Chapter 17

Sam presses his thumb against the screen, ending the call, and puts down the phone. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "Got one," he says, and then he lifts his eyes. A faint smile curves his lips, then he presses his mouth together into a hard line. "Vamp nest just outside of Wichita. He reckons there's forty plus living on a fortified compound. They run it like a cult, and they're on the Fed's radar, but the Fed's have never been able to make anything stick long enough to get in. No hunter will touch it without an army of backup."

"And organizing hunters is like herding cats, yeah." Dean looks down at his own list. "Best I have is a haunted sorority house in Chicago."

"And we've been at this all day, Dean. We don't have time to keep looking."

Dean glances at his watch. It flicks over to midnight in front of his eyes. "Yeah," he says, and his head lolls back. "Twenty four hours left." He looks back at Sam. "You should get some sleep."

"I don't think it matters," Sam says. "Do you?"

Dean's given up trying to swallow back the lump in his throat. "Nah. Probably not."

---

"Dean," Sam whispers into the darkness.

"Yeah, Sammy."

Sam's breath is hot on the back of his neck. Quick puffs that cool the places where Sam leaves kisses at the base of his skull. "Dean." He's not even hard, pressed against the back of Dean's thigh, but there's heat in his voice that can't mean anything else.

"Spit it out, Sammy. We're way past the point where we need to be coy."

Sam's swallow is loud, very audible. "I'm scared, Dean."

Dean freezes. "Jesus, Sam." He rolls over to face his brother. He touches Sam's face with gentle fingers, looking for tears, but there's nothing there. "And here I thought you were going to ask if you could fuck me."

Sam whines and lunges, capturing Dean's lips in a wet, desperate kiss. "Please."

Dean shakes his head, confused. "Sammy, what?"

Sam rolls them both so Dean's on his back and Sam's hovering above him on his elbows. The tips of his hair tickles Dean's face and he halts his kisses only to speak. "I won't get this again," he says. "I need to feel you." He lets out a tiny grunt. "I need to be inside you, Dean."

"Fuck, Sammy." Dean gets his hands on Sam's shoulders, digs his fingers in. His cock is rapidly filling, and he can't help wanting it, even though he knows he's more likely to miss the best part than anything else. Still, his thighs part almost of their own accord, and he locks his ankles around Sam's calves and thrusts up against him. "But I'm going to black out again," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "I'll be gone and you'll be fucking a corpse, Sammy. Don't you know how wrong that is?"

Sam rolls his hips, slides his cock, now rock hard and slick with precome, up the inside of Dean's thigh. "I'm going to fuck my brother, Dean. I don't give a shit about wrong anymore." Sam's voice is hot and breathy, words punctuated with rough gasps.

It shouldn't make him harder, but it does, need coiling, twisting, in the pit of his stomach, sparking out to his fingertips, his toes. He arches up and lifts his knees, plants his feet on the bed. It's purely involuntary, as is the sound he makes, a desperate, guttural moan. "'Kay, Sammy," Dean says. "Yeah, oh god."

When Sam finds lube and slides a slick hand between his spread thighs, Dean gasps for air. He doesn't need it, but god, he wants it, because for the first time in a month, he feels too hot. Something inside him buzzes, like he's on the verge of exploding. Then Sam pushes fingers inside him, two at once, and Dean grunts. It's a soft sound, but it shakes his whole body.

Sam's in a hurry. He moans and shakes, like he's trying to slow down.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean says. "It's okay." He groans and arches his back as Sam pushes a third finger inside, just a little too quick, just a little too rough. "I'm okay."

Sam thrusts against Dean's thigh and mouths at his jaw. "Please, Dean," he moans. "Oh god, please."

Dean flickers, Sam's cut off moan his only clue. "Do it, Sam," he rushes out, afraid it'll come out in a stutter. Then he breathes out slow, trying to pull himself together. "I'm here, Sammy. I'm okay. Do it."

Sam slides his fingers out and Dean is left feeling cold and empty. "Hurry up," Dean says. "Hurry up, Sammy, come on."

Sam lines himself up, and then he leans over, presses his forehead to Dean's. Tears fall onto Dean's face, hot tears that land on his cheeks and roll down to his lips. He licks at them, and can't even taste the salt. He winks out, just for a second, not long enough for Sam to notice, but when he comes back, Sam's pushing into him.

"Oh, god, Sammy." He flickers again. "Oh my god."

"Stay with me," Sam says, and he's still crying, probably can't stop. Each breath he takes is a harsh shudder. "Stay with me, Dean." He pushes in further.

Dean twists his hands into the sheets, and it's futile, but gives him something to focus on, something to hold on to. Every series of flickers leaves him slightly disoriented, blinking to fix his eyes back on Sam's face. "Damn it. Sam, give it to me."

Sam slams his hips home, filling Dean in one thrust. Dean arches up, head flung back, cries out. It's more sensation than he's felt in a month, since the poker slid through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. It's more than the gunshot, more than the mouthful the rugaru took, more than the realization that the grail was already gone.

Sam gasps and stares down at him, eyes wide, lashes suddenly dry. "Dean," he grunts, and then circles his hips.

No sensation leads organically to another. To Dean, it's like a series of unconnected feelings, the hint of stretch, a sharp, cut off burn, the nudge of Sam's cock against his prostate and then it's gone. His hands fly to Sam's shoulders and his fingers dig in. "Stop. Just... Just, Sammy, stop."

Sam freezes. He whines and starts to pull away.

"No." Dean digs his nails into Sam's shoulders to hold him there. "Just... Stay." He wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders and pulls him down. Sam's heavy on his chest, but Dean doesn't need to breathe. He puts his nose into Sam's hair and inhales. "I've got to hold on," he whispers. "Just trying to hold on."

They lie there, Dean holding Sam to his chest, breathing in his scent, until the flickers subside. They're still there, but not constant. He doesn't feel as though he's going to slip away anymore. He rocks his hips, rolls them upward.

Sam sighs and lifts himself up. He stares down into Dean's eyes and breathes.

"Slow," Dean says. "I want to be here for this."

Sam just nods, and then slowly starts to thrust. So slow it's almost maddening, but the gentle slope up helps Dean to hold on, to be present. Flickers are regular, but not constant. His need to desperately hold on doesn't distract him from where he is, where Sam is.

So the tension that appears between Sam's brows is gradual. Dean watches him climb closer, approach his orgasm. "That's it, Sammy," he whispers. "That's it."

"I want to feel you," Sam breathes. "Want to feel you come. Want to feel it, Dean."

Dean lifts his eyes in acknowledgment and slides a hand between them. It forces Sam to shift his angle, just a little, just enough, and the slow, gentle, regular pressure against Dean's prostate coupled with his own hand on his dick brings him to the brink quickly, almost too quickly.

He glitches, once, twice. "No." He's here. In this body. With Sam. With his brother. Dean's brother is inside him, and again, that shouldn't get him off, but it's starting to. The wrongness, the idea that the normal rules don't apply to them. They're special, the two of them. They're the Winchesters, and they're different.

He almost lets go of that when he starts to come, clings on only because he's staring into Sam's eyes. He holds on to the look in them. And he won't say it out loud, but he knows that Sam loves him more than a brother should, and it's okay.

Sam stares down at him, hips still, as Dean shudders through the last spasms. He kisses away Dean's final whimpers, and then pulls out, still hard.

"What?" Dean's fingers scrabble at Sam's shoulders, confused. "What's wrong?"

Sam shakes his head, a faint smile on his lips, and he kisses away Dean's words. Then he pushes at Dean's shoulder, pushes him until he, still loose limbed and boneless, turns over onto his hands and knees.

Sam drops a kiss to the small of Dean's back, up his spine. Dean is exposed like this, vulnerable. But there's no one he trusts more than Sammy, and so when Sam pulls back and slides his hands over the fleshy globes of Dean's ass, he doesn't flinch away.

"You're amazing," Sam says, and there's a hint of regret in his voice. "Beautiful." His thumbs slide into the cleft, tug at the edges of his stretched hole.

It sends shivers through Dean's body, and he moans. "What are you doing, Sammy?"

"Making sure I remember," Sam says, and then he lines up his cock and slowly, so slow, pushes back inside.

It's a completely different angle, and it makes Dean shudder. He rocks back against Sam. "Come on," he says. "You make sure I don't forget, little brother."

Sam grunts and jerks his hips. He grabs Dean by the hips, fingers digging into Dean's flesh, and slides home. "I love you, Dean. I'm not leaving it until tomorrow. I'm not leaving it until it's too late to tell you. I love you."

Dean remembers the last time Sam said it, the last time Dean said it, and he feels a flare of anger. He pushes upright, leans back and grabs Sam around the back of the neck. "Don't you say goodbye to me yet, Sammy," he hisses. "Don't you say goodbye." Then he turns his head and finds Sam's lips. "We've got all night."

Sam sucks in air and wraps his arms around Dean's waist. He pulls Dean down onto his lap, and thrusts up. Once, twice. "Damn you," he spits, and then he starts to come, moaning and jerking as he fills Dean's insides with warmth.