Hollow
bloodwritesDean wakes with a shout. He's hot, and he's sweating, and he's hard. "What the fuck," he says aloud, to the dark room, to the silent bunker, and then instinctively reaches for his cock.
There are footsteps in the hall. Sam bursts into the room. "Dean? Dean, what is it?"
Dean takes his hand off his cock. It's fucking mortifying, is what it is. "Nothing," he says. "Nothing at all, Sam. Just a dream. A nightmare. A weird, fucked up fucking nightmare."
There's a pillow in Dean's mouth. Pressed against his face. His face is mashed into the pillow, and Dean is on his elbows and knees, and he turns his head to the side so he can breathe, and he's hungry, desperate, craving.
"Put it in," he whines, cries out, begs. "Fuck me, Sam."
Sam scrapes the carbon off his toast into the sink. Dean looks at his brother's back. All he's doing is scratching at a piece of burnt bread with a butter knife, but the muscles still move, rippling, twitching.
Dean can feel them beneath his hands. That didn't feature in his nightmare—Sam was behind him—and yet Dean knows how the muscles move beneath his fingers as he pulls his brother against him.
And he knows what his brother's cock feels like inside him.
It's the smell of burnt toast that gets him out of his chair and running for the bathroom before he vomits all over the table.
That's absolutely what it is.
Dean wakes up gasping for air. Sam was on top of him, inside him, and in Dean's nightmare his brother is hung. Like a fucking horse. Even wide awake, Dean can still feel it inside him, his body full to bursting, stretched to his absolute limit.
In his dream, Dean was still begging for more.
"Harder, Sam." Sam's ass is taut beneath Dean's hands. "Harder. Faster. Come inside me. I need you to come inside me."
Dean reaches for the bottle on his nightstand. The whiskey burns his throat and warms his insides. His outsides are hot, sweaty, and clammy. His sheets are damp, and they stick to him.
"I think I've been hexed," Dean says as he storms into the kitchen the next morning. "I've been having these fucking dreams for a week, Sam, and they're so fucking real. And they're sick, like the most twisted shit you can imagine—"
Dean didn't think this through. Sam's gonna want to know what Dean's dreaming about. He's gonna want to talk about it.
"I need you to help me look for a hex bag. I've searched my shit, the car, everything I could have possibly brought into the Bunker with me. And nothing." Dean throws up his hands. "I can't find it. I need your help."
"I'm on fire, Sammy. My insides are burning. I need you. I need you to help me. I need you to fuck me."
The memory hits him like a wrecking ball. It makes him lightheaded and dizzy. Not a memory. A dream. "Oh fuck." Dean white-knuckles the edge of the kitchen table to stop himself from keeling over. "This shit is coming at me when I'm awake, Sam." The last thing Dean wants to tell his brother is that he's dreaming about having sex with him, dreaming about being fucked by him. Nausea washes over him, and he has to sit down. He drops his forehead to the table. "I think I'm gonna be sick."
A stainless steel bowl appears in front of Dean's face. It's the one he likes to mix the pancake batter in, and he really, really doesn't want to throw up in it.
"Tell me what you're dreaming about," Sam says as he lifts his leg over the bench and lowers himself opposite Dean. "And I'll tell you if we need to look for a hex bag."
Dean lifts his head and frowns at his brother. "I don't wanna talk about it," he spits, giving Sam his most disgusted face, because he should be disgusted by the content of his dreams, asleep or awake. He feels like he's going to throw up because he knows he's going to have to tell Sam eventually. If he's hexed, it could be pertinent lore or something, and it'll help them track down and deal with the witch who did it.
"Am I in your dreams?" Sam asks. He looks worried. Terrified, actually, like he's afraid of the answer. "Are they dreams, or—" He swallows hard, and he drops his eyes to the table, carves a line through the old wood with his fingernail. "Do they feel more like memories?"
"What the fuck," Dean says, because, at least the ones where he's awake, they do feel like memories, the feeling of Sam's bare skin against his own, the weight of Sam's cock inside him, yeah, they're not otherworldly and odd like dreams are—they feel like they really happened, and Dean's just recalling it. "What the actual fuck."
The gouge in the kitchen table gets deeper. "Am I in your dreams, memories, whatever?"
"What the fuck, Sam?" A wall comes down in Dean's psyche, a wall of his own making. He doesn't like the way this is going; he doesn't like it at all. "It didn't happen." Fear-sweat beads on his brow, prickles at his hairline. "Tell me it didn't happen, Sammy."
Sam lifts his eyes. Oh, fuck. Sam's patented dog eyes, carefully cultivated over the years to drag anything out of anyone. "Were we—?" he says. "You and I. Were we—together?"
No. Sam's not going to tell him it was real. He's not. "It didn't happen." Dean shakes his head, and he tries to get away, but his legs won't work. They've gone numb, and he can't for the life of him figure out how to get them beneath him so he can run to the bathroom to purge this poison that's swirling inside him, the sickness inside him that made him enjoy his dreams, the dreams that had him waking up hard and leaking, so fucking horny that he had to take himself in hand. Twice now, he's come with memories of his brother's cock inside him still fresh in his mind. "It never happened."
"You were never supposed to remember, Dean," Sam says, and there's so much pain in his voice that it almost brings Dean to tears. "You were never supposed to know. That's what the lore said: it hits you like a roofie, and you're not supposed to remember anything that happened while you were on it. It was a blessing, Dean. You didn't want to remember. You made me swear never to tell you what happened. You didn't want to know. "
But he doesn't know. Dean doesn't know what the fuck Sam is talking about, except that somehow he knows what Dean's been dreaming about—what Dean's been remembering. "What happened to me? " Dean demands. "Sam. What the hell fucking happened?"
"You made me swear not to tell you," Sam says. He shakes his head. "Dean, you made me promise."
He wasn't supposed to remember. Remember. It happened, and he wasn't supposed to remember, but the memories are coming through, in flashes, with no context. Sam fucked him, and the worst of it is that Dean doesn't know why.
"We're gonna need booze," Dean says, as he pushes himself up off the bench and heads for the library. "A lot of it. And I'm gonna tell you what I remember, Sam. And you're gonna fill in the blanks for me, or I swear to fucking god, Sam—"
Dean's three glasses in before he can even make his mouth form words. How is he supposed to tell his brother that he's been dreaming about them banging? Now that Dean knows they weren't even dreams, they were memories, and Sam was there, dammit.
Hell could swallow him up right now and Dean would be grateful. He pours himself another glass of whiskey. He doesn't want his normal tolerance right now. He wants to get drunk.
"You were behind me," he says. Whiskey burns his throat. He's starting to feel something. "I was face down—no. I was...on my knees, face in the pillow. You were behind me." Dean pauses, but not for effect. He finishes his glass, pours another. "You were inside me."
Sam's puppy dog eyes are epic right now. Sometimes, that compassion, that empathy, is real. But Sam can feign it like a pro, and Dean often can't tell the difference.
"I'm getting flashes, Sammy. Snippets." Dean coughs and splutters as he downs the entire glass in one go. "We did it twice, right? Cos I'm getting more than...that. I don't understand, Sam. Why the fuck would you do that? What the hell happened that I would ask you to do that to me?"
Sam flinches, as though someone had slapped him. "Three times," he says, very quietly, so quietly that Dean has to strain to hear him. "It happened three times."
Dean doesn't remember the third. Or, his flashes are so mixed up and out of sync that he can't tell. "What, it didn't take the first two? You had to do it again?"
All the color drains out of Sam's face, and he looks like he's going to be sick.
Dean almost reaches out to him, almost covers Sam's hands with his own to comfort him, but he doesn't. Instead, he pours himself another drink.
"I don't think it works like that," Sam whispers. "It just wore off."
Dean's heart stops cold. "Wait, what the fuck?"
"The lore was pretty vague, Dean. At first, I didn't know if not getting what you asked for might have killed you—"
"Are you telling me that you could have knocked me the fuck out and left me to sleep it off?"
"I didn't know—"
"What the fuck was it, Sam? You tell me what the fuck it was that did this to me."
"Incubus," Sam says, very quickly, and then reaches for the bottle himself. He doesn't even bother pouring it into a glass; he drinks straight from the bottle. "It would have killed you, Dean, if nothing else, the lore was clear on that, but I wasn't going to let that happen to you, so I cut off it's head." Sam tips the bottle again, and Dean watches as his brother's Adam's apple bobs with each swallow. "I hoped you'd come right after it was dead, but you didn't. You turned your attention from that fucking monster to the only other person that was there—me."
"But you got it," Dean says. He takes the bottle off of Sam before he drains the damn thing. Dean's not drunk enough yet, not drunk enough by half. "You killed it before I let it fuck me."
Sam nods, and he leaves his head hung. Dean can read that on Sam, easy. It's shame, pure and simple. "I thought that would be it, but the lore was wrong. It didn't snap you out of it. You begged me, Dean. I didn't know if it would wear off or if you'd die if you didn't get what you needed. You said you were in pain—"
"I remember," Dean breathes. He throws back another glass and then empties the bottle into his glass. It felt like he was burning from the inside, as though he would burst into flame, combust if he didn't get something inside him. "What was it? How did it get to me? What do those fuckers do to catch their vic? Was it a pheromone? Saliva? Did it spit in my face?"
"We tracked it to a club," Sam says. "We had it cornered in the alley out back. You got hold of it, you had your hands on it. You were about to stick it with an angel blade when it shifted. They've got hollow fangs, Dean. Like a snake. It got you, pumped you so full of that shit that it hit you fast. I took its head off without thinking about it, and you were already feeling it by the time I got you into the car. We barely made it to the motel in time—"
Sam gets up, and he disappears. He comes back with a brand new bottle, the cap already off.
"In time for what?" Dean demands. "In time for what, Sammy?"
Sam shakes his head. "You made me promise, Dean. When you came out of it, before you passed out. You were fucking horrified, and you made me promise never to tell you what you'd done, what you'd asked for. You didn't want to know."
"I get that," Dean says. "I know, Sam. But it's too late. I'm remembering. I know I begged for it." Dean stops. Sam's probably right. Of course, Dean didn't want to know, and he shouldn't want to know any more. What he doesn't remember is bad enough. Why is he torturing himself? If it all comes back, he'll deal with it then. And not before. "You're right. Give me the damn bottle. Let's just get wasted and then pretend it never happened, huh? Good old Winchester denial. I'll make you a deal. We finish this bottle, we both pass out, and as of tomorrow, we never ever speak of it again."
Sam nods. "Deal," he says, but there's something in his voice that's broken.
"Just tell me one thing, Sammy," Dean says, as something occurs to him. He won't have another chance after tonight. "How did you even get it up?"
"It wasn't hard."
"Oh yeah, it fucking was. I remember. You damn near split me in half."
"Dean—that's not what I meant—" All the color washes out of Sam's face, and he stares down at the library table as though there's something very interesting about the grain of the wood. "I meant that it wasn't difficult. For me."
Dean's blood runs cold. No. That doesn't make sense. "I'm your brother," he says. He shakes his head. "There's no way—"
Sam lifts his head. There's a profound apology in his eyes, and that shame again, a kind of horrified fear.
"What?" Dean says. The word is flat, more accusation than question. "What in the fucking hell are you saying?"
"It can't be me," Sam says. They're in the car, and it's night outside, pitch black but for the street lights that flick past. "I'm the last person it should be."
Dean's insides are on fire. There's a coal burning deep down in his core, and he's hollow, and hungry, and he's not going to make it. He scoots across the seat and slides his hand up Sam's thigh, the folds of denim the only thing between Dean's fingers and his brother's cock. "I need it, Sam," Dean begs. "It fucking hurts." His body convulses, writhes, twists with need, and Sam pushes him away, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other shoving Dean back against the passenger door.
"You're gonna fucking hate me, Dean," Sam moans. There's neon up ahead, and Dean barely registers; all he wants is for Sam to pull the car over to the side of the road and fuck him. There's a hole inside him that needs to be filled and he doesn't care how or by who but his brother is right here, and who better than Sam to look after him when he's fucked up like this?
"You're gonna hate me," Sam repeats as he pulls into a motel parking lot. The neon sign flickers, on the fritz. He turns off the engine, and he releases Dean, and Dean throws himself against his brother, pulling at his clothes, absolutely prepared to ride his brother's cock in the brightly-lit lot of a shitty roadside motel.
"You should hate me, Dean, if I let this happen. Because I want to let it happen. I want it."
The memory hits Dean like a freight train, screaming through him, flattening him with the intensity as it invades his mind. Like a floodgate opening, it overwhelms him, and he cries out and clings to the end of the table with a white-knuckle grip. It hurts. It fucking hurts so bad, even though it's not real, even though it's not happening right now, Dean can still feel the pain and the need to be filled, knowing that his brother's cock is the only thing that can stop the burning inside of him.
And at the same time, Sam's words, while they were still sitting in the car, echo in his mind.
I want to let it happen. I want it.
That's how Sam had no trouble getting it up for his brother after he'd been whammied by an incubus. "It got you, too," Dean says. "The incubus got you, too?"
It should be the only explanation, and yet, Dean knows, deep down, he's desperately trying to find a reason that makes sense. But that's not it. If Sam had been affected the same way Dean had been, they'd never have made it to the motel, they'd never have driven away. Sam would have fucked him in the car, and Sam would be remembering it only now as well, just the same as Dean is.
Sam looks at Dean with conflict written all over his face. His features twist with anguish, with pain, with something terrible. And then he slowly, so slowly, turns his head from side to side.
"No, Dean. I didn't."
"You wanted to fuck me. You wanted to fuck me. Didn't you? Didn't you, Sam?"
Sam's shoulders shake. He drops his head, his chin to his chest. His fingernails scrape the varnish off the decades-old table. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard. It hurts Dean's brain.
"You could have knocked me the fuck out," Dean spits. "You could have knocked me out and left me to sleep it off. But you didn't. How the fuck did you justify that to yourself?"
"I didn't know if that would work," Sam whispers. He shakes his head. "What if it had killed you? What if you needed it, really needed it? I told myself I was breaking whatever it did to you, that you'd come back to yourself after, and then you'd forget—but you didn't."
"I wanted you to keep doing it."
Sam nods.
"You didn't think at that point that you could safely knock me out and let me sleep it off?"
Sam bites his lip, presses his teeth so hard into the soft flesh that it's a wonder he doesn't draw blood. "I didn't want to. I let myself take something from you that I'd wanted for years and told myself you needed it, I told myself that you wanted it too, Dean." He sucks in a harsh breath, and he doesn't let it out. "I took advantage of you."
Dean can still feel the burning hole in him that needed to be filled. He remembers the relief, the bliss, and he remembers the pain as it simply flowed away when Sam pushed into him. "I can smell it," he whispers. "The motel room. The bleach in the bathroom and in the linen on the bed."
"You weren't in your right mind, Dean."
Sam's not wrong. It was all he could think about. His brother's cock, his brother's come, pumping into him and putting out the fire, only for the fire to return a few minutes later.
"You couldn't possibly consent."
He begged for it, cried, and sobbed in pain when Sam tried to deny him what he needed. As far as Dean knew, he was going to spontaneously combust if he didn't get what he desperately needed.
"It was rape, Dean. I raped you."
Sam chokes on a sob, gasps for breath. Dean doesn't know the lore on incubus; any research he did was swept away with the rest of his memories of that hunt, but purely on vibes, he thinks the incubus would have done the same, but with a far more final ending.
It would have fucked Dean, and Dean would have wanted it, but with every event, more of his life force would have been sucked away, leaving Dean paralyzed and barely conscious and then, inevitably, dead.
The lore is coming back. The context is muted, ephemeral, flashes of a laptop screen, words scrolling past, SUCCUBUS, INCUBUS, and he doesn't remember learning this shit, but the lore is there.
"That's not what it was," Dean says. He has an urge to reach out to Sam, to touch his hand, or his arm, or his shoulder, and he's pretty sure he wouldn't want to do that if what Sam says was even remotely true. "Not on your part, anyway. The monster is the thing that took my agency." Dean remembers how Sam was in the motel while Dean was clawing at him, begging him, out of control and desperate.
Sam was gentle. Loving. Oh, Jesus. Sam didn't fuck Dean. He made love to him.
A shiver moves through him. Arousal quickens his breath and makes him squirm. "Oh, fuck," Dean says. His fingers itch to touch his brother, and he's drunk, he must be drunk, because he does it, peeling Sam's fingers away from the whiskey bottle and taking Sam's hand in both of his own.
Dean strokes Sam's fingers. Long and thick. He felt every knuckle when Sam held Dean down and opened him up on them. "I was so angry at you," Dean says, remembering Sam slowing everything down. When all Dean wanted was to impale himself on his brother's cock Sam insisted on finding the lube buried deep in Dean's duffel, insisted on using his fingers first so Dean didn't hurt himself. "I should have come out of that unable to walk. But you took the time, Sam, you took the time to make it good, and—" Dean moans as he slides his thumb and forefinger the length of Sam's middle finger. "—you made it so good."
Sam gasps and pulls his hand back. "Jesus, Dean." He reaches for the bottle and tips it, swallows again and again. He puts it down. "You're drunk," he says.
"Yeah," Dean whispers. He looks his brother in the eyes. "But I'm not wrong. I remember. I remember everything. I remember the third time we did it now." Dean was on top. One knee on either side of Sam's hips. He slid down his brother's cock and rode him, slow and rhythmic, dripping with sweat. He hurt inside, but it was a good hurt, and they came together, Sam deep inside him, Dean on his brother's belly.
It was already over. The fire inside him was long gone, and he rode his brother' cock because he wanted it, too. And he was ashamed, because Sam thought he needed it, so he asked Sam never to tell him about what he'd done.
Dean erased it. He erased the thing he did for his own benefit, but now it's back, and the guilt is going to eat him alive. "I didn't need it," he says, the words spilling out as though to rid himself of the guilt, but he can't. "I wanted it."
Sam shakes his head. "You'd been poisoned."
"It was gone. By the time I crawled on top of you, Sam, it was long gone. That was all me."
Sam stares at him.
"I still want it.
Sam's lips are parted, and he takes long, shuddering breaths.
"I want it now."
"How long," Dean says, as they push and pull each other down the hall and practically fall in through the door of Dean's room. "How long have you wanted to fuck your brother?"
"I don't know," Sam says as he backs up to Dean's bed, and Dean pushes him toward it until the edge of the mattress hits the back of Sam's knees and they buckle. "Don't look at me like that, Dean. I don't. It never consciously occurred to me until after the wall came down, because me without a soul was so much more self-aware, apparently."
"Why do you think that robotic bastard never got around to shooting his shot, then?" Dean wonders out loud because that version of Sam was never known for his restraint. No scruples, no conscience, no pesky morals to hold him back.
"I think I knew that you would have punched me in the face had I ever suggested it," Sam says. "Dean, are you sure we should be doing this at all? Maybe if we wait till we're both sober—"
Dean climbs up over his brother. The mattress gives beneath their weight, the ancient springs creaking beneath their bodies. "I don't need to be sober, Sam." Dean sits on his brother's cock, a long, thick, solid bar beneath his jeans. He grinds his ass against it, several layers of worn denim keeping them apart, but he knows what it feels like to have Sam's naked skin against his own; he knows what it feels like to have that thick cock so far up inside him he can feel it in his guts. "And we've got all the fucking time in the world, now. I'm on fucking fire, Sam, don't get me wrong, but it's nothing like it was the first time. We don't gotta fuck right away." He wants to know what his brother tastes like. He wants to know what Sam looks like with his lips stretched around Dean's cock.
Dean's never had sex with a man he loved before. This is a different kind of love than you're ever supposed to associate with sex, of course. Dean loves his brother; he loves Sam more than he's ever loved anyone else in the world, and maybe that should have told him something about what it would be like should they have reason or occasion or the need to fuck each other.
Yeah, He's slept with men. Not a whole lot, but it's happened. And Sam knows it. Dean remembers spitting the words when Sam asked him if he'd ever been fucked before.
"You're not the first, Sam, and you won't be the fucking last. You're not taking my goddamn virtue, so please, just fucking please put it in me. I'm dying here, Sammy. Put your cock in me right the fuck now or I swear to God I'm gonna—"
If he's remembering correctly, he never finished the sentence. Or, he did, but with a moan rather than words. It didn't matter. Sam did what Dean needed him to do.
"I trust you," Dean says, and then rolls his body over his brothers.
Sam only kissed him once that night. Dean was on his back, Sam between his thighs, his cock spearing deep into Dean's body. Dean was half out of his mind, and yet, his brother's lips against his own, wet and soft, grounded him somehow.
Because it was a shock. Because even with Sam's cock in his ass—which was exactly what Dean had asked for, begged his brother for—it was still utterly unthinkable to Dean that what they were doing was anything other than the panicked response to an emergency.
That kiss, that sweet, soft connection, was what led Dean to seek out Sam's body even after the poison had filtered from his blood, and yet, even after Dean had impaled himself on his brother's cock, he didn't have the courage to lean forward and kiss him.
So that's what he does. And he moans into his brother's mouth and rocks his hips, pushing his hard cock against the thick length in Sam's jeans.
Sam jerks, his hips thrusting, and then his shoulders lift off Dean's pillow as he chases the kiss. He moans, and he whimpers, and Dean rocks his hips again, dragging his cock the length of Sam's as he sucks his brother's tongue into his mouth.
They both go from zero to a hundred in a split second. Sam grabs Dean by the hips and thrusts up against him. Dean shoves a hand between them and struggles with his belt, desperate for skin on skin, desperate to feel his brother's bare cock against his own.
And then, "Fuck it," Sam says. He flips them over, Dean hits the mattress with a screeching of springs, Sam's hands tear at Dean's belt, his fly, and then drag Dean's jeans and boxers down to his thighs. Dean's cock slaps against his belly, a string of precome already painting his skin.
Then Sam's mouth is on his cock. Hot, and wet, and, oh fuck, Sam's eyes looking up at him, dark and intense—
"Oh, fuck, Sammy. Fuck. I'm gonna come so fast." Dean pushes his hands into his brother's hair, tangles his fingers into the long strands, and for the first time ever, he doesn't wish Sam would get it cut.
Dean lifts his hips as he pulls Sam's head down to swallow his length. He tries to spread his legs, but he's trapped. "Stop," he says, pushing his brother off, and then, seeing the alarm in Sam's eyes, "Need to get my pants off." He kicks off his jeans and then rolls, pulling out the drawer beside his bed, pulling out the lube he always keeps stashed there. He hands it to his brother. "Please, Sammy," he says, spreading his thighs wide, planting his feet, lifting his knees. "Put your fingers in me while you suck me off. Sam, god, I'm gonna come so hard."
He can't wait for his brother to suck him again. Dean takes his cock in his hand and starts to stroke it as Sam turns his head to the inside of Dean's thigh. He drags his lips down the inside, over the soft, delicate skin, from Dean's knee till he's brushing Dean's balls with the tip of his nose, and then he does the other.
Dean moans and thrusts into his hand when Sam licks up the seam of his balls with a warm, wet tongue. Then there's the plastic snap, and then cold, wet, slippery fingers nudging at his hole.
Sam knocks Dean's hand away, sucks Dean's cock back into his mouth. He circles Dean's hole with ever-increasing pressure.
Instead of his brother's hair, Dean fists his hands into the pillow on either side of his head. "Do it," he says. "Ah, fuck, Sammy." He feels empty again, hollow. "Put it in me, I wanna feel it—"
Dean gasps as Sam forces a fingertip past the tight muscle, and electricity sings over his skin, raising goosebumps, drawing sweat from the pores at his hairline. He pulls the pillow tight around his head, muffling the sounds he makes. "More," he begs, and writhes as Sam pushes deeper.
Sam pulls out, pushes another finger in alongside, and there are the goosebumps all over again, the sweat prickling in Dean's hair. "Find it," Dean begs. "You did it before, make me come, Sammy. Find it for me, make me come."
It should be embarrassing to be begging his brother like this while Sam has his mouth on Dean's cock and his fingers deep in his ass, but Dean doesn't fucking care. And he especially doesn't care when Sam rolls his fingertips over Dean's prostate, and keeps doing it while he slides his mouth, sloppy and hot and wet, over Dean's dick.
"You're doing it," he moans, shuddering, on fire. If anything, Sam deserves the praise. "I'm gonna come, Sammy. I'm gonna come so hard, you're making me—oh fuck, oh fuck, please—"
It hits him in waves, exploding out from his core as he shoots deep into his brother's throat. Over and over it washes over him, and the sounds he can hear are undoubtedly his own, primal, wild, and yet the ecstasy rolling through his body overwhelms his senses, and he can't feel his throat making them.
Dean's hands cramp, and he can't let go. The pillow narrows his vision to a thin strip of ceiling, and wall, and door, and Sam's head between Dean's legs.
He's still shaking when Sam pulls off. There's come on his lips, and he licks it away. Dean's cock lies softening on his thigh, still oozing.
"Breathe," Sam whispers. "Dean, you need to breathe."
Dean doesn't fully inhale until Sam crawls up over him and brushes his lips over Dean's mouth. Dean sucks in air and wonders why Sam isn't fucking kissing him already.
With oxygen in his blood, he surges up and captures his brother's lips. The inside of Sam's mouth is thick with Dean's come.
Sam's jeans are rough against the inside of Dean's thighs. Dean's shirt is rucked up beneath his armpits, but that's all he's wearing. Sam is still fully clothed.
"Fuck me," Dean says. When Sam withdrew his fingers, Dean's hole ached. He wants to feel it again, being stuffed full of his brother's big cock. "I want you to fuck me, Sam."
"But you said—"
"I don't care what I fucking said, Sam." Dean reaches between them and tugs at Sam's jeans. Sam's cock is huge and stiff, pushing against the fly of his jeans. "I want this fucking monster inside me."
Sam lets out a short, sharp, half-embarrassed, self-deprecating huff, and then he bats Dean's hand away and opens his jeans. "I don't wanna hurt you," he says. "The first time, Dean. I hurt you—"
"The first time, I was out of my mind and impaled myself on you, Sammy. I'm gonna let you drive this time, I swear. Just please—" Dean throws his head back and moans as Sam pushes the head of his cock against Dean's hole.
Two of Sam's fingers up his ass is one thing. Sam's cock is another thing entirely. Dean grabs a fistful of Sam's shirt. The seams creak and threaten to break as Sam slowly pushes forward.
Sam moves slow, inexorably slow, drawing out the burning stretch in a way Dean doesn't remember from before. Because it didn't happen. Dean was too needy, too impatient, and it all happened so fast it's like a blur of pain and need.
"Oh, fuck," Sam says. The muscles in his arms, exposed by rolled-up sleeves, ripple with restraint as he pulls Dean slowly onto his cock by the thighs. "You're so—" He groans. "You feel so good, Dean."
All Dean can do is nod as a prickle of fire and goosebumps spread over his entire body. Sweat beads on his temples. The shirt, rucked up under his arms, is damp and sticky. He moans and tosses his head as Sam pushes deeper, and deeper, in short, gentle thrusts, until his balls hit Dean's and they're connected in a way no brothers ever should be, and yet, it's fucking perfect.
"Come inside me, Sammy," Dean whispers, as he unclenches his fist from Sam's shirt and strokes his hair, brushing sweaty strands out of his brother's eyes. "Go slow at first, but then I want you to do what you need to do to get there. I want you to come inside me."
"Need you to come in me, Sammy. Put out the fire."
Dean's assaulted by the memory. Sam, behind him, fingers pressing bruises into Dean's hips, slamming into him over and over again in something like panic. Dean was clawing at the motel sheets, tearing rents in the thin, worn fabric that had been laundered to the point it was as fragile as paper.
It was a fucking traumatic event for both of them. It was a blessing that Dean didn't remember—Sam wasn't so lucky. It must have messed him up; it must have killed him to have to bear it alone.
Dean puts his hand on the back of his brother's neck, pulls him down, spreading his legs and pulling his knees into his chest so Sam's large body will fit. He's damn near folded in half, and yet he needs Sam close right now.
Dean pulls Sam close so their foreheads are touching. Sam's breath, quick and irregular, is warm as it washes over Dean's face.
"I got you, Sammy," Dean whispers. He looks up into his brother's eyes. "I got you, little brother, you hear me? Just like you got me, yeah?"
Sam nods, and he stifles a sob in his chest.
"Now, you fuck me like you want to, Sam." Dean arches his back, getting comfortable. "Love me like you want to, yeah?"
Sam nods, chokes back a sob, and then he kisses Dean, and it's so fucking sweet and hot. Dean moans into it as his cock, still flaccid, still spent, gives a twitch. Sam moves his hips, and his body starts to roll, and he fucks Dean so fucking slow, so fucking easy, that at first it feels like they could go on forever.
Sam speeds up so gradually that Dean barely notices that his brother is fucking him, harder, faster. Then he's making the sounds that Dean recognizes, the telltale gasps and moans, the puffs of air that tell Dean his brother is getting close.
"I want you so much," Dean whispers into Sam's ear. It's fucking true, and he doesn't know how he never saw it before, how it had never ever occurred to him before. "You're all I fucking need, Sammy, you hear me?"
Sam chokes, sobs, and stiffens. His cock jerks inside Dean's body, slams inside one last time, and Sam starts to come with a long, drawn-out groan.
And then they're both still. Sam's still inside him. Dean's thighs ache. He feels slippery inside, and he can feel the metal teeth of Sam's zipper against his skin.
"Gotta put my legs down, Sammy." His thighs protest as he changes position. His ass aches as Sam's cock softens and slips out. "We're gonna need new sheets. And showers. This is gross."
"Not yet," Sam whispers, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him close. Of course Sam wants to cuddle.
Dean resists the urge to squirm out from beneath his brother's smothering embrace.
Actually, it's kinda nice. Maybe just for a little while.
Dean wakes up stuck to the sheets. Sam moved in the night, so at least Dean won't have to gnaw his own arm off, but he still slips out slowly, gently, disturbing the mattress as little as humanly possible so he doesn't wake his brother.
Morning afters are always fucking awkward. The hangover is par for the course, too. But this is Sam. Dean had sex with his brother.
"Where are you going?"
Sam's voice is thick, sleep-fuzzed.
"I gotta piss," Dean says. He's at the door. He doesn't turn around.
"Coming back after?"
"Need a shower." And there's no fucking way he's getting back in that bed before the sheets are changed.
Sam groans. The bed springs complain, as though he's sitting up. "Do you regret it?"
He wanted it. He was drunk last night, but he fucking wanted it. He asked for it. Begged for it. Sam is his baby brother, but they're fucking grown-ass adults. And it's not like they've ever been able to hold onto anything normal.
This is the best hope either of them will ever have. That shouldn't be a reason. It's not the reason. Sam is the first thing Dean thinks of when he wakes up in the morning. The last thing he thinks of before he goes to bed at night.
Hell. This was probably inevitable. They've lived like a fucking married couple for years. It was always going to happen.
"Regret it?" Dean turns to look at his brother. Sam's hair is mussed, and he looks well-fucked. "Hell no, Sammy. But if you expect me to get back in that bed with you as it is, you've got another thing coming. Showers. Laundry. Then we can spend the entire fucking day in bed, if that's what you want."