Sam's words fade and all Dean can do is stare.

His jaw hangs open. Dumbfounded is the only word he can think of to describe the way he feels, but he's intrigued, too.

More than that. More than interested, more than fascinated, and perhaps it's that Sam has proposed something that Dean never knew he needed…

He wants it.

“Well?” Sam says it matter-of-fact, almost confrontational, like he's just proposed some unorthodox way of dealing with a hunt and is waiting for Dean to shoot it down in favor of conventional methods. “Will you do it? Can you?”

“I can do it,” Dean says, the words spilling from his lips in a hurry, like calling dibs on the last slice of pizza. “But why me, Sammy, because you know, I can't forget, don't know if you forgot—”

“We're brothers,” Sam says. “I didn't forget.” His eyes are on his hands, his jaw is set. He's uncomfortable, but determined. “You're the only one I'd trust with this.”

Dean's not surprised. “And this is a thing you need?”

“Huh.” It's a mirthless laugh, the corner of Sam's lip lifting in something that might have been intended to be a smile. “Like air,” Sam whispers. “Dean, I—”

“Sammy,” Dean breathes. “Sam.” His mind explodes, with things he didn't know he wanted, with the enormity of the thing he's agreed to do. “When,” he says. “Just tell me when.”

“I've already taken it,” Sam says. “It's—” He seems to sway in his chair, and Dean should have noticed, but he didn't. He shoves the pile of books on the table between them out of the way and reaches out to steady Sam.

The kid roofied himself, before he'd even asked. Maybe it helped, with the asking, but it puts Dean in a difficult position.

“That's not enough time,” he says. “You should have waited, told me what you wanted before—”

“S'not what I wanted,” Sam slurs, and, finally, looks up into Dean's eyes. “Wanted…want it like this. If you can't, I'll just sleep it off. Never speak of it—” He reaches out, grips Dean's hand tight. “Bu' please—”

Sam's eyes are bloodshot, lids heavy, but he uses them to beg, imploring Dean to give him this. And then he quits, gives up, slips down in the chair, head lolling onto his shoulder.

Dean's getting nothing more out of him. Sam's eyes are still open, but his mouth is slack, his lips wet.

“Fuck,” Dean says out loud, and the word echoes through the bunker.

---

Sam didn't give him much to go on.

Oh, yeah, I have this fantasy where I get roofied and used and it's getting out of hand, and I'm afraid I might go out and let a stranger do it to me, so I was wondering if you'd help me out because you're my brother and I trust you.

He's still technically conscious. Got up when Dean lifted him out of the chair, put one foot in front of the other, even if he had to lean on Dean heavily the whole way to his room. Opens his eyes when he's laid out flat on his bed and Dean speaks to him, but he won't open his mouth, won't say a word, and there's something really fucking wrong with that in Dean's mind, something he can't get past, something that's all mixed up and confusing and Dean doesn't know what to do.

Because he wants it, and he can read between the lines and know that Sam wants it, but he downed that pill before Dean knew Sam even had it in his possession, and what if Sam's words weren't the ones he wanted to say, what if he had every intention of going out and finding a stranger to do this to him, what if it was the pills talking when he asked Dean to do it…

There's the possibility that Sam will wake up tomorrow and be horrified when he finds Dean in his bed.

Dean sits heavily on the edge of Sam's bed, and he scrubs his hands over his face and lets out an expression of frustration. Fear and lust and the instinct to both protect Sam, and also give him what he wants, all mixed up inside him. And then Sam's fingers, tugging at his shirt, Sam moaning, wordless, and yet, a desperate plea.

“Why couldn't you wait, Sam?” Dean says, looking down at his brother's slack face. “Why couldn't you just fucking wait? Because I want to, I do, but how can I trust that you knew what you were asking me for?”

There's no response. He's out. He's gone. Sam Winchester has left the building. And he's beautiful like this, Dean's always thought so, so much so that if he'd been a lesser man, this might have occurred to him years ago, and now, at Sam's suggestion, Dean can't get the thought out of his mind. He'll probably never be able to forget this, never be able to wipe away the need for it, and if he doesn't do it, he might never get the chance again, and he'll regret that for the rest of his life.

And if he does, and Sam didn't want it like this, they'll both regret it for the rest of their lives.

Dean reaches out, and he takes Sam's hand. Wants to do more, stroke his face, slide two fingers between Sam's pouting lips, but all he does is hold his hand.

“Don't think I can do this, Sammy,” he whispers. “Can't take the risk that I read you wrong.”

Sam moans, and his fingers grip Dean's hand. His lips move, like he's trying to speak, and his eyelids lift, but slow, like they're weighed down by heavy weights.

But Dean watches, as his eyes move to the side, to the table by the bed with a lamp sitting on top.

That's not all that's there. Arranged carefully, there's a brand new bottle of lube and a box of condoms, and it certainly looks like Sam planned this.

“Oh,” Dean says. “I guess if you were planning on going out you wouldn't leave all that here.” And it occurs to him, not for the first time, that if he was planning this all for a stranger, driving to town whacked out on roofies just wasn't Sam's style.

---

Sam's eyes are closed again, but he moans, and he pulls at the front of his shirt. He's breathing hard, like he's hot or feeling closed in, and Dean moves to help.

“Want it off?” Dean says, as he swiftly unbuttons Sam's shirt, finding nothing beneath. “Come here.” He feels a little like he remembers, when he was ten years old and Sam was still learning to dress himself, but the wrongness of this doesn't stop him wanting to see every inch of Sam as the flannel falls away.

Sam shifts, restless, as Dean pinches each exposed nipple in turn and watches them go hard and stiff. “Like that, do you, Sammy?” he whispers, and then twists them just to hear Sam moan and arch. “Yeah.”

Dean's hard. He's been hard since Sam said the words use me, but now, it's getting painful. He ignores it while he loosens the button of Sam's jeans and drops the fly.

Sam's got nothing on beneath his jeans. Dean wonders if he wants to wake up still half dressed, and chooses to leave Sam's shirt hanging off his shoulders, but Sam left condoms, so he figures he wants to wake up feeling like he's been fucked—and hard—so he works Sam's jeans down his legs, lifting each one at a time until he's naked from the waist down.

Then he sits back and looks.

“Holy fuck,” he says under his breath, struggling to calm himself. He's about a hair's breadth from coming in his jeans, because Sam's almost naked and completely out. He's entirely unaware of how he looks, how vulnerable he is with his legs splayed wide, his long thick cock on display.

Dean unbuttons his jeans, has no reason to remove any of his clothing, almost wishes Sam would wake up, become aware, while Dean's still fully dressed but buried in him to the hilt. Dean wants it, files it away for when he is, so he can tap Sam on the cheek and will him to open his eyes, save it for later because if it happens too soon, it might be all over.

Dean tears into the box on Sam's bedside table, gets himself suited up, lubed up, knees his way up on to the end of the bed, between Sam's thighs, skin there soft and smooth and pale. Pushes Sam's knees apart to bare the pucker between his cheeks, and slides a slick hand over it.

“Ever even been fucked before, Sammy?” Dean doesn't doubt it, Sam's not stupid enough to do it this way the first time ever, but he's got his own fantasy to indulge. “Gonna be tight, I know it.” Slides a slick finger inside, and Sam's relaxed state means it goes in easy, without resistance. “Want it, don't you, little brother? Want it so bad—”

Dean's gotta pause, as he moans, his cock jerking, dribbling pre-come into the rubber. Another finger slides into his brother alongside the first, Dean suddenly in a hurry. “Sorry, Sammy,” he says, as he twists them in, ignoring the way Sam moans and jerks. “Gotta hurry now, don't want you to wake up when I'm halfway through.”

Then he pulls out his fingers, and he lines up his cock, and he starts to push in.

Sam's gonna feel this in the morning, there's no question. His face pinches up, like there's pain, and Dean doesn't really want to hurt his brother, but there's always a burn at first, the feeling when you think your rim is going to split and bleed, and that's what Sam's feeling right now, even if he won't remember it in the morning.

Dean slides all the way inside, balls deep in his unconscious younger brother, and everything about this situation is wrong, and should make him feel sick, and yet, all he wants to do is fuck Sam all night like this, if he could only hold off his orgasm for long enough.

He starts to fuck Sam, slow, but hard, revels in the way Sam's body moves when he's like this. There's no resistance, no stiffness, Sam seems to flow like water as Dean shoves him up the bed with every thrust.

But if Dean listens carefully, there's a tiny grunt that comes from Sam's throat every time Dean pushes inside, and Sam's cock starts to lengthen, thicken, stiffen.

Dean wraps his hand around it. “It's so pretty,” he whispers, panting, breathless. “So big and fat, maybe I should stuff it up my ass, ride it hard when I'm done here.” Decides to keep that for another day, the logic that he's just barely still got a hold of insisting that he gets Sam's permission before changing any of the vague parameters of their arrangement. But he relishes the idea. “Could probably ride you for hours, draw it out, come on your cock half a dozen times before I let you get off, what you think of that, Sammy?”

He almost thinks Sam's woken, then, because he moans and writhes beneath him, thrusts up into Dean's hand.

But he's still out, just chasing orgasm like he's having a wet dream. “That what it's like, Sammy? You think you're dreaming this? I'll make sure you know it's real when you wake up, leave the evidence for you to find, don't worry.” Begins to plan the tableau he'll stage, the mess he'll leave Sam in before he slinks out of the room.

Imagines breakfast the next morning, handing Sam a cup of coffee and pretending like it never happened, imagines the look on Sam's face, wonders how long it would be appropriate for Dean to fuck with Sam's head, if Sam wants him to pretend it never happened, if that's part of Sam's fantasy.

He wants to do it right, because he wants Sam to ask for this again, wants the chance to ride Sam's fat cock while he's out, and, hell, also wants to do this when he's not, because Dean would like nothing more than to bend over on his hands and knees and hear Sam spout filth while he fucks Dean into the mattress.

Because, the life they lead, why shouldn't they fuck each other, brothers or not? Who else can they trust to get this done for them, a string of random strangers? Someone they can grow attached to only to watch die?

Dean falters in his thrusts as his balls draw up. “Shit, Sammy,” he croaks. “Shit. You wanna come?” Dean pulls on Sam's dick like his life depends on it. “Better hurry, kiddo. Come on, Sammy.” Sam grunts and moans and twists, like he's fighting it, and his knees pull into his chest, changing the angle of Dean's thrusts.

Suddenly, Sam stiffens, shudders all over, and his cock twitches in Dean's hand, and then spills, spurt after spurt of hot come squirting out over Dean's fist, splattering onto Sam's belly.

“Thatta boy, Sammy,” Dean says, dropping Sam's cock to watch it twitch and dribble on his stomach. “That's right, Sam. Make a big ol' mess.” The thought of leaving him here like this brings Dean to the brink, and he can't hold back any longer.

He fills the condom, every spurt almost painful as his balls contract, and he white-knuckles Sam's hips, probably leaving fingerprint bruises.

Something else for Sam to remember this by.

Then it's over, and there's sweat dripping from his face and mingling with the puddle on Sam's stomach, and he releases Sam's legs, lets them fall, spread apart and wanton.

Dean pulls out carefully, having decided on a whim to leave an extra special reminder for Sam when he wakes.

He wipes his cock off on the corner of Sam's shirt, zips and buttons his jeans, then he turns and looks at the scene.

Sam lies on his bed, mostly naked and drooling. His legs are splayed wide, exposing his asshole and the rim of the condom Dean left still inside.

His own come smears his stomach, the torn foil packet stuck in the mess.

He looks used.

Dean turns and walks out the door, leaving it hanging open on the hinges behind him.

---

Sam's head is splitting when he wakes, and at first, he doesn't know where he is, because his room in the bunker has never smelled so thickly of sex before.

His stomach roils, twists, and he swallows down bile. When he moves, his skull seems to tighten around his brain, threatening to implode.

There's a strong feeling of shame that creeps in, settles, makes itself at home before Sam even realises that he's naked, wet, sticky.

The air moving through the open door soon makes it evident, however.

Sam's eyes are gummed shut, and it hurts just to lift his arms and wipe away the gunk. Something on his hand smears into an eye and makes it sting, he makes the mistake of licking it, and it's bitter, salty.

Slowly, very slowly, Sam pulls himself up and looks at himself.

His shirt is hanging open and stuck halfway down his arms, but he's otherwise completely nude. His nipples are sore and red and puffy. His stomach is covered in thick, sticky, drying come, and he's pretty sure it's his own. He picks the torn foil packet out of the mess and drops it over the side of the bed.

He feels like he's been fucked. Like he's been fucked hard. There's no sign of the condom, no sign except for the bit of torn foil now on the floor and the ripped open cardboard box on the nightstand and the uncapped bottle of lube lying on the bed by Sam's elbow and leaking onto the blankets.

Sam's cock starts to stiffen. It's so wrong, so twisted, but this wasn't a mistake. He doesn't remember a thing, and he feels used, like a vessel, like a container, like a toy or a tool, and it's exactly what he wanted.

He almost wishes…(he doesn't want to think his name)…hadn't made him come, hadn't tried to see to that need, just so it would be more of a release now, but Sam wraps his hand around his own cock regardless.

It thickens and lengthens in his hand, and he spreads his legs wider as he starts to stroke. His free hand seeks out his aching, slick and gaping hole, but finds the missing rubber, a bit of floppy latex, leaking with a kind of squeaky slickness that coats Sam's fingers.

He moans and throws his head back, pumps his cock as he takes hold of the bit of condom still outside of his body, and slowly draws it out.

He comes as the squishy, come-filled teat passes his rim, and he casts it aside while come dribbles and shoots from the head of his cock.

---

Showered and dressed, Sam enters the kitchen sometime after midday. Dean's there, and, like it's nothing, hands him a steaming cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” Sam says, out of habit, and searches Dean's face for any indication of what happened between them the night before.

There's nothing.

“Yeah,” Dean says, as he sips his own coffee. “How's the head?”

“Bad,” Sam whispers, cradling it with his hand. “Dean, I—”

“Yeah, you came home last night drunk, with some random dude, Sammy. Good for you. You disappeared, and sounded like fun was being had by all, so I left you to it. He slunk out of here in the early hours.” Dean grins. “Go Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head. “What? Dean—”

Dean winks at him. Quickly. Sam would have missed it if he hadn't been looking right at him. He still can't be sure, of the wink, of his own vague memories of the night before.

He wants his memories to be the right ones. Wants Dean to know—if his memories are correct—that Sam wanted Dean to be the one, not some stranger.

“It's okay,” Sam says, his eyes on the floor. “You don't have to—”

“All right, Sammy. You tell me what you want,” Dean says. “You don't wanna pretend, I won't pretend. But next time, you tell me before the pills, deal?”

Sam nods, and regrets it, as his brain rocks inside his skull. “Deal.”

fin