than on the feeling of himself dripping onto the seat purely because it was.

The strange, feedback-ridden opening was vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until the rest of the instruments kicked in, aggressive and distorted, that Sam was transported back to a particularly loud phase in Dean’s late teens, motel rooms filled with a small collection of thrifted (or more likely stolen) music blasting at all hours from the little CD boombox he’d found outside a dumpster somewhere in a town Sam had long ago forgotten. He was truly at a loss as to what it meant that of all things, Dean had chosen a Tool song from the late 90s to play while fucking him, but he began forming some theories pretty quick once Dean started singing along.

“Something has to change, undeniable dilemma,” he and Maynard began in unison, Dean with about 200% more leer in his voice. “Boredom’s not a burden anyone should bear.” Sam felt his face pinching in vaguely insulted annoyance despite the fact that Dean couldn’t even see it, but then the hand on his side was sweeping up to the back of his neck, broad and warm and still so surprisingly smooth, Dean continuing, “Constant overstimulation numbs me,” just a little harsher than the song required, and Sam was just trying to suppress a shiver under it, touch so present combined with the sound of his voice. Then Dean's hand was fisted in the back of his hair, cock ramming into him as deep as he could get, devastating, an internal punch— “But I would not want you any other way.”

Cause it’s not enough, I need more

The song kept playing around them, but Dean had stopped singing, apparently too occupied with fucking Sam again like there’d been no interruption. His other hand pressed down hard just below the center of Sam’s back as the one in his hair tightened, and Sam got the hint, arched like Dean so obviously wanted and was way too gratified despite the unnaturalness of the bend when it made Dean murmur, low and pleased, “There you go, Sammy.”

Nothing seems to satisfy

He wasn’t holding Sam still now so Sam was pushing back into him without even thinking, and it came to him on some kind of delay that Dean was moving perfectly to the rhythm of the song with Sam just automatically following his lead, dancing together in the dirtiest way possible. He felt the rush of heat all through him at the realization, didn’t know how he could have possibly gotten more hot. His entire body was so overheated he felt chilled and he was so mentally overstimulated he thought his brain might give up on the entire thing any second, just let his body take over until it burned itself down, ash and bone where there’d previously been the tenuous posturing of a functioning human being.

I said, I don’t want it, I just need it

Dean’s hand released his hair, came around the side of his neck and gripped his jaw instead, fingertips pressed in just this side of too hard. He tilted Sam’s head back and found his parted lips with his thumb, tucked it behind his bottom teeth and used it to pull Sam’s head to the side for seemingly no reason but to see him a little contorted. His thumb tasted like Sam’s sweat, and Sam tried to close his mouth around it despite the position and his own ridiculous breathing, trying to get under his own taste, find Dean’s instead. He licked at his skin, sloppy and wet, overly frenetic, and Dean made a sound that was both a growl and a moan somehow, almost too quiet to hear under the song’s continued chanting.

To breathe, to feel, to know I’m alive

Dean started feeling over Sam’s teeth, bumping all the way back to his molars like he was mapping them out, and Sam just let him, choking on his own breaths and trying to get his tongue out of the way. Dean brought his index finger in to stroke over it, making him gag a little and not helping with the breathing situation whatsoever. Then the vocals returned, more melodic again, and Dean’s voice picked back up with them, singing, “Finger deep within the borderline,” with no hint of mocking at all this time, like it was a line he’d sung along with so many times he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

The thing was, Dean was actually a decent singer when he forgot to purposely be an asshole about it, which was mainly any time he thought Sam couldn’t hear him—in the shower of course, but also while driving the Impala in the minute or two before he noticed Sam was no longer asleep, in the kitchen while he made himself a midnight sandwich, Sam leaning against the wall outside the door for a few extra moments just to listen to him, or in the rare, wonderful times he let himself relax in a library armchair with his headphones in, Sam sitting unseen on the ledges next to the steps until Dean inevitably sensed him there, asked him what the hell he was doing, Sam having to pretend he had just then been walking by—and now Sam could apparently add ‘while being a demon’ or maybe just ‘while fucking his brother’ to that list.

“Show me that you love me—”

Dean didn’t seem to be listening to his own lust-shredded voice at all, mind more on his dick inside Sam’s body than on putting on his usual poor performance, and it was blisteringly fucking sexy, desperately and overwhelmingly, the voice Sam had only ever gotten to hear in stolen moments now so terribly, beautifully unguarded.

“—and that we belong together.”

And the fucking lyrics. Dean obviously wasn’t singing to him, but the backhandedness of those words coming out of this Dean’s mouth was twisting Sam up anyway, just another layer taking him apart way too fucking fast. Dean’s thumb and finger were still in his mouth, and Sam wondered if he could feel how thin Sam’s breathing had become, trying to hold it in so he could hear better even as his lungs screamed at him, already oxygen-starved to begin with.

“Relax, turn around, and take my hand.”

Dean’s thumb and finger left his mouth, smearing spit messily over his lips and then back up over his skin to press in on either side of his face, side of his palm covering Sam’s open mouth as he squeezed at the hinges of his jaw, lifted his face all the way up and just held it there until he was sure Sam would keep it there on his own. Sam did, couldn’t do much else with Dean still fucking him hard and steady. He just breathed hot and too fast against the skin of Dean's hand and then barely breathed at all when the hand moved lower, found the stretched expanse of his throat, thumb fitting itself to Sam’s jugular and fingers wrapping firmly around the other side. Dean’s fingertips pushed in and then the rest of his hand followed, tighter and tighter so, so slowly, and Sam whimpered, so fucking pathetically, wished it was out of pain or fear or anything that wasn’t just an unbelievable desperation for him to keep going. His fingers tightened just a little bit more, and then Sam listened as he sucked in this strange little breath, sounding somehow, oddly, like he was coming back to himself, hips stilling mid-thrust.

Then he was unceremoniously draping himself fully over Sam’s back, pushing himself in deep as he rested the whole line of his body on top of Sam’s, smashing him into the door. Dean was not small and Sam was not exactly at his strongest—his knees were barely holding him up as it was—and for a second he was just lost in the weirdly erotic feeling of being crushed by another person’s bodyweight, something he had rarely if ever experienced to that extent. He felt like just giving into it completely and flattening himself down on the bench, letting the full weight of Dean’s body fuck him into it until he no longer knew which of them was which, just a single formation of limbs and heat and pleasure—and then he forgot about that too, thoughts too flighty to keep up with, as soon as both of Dean’s hands came up to his chest, palms a little cool against the extreme flush of his skin.

He felt Dean’s lips just barely brush his ear, and then he was singing again, right fucking into it, harmonizing low with the original vocals, “I can—” and Sam gasped, too loud, stupidly shocked by the sound of him so close, both of his hands petting down Sam’s chest, breath so hot on his ear. “—help you change—” The angle put him so, so deep, and he was taking immediate advantage of it, rolling out only a few inches and then pushing back in again, the fluid movement of his stomach and hips pure sensuality against Sam’s bare skin even with Dean fully clothed. “—tired moments into pleasure.”

It was like a lapdance from the inside, Dean pulling out just enough to rub the head of his cock perfectly against Sam’s prostate every fucking time, hands brushing down his chest and tucking under on the sling side, pressed into his ribcage on the other, the scratchy-soft texture of his shirt rasping along Sam’s back. “Say the word and we’ll be—” His hands stroked back up, voice like whiskey in Sam's ear, biting and so smooth at the same time, fingers carding up through the hair around his nipples and then rolling them both under his fingertips, making Sam moan low and desperate and destroyed. “—well upon our way.”

Sam barely even knew what his body was anymore, so much stimulation everywhere, Dean’s voice more tangible than any of it, the only sound on the entire fucking planet. “Blend and balance,” it sang, directly into his brain, lips soft and stubble rough, the light scrape of nails over his nipples making him jerk like the movement belonged to someone else’s body, his pitifully needy sound distant like it came from someone else’s mouth. “Pain and comfort—” as he dug a nail into each nipple, Sam so breathless his whine barely made a sound, “—deep within you,” voice this aching kind of purr as he thrust in extra deep, grinding hard.

And then he didn’t even get to finish “‘Til you will not wa—” before he was cutting himself off, because he must have been able to feel Sam starting to come again, suddenly, shockingly, with the kind of force that stole the last of his breath so instantly and completely there was nothing fucking left in him but silence. The world was so serenely quiet in that one second that he perfectly heard Dean huff out a surprised breath of his own even as his head had lifted away from Sam’s ear reflexively, like he hadn’t actually known he would push Sam that far with that unreal fucking show— But then he had turned it into a laugh, voice overconfident as he let his teeth catch at the shell of Sam’s ear, saying, “That’s right, Sammy, again,” and the overdone cockiness of it just made Sam come even harder, cock jerking, pumping out come like he wasn’t over thirty and it hadn’t been fifteen minutes at most since the first time, like everything about this wasn’t completely fucking cracked.

It felt so good it was well on its way to pain, and that just made it worse, because his brain absolutely refused to get its shit together, everything wrong and flat out unnatural about this just making it so much better. His body was wringing itself out, his arm failing him and the rest of his upper body giving up too so that Dean had to lodge his arm under Sam’s sternum to keep him from sliding bonelessly down the car door. He kept fucking Sam through it, slow and deceptively gentle about it until Sam’s ears reconnected and he realized sound had obviously started working for him again, coming out of his disassociated mouth unmonitored in a continuous stream of Dean, Dean, fuck, Dean, please that Dean was very much ignoring with his ‘gentility,’ or maybe just choosing to interpret as something other than the pleading for him to stop it obviously was.

Sam forced himself abruptly quiet with a thick swallow he almost choked on, nothing quite working right, and pawed at the car door, trying to turn himself around, half-twisting, half-slumping into the back of the seat, almost too weak to even get his hand up to fist in the front of Dean’s shirt. Dean was just watching him when he finally made his eyes focus on his face, and Sam’s heart forgot how to beat for a few seconds, because Dean’s expression was fully shuttered, no emotion whatsoever, like he wasn’t even there. His hips were still moving, hand coming up to curl under Sam’s shoulder and hold him in his half-kneeling position better, naturally facilitating Sam’s grabbing at him while otherwise not acknowledging it at all.

Sam’s body tried to freeze but his heartbeat had come back with a vengeance and he was just panting, going straight past wary to afraid at the complete absence in Dean’s face, a void where there should have been person. He couldn’t stop feeling him, felt like his spine was shaking apart with every slow thrust, but all he could do was stare at green eyes gone so fucking blank, pupils still huge, his mind quickly edging into terror.

But it was only seconds, Sam unable to look away, and then Dean’s face softened all at once, a ripple of substance crossing back over it. He let go of Sam’s shoulder and Sam teetered a little, forcing his fingers free of red canvas as Dean looked down to watch himself pull out like the entire situation was the most normal thing in the world. Sam inhaled sharply, at the sensation of emptiness or possibly at the release of the vice around his fucking heart, and tried to bring himself back down from the flash of bewildering alarm, body trembling with maybe a little more than just aftershocks.

Then without any warning at all this time, the car was filled with a distinctive kind of digital scrubbing, and it took Sam only a second to realize it was, insanely, the sound of a CD being rewound. Dean was rewinding a CD that didn’t even exist, producing the sound effect of it and then amplifying it beyond the noise an actual CD player would have even made. It was absolutely fucking crazy of him, but it was also so completely Dean with that little smirk on his face, eyes twinkling with self-amusement, that Sam actually laughed, short and out of breath, because he was full of relief and worn the fuck out and losing his goddamn mind never knowing what he was going to get from this Dean-shaped creature in any given moment.

Dean smiled at him, just the quickest spark of it, teasing and genuine but so brief Sam wasn’t even sure that was what he’d really seen. Then obviously the imaginary rewinding had taken the imaginary song back to where he wanted it, because in the next second the sound cut out and Dean reached under Sam’s waist to grip his opposite hip just as, “But it’s not enough,” blared from the speakers, his own voice perfectly timed with it. “I need more,” he growled out, flipping Sam over with a single yank like he was a fucking tablecloth pulled out from beneath a table setting, Sam’s back slapping down hard and shocking onto leather. “Nothing seems to satisfy.” Dean had already gotten Sam’s legs open and positioned around himself before Sam even really knew what was happening, a hand on his thigh, empty lungs, Dean’s face looming over him.

I said

“Don’t want it,” he grunted, almost under his breath, not sung at all, as he thrust all the way back inside him, Sam’s sticky skin skidding on the seat from the impact. “Just need it—” Dean pulled out and fucked right back into him, and Sam knew for a fact he’d never made such a ridiculous series of noises in his life, pitched so high he’d probably never respect himself again, but he was unable to stop it, prostate swollen and oversensitive beyond all reason. “To breathe, to feel—” and Dean was singing again, his control regained, probably sucking it right out of Sam like a black hole. “—to know I’m alive.”

His hips were completely unerring, wrenching so much sensation out of Sam’s overstimulated body he thought he might actually start crying, and then Dean really could kill him, because there would be no coming back from that. “Knuckle deep within the borderline.” His hands pressed up under Sam’s knees, held the one not confined by the seatback open wider. “This may hurt a little—” And it fucking did, too much pleasure, too much to feel, Dean’s clothed stomach brushing like fire over his cock every time their bodies met, and Sam could feel that it had tried valiantly to soften this time like somehow that would save it, but it was so fucking sensitive it didn’t seem to matter either way. “—but it’s something you’ll get used to.” It fucking was not.

Dean pushed his thighs in, bending his legs up and folding Sam back into himself until he could get his calves up over his shoulders, future back pain not even remotely on Sam’s radar, even if he would have been able to stop Dean from doing whatever he wanted with him. Dean didn’t mess up his own rhythm whatsoever and the position change put him so incredibly deep each time he moved, no resistance at all, and Sam thought he was done being surprised but obviously not because this was a whole different kind of unbelievable. His hand hooked on the collar of Dean’s t-shirt and twisted so hard he thought he might rip it off him, one of those stupid high noises punched out of him on every damn thrust now, intolerably embarrassing and completely out of his control.

Dean’s eyes were searingly intense, face too visible, bent close. He said, “Always knew your fuckin’ Gumby legs would come in handy for this,” voice rough but still mostly composed, especially compared to Sam’s inability to string words together into an actual connected sentence for several seconds.

He finally managed, breathy, useless, “Been thinking— ‘bout it— that much— huh?”

Sam was just trying to tease him back, but instantly there was a flash of something almost vulnerable on Dean’s face, like he hadn’t thought about the implication of what he’d said until Sam had pointed it out, and that one glimpse of expression twisted Sam up inside so fast it was like Dean had plunged a fist right through his stomach. It ripped him open, made him want to serve his soul up on a fucking platter, confess things he hadn’t even known he’d had in him to tell—I’ve thought about it too, so much, too much, had no idea just how much until none of this felt like any kind of revelation because I think I’ve dreamt it all at least once and I don’t even know when that started or when it became something so normal I stopped even acknowledging it, sin so common it became background noise—

But then Dean was sneering, chin tilted up, big-brother superior and demon-vicious, and Sam couldn’t take it, felt his lips part around nothing but a pathetic little breath because he was so fucking turned on, again, still, and it hurt too fucking much, entire existence distilling down into nothing, no more room inside him for that kind of clarity. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sammy. It’s just those guys you disappear with sometimes—you do like ‘em big and meaty, huh? Hard not to picture you folded up like a pretzel with guys like that.”

Dean wasn’t helping his case actually, in that Sam was suddenly feeling so far past flattered he didn’t even know what to call it. Until that moment, he’d had no idea Dean had known anything about the very occasional man Sam snuck off with in public, especially because they were so few and far between that Sam mostly forgot about them, and he’d been the one kneeling in filthy alleyways for them. It had been rare, when that particular build of tension just became too much, the one that made him argue just a little less when Dean chose a dive bar that looked like they would be more likely to get stabbed in the gut than be served a beer, had Sam searching for the meanest looking motherfucker in there whose eyes also happened to linger just a little too long when he bent over the pool table to set up a shot, made him leave Dean to enjoy his handfuls of some brunette’s ass and lead that guy out the back.

It was that specific itch under his skin that only seemed to be scratched when he was kneeling in grime and barely breathing around a cock too big to be fucking his face so, so callously, tears running down to this neck and own dick so hard in his jeans that it only ever took a few fumbling rubs of his palm against it while the stranger came too far down his throat to send him back inside to his brother with cooling come sticking to his inner thighs. He’d never had one of those guys fuck him anywhere except the mouth, but the distinction didn’t seem all that important at the moment compared to the dropped bomb of knowledge that Dean might’ve known about the encounters every time they’d happened.

Sam had only ever left him when he was thoroughly preoccupied, face-first (at least) in a girl, the trashier the better, and still Dean had known the entire time? It was giving Sam the worst retroactive headrush, thinking about Dean’s eyes on him, focused and unwavering just like they were now, as Sam snuck away from him to suck a stranger’s dick, and his eyes on him again when he came back in, wiping snot, eyes red and shining, mouth wrecked, Dean thinking he knew exactly what he’d done and who he’d done it with.

Had Dean noticed how rough his voice would always be for the rest of the night? How he’d try not to wince every time he’d lifted his bottle to his bruised lips? How he’d been unable to stop adjusting himself as the come in his pants crusted his boxers to his dick?

Jesus fucking Christ, he had always known. In the midst of his own hookup, and his awareness had been on Sam, only Sam, always ever Sam.

“God, Dean,” he gasped, had nothing else to say.

“Yeah Sammy, always thought I didn’t know, huh?” His hands were on Sam’s thighs again, pushing his knees back toward his chest like he wasn’t already bent completely in half. “Don’t know how I could’ve missed it, my little brother bein’ such a—” he slammed into him hard, too hard, angry, “—fuckin’ whore like that.” Sam could feel bruises forming right fucking then, Dean’s grip too tight, and he didn’t care, couldn’t make himself care, couldn’t do anything but watch Dean’s mouth move, snarling, “Did you like it? Gettin’ fucked like a dirty little skank where anybody could’ve watched you? Where I could’ve watched you?”

The aftermath of each instance was being reprinted in Sam’s head with Dean-colored ink: Sam’s red, bruised lips could have looked raw from kissing (though he had never, not like that), his shifting in his seat could have been him unable to get comfortable after a rough fuck, his nose and his eyes a mess after crying from the pain, the way Dean clearly viewed these men. Jesus Christ, Dean had thought the whole time—

“They never— I never—” He didn’t know why he was trying to explain himself, it didn’t even matter. Dean had still been inside each of those bars thinking about Sam getting fucked, imagining it, picturing it, wondering what it might be like to watch, and that mattered. That mattered a fucking lot.

Dean was fucking him with true viciousness now, said, “Asked you— a fuckin’— question,” punctuating his own words with every savage thrust. His hand moved up under Sam’s jaw, squeezing at the bone on either side like he could physically force the answer out of him. Sam could barely even remember his own name let alone what Dean had asked him, and Dean must have seen that in him at least, because his hips let up, just barely, his hand loosening just a little on Sam’s face. “Answer me, baby brother. Did you like it? Bein’ such a filthy little slut?”

Sam whimpered like Dean had kicked him, every sense just too fucking strung out. “Yes, God— Dean. I— loved it— so much— fuck.”

Dean growled, low and rumbling and terrifying, eyes snapping from white and green to abyss with so little transition that Sam actually blinked several times like somehow he would be able to clear them. Even with the expressionless black, Dean looked like he might punch him, or so much worse, kiss him, but then all at once the song’s vocals kicked back in, reminding Sam the song was even still on, and black eased back into green, eyes darting to the side in a way Sam would have described as skittish in any other context.

Sam breathed out raggedly, released from that black gaze with the same tenderness as being pushed off a cliff. The lyrics floated into his brain like he couldn’t help but listen:

—kinda sad about
The way that things have come to be
Desensitized to everything
What became of subtlety?

And all he could think about was how much they applied to this reckless, pleasure-seeking Dean, still fucking him deep and rough but eyes somewhere just above his head. At some point he had actually started to sweat, demon body finally reaching some kind of threshold for exertion or arousal, and Sam was mesmerized by the sheen of it on his neck, horrifically attracted to the simple sign of life.

Then Dean suddenly looked straight back down into Sam’s eyes and sang the next words, “How can this mean anything to me—” voice so clear and open, “—if I really don’t feel a thing at all?” and it was so heartbreakingly ardent, felt so much like Dean, the real Dean, trying to talk to him, that he might as well have taken a hatchet to Sam’s ribcage, his heart stalling, lungs deflating, stomach clenching and cock throbbing, dripping all over it—how was he even hard again?—because he was sickeningly fucking broken, missed his brother so goddamn much even as he had him right there, inside him and all around him, because it wasn’t him, but for just a second, just a fucking second, it had been.

“I’ll—” Dean slammed into him so fast and hard he slid the last few inches back up the bench, gliding on his own sweat. “—keep—” His head banged into the door and he didn’t even feel it, Dean’s shirt finally failing under his hand, back of the collar ripping at the neck, toughened skin no match for it. “—digging.” Sam scrambled to grab canvas instead, Dean fucking him too hard, just beyond a human’s capacity, and Sam knew he should be afraid, knew he should care that it hurt, but he was just making this awful kind of keening noise, barely even breathing, because it felt so fucking good too. “’Til I—” voice so guttural Sam could barely even understand him, “—feel—” gaze so unrelenting Sam was suffocating under it, “—something.”

The song kept playing but Sam finally lost his ability to listen to it when Dean stopped singing, just staring straight at Sam and breathing so rough the sound of it was finally making it through, everything about him turbulent and so heady to look at, pure sexual havoc. Sam reached up to cup the back of his head and sink his fingers into his hair, just enough longer that he could really tangle them and pull like he was just now admitting to himself he’d been dying to do since he saw him again in that fucking bar, and Dean didn’t stop him, actually leaned into it, lips parting even further, looking ruined.

Power was dripping from him so much worse than his sweat, radiating off him in waves Sam could practically see, and it was setting Sam’s teeth on edge even as he felt the pressure of it low in his groin, because he could see now that this kind of power fissure was what happened when Dean held back. It was his restraint rupturing so badly it was taking demon power to fill in the cracks, and it was the hottest fucking thing Sam had ever witnessed. Sam was doing that to him, destroying the human part of him so thoroughly that the demon part couldn’t even keep up, and Sam wanted to break the very last of that hold more than he’d ever wanted anything.

He slipped his hand down to Dean’s cheek, stubble tickling his palm. It was the first time he’d touched his brother’s face since he’d cradled the bloody remnants of it as Dean had lay dying in his arms, and he let himself revel in overwriting that memory, let himself take for once during this entire fucking thing, thumb dragging hard over Dean’s plush bottom lip because Dean still wasn’t stopping him.

“Gonna come— aren’t you?” he half-echoed Dean’s words back at him, put as much insult into it as he could, which wasn’t much but judging by the tightening of the skin around Dean’s eyes, it was enough. “Gonna come— inside me? Inside your— baby brother?”

The breath Dean let out was shattered, power flaring so cold it fucking burned, and then he was pulling out so fast Sam didn’t even know what had happened until Dean was already straddling his chest, knee pinning his free arm down by his bicep and other thigh heavy on his sling. The full weight of him pressed down on Sam’s ribcage, trapping him completely as Dean wrapped his fingers around that beautiful cock right in front of his face, started stroking fast, with intention.

“Oh God, oh fuck, yes, Dean, please.” Sam couldn’t make his mouth stop, didn’t care when Dean gasped like the words were a bullet, a hard shiver running through his whole body, thighs clenching tight around him. He dragged his gaze up, found Dean’s eyes, still looking at Sam the way they’d barely ever stopped, and that was apparently all Dean needed. He moaned, low and pained, and then there was come burning in a shockingly hot spatter across Sam’s cheek. He flinched—it was definitely hotter than it should have been—but he didn’t close his eyes, didn’t fucking dare look away from Dean’s perfectly anguished face. He was so goddamn gorgeous, the most familiar sight in Sam’s life, this face he’d seen nearly every day since birth, now rearranged in a way he had absolutely no business seeing, and the only real thought he had in his head was I know what my brother looks like when he comes.

Dean’s eyes finally closed, mouth slack and hips rocking into his own hand with this incredibly sexy disregard for anything but his own pleasure, and Sam couldn’t stop watching him even as a stripe of too-hot come just narrowly missed one of his eyes, leaving a drop stringing across his eyelashes. It seemed extensive, and maybe that was helped along by the demon part of him too, another full, burning shot of it across the bridge of Sam’s nose, one on his other cheek, one more over his lips. Sam groaned at that, swiped his tongue out to bring it into his mouth, tasting that caustic tinge from before so strongly now. He wanted more, wanted to taste around it, wanted to know what Dean tasted like without the demon overlay.

“Dean—” he started, urgent, fully ready to beg for use of his own hand so he could scrape the come off his face and into his mouth like the worst kind of whore, but Dean just opened his eyes languidly, still stroking himself slow and lazy and looking vaguely disoriented until his eyes fixed back on Sam’s face. They scanned over the mess he’d made of it for a long moment, too many different emotions converging to really track them all—greed, agitation, pleasure, guilt, in rapid succession. Sam almost wished he didn’t know Dean’s face so well, couldn’t see everything he wasn’t fast enough or aware enough of to hide. It made it too real, that conflicted comedown, that second of unfiltered humanity. And Sam wasn’t ready for it to be real, he wasn’t ready for after, he was still in it now.

“Dean,” he said again, almost a sigh, not knowing what response he expected, not knowing what response he even wanted. Dean’s eyes found his again, and for once Sam couldn’t have even begun to guess what his face was saying, expression so deep and complicated it was totally impenetrable. Then, very calmly and deliberately, Dean took his hand off his cock and slipped two come-covered fingers into Sam’s mouth.

Sam gasped, eyes opening too wide, and Dean pressed down on his tongue, the taste of him smearing heavy and distinct, salt and bitterness and ash and something underneath it all that was just indescribably Dean, and it was even more staggering somehow for Dean so clearly wanting him to taste it. He moaned, instantly wasted on it, tried to get his tongue around and in between Dean’s fingers, and felt Dean shifting slightly on his chest but was too occupied to really care.

And that was a mistake, because Dean had been leaning back and reaching behind himself to find Sam’s cock with his other hand.

Dean’s fingers wrapped around him and Sam’s entire body locked up, teeth closing with a jarring grind of bone on bone, and somehow he had room amidst the utter shutdown to be afraid he’d drawn blood, which would have been the very last thing he needed to deal with right then, but when he didn’t taste any, all thought processes that weren’t ohfuckohfuckohfuck ceased to exist. Dean didn’t even flinch, and Sam’s mouth opened again around a sound like he’d been punched in the throat as Dean stroked up once, base to tip, achingly slow. It fucking hurt, too far past good, nerves on fucking fire, so overworked from two orgasms in a row despite that being the first time he was even being touched.

Because Jesus fucking Christ, Dean was touching him. The belated knowledge of it battered him like a whole second wave and it was too fucking much, he just couldn’t. He bucked up with his chest, hand tearing at the leg of Dean’s jeans, the only thing he could get to, and Dean acted like he hadn’t moved at all, his weight completely uncompromising and hand steady as he started to really stroke, grip so exactly firm enough to be wholly overpowering. Sam moaned like he was dying because he probably fucking was, and tried to twist away with his hips instead, only to have Dean’s fingers leave his mouth and reach behind him too, palm pressing down on Sam’s hip and stilling him completely.

Sam couldn’t do anything but stare up at him, beautiful lean torso stretched out, t-shirt clinging across his chest and lifting just enough to expose that perfect stripe of tight skin at his belly as he held Sam down so effortlessly, making him take it so easily while he looked like fucking that, and Sam couldn’t possibly survive this. He was going to have a heart attack, go into shock, something, die with Dean’s oppressive warmth on top of him, come dripping down the sides of his face, his brother’s hand so gently stripping his cock, taking care of him like he always fucking had—

“Good boy Sammy, lemme have it.”

Sam must’ve gasped, must’ve said Dean’s name again, done something, because Dean sounded like he already knew Sam was going to come while Sam’s brain was still shorted out from the violent build of it. Then all at once he felt it, the absolutely brutal pulsing, so much harder than his body should have still been capable of, entire lower half contracting like the orgasm was being ripped out of him. He felt his cock dribbling weakly and was shocked he even had anything left, and maybe Dean was too, because he groaned a little above him, said, “Yeah Sammy, fuck, that’s so good,” and swiped red-hot over the head to slick it down Sam’s length, slipperiness only making it easier for his hand to wring out even more. Sam was so breathless he wasn’t making the kind of atrocious noise he knew he could be, but his good fortune ended there, because he was crying now, felt the heat dripping from the corners of his eyes, so far past overstimulation it was unbearable, because he’d started there to begin with.

And it was of course too much to hope that Dean wouldn’t notice. His hand left Sam’s hip but Sam was too weak to take advantage of the freedom, Dean running a fingertip over a tear track and then down his cheek a little, mixing Sam’s tears with his come. His thumb came up and smeared through the line of it that had gone cold on Sam’s nose, running it down the bridge and off the tip to meet the small amount above his upper lip, and the whole time he was playing, the hand on Sam’s cock never stopped moving, palm now twisting up over the head each time, an electric shock of inordinate sensation again and again.

Sam was shaking, felt his mind completely shutting down with it, walling itself up, looking for shelter. He finally found his voice, gasped, “Dean, stop,” because he was pretty sure his life literally depended on it. Dean met his desperate gaze, dragged his thumb down to his open mouth, and squeezed with his other hand, rubbed that thumb over Sam’s slit, like scraping it with a fucking knife, and Sam broke, devolved into nothing but please, please, Dean, please, legs kicking and hips trying to writhe out of the way, making the friction even worse.

But he did actually manage to dislodge Dean’s hand slightly with his flailing, and Dean let him have the win, laughing and giving Sam a condescending little pat on the cheek like his pluck was just adorable. Sam’s lungs emptied in one huge woosh, so fucking relieved, and when they filled again, they expanded all the way, Dean climbing off of him with a sudden absence of heat and pressure.

He felt bizarrely bereft, lying there naked, breathing hard, as Dean shuffled his way out of the car, bent over Sam’s prone form with one hand braced on the back of the seat and a knee occasionally dipping down next to his body, smooth and obviously very practiced, likely from an innumerable amount of similar backseat encounters. Sam genuinely didn’t feel like he could move ever again, body fatigued in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt before, but self-preservation beat everything (outside of sex, at least), and the vulnerability of his position was finally too much when he heard the soft clump of Dean’s boots hitting concrete.

He started to sit up and immediately had to slow down—he was fucking sore. He winced before he could stop himself and was glad Dean wasn’t looking, because he wasn’t quite ready to be mocked again just yet, not for this. It wasn’t just his ass, though God knows that was bad enough, inside and out, but his dick was sore, his thighs felt tenderized, the skin on his back was stinging where it touched the seat, and even the base of his neck felt inflamed just from the air hitting it. His injured shoulder was absolutely throbbing, and he knew his calves and back and chest muscles and at least the part of his arm that’d had Dean’s knee holding it down would probably be catching up soon too. Jesus Christ, this was supposed to have been the safer option. He felt like he’d been hit by a train, and that was saying something, considering he’d probably actually been hit by worse more than once before. He wondered for a horrified second if this is what girls felt like after being with him, and really fucking hoped not.

A small part of Sam (that he was trying very hard to be ashamed of) felt claimed and fucking loved it, but the rest of him was watching Dean’s back as he stood and feeling dismissiveness like it was being shouted at him. Dean tucked himself back into his jeans while he was still facing away, sound of his zipper loud in the silence, then bent over to rummage in the pile of discarded clothing next to the car. When he didn’t even toss Sam’s pants at him, Sam resigned himself to nakedness for the near future, hunching over on the seat to rest his one available elbow on his knee, and just barely stopping himself from putting his face in his hand when he remembered there was still come all over it.

He thought idly about leaning over the front seat and grabbing a shirt scrap to clean it with, but Dean was already straightening up, and there was no way Sam was putting himself in that position again so soon. “Well Sammy, that was… somethin’,” he said, turning back toward him, belt in hand. “Maybe I should keep you around for a while.” His teeth flashed in a grin that was equally as flirty as it was threatening, and Sam tried not to just automatically frown back, attempting to slow the inevitable return to antagonism. “Until I get bored, anyway.” He looked down to start rethreading his belt, expecting no response as usual, and Sam just watched him, not feeling like he had very many other options.

And it was from there that he saw Castiel silently ascending the garage steps behind Dean’s back.

Fuck fuck fuck. Sam catalogued the entire scene from Cas’s point of view in a second: air probably oppressively heavy with the smell of sex, Sam exhausted and destitute, come on his face, naked and covered in marks, Dean, hair mussed and shirt sagging at the collar but otherwise unscathed, looking pleased with himself as he did up his belt, a perfect visual capsule of everything.

Cas stopped at the top of the stairs and met Sam’s eyes, looking altogether mystified, and Sam just stared back at him, frozen in horror, until all at once he remembered why Cas was even there. His eyes flicked to Dean’s bowed head and then back, and Cas nodded, almost imperceptible. Maybe if Cas could just distract Dean then Sam could find the knife and—

Then Sam blinked and Cas was gone—not wings fast but fast enough that Sam’s human eyes couldn’t properly track him—seemingly relocating right behind Dean’s back. Dean tensed like a tiger, started to pivot, but it was too late, Cas’s arms were locked around his chest, and somehow he was actually strong enough again to hold him, Dean pulling against him and getting nowhere.

“It’s over. Dean, it’s over.” Cas’s eyes flared bright, unearthly blue, and Dean howled, fucking unholy, barely any human left in the sound, but it was then that Sam finally, finally relaxed, slumping back into the seat, not caring that he was naked and wrecked. He stared up at the ceiling and just breathed, tension melting out of him, because that sound had been defeat. Dean kept growling, kept struggling, but it didn’t matter—he was contained, it was over.

They were going to fix this.

He was going to cure his brother, and then he and Dean—the real Dean—were going to have the hardest talk two people had ever fucking had.