Chapter 6

Dean wakes in a clean bed, in a different motel. The drive away from where they killed the concubus is a blur.

"Where are we?"

"Nebraska," Sam says. He's sprawled on a small two-seater couch, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. "I kept driving until I realized we weren't actually running from anything."

Dean nods. He can understand the feeling. "You drunk?"

"Not yet. Maybe a little." Sam lurches up off the couch that's too close to the floor for his legs and snags a paper takeout bag off the counter in the kitchenette. He passes it to Dean. "There's food. I didn't know when you'd be awake."

Dean opens the bag and stuffs a handful of cold fries into his mouth. "I'm fucking starving."

"You should be. You've been out for almost a whole day."

It's dusk. There's neon flickering behind the thin curtains. The hours between last night and tonight are a blur. Everything from the moment he plunged the knife into the shapeshifter's heart is foggy and indistinct.

Dean finishes the food, then drags himself out of bed. He's bruised, and stiff, and sore, all over, like he's been in a fight, but he doesn't want to think about what hurt him. It's done.

He collapses beside Sam on the couch, reaches for the bottle. Enough booze will make it better. The whiskey burns his throat but he keeps chugging until Sam takes it off him.

"It's over," Sam says.

Dean nods. "Yeah, and I want to get drunk."

"You were in shock, Dean. Maybe you should—"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"No, I know. But I figure maybe it's not the best idea to chase it with alcohol poisoning."

"I'm not gonna get alcohol poisoning from half a bottle of Jack."

Sam sighs, but hands the bottle back. "I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' in the morning."

"Deal," Dean says, and tips the bottle up again, then hands it back to Sam.

"I was so afraid I'd find you like the witch," Sam says, after the bottle has been passed back and forth between them a few more times. "Broken and bleeding."

Dean really doesn't want to talk about it. "Well I wasn't." Beat up, bruised, but not bleeding, not broken.

"Not on the outside, sure." Sam reaches out, and maybe he's just going to brush a hair off his cheek or lint off his collar, but Dean flinches away.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, and shifts sideways, putting space between them on the couch.

"Don't worry about it," Dean mutters, and sets his mind to getting as numb as he can on what's left in the bottle.

---

They stay on the road, work jobs when they find them. Dean starts booking rooms with twin beds again, because it's clear that Sam's determined to stay as far away from Dean as he can.

Logically, Dean knows Sam's giving him space. That Sam's doing it because of that moment Dean shrank away from Sam's raised hand. And it's gonna stay that way, unless they talk about it.

Dean doesn't want to talk about it.

Inside, he feels dirty. Tainted. Like Sam has every right to stay away.

They're always together. Sam sleeps in the next bed over. He's right there in the passenger seat. Still, there's something missing, and it hurts.

Another week goes by, and they're hiding out in a cabin in the woods. They spent too much time on a demon job. The poor smuck who got possessed ended up dead and his disappearance was noticed. Now the cops are looking for the drifters driving an Impala that were asking too many questions.

There's plenty of booze and food and hot running water and a TV so they're gonna lay low for a while but there's one bedroom with one bed so Dean claims the couch.

"Don't be ridiculous, Dean," Sam says.

"Fine. You take the couch." On the inside, Dean cringes. He's such a fucking idiot. Sam's handing him what he wants on a platter, but he still feels filthy, and there's no way Sam wants that, right?

"That's not what I mean."

Dean's so twisted up inside his stomach hurts. He pulls a bottle out of his duffel and twists off the cap because its the only thing that softens the ache.

"You're drinking too much."

Dean gulps down the burning liquid and scoffs. "Have you met me? Drinking too much is at least 50% of my personality."

"Well, now its like 98."

Dean shrugs one shoulder and takes another drink. "I ain't arguing."

Sam sighs. "We can share the bed."

Dean grinds his teeth and stares at the label on the bottle, picks at it with his thumbnail, peeling it away at the corner.

"I miss you," Sam says, and the words sound lumpy in his throat.

Dean can't help himself. He looks at Sam, stares. God, he's so fucking afraid, he can't even let himself believe it.

"Dean."

Sam's eyes are glistening and there's so much emotion in his voice and Dean's gonna crumble, and he really wants to break.

Slow, really slow, he reaches out and grabs his brothers hand. He's shaking, scared and hopeful, and his heart is pounding and the hair on his head starts to prickle and he squeezes real tight and shuts his eyes before the tears can escape.

Sam makes a gulping noise that might be a sob and Dean can't open his eyes yet.

"I thought," Sam says, and holy shit, his voice is so thick and tortured, "I thought maybe it was him. Maybe there was something about him that made you want me." Sam chokes back a sob. "Was that it, Dean? Now he's gone, has it all changed?"

Dean shakes his head. The tears escape his eyes, and he still can't open them. He tries to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat.

"Please come to bed with me," Sam begs. "I just want you beside me again. I won't touch you—"

Dean fumbles, blind, gets hold of Sam's collar and pulls him close because he wants to feel the heat of his brother's body again. Its been too long. "I want— I mean— You can. You can touch me. I just—" He loosens his grip, releases his brother. "I just feel—" Stomach acid rises in his throat. "Dirty."

"You're not." Sam touches Dean's face, wipes wetness away with the pads of his thumbs. "You're so beautiful, Dean. You're perfect, there's nothing wrong with you."

Dean can't speak. His throat is choked up and if he opens his mouth everything will come spilling out, all the emotion, all the need he's been shoving down for far longer than he needed to.

So he just nods his head.

---

The bed is big and rustic and the mattress is like a warm fluffy cloud. Outside, crickets chirp and in the distance an owl hoots.

"Go to sleep," Sam whispers.

Dean's exhausted. Dodging the law, drinking too much, then the overwhelming emotion has sapped all of his strength and will. But he fights. With the warmth of his brother's body against his back, Dean wants to savor the moment, soak in it for as long as he can.

"Sleep," Sam repeats.

Dean sleeps.

---

Dean dreams.

He dreams of Sam, but not Sam. A demon. An archangel. A version of Sam that didn't have a soul.

A monster wearing his brother’s face, pressing down on him, moving inside him—

Dean wakes screaming. Thrashing, drowning, tangled in blankets and pillows and fighting the grip it has on him—

"Dean," Sam says. "You were dreaming, Dean. It's me, I'm here, it's Sam."

"Sam?" Dean stops fighting. It's dark, but he can hear the crickets and he can feel the warmth of his brother's body. "Sammy?"

"You were calling my name," Sam says, releasing the grip he has on Dean's wrists.

"I couldn't find you." Dean reaches out in the dark, puts his hands on his brother. He needs to know it's really him. "Every time I thought I'd found you, it wasn't you."

"You found me," Sam says. "It's me, Dean. I'm right here."

Dean's still swimming in that dream world, where every Sam was an impostor, a monster. "Prove it."

Proving they're human isn't foreign to them. It's not unusual, but Sam doesn't reach for a blade, or holy water.

He reaches for Dean. Sam kisses him, almost chaste at first, as if waiting for a reaction, waiting for Dean to pull away.

Dean moves closer. Sam deepens the kiss, until their tongues are sliding together and Dean moans. He chases the breathless, dizzy feeling from not enough air that makes his head spin and his hands go numb, that desperate, dangerous passion that skirts the edge of madness.

The thing he's never had with anyone but Sam.

A dam inside him bursts. He's been too long waiting, wanting, missing the taste and smell and feel of his brother's skin against his own. "Show me," he says. "Show me, Sammy."

"How?" Sam pulls away, but not far. Even in the dark, Dean can hear the earnest honesty in his voice, knows exactly the expression he's wearing.

Dean takes deep breaths. He needs the oxygen, but each breath is unsteady, shaky. "Fuck me." Holy shit. He almost said 'Make love to me.' Who even says that? Not Dean Winchester, but it's what wanted to come out of his mouth, it's what he meant. Maybe Sam will understand.

The monster, he talked about lovemaking, but he wasn't capable of it. But it's what Sam does. Even when they're fucking in the back seat of the Impala or when Dean's bent over the hood, Sam still makes love.

That's how Dean will know. That's how Dean will always know it's really Sam.

"Sam?"

Sam sucks in a breath. "Yeah. Yes." He sits up in the bed, and he strips off the t-shirt and shorts he's wearing. He lies back down, beside Dean, and he touches Dean, feather touches, fingertips stroking the line of Dean's jaw, thumb pulling at Dean's lower lip.

"You're sure?" Sam asks.

They've already had this conversation, but Dean was on the other side of it then.

"So sure," Dean says. He wriggles out of his boxers, wrestles with his t-shirt to get it off over his head. The bed bounces beneath him as he collapses back down. "I need this, Sam. Please. Touch me."

Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Yeah. Then he presses his palm, warm, slightly damp, to Dean's chest. Presses his lips to Dean's, tongue darting into Dean's mouth as his fingers drag over Dean's skin, tracing his nipple, raising goosebumps.

A shock of pleasure shoots straight to Dean's groin, and he gasps into Sam's mouth.

"I missed you," Sam says, then bites at Dean's lower lip, before moving further down, kissing his chin, his throat, swirling his tongue around Dean's other nipple. "I missed you so much."

"Guh," Dean says, as Sam teases at his nipple with his teeth, sucks it. Dean arches up off the bed. His cock is hard and leaking against the sheets, and his knees part, involuntarily. "Please."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says, and his hand slides down Dean's side, making Dean squirm. His thumb traces Dean's hip, then slides over the soft, smooth skin between Dean's thighs.

Sam wriggles down, taking the blankets with him, leaving Dean exposed and chilled in the night air. Kisses his way down Dean's stomach, then breathes warm air over his cock.

"Fuck," Dean says. The anticipation is maddening, Dean's hips thrust as his body tries to get inside Sam, into his mouth, where Dean knows it's warm and wet and perfect.

Finally, Sam sucks Dean's cock into his mouth. His fingers press between Dean's cheeks to find his hole, brush lightly over it.

They came so far, since that first night, since even the second night they were together like this. Sam knows what's he's doing now, he knows how to touch Dean, how to get him ready. He knows that he can suck Dean's cock and open him up fast, get three fingers in him with little complaint and a liberal application of spit.

But he doesn't do that.

Dean whines, waiting, impatient. Spreads his legs wider, lifts his knees, begging without words.

Sam lets Dean's cock slip from his mouth. Pulls away.

Dean moans in frustration.

"Turn over," Sam says, using his hands to gently push Dean the way he wants him to go.

Dean's confused, but he does it, lies on his stomach, his cock sandwiched between his stomach and the soft, fluffy mattress.

"Up," Sam says, and pulls him to his knees. He uses his thumbs to spread Dean's cheeks, to brush over Dean's twitching hole, one after the other.

"Sam?" Dean's hips jerk as he humps thin air, desperate, wanting. "Sammy?"

"Shh," Sam says, as he lowers himself, pressing kisses to Dean's spine, trailing down from his waist, tongue dragging over Dean's tailbone, and into the crack of his ass.

"What the fuck," Dean gasps, as Sam drags his tongue, wet and warm, over Dean's hole.

"Let me," Sam says. "Please, Dean."

Dean sucks air into his lungs in big gulps. "Yeah," he says. "Okay." This is new. And there's a part of Dean that wants to shrink away, because he's tainted, spoiled.

Sam's tongue laps at Dean's hole, gathering spit, spreading it. "Wanted to do this to you for a while," he says, the words broken up between soft wet licks.

"Okay." It's all Dean can manage, with Sam's wide, warm, wet tongue, lapping at him where suddenly all the nerve endings in his body seem to be congregating. "Yeah, okay."

His cock twitches, leaks precome that drips onto the mattress beneath as Sam points his tongue and pushes. It's a muscle, the tongue, and Dean can feel the strength of it, forcing him open, demanding entry, and he moans, deep and primal.

"You okay?"

"Don't stop," Dean begs, falling forward onto his face, grabbing his own ass, opening himself for Sam to dive back in.

Dean can feel Sam's amusement as his tongue returns to stabbing into Dean's ass, doing the job his fingers usually do to get Dean ready for his cock.

No one's ever done this to Dean before. He's been with men, sure, and more than a few, but never the same one twice, and this? This is new.

It's intimate. Too intimate to do with a stranger. Somehow, it feels right that Sam's the one fucking into Dean with his tongue. Dean rocks back into it, grunting with every breach of Sam's tongue into his body.

Sam shifts, and holds Dean by the hips, and his tongue drives into Dean's body, long, slow thrusts that force all other thought from Dean's mind.

Beneath him, his cock is hard and steadily dripping precome onto the sheets below. When he looks back, Sam's is the same, except every couple of moments he reaches for it, gives it a squeeze or a stroke.

He feels so wet, so open, Sam's agile tongue plunging into him over and over, so easy. It's so good, so sweet, but it's not enough. When he comes, he wants to come full.

"I need your cock," he says. "Sammy, please."

Sam moves fast, and Dean braces, expecting him to come up over Dean's back and slide right in, but he doesn't.

"Turn over," Sam says, holding Dean by the hips, rolling him onto his back, and coming down between Dean's spread thighs.

Dean's head is spinning, already short of air, sucking in quick breaths between Sam's kisses.

"Inside me," Dean gasps, reaching, guiding Sam's cock.

Dean fights to push the last time he was fucked from his mind, but he can't. It's there. It'll be a long time before it stops tainting this, but he won't let it stop him. He won't.

It hurts, but Sam's the one keening as he inches into Dean's body on spit and precome. Tiny, barely controlled thrusts as desperate sounds spill from his lips and his fingertips press bruises into Dean's thighs.

"S'okay, Sammy," Dean breathes. "I'm good, do it."

Sam's hips jerk. Dean throws his head back and cries out as Sam's cock slams into him. Fire spreads over his skin, prickles of sweat everywhere.

"You're so fucking tight," Sam gasps. "Fuck, Dean. I can't—"

"Do it, Sammy." Dean scrabbles for purchase on his brother's neck, pulls him down into a messy kiss. "Just fucking do it."

Sam's moan is anguished, like he's fighting it.

"We got time to make up," Dean says. He writhes beneath his brother, taking as much control as he can, doing his best to fuck himself on his brother's cock.

"You're killing me," Sam says, and he grabs Dean by the hips and sits up, dragging Dean onto his thighs, driving his cock deep. He pulls Dean up into his arms, and he kisses him.

This is new. Dean's on top, but not like in the cave, and not like with the concubus.

They're both very still. Surprise, perhaps, maybe shock, maybe each of them just taking a moment to appreciate this new thing. Dean feels perfectly full, and his skin is still singing, stinging, but it's fading as he adjusts to Sam's girth. He clings to Sam's shoulders and huffs out hot, damp breath against his brothers skin as the pain eases.

"You're so tight," Sam says. "So hot. You okay?"

Dean moans and shifts, testing the new position. "Perfect," he says. "You're fucking perfect." He shifts again, rocking his hips, and his cock rubs deliciously against Sam's hard stomach. "I like it." He drags his lips over Sam's mouth, breathing hot and heavy. "This is sweet. So fucking sweet."

Sam opens his mouth, and his tongue slides past Dean's lips. He moans, and he rocks up into Dean, hips moving like rolling waves over a sandy, perfect beach. Slow, so slow, and softly sweet like strawberries and cream. Sam knows just what Dean needs, and this is it. Over and over he rolls into Dean, holding him tight around the waist, stealing his breath until Dean's fingers are numb and his head spins and he can't kiss back anymore.

The pressure builds. Like that wave, starting far out in the ocean, gathering energy and weight and purpose as it gets closer to shore. It builds, and it builds, until it crests, hanging suspended for a time, then finally breaks.

Dean's orgasm crashes over him, swirling violent white and noise and release. There's a sound, a high pitched moan, and as Dean fights for the surface he realizes its coming from him.

"I've got you," Sam says, as Dean goes limp in his arms and he lowers him back onto the mattress. Sam continues to thrust, long, even strokes, quickening, deepening, faster and faster until Sam quivers and stills, and Dean can feel the pulse of his brothers cock inside him.

Dean can't move. Sam's heavy on top of him. He's still inside, slowly softening, and Dean grimaces when Sam finally slips free, with the discomfort and mess that entails. "Urgh," he says.

Sam rolls away. "Want to get up? Take a shower?"

"Nah," Dean says. He's sleepy, sticky and warm and he feels like he's floating in a cloud. He reaches out, pulls Sam up behind him as he rolls to face the window. "Wanna be the little spoon."

He feels safe. Cocooned between worn blankets and thick mattress and wrapped in his brothers arms. Right now, he feels like he could stay here in this cabin forever. Soon enough, though, they'll both feel the itch, to find a job, to keep hunting.

---

Dean loads his duffel into the car, then, arms pillowed on the roof, looks back at the cabin they spent the better part of a week in. He'll never say it out loud, but it felt kinda like a honeymoon. The declaration they made was silent, but it was there. Then time, just the two of them, in which the only demands on them were each other.

"Ready?" Sam asks, as he tosses his own bag into the back of the car, and folds himself into the passenger seat.

Dean slides in behind the wheel, and smiles at the familiar creak as he pulls the door closed. "Ready." He grins at his brother, reaches out, resting his hand on the back of Sam's neck, fingers playing in strands of long hair. He starts the engine.

They've got work to do.

fin

Annnd we're done 🥳