Chapter 6

Dean storms into Sam's room, furious.

Sam's showered. Dressed. He's changed the sheets and the scent that Dean's gotten used to over the loops has mostly dissipated, but there's still a hint of it, barely there, ensuring that Dean will never forget what Sam was doing Monday night.

And yeah, maybe Sam's got more reason than Dean to go nuts when every single morning he wakes up to filthy sheets and dried spunk crusted on his belly, but that doesn't mean Dean doesn't have a right to be royally pissed.

"How dare you," Dean spits, twisting his fist into the front of Sam's shirt and jerking him up off the bed. "How dare you blow your brains out in front of me. How dare you make me watch you die like that."

Dean wants to throw a punch. His fist aches to slam into Sam's cheek, to draw blood, to beat some sense into him.

But there's only surrender in Sam's eyes. It would be fruitless, pointless. Sam's never going to fight back, he'll take every punch, every kick, and probably wants Dean to beat him to death.

Dean unclenches his fist. He releases the grip he has on his brother, and instead of violence, he pulls Sam into a hug, puts all his energy and frustration into holding Sam close instead of beating the crap out of him.

"We've gotta stop this," Dean says. "We're stuck here. We've gotta accept it."

"I can't," Sam says, clinging desperately to Dean. "I can't bear it."

Dean pushes Sam away, just enough to get a look at his face. "You have to, Sammy. You've got no choice. There's nothing we can do about it."

The expression on Sam's face is utter helplessness. Despair. Past desperation, past any hope. And that's when it hits Dean: there really is no way they're ever getting out of the loop.

All those days Dean woke up as a demon, all those days Dean drank himself into oblivion, Sam spent working. Researching everything the Men of Letters had to offer, and everything available on the internet as well.

Sam found nothing. Nothing but that Babylonian angel summoning. That was their only hope, and it tanked, and Sam has every right to fall apart.

Something lets go in Dean's chest. Maybe it's his last ray of hope, his last bit of fight. With it goes his ability to stand, and he takes Sam to the floor with him, both of them sinking to their knees, each of them clutching at the other with desperate fingers.

"I can't do it," Sam whispers, a last desperate plea for it all to end. "I can't do it any more."

"Shh," Dean says. He needs Sam to stop speaking, to stop hoping for an out because it's never coming. Sam's mouth opens again, and Dean does the one thing he can think of to make his brother silent.

He kisses him.

Dean kisses Sam softly, on the mouth. Just enough, at first, to shock him into silence. Then, it doesn't seem enough, and it quickly turns from a way to quiet Sam, into something Dean needs.

A dam bursts. All of Dean's frustration, all of his desperation, it all floods out and dissipates, replaced by a sudden, physical need. Not just for a warm body, but for Sam.

They fall to the floor, connected by lips and tongues and saliva, hands pulling at each others clothes. Threads break and buttons come free and belt buckles rattle and zippers come apart.

Sam cries out, deep and mournful, as Dean closes his hand around the both of them.

"I got you," Dean whispers, sliding his fingers through precome, tightening his grip, rocking his hips to fuck his cock against Sam's. "I got you, Sammy."

They come together, in a pile on the floor beside Sam's bed. They gasp for air and cling to each other, and it's okay, because this is all they have.

This is all they'll ever have.

---

Things got awkward after they untangled themselves from each other and climbed up off of Sam's floor. Dean muttered something about getting cleaned up and they each went in different directions.

It makes sense to Dean, what they did. A loss of all hope, on both sides. That desperation, coupled with the stuff the monstrous parts of them brought out into the open, the stuff they maybe–certainly Dean–didn't even know they wanted, that had been shoved down deep for so long, and something was bound to happen eventually.

Give a monkey a typewriter, and all that.

In the afternoon, Sam appears in Dean's doorway. "Jody called," he says. "Vetala."

At some point, they'll stop answering the phone. Time's never going anywhere. Nothing outside these walls exists, will ever exist for them again. The universe has shrunk to the size of the bunker, and that's all that will ever be.

Dean'll never have bacon again, but he'll have Sam.

Dean climbs off the bed, and he crosses the room. There's a love bite on Sam's neck, right at the curve of his shoulder, and Dean reaches out, and he traces it with his thumb. "I bit you."

"Doesn't hurt," Sam says.

Dean smirks. "I'll do better next time."

Sam's eyes go dark, and the pulse under Dean's thumb jumps, races.

Dean slides his hand down Sam's arm, takes him by the hand. "If we're stuck here," he says, pulling Sam into the room and toward the bed. "For all eternity? I can think of worse ways to spend the time."

"Fuck," Sam says. Dean pushes him down onto the bed, and climbs over to straddle Sam's hips. "Fuck, Dean. Oh fuck."

"We'll get there," Dean says, leaning forward to kiss his brother. "Play your cards right."

And, god, it's so easy to pull delicious sounds from deep in Sam's throat, moans that vibrate through Sam's chest when Dean kisses him hard and wet and filthy, desperate gasps as Dean grinds his ass against his brother's thick cock, soft whimpers as Dean bites down hard and sucks at the same bruise he left that morning, ensuring it'll hurt, this time.

And then it'll be gone, when they loop, and Dean can bite Sam all over again.

For the first time, the thought of looping excites Dean. The knowledge that they can do this, over and over, and never get tired, or old, or broken...

Dean pushes himself up, and he looks down at his brother. Sam's wide-eyed, fevered, and there's a flush spreading over his skin, down his throat, and Dean needs to see how far it goes.

He tears Sam's shirt open. Buttons go flying and fabric tears. "Want you," he says, stumbling over his words. "Need, fuck, Sammy, need you, get it off."

Sam moves fast, almost a blur. Dean falls backward, doesn't care, rolls off the bed and starts tearing at his clothes, and when he's done, he falls on his brother, yanking off boots that make no sense when they're trapped like they are, pulling Sam's jeans off his legs.

Dean goes for the nightstand next. Lube. There are no condoms here, Dean doesn't bring hookups to the bunker, but condoms don't matter, not in the situation they're in, and Dean's had sex with men, but he's never–never–done it bareback before, but goddamn if he isn't looking forward to it.

"You're so beautiful," Sam says, when Dean climbs back onto the bed. "Is this real?"

"It's real," Dean says. He straddles Sam's thighs, and he slicks up his hand, uses it to slick Sam's cock. "And I want you inside me."

Sam's eyes roll back in his head and he arches up off the bed and moans. Goddamn but Dean's brother is sexy. So fucking hot, so thick and hard and pulsing in his hand and maybe, maybe, Dean's been in love with Sam his whole life, but he didn't know it because he never had another brother, he didn't know this wasn't what he was supposed to feel for his brother.

He can't wait. Dean lines himself up over Sam's cock, and he sinks down.

Fuck. Everything burns. His skin is on fire, sparking, licking, spreading over his bare flesh and leaving sweat beading in its wake.

Sam grabs Dean by the hips, and he's shaking, fingers squeezing bruises that Dean'll savor until they're gone in the morning and they can do this all over again.

"Fuck you, Chuck," Dean says, as his ass meets Sam's thighs, his brother's cock as deep inside him as it can go, and he stills, shivering, quaking, as his body adjusts to being so filled, more full than it's ever been before. "You're never getting what you want."

"I need–" Sam moans. "Need to–" His hips jerk, thrusting up into Dean's body. "Move."

"Yeah," Dean says, rocking his hips and watching his brother's mouth go slack and his eyes roll up. "I got you, Sammy."

Slow, at first, gradually upping the speed, until he's riding Sam's cock like a mechanical bull, fucking himself on his brother's cock like a feral animal, till there's sweat pouring off both of them, till it's stinging Dean's eyes, till Sam goes stiff and rigid beneath him, and only then does Dean still, so he can feel the jerk of his brother's cock as it pulses and fills his ass with come.

Dean wraps his hand around his cock, and then he's coming with his brother, spilling out over Sam's belly, making a mess they won't need to clean up because it'll be gone in the morning.

---

Dean's warm. A little itchy. And he's naked.

There's movement. Warm flesh, naked flesh, brushing against Dean's own. Strong arms wrapped around Dean from behind.

Sam.

Dean rolls onto his back. "Sammy, you awake?" Maybe, if they get cleaned up, they can go again–

Sam sits up with a gasp, taking the blankets with him. A cool blast of air washes over Deans bare skin and he shivers.

"It's okay," Dean says. "It's okay, Sammy." He reaches out for his brother, but he doesn't want to open his eyes, not yet. He pulls Sam back down and close, rolling to push his face into the curve of Sam's throat, where the skin is warmer, where it's bruised, marked, where Dean sank his teeth and sucked hard, where he plans to mark Sam every day for eternity. "It's late," he mutters. "Go back to sleep."

Sam doesn't relax. He lies stiff, barely breathing, and Dean worries.

Maybe Sam regrets it. Maybe he doesn't want it, doesn't want Dean–

"It's not late," Sam says, his voice thin and reedy. "Open your eyes, Dean. Look."

Dean lifts his head. He opens his eyes, and it's dim, only the light from the hall, and it's the same night and day here in the bunker, because they're underground.

The only light in the room comes from Sam's phone. There's a red light blinking, because it needs charging–figures Sam doesn't bother some days, Dean hasn't had to charge his own phone in years. "What is it, Sammy? What's wrong?"

Sam breathes, harsh and shaking. He turns his head to look at Dean, and at the same time he turns the phone and switches on the screen.

The air between them illuminates, casting a dim glow. The time is marked out in smooth characters, bright white against the dark wallpaper.

The time is 7.13am.

It's past dawn. Long past dawn, but Dean can't parse it, it doesn't make sense. Sam should be back in his own bed, Dean should be alone, and he shouldn't be covered in dried come and still lying in soiled sheets after riding his brothers cock the night before.

He can still feel it, too. The throbbing ache Sam left inside him, the pain Dean didn't want to miraculously fade overnight but knew it wold.

Without a single ounce of doubt, Dean knew it would be gone by morning, but it's still there.

"What does that mean?" Dean asks. "Sammy–what does that mean?"

"Wednesday," Sam breathes. "Dean. It's Wednesday."

---

"If I'd known that boning my brother would kick us outta the loop," Dean says, as they sit in the kitchen, nursing hot cups of coffee in their hands, "I would have done it a long time ago. I'm pretty sure that's not what Chuck wanted from us. What do you think, Sammy? He cut us loose cos he was so disgusted? All we had to do was gross him out enough with a little incest?"

Sam's lips curve into a smile, like he's trying to hide it, but he can't. "You said it, Dean," he says, reaching out, and peeling Dean's fingers off his cup to link their hands together. "Last night. You said it. You told him he was never getting what he wanted from us."

Dean remembers. Sam's cock was deep inside him at the time, and Dean can still feel it. "Yeah," he sighs, closing his eyes and squeezing Sam's hand. "Yeah, I did."

"You got us out," Sam says. "But what now? Do we just... Go back? To our lives? Like nothing happened?"

Dean can't see it. It's been years, and they've both been through so much. They've died before, a lot, and they've experienced trauma, and eventually, they always get back to a kind of normal, but this time it's different.

"Do you want to pretend nothing happened?" Dean's eyes are on their joined hands, and he's ready for Sam to pull away, he's not going to force him to stay if he doesn't want this.

"I can't," Sam says. "It's changed us too much. And that's probably not good, Dean. It's just been you and me for so long, we're gonna let people get hurt–"

"It's always been like that, Sammy." Dean brought Sam back from the brink when they could have slammed the gates of hell. Sam let the Darkness out, and chaos followed. "We always put each other first. We've known that for a long time. That hasn't changed."

Sam nods, and, with his eyes on their linked hands, he brushes his thumbs over Dean's knuckles. "I don't want to go back to normal." He lifts his eyes, and there's a plea in his gaze. He squeezes Dean's hand. "I don't want to lose this."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Fuck that. Most of the loops were torture, but they made me realize just how much I love you. It saved us, Sammy. I ain't going back."

All the tension falls away from Sam, and with it, Dean feels his own flow away as well. In unison, they push away their coffee cups, and lean across the table, and their lips meet in a kiss that's sweet, and feels like an expression of joy, relief, desire, and home, all at the same time.