Chapter Text
Afterwards, Dean's knees are trembling and his brain has been reduced to one long string of dazed exclamation marks, and when Sam stands up – and up - and kisses him, hard, with a mouth that tastes bitterly of sex and soap, Dean kisses him back for all he's worth, trying to say with the kiss what he can't express in words. Love, and gratitude, and guilt, and fear, and startled sensual delight. The kiss goes on for a while, Sam's mouth hot and urgent against his, and Sam's hands are skating over his skin, touching him everywhere with fast, darting movements, gripping his arms and then his pectorals, clasping his waist and then sliding around to clutch at his buttocks.
“Can I?” Sam asks, his voice rough in Dean's ear as the fingertips of one hand curve under Dean's ass.
“Yes,” says Dean, without even pausing to ask what Sam's talking about. It doesn't matter. The answer's still going to be yes, whatever it is.
A few seconds later, when Sam's middle finger slides a little lower and then pushes just a little way inside him, Dean lets out a little hiss and puts two and two together. Oh. But the answer's still yes.
They finally switch off the water, and after some uncomfortable and slippery wriggling and unbuttoning and tugging and squelching, they divest Sam of his soggy clothes and leave them in a spreading puddle on the bathroom floor. The thin, mushroom-coloured carpet is prickly against the soles of Dean's feet and he's shivering a little now that he's stepped out from under the stream of hot water. Steam billows gently out of the bathroom door behind them, and although they paused long enough to make a half-assed attempt at toweling themselves dry, glinting rivulets of water are still sliding down Sam's neck and shoulders from the sleek, dark mess of his slick, wet hair. Dean stumbles a little, looking Sam up and down and up again; he's really very naked, and really very big, and Dean feels kind of self-conscious about his own musculature. Sure, he's fit as a fiddle, but Sam's so annoyingly buff and well-defined that it makes Dean stand up straighter and suck in his flat belly and stick out his chest. Not that it's a competition, of course. Not really. Still...
He bumps into one of the beds and sits down very hard, and Sam stalks towards him all lithe and naked and ridiculously perfect, like some statue in a museum brought to life (like that girl in the Greek myth that that sculptor made, what was his name? Pig something? The one he fell in love with?), with his dick hard and rosy and daunting, and this purposeful light in his eyes that makes Dean swallow hard and clutch convulsively at the covers.
“Um,” he says, looking again at Sam's erection and trying not to freak out. He's done this before, after all. He knows the drill. Knows he probably won't like it much, but that doesn't matter. It's not going to be a patch on Hell, after all, even if it hurts, and it's going to make Sam feel good, and that's all that matters. He can do this. It's fine.
And then Sam's on top of him, pushing him back onto the bed and making the air whuff out of his lungs, straddling his waist and hunkering down to kiss him wild and fierce and urgent, biting his bottom lip and sucking on his tongue like it's his cock all over again, and Dean gives a helpless little moan and gets with the program. It's still weirdly shocking to be in his own flesh, to be a girl-parts-free-zone, and still wedged up skin-to-skin with Sam. To have Sam's mouth on his. To have Sam's erect cock sliding hot and damp against his belly. Dean isn't under any illusions about all this being okay – he knows it's fucked up, wildly fucked up, and not even any curse to blame it on now, and he knows that it can't be exactly healthy to be enjoying it so much. But – it does feel good. And not just physically. And they both want this. And the thing is – Dean isn't going to get to have anything normal. He might have kind of hoped for it for a while, but he's given up on that particular illusion. He isn't going to have a future of waking up next to the same girl every morning – waking up with Cassie or Lisa or red-headed Suzy dreaming on his chest, in a tidy little house with a white picket fence guarding a patch of immaculate green. A kid's bike out front, or a swing set. Flowers. Maybe a dog. Home cooking, and an honest job, and neighbours who know his name. Dean knows he can't ever have that, so he hasn't let himself want it for a long while. The best he thought he could hope for was a long line of blisteringly hot one-night stands, snuggling up to interchangeable honeys who didn't know his real name, or what was on his favourite mix tape, or how he got his scars, or what nightmares made him wake up wide-eyed and trembling in the dark. He figured he could just enjoy what there was to enjoy, and move on in the morning with a glib smile and some lies about calling. It's not so bad, really. Plenty of guys would imagine he was living the dream.
But this – damn. This is making him see what he's been missing. This is forcing him to face the reality that a person can subsist on a diet of twinkies and potato chips, but it's not really living. It's just surviving. And there's a world of difference between a one-night stand with some disposable hottie, and fucking someone you love, and who loves you right back. Who gets you, really and truly gets you, warts and all, weaknesses and all, and loves you anyway. That – Jesus, that's just blowing Dean's mind. And scaring the crap out of him.
Sam's fingers are lacing with his, and his thighs are wrapping tight around one of Dean's legs, and he's grinding up against Dean while they kiss, making these urgent little growly noises into Dean's mouth, and, God, Dean might never stop looking astonished. He's never imagined this – not until very recently, at least. Because – duh. Sam is just – Sam. It's never crossed his mind to think he could be anything else. It still astounds him to realise how well they fit together, how unaccountably right this feels – because everything has always been all about Sammy, for Dean. But it would never in a million years have crossed his mind to think about wanting this until it happened, until he started to feel Sam's eyes burning into him, back when he was still under the damn curse; until he started to realise that Sam wanted it. And he's never been able to say no to Sam. But what scares him is how quickly he's come to want this for himself. He just can't help the incredulous and terrifying sense of joy that's bubbling up inside him at being wanted so much by the most important person in his world. By the one person he's scared of losing. It's exhilarating. It's like Christmas and Easter and all his birthdays rolled together – but it scares the hell out of him, because if it gets taken away from him now, if he screws this up, somehow – that's it. That's all she wrote. It's his whole life at stake here.
So he lets Sam roll him over onto his belly and presses his face into the pillow just like pretty little Amanda did, and he tries to relax when he feels Sam's hands sliding down over him, but he's tensing up in spite of his best efforts. He loves Sam, and he 's loving the way Sam touches him, but he knows this bit isn't going to be fun. Sam swings one long leg over Dean and sits on his waist, pressing kisses into the nape of his neck and kneading his shoulders, and Dean feels his own muscles clenching and his belly going tight. He's trying not to remember the other times, with other guys a lifetime ago, and telling himself that it's Sam, and that he has to make it good for Sam, and that if he fucks this up, if he's not good enough, if he makes Sam regret choosing him – oh, God. He couldn't stand that. So he needs to make it good for Sam, and this is what Sam wants. End of story. Breathe. He just needs to breathe.
“Jesus, Dean – relax.” Sam's voice is still pitched low and smoky, rough-edged with desire, but there's something else there too. A note of uncertainty. Concern. And that cuts Dean to the quick. God. He loves Sam so much. He can totally do this.
“It's fine,” says Dean hurriedly, and tries to relax. “Sorry. It's fine. Go ahead. I'm good.”
“Oh, fuck that,” says Sam, and leans up and around to kiss Dean's mouth awkwardly over his shoulder. “Don't you trust me?” he asks a little later, sounding hurt. And there are several answers Dean could make to that, because Sam's the one who chose to go hang out with Ruby-who-was-Meg, Sam's the one who kept lying about his late night adventures in demon slaying. But he doesn't say any of that, because it's pointless. Because of course he trusts Sam, with everything. With this. With his life. With the fate of the world.
“Of course I do,” he says gruffly, and Sam smiles.
“Good. So trust me, jackass. And lie still.”
Sam hops off the bed, strides across the room and scrabbles in the side pocket of his bag. Dean watches him, kind of bemused at how graceful Sam manages to make even this look – honestly, Sam naked is like some entirely different animal. Sam plucks a small bottle of something-or-other out of the pocket and then pauses, taking in the sight of Dean sprawling belly-down on the bed like some kind of offering and peering wide-eyed over his shoulder, and licks his lips. Sam's smile, when he meets Dean's eyes, is positively wolfish. He crosses the room again in two quick strides, unscrewing the lid of the little bottle, and then he's straddling Dean's waist again, his erection sliding against Dean's skin.
Oil, Dean realises a moment later, feeling stupid. Massage oil. It smells like vanilla and oranges, like a creamsicle. And how long has Sam been carrying massage oil around?
“Where did you get that?” he asks, as Sam pours the stuff liberally over his skin and starts to smooth it down his spine.
Sam kisses the back of his ear. “Not telling,” he says, with a smile in his voice.
“When did you get that?”
“Again – not telling. But I thought maybe I might have to get sneaky to make you 'fess up.” He starts rubbing circles into Dean's skin with his thumbs, and, Jesus, it's every bit as good as Dean remembers. Holy crap. Ngah. “I was pretty sure you were lying,” Sam adds, pressing down hard. “But I thought I could, ah, motivate you to tell me the truth.”
“Guh,” says Dean into the pillow, as the knots in his shoulders begin to loosen. It crosses his mind that the band aids on his various zombie bites and scratches are going to need changing again – if any of them have survived sex with Keiko, and then this morning's shower, they sure as hell aren't going to be in great shape after all of this – and then he dismisses the thought as spectacularly irrelevant. Although of course he can still feel Sam's erection sliding against him, rubbing up against the crack of his ass, growing slippery as Sam pours more oil over Dean's skin, and that should be making him tense up all over again, but - Jesus, Sam's good at this. And Dean's gasping in spite of himself, and making helpless, guttural noises into the pillow just like little Amanda did the night before, but he doesn't care any more, because this feels great. Just great. “Don't stop,” he says, with heartfelt sincerity. “God, Sam – this - uh! - feels – awesome. Fuck! Yeah!”
This time, though, Sam doesn't stop at his waist. This time Sam keeps on sliding down over his thighs, and his hard fingers keep on kneading at Dean's ass, and at his inner thighs, and Dean can feel his own dick starting to twitch sluggishly underneath him. Fuck. Sam keeps pressing greasy kisses onto his spine and his hips, his tongue darting out and swiping new patterns onto Dean's skin, and Dean's shivering, and then Sam's finger starts, almost casually, to circle his ass hole, and he drizzles more oil down onto Dean's skin and smears it over Dean's buttocks and his inner thighs. It trickles slow and warm down onto Dean's balls. Only a little later, Sam's long index finger slides inside smooth and slick and effortless, and Dean draws a deep breath, and then bites his lip when Sam pushes in deeper and taps his prostate. “Fuck!” he exclaims, and feels Sam shake against him with stifled laughter. Right. This part, he likes. Okay.
Sam's free hand is sliding over him, squeezing and kneading and gentling him while he slides a second finger inside. And that's – yeah, okay, that hurts, a bit, but only a bit. On a scale of 1-10, where 1 represents perfect comfort and 10 represents alone time with Alastair, this is barely a 1.5. It occurs to Dean, a little belatedly, that although he remembers this as something that hurts a lot, his perspective on pain has changed considerably since he was a teenager. (And of course, it helps that Sam's bothering with lube, and taking time to try to relax him. In retrospect, the few times he did this in his teens probably weren't the best examples of gay sex. Successful ways of keeping a roof over their heads and paying Dad's hospital bills, yes. But good sex – maybe not so much.)
Dean concentrates on his breathing while Sam stretches him gently with slippery fingers. This isn't so bad. It's a bit awkward, and vaguely embarrassing, but it's not so bad. Even with the third finger, which – umf – okay, takes a little getting used to, it's still not really painful. Not the way he's come to think of pain – as something bright and sharp and terrible: torn viscera looping tight around a throat; screams bubbling bloody past the severed stub of a tongue; weight supported on shattered limbs, with white spears of bone poking out through skin. That's pain. Dean knows about pain. This is nothing. This is pleasant, and here he'd been dreading it and making it into something it wasn't. It's just sex. With someone he – with the person he - with Sam. With his Sam.
And so when Sam finally withdraws his fingers, and pours a little more oil over Dean's skin, and then slides his erection up against Dean's ass, Dean's stopped freaking out. He's good to go.
“Dean?” It sort of slays Dean to hear that tentative note in Sam's voice, when he knows how turned on Sam is right now, and can only imagine how frustrated he must be.
“C'mon, Sam,” he says, with a smile in his voice. “Jesus, how long are you going to keep a guy waiting? I didn't have you down as a tease.”
There is a startled pause, and then Sam thwaps him over the head. “Smart-ass.” He slides back, and starts tucking Dean's knees up under him, and Dean co-operates, and tries not to think about how very dumb he must look with his ass sticking up in the air all shiny with massage oil.
“Oh, my ass is smart and fine,” he says instead, cocky as hell and twice as annoying. “And nine out of ten zombies assure me that it's also a yummy treat.” Sam makes a choking noise, and thwaps him over the head again, and whilst Dean's still sniggering to himself Sam kneels up behind him, slides his cock against the curve of Dean's ass and then pushes inside maybe harder than he'd been intending. “Fuck!” gasps Dean, but this time Sam doesn't ask if he's okay. This time Sam keeps right on pushing, his hands gripping Dean's slippery hips as he grinds up into him hard and fast and unapologetic.
“You - still - talk – too – much,” says Sam, punctuating each word with a thrust, and Dean doesn't have any smart-ass comments left, because each thrust is sending jolts of startled pleasure through him as Sam hits his prostate just right, God, and Dean's wondering how he's gone through so many years without trying this. He's half-way to being hard again himself already as Sam thrusts in and out and in again, rhythm building and hips punching forward and back viciously quick, leaving Dean in absolutely no doubt who's calling the shots. And Dean's good with that. Surprisingly, maybe, after years and years of bossing Sam around. But – yeah. God. He's really – really – good with that. Moaning-inchoate-syllables-into-the-pillow good. Reaching-down-and-clumsily-jerking-off good. Clenching-fingers-in-the-sheets-tight-enough-to-tear-them good.
“Oh, God, Sam!” he exclaims eventually, the words torn out of him, shattered with pleasure, his fingers clutching slippery at his cock.
“You're mine, Dean,” says Sam, leaning down over him, belly flush with his spine, almost growling into his ear. “Nobody else's. No matter what. Mine. Always.”
“Yes,” agrees Dean, from the bottom of his heart, turning and looking over his shoulder and catching a glimpse of Sam's face. “Fuck, yes. Love you.”
Sam comes not long after that, and stays there for a long moment, wrapped around Dean, his face pressed into the nape of Dean's neck. He eases gradually and rather gingerly back out and off, pressing small, biting kisses into the skin on Dean's back in the process, and Dean wriggles around to lie on his back, looking up at Sam's flushed face and smiling the brightest, sunniest smile he has, his heart in his eyes. And then Sam swoops down on him, and Sam's kissing him again, and reaching down to take hold of Dean's erection and bringing him off quickly and efficiently, kissing him all the while. And it's great. It's better than great. It's Sam.
Some hours later, with the mid-morning sun pouring in through the thin net curtains, Dean wakes up out of a pleasant dream of being held close by someone he loves, to find that he is, in fact, being held close by someone he loves. Although he also aches quite a lot in a number of interesting places, and seems to have a slippery, orange-scented band aid squashed into his cheek. But still. He's had plenty of less pleasant ways of waking up. He snuggles back a little, and Sam's arms tighten around his waist, and Sam makes a sleepy noise against his skin, and Dean can't stop grinning.
“He loves you,” says Castiel, conversationally, and Dean just about jumps right out of his skin.
“Dude!” he hisses hoarsely, when his darting eyes spot Castiel leaning against the wall. “Personal space! Personal fucking space!”
Castiel, who has been looking at a rather ugly painting of what appears to be a pirate ship in the middle of a storm, turns around and meets Dean's gaze. He glances at Sam and then looks back at Dean. “You need to keep him on the right path,” Castiel says gravely, as though he isn't looking at two naked men wrapped around each other in bed. Two naked siblings, at that.
Dean blinks, and swallows. “Go away?” he tries, after a moment. “Please go away?”
Rather than going away, Castiel sits down on the other bed, and surveys Dean thoughtfully. “This isn't really what I was expecting, I have to admit. It's a little – unorthodox.” He glances up at the ceiling, although Dean rather suspects that he's actually thinking of something rather higher. “Mysterious ways.” He shrugs. “The most important thing is that you can be a good influence, Dean. He will do anything to keep you safe. We just have to make sure that this includes keeping him human. And averting the apocalypse.”
“Okay, good, fine, human, check – now could you maybe, you know, shoo?”
Castiel frowns. “Are you ashamed?” he asks, after a moment, looking honestly puzzled.
“No!” snaps Dean, wondering how the hell Sam is sleeping through this fascinating discussion, and suspecting Castiel might be playing a part in that. Is he ashamed? Well, yeah, actually, to be honest. Because he's pretty sure this isn't what Dad had in mind when he said: 'Take care of Sammy.' And that makes him wince. “Maybe. Kind of.”
“God is love,” says Castiel, earnestly.
Dean considers this. “Um. Okay, since apparently we're having this phenomenally awkward conversation – you realise that we're definitely talking about lust too, right? This isn't just love. It's, y'know - love.”
“Physical desire.” Castiel nods, looking a little abstracted. “Yes. Thus the nakedness.”
Dean closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, and counts to ten. When he opens his eyes, Castiel is still sitting there, looking at him quizzically. “Thus the nakedness,” agrees Dean helplessly. “Really, if you're not going to smite us, and if you didn't come to tell us about a seal or something – could you maybe go sit on a cloud, or something? Please? I'm really not enjoying this little chat.”
Castiel leans forward. “We don't actually sit on clouds,” he says helpfully. “But this was my purpose in coming – to tell you that this is how you can help stave off the end of days. You must keep him righteous. You must help him restrain his impulses.”
Dean swallows, and feels a sudden spike of fear. End of the freaking world, people. Time to get your head in the game, Dean. “Not – not really doing a great job of helping him restrain his impulses, actually. Um.”
“Oh, not this,” says Castiel, waving a hand vaguely at the bed. “No, this is good. This is distracting him. It's giving him a way to channel his, ah, impulses. You may have noticed that he is becoming more prideful, more domineering – Ruby was trying to shape him into a fitting vessel for Lucifer, and my brother's besetting sin was ever pride. But this is good. He loves you, and you can keep him honest. Do more of this. Keep him busy.”
Dean just stares. “God – you're saying God is on board with this? I've got official orders from God to get naked with my brother? Seriously? What the fuck?”
Castiel just looks at him. “Dean, have you heard of Lot? And his daughters?”
Dean vaguely recalls something about angels, and a pillar of salt, but bible study isn't his best thing. “Um,” he says.
“Look it up,” says Castiel, glancing at the bible on the bedside table. “I do not think you need to fear the wrath of God for this.”
“Okay,” says Dean. “Well. That's good.”
Castiel nods, and stands up. “Be careful,” he says. “We're counting on you.”
Then he's gone, as if he were never there. “Oookay,” murmurs Dean, his pulse racing. “Okay. Right. Cool. No pressure.”
“Dean?” And that's Sam, his breath puffing softly against Dean's neck. “Who you talking to?”
“Nobody.” Dean wriggles around in Sam's arms and can't help smiling at the sight of Sam with heavy-lidded eyes and rumpled bedhead. He still thinks the angels are wrong about Sammy, but he's going to be right here making damn sure of it. No way Sam Winchester is going to become a vessel for Lucifer on Dean's watch. Hell no. “Kiss me,” he says.
And Sam does.