They're bruised, bleeding. They take turns stitching wounds. They drink as much whiskey as gets used to disinfect them.

They should sleep, but Dean can't. His hands are still shaking. They barely got out of there alive and he can't come down, not without a whole lot more alcohol but they finished the whiskey and didn't think to get beer before they hit the nest.

"Sammy," he whispers. "Sam."

Sam's eyes shine as he opens them. "I'm awake."

Dean reaches out. Can't say the words, but Sam knows.

"I'm coming," Sam says, sliding out from under his covers.

Dean trusts his brother with his life. He trusts him with this. Doesn't need to say it, couldn't if he tried.

By the time Sam's in the bed beside him, Dean is shaking all over. Doesn't stop even when Sam turns him onto his side, fits himself along Dean's back.

Sam circles Dean's wrists with his large hands, pulls them into Dean's chest. "I've got you. I'm not letting go."

Dean makes a desperate sound.

"Tell me what you need," Sam whispers.

Dean never can. The words form in his mind, but they'll never pass his lips. Sam asks anyway.

Dean whimpers. He's helpless. He's been flayed, torn open. He's exposed, bare. "Please."

He barely breathes the word, but Sam hears it, maybe feels it. Moves away, leaving Dean cold and alone, but just for a moment, then he's back.

"I've got you," Sam says. Presses close even as he strips away the fabric that comes between them. He's hard against the back of Dean's thigh, then slick, pressing in.

Dean's not ready, but it's what he needs. Sam moves slow, glacially forward.

It burns, but Dean's body gives way. Sam's hands are free to wrap around him, hold him tight, pin his wrists, his arms crossed over his chest. Sound rises up from somewhere deep. A guttural, primal moan, a sound that fills his entire being.

Sam breathes hard against his shoulder. Hot breath, damp. Inches forward, deeper.

Too much. Too soon. He cries out, voice rising to fill the room. He writhes on his brother's cock.

Sam grunts, his hips jerk. "Fuck, Dean. Fuck."

Dean moans in response. He twists, pushes back against the grip his brother has on him, but Sam holds him tight, sinks in just a little further.

"I won't let you go," Sam says, and with slow, even pressure, pushes in again.

Dean can't think. He's so full, so much pressure, the intense, throbbing ache, deep deep inside his body. "Help," he moans. "I can't, I..." Barely knows where he is, the lingering smell of bleach the only thing that keeps him grounded in the truth, they're in a motel god knows where, the stinging tug of stitches the physical reminder that it was a hunt that brought them to this.

Again.

"S—Sam." He fills his lungs. "Sammy."

"Got you," Sam says, breathless. Hips jerk, another inch, another. All the way inside. "God." He's still, but tense, quivering.

Every inch of Dean's body is on fire. Flames lick at him in ripples and waves. He breathes. Slow and steady.

Sam gasps for air, like he can't get enough. Every few seconds, his hips twitch, like he can't control it. A minute passes, he jerks, driving his cock hard inside Dean, and he cries out.

Dean grunts.

Otherwise, they're silent. Sam's grip on Dean relaxes. They're connected, more intimately than brothers should ever be. There's no one Dean trusts more, no one else on earth that Dean could trust with this.

Sam makes desperate, helpless noises when he starts to come. Dean's insides go slick.

"Got you," Sam breathes, harsh and broken, as he wraps his hand around Dean's cock. Dean was barely aware until now, but he's hard, ready.

"Please," he whimpers, clings to his brother's arms as Sam starts to stroke him.

That's all Dean needs, and he spills, crying out, over Sam's fingers.

They lie together, sweaty, sticky. Wrapped up in each other. Dean can breathe, he can think. The terror has slipped away, as though Sam took it from him. The air is hot, sweet, salty and close. Now he can sleep.

fin