Archive of Our Own

The motel they're staying at this week is rock-themed, like how Dean imagines groupies would decorate their trailers. The separation between the two beds and the kitchenette is red and black, guitar stencils and music notes on the square patterns. The walls are boring, except for the cheap linoleum decor lining the false ceiling. 

It's rundown, smells stale, but cleaner than their last monster hunt. Fucking shapeshifters. Skin and fluid has a distinct odor that makes Dean really grateful they managed to pin down the son of a bitch easily enough. 

Honestly, after Hell, Dean's never taken the blessing of a shower and clean clothes for granted again. He's lying on his back, awake, staring at the tacky ceiling, listening to Sam breathe on the bed beside his. They're leaving early tomorrow. He should get some rest.

The clock ticks restlessly. Dean eyes the seconds as they pass. Two in the morning. Two-thirty now. 

Seven hours ago, Dean was handcuffed to a wall in some freak’s cellar. He saw Sam walk in, relief flooding his body. That was before Sam– the shapeshifter wearing Sam, Dean was observant enough to realize– began his sob-story. Not unusual for their kind, loving the sounds of their own voices.

Dean had to listen to Sam's face talk about what it felt like to be considered dangerous by his own family. How it disturbs a person. Turns them into the very freak they're so scared of.

He knows what you think of him, you know, said the shifter. It's in every thought he has. The kid thinks you wouldn't have done everything you did for him if you knew how he'd end up. Thinks you hate him. He's almost like me. 

Now, awake past three on a Thursday night, Dean thinks about what the shapeshifter would know if he had Dean's skin instead of Sam's. Would he be able to put into words how Dean feels about his brother? Convince him, somehow, that Dean forgives him. Finding a way to sidestep the truth, about how Dean was never angry in the first place. Not in the way Sam thinks he was.

He rolls over to his side, facing away from his brother. He's not one for touchy-feely conversations. Can never find the words when he's trying to make Sam feel better. But this– this might just be a conversation they have to have. About why Sam might need to stay away for good.

His eyes begin to droop, and he falls asleep staring at the Beatles motif on the walls, thinking about how he can't risk Sam getting away from him. Thinking about how that's just an excuse.

Valentine's day, ironically enough, proposes an opportunity for Dean to spend time with his favorite person– working on a case. Unfortunately, Dean’s a coward. They've been together for enough hours in the Impala that it's not weird for Dean to suggest they split up work, pocketing the suitable fake IDs and going on their separate ways.

The Coroner's office is easy to lie his way into, as always. Not much to steal off a dead guy. Except, of course, organs, which is why Dean needs to be Special Agent Robert Plant to get off the hook. It works, like it always does. 

The couple, recently dead, was unlike anything Dean's seen in his entire hunting career. Humans have smaller jaws than most creatures, meaning the bitemarks on these victims were eerily small. When the doctor had left Dean to his own devices (horrible idea, but no one suspects a federal agent of corpse mutilation) he gets to work with a scalpel, resigned to the dirty work he'd usually get Sam to do.

“Ugh, gross,” he gags when he cuts open their abdomens.

When he's done, Dean's lost his appetite for anything. The human flesh inside each of the vics’ stomachs made sure it'll stay that way for at least a week. God, it was like they turned into animals, kept at it even as they were ripping each other to the bone.

He thinks of a motive on his way back. This would seem like a ghost possession, but there's been less and less of those over the course of the possible apocalypse. Can't rule it out just yet, but there's always something, with these latest cases.

Maybe they just wanted to eat each other. Dean tries to imagine it– needing someone so deeply you just have to sink your teeth into them. You have to have some part of them to yourself, inside your mouth. To taste their blood, maybe; to make them bleed, ruin them. And you have to let them ruin you, the same. It's like a fucked up metaphor for love.

Dean shakes his head, focusing on the empty road in front of him. He's getting too caught up in the holiday feels. 

His dad used to chide Dean for biting Sam's arm when he was six. He pulls into the motel parking lot before he's stopped thinking about it.

Cupid turns out to be some naked, middle-aged guy. Sam had asked him earlier why he didn't want to go out and hook up when so many lonely women awaited in the local bar; he hadn't seen this guy then, but he's sure as hell not helping Dean's lack of appetite now.

Cas is with them, and Dean's grateful for having a supernatural being on their side for once. Ruby didn't count. 

(And Dean's blatant dislike for Ruby hadn't sprung from nothing. She was always coming in clutch in situations where she was the only way out. It seemed too doctored to Dean back then, and now he knows he was right. Cas is different. He's there like he's a part of the investigation, a part of the team. He's honest with them.

Dean's resentment of Ruby taking all of Sam's attention has nothing to do with this evaluation.)

Cas is comforting the weeping angel in front of him while Sam and himself cheer him on from the sidelines. He hopes Cas is enough of a stranger in a strange land to not realize they're basically siccing the guy on him.

Then comes the bullcrap about matches made in heaven, about Mary and John Winchester. About destiny.

In retrospect, Dean overreacted. He knows this, as he storms to the impala, figurative smoke billowing from his ears. Fuck that. Cupid, talking about the fate of their parents, as if it hadn't been the thing that killed them. As if it hadn't been the very thing he and his brother had tried to stop only recently.

Why did that get fucked up? Oh right. Because of Dean, already in his mother's belly. He's been complicit in the cosmic plan since he'd been conceived.

Are we going to talk about what's been up with you lately or not?

The last person he wants to talk to about any of this is Sam. But luckily, Dean can never avoid the bastard, because he's the one person who knows everything about him. He knows where Dean keeps all of his lockpicks and knives, where he hides his gun when he's lying about being unarmed. He knows every goddamn inch of Dean's mind enough to lie to the police in the exact same way, tell the exact same story.

He knew Dean would find him when he went on his demon-blood bender. He walked out when he knew it wouldn't be possible to come back the same. He'd known.

Something's up. He forgave Sam for all of this. He's irrationally angry. 

Dean's speeding off towards the motel before Sam can get in the car.

Famine works in ways more dangerous than simple hunger.

Cas explains it to them: regular people are hungry all the time. Sex, gambling, drinking; the works. Sam gives Dean a complicated look after that.

Dean immediately understands. Castiel’s burger binges, the two lovers. Probably the rest of the suicides that have been happening in this damn town.

And himself. He feels it in the same way he felt it when the Siren made him go nuts and try to kill his brother. His head is steady, but that can't be trusted. He's shown symptoms of falling for supernatural bullshit without seeming off the rocker before. Wouldn't be his first time.

Sam had looked tense, when he'd hauled up the suitcase that carried a human soul. Less fought-with-a-demon tense, but Sam tense. He's certain that makes no sense to anyone but him, but there was a difference. He's jumpy. Like Sam's high or, god forbid, going through withdrawal.

Dean's fears had been confirmed when Sam stood in that bathroom door, guilty. Like when he was a kid and he threw up and Dean was in charge of him. He's craving demon blood, he'd admitted. And before Dean leaves, he should lock Sam up, but good.

It's a fair bet Sam would probably want to go on a binge when there's literal famine making him hungry for it. Dean shouldn't have been surprised, should've cuffed the kid to the sink without focusing on the slide of his brother's wrist against his palm. The anger in him is simmering again, slow. Never coming to a boil. 

Looking into Sam's eyes is more difficult than usual. He doesn't know if he can blame that on his newfound urges; urges not unlike the two cannibalistic lovers. He tries to stop his gaze from dropping to Sam's lips, really, he tries. But they're bent in this small frown, lips nervously being chewed from the inside. Sam's forehead wrinkles in an upside-down horseshoe shape, the way it always has. He looks young.

Dean gives Sam the we'll find a way speech, pats him on the back, and leaves, before he does something stupid to Sam for letting himself get exposed to something like this, like punching him really hard in the jaw.

Or kissing him. Really, man. Hunger fucks with your brain.

They're staking out the coroner's office, and Dean wonders when he let himself get this bad. He's always known he loves his brother. He doesn't say it, of course. No chick-flick moments, he'd told Sammy, on their first hunt together in a long, long time. 

Still, to have his affection for his brother become so strong that it's being used against him. The same brother that has walked out on him twice now. It's more reckless with his life than Dean's ever been.

He's never done anything about it, and he's not going to start now. Sammy won't know what Dean's hunger is, he'll think he's some sort of celibate monk while they're still in Wyoming. He can live with his little brother thinking he's acting off for a weekend.

The worst part about it is that Dean's not surprised in the very least. He's had ages to come to terms with the fact that he loves loves Sammy. Sure, he's never faced the idea head-on, but it's one of the reasons he knows he and Sam can't stay together too long. Because it's dangerous, and because he can't protect Sam when he's the thing to be protected from.

Dean doesn't stay too long with anyone, and he'd love to blame it on frigging– daddy issues, or something that's wrong with him instead of it being something he just does. Dean ruins things for himself. Dean is a pervert who wants to ruin things between him and his brother. This is why Sam shouldn't stay. 

But he's always had so much inhibition. He's never done anything about these urges, not when he was sixteen, not now when he's thirty. He'd never do anything to hurt Sam. At least, not in a way that matters. Not in the ways Sam has hurt him. It's like, fuckin’, holding a knife by then sharp end. Dean has never let Sam go. Dean has tied Sam to a bed in a room with a vault door, Dean has whisked Sam away from his perfect apple-pie life in Palo Alto. 

He's sold his soul for his chance at life again. Dean's never let go of him.

He's glad to let his little brother stay safe in the motel, cuffed so he can't leave, while Dean handles this for him. None the wiser to how starved Dean is for an apology. That's his hunger

He's glad Cas is too busy devouring another White Castle beef burger to read his mind or anything like that. 

“How many is that?” He asks, not sure he wants to know. He's feeling a little nauseous as of late.

“I lost count,” replies the Angel, “but it's in the low hundreds.” He's turned into some kind of beef junkie. Dean scoffs. I can stop anytime I want. Sure, buddy.

“What I don't understand is, where's your hunger, Dean?” Cas says, through another mouthful.

Dean laughs internally. Imagine that, confessing the sin of a lifetime to a literal Angel of the lord. If God had any hope of helping them before, he'd probably book it once he knew who his back up was.

Dean gives him some crap about doing what he wants, when he wants. 

“Are you saying you're well adjusted?” The Angel says it in the sincere-but-honest way he's trademarked for himself, even though Dean knows he's developed a well enough understanding for human courtesy by now. Dean likes that about him.

“God, no,” Dean replies. “I'm saying I'm well-fed.”

There's action at the Biggerson Restaurant’s door just then, in time to save Dean from admitting to himself how big a lie that is. Dean's never been hungrier in his life.

Sam saves his hide again, and Dean just gets angrier. 

Cas had immediately betrayed any notion of the mission once he’d caught sight of the ground beef Famine tossed him, like he was, in fact, a dog. Dean had been all alone to listen to this creature's monologue, lucky him.

Famine, in the flesh, is an old man in a wheelchair, with eyes glinting with malice and hatred as much as they are with archaic hunger. Dean unwittingly quips something about going cuckoo for coco-puffs while he thinks about getting that ring off the old man.

“And yet, you're all still starving,” says Famine, at the end of his rant about American consumerism, “because hunger doesn't just come from the body, it also comes from the soul.”

Dean can only bluff his way out of this one.

“It's funny, it doesn't seem to be coming from mine,” he lies, keeping his chin up as he struggles against the demons pinning him in place.

Famine narrows his eyes. “Yes. I noticed that.” He smiles at Dean in a way that reminds him of the uncanny-valley thing he saw on TV. 

They have their little back and forth, and Dean comes to the realization that Famine doesn't know what's wrong with him. The horseman gives him some Hallmark crap about being dead on the inside. Dean hides his confusion under a grimace. 

And then suddenly, Sam had shown up, and Dean could hardly bear it. God, he was hungry, he'd been hungry for years. It's all he could do not to jump Sam right there and then. He knew no one could harm him, Lucifer's vessel and all. Famine runs his mouth a little longer. Then Sam does some of his terrifying demon-control.

“Sammy, no!” is all he could get out while he watches Sam brutally and violently kill each of the demons at once. There's blood on his mouth, Dean notices. How much must he have had to be strong enough to do this? No, he's not killing the demons. He's making Famine eat them. Dean doesn't want to see this, but he needs to look Sam in the eyes to get him to stop.

In the end, Sam doesn't stop.

Dean’s upstairs, having a beer on Bobby's couch. He knows this is what he has to do. Knows he has to lock Sam up. He's glad this time Bobby does little to stop him. 

Sam had looked so guilty, when he let himself be cuffed to the bed. He's like when he was a baby, when he had a fever and Dean didn't know what the fuck to do other than give him lozenges and make him soup. He doesn't know what to do now, instead of letting him detox by himself. The anger he had felt, all the resentment, it had receded. Back to the way it used to be; Dean felt like shit for wanting his brother to apologize, of all things. Like he's some sorority girl who wants her boyfriend to say he's really really sorry. 

Apologize for what, Dean? he asks himself. For getting addicted to demon blood, when he was manipulated to do it? For trusting a demon, when Dean wasn't there to save him? Sam's not absolved, yeah, but he's fucking sorry, anyone can see that. Dean's cruel, wanting him to say it. It's fucked.

The hallucinations have to be worse for Sam than they are for him, but it sure as hell doesn't seem that way. Dean sits through Sam thinking he's being tortured, waterboarded, choked. It's the worst feeling in the world, this helplessness when it comes to Sam. He can't save him from something he got himself into. Dean's never not been able to save him.

Bobby looks at him wordlessly, concern etched on his face. He won't say anything, but Dean knows he looks more shook up than usual. Cas is gone again, which Dean thinks is for the better. He'd like to be alone again, until he's got Sammy back.

When it's been a little too quiet, and Dean can't sleep in good conscience anymore, he pads back down, peers in from the small window. It's a prison. 

Sam appears to be in conversation with himself again. He looks very sincere while he talks, like he thinks this is real.

Suddenly, he's shaking his head vigorously, looking horrified.

“No,” he says to the thin air, “no, no, no, no you don't– it's not like that. Please, let me explain.”

Dean watches, rapt. The air seems to be replying to Sam, interrupting him. Dean's had enough hallucinations to know they're probably badgering him.

Sam's expression shifts to hurt. 

“It's not fucking like that, okay! It's– you don't understand, he lied to you. Why would I be in love with you?”

Dean's confused. Is this a hallucination about Jess? Why would Sam tell her he doesn't love her, then? Rules out women like Madeline, that doctor-siren lady. Who else–?

Dean blinks. Ruby.

“Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I can't–” Sam hiccups. He's been sobbing for half his time in there, screaming and begging the other half. He must be tired.

“I'm sorry, I know it's disgusting, please,” Sam sounds resigned as he says it, like he's accepted that Ruby knows the truth, and that he can only apologize for it. 

“I'm sorry, don't hate me. Not you. Anyone but you.”

There's this aching feeling in Dean's chest. The wind is out of his sails, apparently, and he's not angry at Sam for hallucinating his demon ex-girlfriend. Dean's not even jealous. His heart aches, and he wants to save him. He doesn't want Sammy to hurt anymore. 

Sam sobs again, louder, and it's like it's punched out of him. Dean has never liked seeing Sam cry, and this is ten times worse. His little brother is hiccuping, breathing loud and panicked and fast. He's whimpering ‘no,’ again and again. Fucking impure-blooded demon assholes. Dean is going to bleed them all dry.

Dean turns around, ready to trek back upstairs to drink himself to sleep. If he hadn't killed the bitch, Dean isn't so sure his moral compass is so against stringing Ruby up somewhere and putting Alistair's proudest moments to shame. Sam's pleading makes him stop.

“Dean, please, I said I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” it's borderline hysterical, the way the kid repeats himself over and over. 

Dean. 

He freezes. Sam had been talking to him. Cold, icy dread fills his nerves. He thinks he can't feel his legs for a minute.

Dean was the reason his little brother was about to pass out, breathing worse than it had been the whole night. Fucking Dean, who Sam was hallucinating to be such an asshole that he left Sam like this. He did this to Sam.

Dean's not thinking right when he opens the panic room door. It doesn't matter. He needs to tell Sam none of it was real.

“Sam,” he says, voice gruff. He knows he's trying to sound like his dad. “Sammy, hey. Stop it, you're fine.”

It takes a minute for Sam's eyes to focus on Dean's face, but he leans into the hands in his hair, caressing his face. 

“Dean?” Sam says. His voice is broken, raspy from all the yelling, damp from the crying.

“Yeah, Sammy, I'm here.”

Sam swallows. “You’re not…? Castiel didn't, uh,” he cuts himself off, clearing his throat.

Dean is a coward. “What do you mean? I came down here a minute ago and you were crying. What happened?”

He hopes Sam's tear-blurred vision stops him from being able to read Dean's blatant lie. He'd heard.

“I just,” Sam says, and he's relieved, which means Dean's relieved, “I'm just really sorry. For everything.”

Dean's face hardens. Turns out, he didn't want that apology after all.

Soon enough, they're back to work. Dean and Sam are having breakfast with Bobby's dead wife Karen before they even know it. See? Back to normal. 

Karen succumbs to the zombie curse. These fucking horsemen. Dean had unsurprisingly made the right call to stick around, even when Bobby's blown Karen's head off before he'd even known she was turning. It was wishful thinking that Karen might be the one who'd stay sane. Like she wasn't right off the poster for walking dead. 

“She was the love of my life. How many times do I gotta kill her?”

Dean has nothing to say to that.

They decide to give Bobby space instead of staying the night, head on over to some other town. Heck, the whole world's crawling with doomsday omens, it shouldn't be hard for them to find a county with a strange case of missing persons, or cattle mutilations, or whatever the next thing is. It's always something.

Late night drives are never easy. The road’s always empty, so Dean has nothing to do but stare at Sammy while he snores in the passenger seat, mouth wide open. Dean almost cracks a smile at that; it's like good old times. Like they're hunting a wendigo again. Like they haven't suffered the collateral damage of some celestial family reunion. 

It's hard to drive at night for other reasons as well. Dean's too compelled to be honest with himself, under the cover of the blanket of night, when hours stretch into endless spools of time. He knows he's watching Sam's face twitch as he drools onto the leather seats instead of focusing on where they're going. He knows why.

Bobby had time, before his wife died. He had the time, and he made use of it. He married the woman, and he must've told her he loved her. Bobby was smart like that. He still lost her, even after doing everything right. The love of his life, he’d said.

Goddamn late night drives. He's gonna sit in the passenger seat next time. Could've played music, but Sam's asleep, so he settles for humming Metallica to try to drift his thoughts.

He wouldn't want him now, anyway. Not after Hell. Not after what he knows Dean's done. Still, Dean's thinking of Karen and Bobby, he's thinking of Castiel talking about soulmates and cupid talking about destiny. He's thinking about growing up with an extra pair of limbs joined to his, with fingers interlaced with his so tight they went numb. And then they could pretend they had welded together, like two pieces of scrap metal from Bobby's yard. 

Don't you ever get tired of being wrong?

Dean's worked himself up enough that, by the time they've chosen which of the beds belong to each of them, he's decided he needs to talk to his brother.

It's not that Dean can't keep a secret. He's plenty mysterious, anyone will tell you. It's just that Sam's awfully perceptive; he'll know Dean's been thinking and he'll badger until he gets an honest answer. It's one of his worst (read: most impressive) qualities, so Dean figures he should take the dignified way out.

If the dignified way means admitting to something so horribly wrong that the best case leads to his baby brother running away screaming, so be it. Dean will take it on the chin, like a man.

He's not thinking about the end of the world, or about Angels and Demons. He's not thinking about their quest to find God. Heck, Dean's not even thinking about the future Zachariah saw, where Sam says yes to the devil in Detroit. 

Sam's gone to get a coke– yes, Dean, actually this time, you're welcome to track me– when Dean's sitting on his bed, elbows on his knees, one leg bouncing up and down in anxiety.

We keep each other human, he'd told Sam, and then they'd got back together and got their asses kicked by Paris Hilton. Good times. But the 2014 Dean and Sam had left each other on bad terms, probably didn't even keep in touch. This will be different. Dean is going to help Sam, only this time from a distance. It will work out, trust him. It's for the better.

Dean eyes the clock in wait. Two-thirty. He hasn't unpacked his things, or stepped out of his shoes. 

Sam comes back, walking like he's drunk, swaying a little which is concerning when it's a man of his height. He's got that coke in his hand, but when he sees Dean, all serious, he pauses. Tilts his head.

“Why haven't you gone to shower?” he says, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “I thought you'd be out by now.”

Dean gives him a look. 

“We need to talk.”

Sam narrows his eyes, making his way to his bed, out of Dean's field of vision. Dean doesn't turn around.

“Can it wait?” He can tell without looking that Sam's face-planted onto the pillow, the way his voice is muffled. “Could tranquilize a horse with the tiredness I'm feeling.”

Dean's fairly sure he's confusing some other figure of speech with being so hungry you could eat a horse. But Sam slept a full three hours in the car, he couldn't be too tired.

Dean clears his throat, turning to look at him where he's sitting. “Actually, no it can't.”

His little brother blinks up at him, confused. Dean sighs, decides to rip the band-aid or eat the frog or whatever.

“I think we should go back to hunting separately for now.”

Sam’s brow bends, and he scoffs. “What?” He's sitting upright now. “I mean, you can't be serious.”

“I am serious.”

He looks at Dean like he's incredulous. Dean only captures this through his periphery, suddenly aware that he can't look Sam in the eye while he says this anymore.

“No, no, no, see, we've had this conversation,” Sam says, and there's the stubborn look on his face from every fight he's had with his brother, ever. “You told me we were better off together.”

“Well, I was wrong. I changed my mind.”

Sam laughs, humorless. “Why?” Shit. Dean takes a big breath. He hadn't come up with an excuse yet. 

“Sammy, this is good, kid, I know it is. But we know everyone knows we're each other's weakness. I don't think they've figured out how to exploit it correctly, but we know they will. We need to… get some space.”

“We've tried space, Dean. It doesn't work. It never works.”

It's true. They need each other.

“Yeah, well. It won't be like before. We'll work together, just. Spend more time apart. Get ourselves used to it.”

There's a silence that feels like it's one of the victims of this conversation too, the way it's screaming bloody murder. Sam eyes him, head tilted again, trying to decipher him. Dean internally panics a little, schools his features into something stoic.

And then Sam laughs to himself. Dean's about to ask what's so funny when Sam says the worst thing he possibly could.

“This is about my hallucination in the panic room, isn't it?”

His blood ran cold. He can only watch, eyes wide, as Sam comes to stand in front of him, leaning on the partition. No, this is not about the panic room, Dean wants to shout, to yell, to drill into Sam's head. But it wouldn't be the truth, so Dean's helpless to do anything.

Sam braces himself, like he's preparing for blows to the skull instead of a mature conversation. Fuck if Dean doesn't relate.

“Look,” he says, and when Dean does, he's staring into big puppy-dog eyes, blue and green and brown. “I know what it may have looked like.” Another breath. “But I can explain. Don't go running off on me because I was hopped up on demon blood.”

Dean's a fucking coward. 

“It's not about that, Sammy, what are you talking about? No,” he says dismissively. “I just think–”

“Don't lie to me, Dean.” Sam doesn't meet his eye, but his face twitches, like he wants to smile. “I know you heard.”

So this is it, then. The moment to come clean. Dean can run as fast as he wants but he's not outrunning himself. He's not outrunning his hunger. It'll only travel with you, says Castiel's voice in his head. He'll tell Sammy the real reason he's doing this, and then he'll take his exile in stride. His bags are still packed.

Sam interrupts his train of thought.

“I saw you,” he says, still looking at the floor like it's got his lines written on it. “I usually see you in there, saying I'm weak, or, or telling me I'm nothing to you. Wait, let me finish,” he says when Dean tries to object. 

“This time,” and he laughs a little, makes Dean wonder why he's being so honest all of a sudden. Lying to each other is as certain as the fact that they'll die again soon. “This time, Dean, you were telling me about something Castiel told you. And it didn't happen, it was a hallucination after all. It was just a weird, like, idea. I was freaked out because of that, that's all.”

That's definitely not all. Dean remembers his brother begging him not to leave in stark clarity. He remembers Sammy telling him he's sorry for it, because it's Dean, and no person goes unpunished for loving him.

“Just– can we forget about that? We're hunting again.”

Sam knows everything about him. He knows where Dean keeps his lockpicks and knives, he knows where Dean hides his gun when he's lying about being unarmed. He knows Dean can't leave him alone, not really. 

So Dean picks a fight.

“We're not hunting again, Sam, not like we used to. It won't be like we used to, because you walked out of that door knowing you couldn't come back the same.” 

It's bullshit, of course. Sam thought he was doing the right thing, and Dean– Dean's basically floundering, recycling hurtful crap he's heard Dad say all the time. He should go.

Sam looks hurt, alright. And angry, all of a sudden. Dean gets up and grabs his duffle. 

“Dean, why are you doing this?” because he's Sam, freaky psychic Sam even without Demon blood, able to read everything Dean is so easily it's like he's gone and done a PhD on him. 

Because Sam's the one who said he loved Dean, twice now. In the asylum with the wraith, high off his mind on painkillers. In the panic room, going through withdrawal.

Dean wonders if he'd say it sober.

“Because I don't trust you.” He says instead, trying to make it out the door before he says something unforgivable. He will stick close, dammit, but not this close. They need to be civil.

Sam's fist collides with his jaw.

So much for being civil, he thinks, straightening up as fast as he can. Sam always pulled his punches. There's no blood, so maybe he can–

Another punch, this time it catches his lip pretty bad. Blood fills his mouth, metallic, bitter. “Sam,” he barks out in warning. 

Sam steps back, snarling, breathing deep like he's holding back. It works well to piss Dean off. Even if he's the other half of Dean's soul, he's still an annoying bitch of a younger brother. 

“What the fuck.”

“You can't– you're lying to me,” Sam says, punctuating it with a shove that makes Dean stumble against the wall. “You said you forgave me. How could you lie?”

The next punch comes, and Sam's still being too careful. Dean suspects he's only doing this to get Dean to stay, or to talk, because it's always easier to choke out glass-sharp truths with blood to ease the way. He dodges, because Sam is going easy on him, and the next blow he delivers hits his little brother right on his cheekbone. Sam tumbles to the ground with Dean in tow, death-grip on his collar.

They tussle on the ground for a bit, trying to get the other into headlock; maybe because that's what they do, how they spar. Neither of them quite does it, though. In the back of his mind, Dean knows it's on purpose; they don't want the other to yield. They want to kick and punch and bite. They want to draw blood. 

Dean's on top of Sam suddenly, and each connection of his fist with Sam's body has a name; Ruby is recurring, and then there's Stanford, and Dad and Meg and fucking Jo and everything Dean has never blamed Sam for. It takes him a minute to realize Sam's not even moving his head to brace himself. He's taking it.

There it is again, the sick, revolting longing in the pit of his stomach. Sam is beaten black and blue and it's not a fair fight. It's never a fair fight when Sam is so fucking self sacrificing. The son of a bitch is probably taking this as some sort of sanctifying ritual. Dean's scrambling backwards off him, onto the floor.

Sam looks fucking scared. What has Dean tried to do?

He should leave. He's so close to the door, all he needs to do is run, forget about his things. Jump into his Impala and never look back.

When has that ever worked for him?

Sam looks scared, and he's leaning up on his elbows, looking at Dean like he's the only thing that can save him. How can that even work? How can Sam still–

Oh. Sam loves him.

Dean's been noble long enough, he decides, when he's crawling back to where Sam is now leaning against the wall, notices how his brother doesn't even flinch when Dean's gathered him up in his arms. The same hands he used to break, they come up to cradle his face, run through his hair. Clear blood off his mouth, his nose.

“Dean,” Sam says. It's all he needs to say. Dean loses all semblance of sanity, uses his grip under Sammy's jaw to tilt him upwards and finally, finally sates the hunger he's been feeling for weeks. Years.

They've kissed a few times before. When Sam was seventeen and adamant that Dean was holding out on him by not teaching him how to kiss until Dean had just pulled him in. The night before Sam ran away, and Dean was still upset when he went to bed, until he felt soft lips gently peck his. Once, when they were both very, very drunk, except Sam can't handle his liquor as well as Dean, so he was the only one who woke up with the memory along with the hangover.

Dean's kissing Sam, and it tastes nothing like he used to. Sam smells like himself, mixed with motel soap and the stupid library smell he seems to carry with him. But he tastes like blood; warm, alive. Like metal, like melted, welded metal. Dean's own blood is mixing with it, he knows, but he can't tell, and that sends a horrible thrill down his spine.

He can't tell whether the taste comes from his veins or Sammy's, his wounds or Sammy's. But it's the same blood, fuck, it's the same. This is all Dean's, anyway.

Sam kisses back with urgency, like he wants to eat Dean alive, and Dean's reminded of the two lovers who ate each other a night before Valentine's. Maybe they weren't so crazy. They definitely couldn't be as starved as Dean was, as Dean has always, always been. But he's held back, too scared to hurt Sam.

And Sammy apparently likes it.

He stands on shaky legs, pulling Dean up with him, and walks him backwards til they're on one of the beds. It doesn't matter whose. Sam's kissing him like he's melting into his mouth, wax on a candle. Like he might die if he stops, and really, that might happen. Maybe the safest place for Sam to be is in Dean's arms, tongue in Dean's mouth.

Dean's too in shock by the fact that he's kissing his baby brother to do anything, probably whiplashed from their fight, while Sam's hands are already at the hem of Dean's t-shirt, exploring upwards. Like he hasn't seen him before, touched him ever. Fuck if it isn't making Dean hard already.

He's tugging at Sammy's shirt before he can think properly again– and it's a mystery if that ever even happens– pulling it off using his grip on his nape. Sam's muttering “off,” into the kisses he's leaving on Dean's shoulder through his shirt, so it gets discarded off the bed.

Sam's mouth is relentless. He's gnawing at every part of Dean he can reach, sliding lower and lower. He bites down hard against Dean's pec, punching a groan out of his brother. Mouthy as always, his Sammy.

Sam sits back, straddling Dean’s legs as he works his jeans off his hips with startling swiftness. Dean's left wondering if Sam had ever done this before, and he quickly decides he doesn't want to think about it. Sam's here, with him now. Sam's nuzzling into Dean's erection through his boxers and the gesture is so desperate that Dean's leaking a wet patch in the fabric. Sam grins up at him. 

“Oh, fuck,” he sighs, when Sam finally wraps his lips around Dean. God, the sensations alone; Sam's tongue is quick on his tip, pushing against his slit. Dean wraps a hand in Sam's hair to push him down, and goddamn, the wet heat might just ruin him. He pushes Sam down lower, closer. Trying to get himself as deep into Sam as he's ever been. It's not the best idea, because Sam starts choking, pulls off to cough.

He's smiling when the coughs subside, despite his wet eyes. Dean finds he much prefers this version of Sam in tears. He's quick to take Dean back into his mouth, slower, trying his best to deep throat. 

His face, the concentrated wrinkles in his brow, the way his eyes water and his cheeks flush; that's what gets Dean to the edge, hurtling fast. He has to shove Sam off his cock to stop coming too early.

“Makin’ me act like a horny teen, Sammy,” Dean laughs. He's finding it hard to keep up with the kid. Sam knows this, and he's grinning up at him so smug that Dean knows he has to pull out all the stops. 

Can't let Sammy show him up now, can he?

Dean locks one leg around Sam's waist, swinging the other to create enough momentum to flip them around. A little trick he's tried and tested with chicks from his various exploits. Sam's head lands on the pillow with an oof. Dean laughs at him meanly.

“Jerk,” his little brother says, exasperated but fond. Dean gives him his sexiest smirk, head tilted back.

“Bitch.” He chooses that moment to bite Sam's collarbone, hard. Sucks on it, laves his tongue over it to soothe, kisses it. He's practically making out with the bruise, and Sam moans, low and breathy. 

His brother is a pain-slut. Water found in ocean.

Dean considers blowing Sam, when the trail of hickeys eventually reaches his waistband. God, the thought of it is heady enough; feeling Sam’s heavy, veiny cock inside his mouth, tracing over the curves he's sneaked looks at in the past with his tongue. It has Dean pausing for a moment, forehead resting on Sam's Adonis lines.

“Dean,” Sam whines. He's never gonna live this down. “Come on, please?”

Dean has to squeeze the base of his dick. Fuck, his little brother knew how to beg. He's taking Sam's jeans and boxers off before he even registers what he's doing, so inclined to do anything to hear more of Sam's little noises.

Sam's cock is beautiful, just like the rest of him. Pink head, gorgeous fucking length; enough for Dean to know riding him would be an absolute blast. He's not trimmed, like Dean knew he wouldn't be. His balls are the perfect size for his brother to fondle, gently stroking his hand down from the tip. 

Dean considers blowing Sam, but ultimately–

“Up,” he says, lightly slapping Sam's thigh when all he gets is a confused expression in response. Sam versus following orders. “Up, c'mon, lay on your stomach. Attaboy.”

It's his superior hunting hearing that lets him catch the whimper Sam lets out at that. Dean smiles to himself. Sammy's easier than most of the women he's been with.

He takes a shuddering breath when Sam pulls his cheeks apart without prompting. This ass, fuck. Soft and supple, round. Like a girl's. Dean pushes Sam's hands away to grab at it, exposing the puckered ring of muscle. Pink, soft. Delicious.

He doesn't give any warning before latching his mouth to Sam's asshole, tongue immediately prodding at his entrance. He's tight, Dean can feel it. There's a hand gripping him by the hair as Sam grinds back on his tongue, shameless. Dean licks, nips downwards, to his perineum, and the noise Sam lets out is downright divine.

He's awfully sensitive, if the sounds he's making is anything to go off of. Dean can barely hear himself grunting, groaning at the taste of him. He smells the most like himself, and Dean's driven fucking crazy at the thought of licking sweat from Sam's balls. There's something wrong with him, maybe.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, Sammy, could–” he fucks some of his saliva into his little brother's hole, “–eat you all day.”

Sammy's begging, which is a sight, really. His hole is looser now, slick with Dean's spit. Some leftover blood from his lip. It's so fucking scary how much that turns him on. He tastes like Dean already. 

He gets pissy when it becomes clear that Dean is fine just making out with his hole, so he stops begging and whining, and instead mouths off in classic Sam fashion.

“I'm not one of your girlfriends, you know, fuck, can't just eat me out and– mff!”

“Shut up, c'mon. Get my fingers nice and wet. It's what you were gonna ask for, isn't it? Good boy.”

He stiffens under him, clenching around Dean's tongue, and for a wonderful moment, he thinks Sam might come from just this. He mutters something like “close,” around the thick fingers in his mouth. Dean pulls them out.

He pushes one spit-slick finger inside Sam, along with his tongue, getting as far as the second knuckle. They were definitely going to need lube if they were going to do this, but he's barely brushing against his prostate and Sammy only moans louder and higher when the stretch gets too much. When Dean tells him he's taking it so well. He'd never hurt Sam, though. Won't do it if he won't do it proper. He's a gentleman.

“Dean, ngh, are you– are you humping the bed?”

Huh. He hadn't realized, but yes, yes he was. 

“Oh my god,” Sam says, wrecked and broken and being taken apart by all three of Dean's fingers now. He'd somehow found lube in one of their bedside drawers. God bless motels.

“I'm ready, I'm ready, just. Please, put it in me.”

Lines pulled from every porno Dean's ever seen. God, this kid will kill him. For good, this time.

He lines himself up with Sam's hole after shoving a pillow under his hips. It's a pretty damn view, rubbing his tip over his baby brother's asshole, rim loose. Dean could fucking write about this. It's like this is what they were meant for, where they were always headed.

“Get on with it,” his brother demands. “Fuck me, come on, you sap.” Dean stifles a snicker.

“I am fucking you,” he says, because he wants to see just how desperate Sam really is. Maybe just to be a prick. That sap comment was unnecessary.

Sam turns around to scowl at him, head resting on his arms. “You're only pushing the tip in like a fucking tease,” he accuses. He's right.

Dean still smacks his thigh. “Watch your tone, kid,” he says, and because he really is a jerk, adds, “you know how to ask nicely?”

Sam sighs a long-suffering sigh, hard on probably flagging a bit. Dean laughs to himself.

“Please, Dean, can you please fuck me? I'm– I'll be so good for you, just need it so bad. Need you so bad. Please?”

A bit overkill, but it succeeds in making Dean horny out of his mind. He's pushing in, and holy shit. Sam is outrageously tight, despite Dean's thorough prep, and he's moaning Dean's name like he's his salvation, squirming around on the bed til he bottoms out. It's overwhelming. Dean might cry.

Worse. Dean might come just from pushing in. He would never be able to live that down.

He takes a minute, panting in Sam's ear, trying to tune out all the delicious sounds while he pinches his thigh. Honestly, how the mighty have fallen; he's never like this with anyone else he's shown a good time to.

Then again, nobody else is Sam.

It helps that Sam's struggling too, gasping for air like he's choking on it, on the feeling of Dean inside him. Probably Sam's first time in a long time.

Maybe Sam's actual first time. Fuck, Dean, don't think about that.

He tries to get Sam to breathe with him, slow and steady, panting in his ear. “It's okay, baby, it's alright,” he cards a hand through Sam's hair and says. “I've got you, I'm here.” Because he's always wanted to take care of his baby brother. It's always been his job.

When he'd given it a long minute, Dean started to pull out slowly, catching Sam mid-sentence, something that sounded like “move,” turning into a moan halfway. He's almost all the way out, tip barely inside, and then Dean thrusts.

It's perfect. He has to screw his eyes shut, to concentrate on not coming. It's almost too much, Sam's too fucking tight, and he's fisting the bedsheets and making these small injured noises, the muscles on his back flexing. Dean can't think straight like this, needs his mouth on something. He leans down and litters kisses, bites, hickeys on his brother's nape, while he thrusts, deep and slow.

It's not hard for Dean to accept that this just might be the best lay in his life. No other person, man or woman, could reduce Dean to this animalistic version of himself the way Sam is doing right now, writhing and gasping out Dean and please and Oh god. Because of course it would be Sam, there had never been anyone else. 

He sets a rhythm, maybe a little too fast. Sam's head is close to banging against the headboard, so Dean shields it with a hand, holding himself up with one sore arm now. He's grinding back against Dean, at an angle that's got him singing with pleasure, because it's perfectly angled to his prostate. They're making too much noise for brothers who insisted on two queens. He doesn't care.

“Dean, wait, fuck–” Sam manages to get out, swallowing. Dean all but freezes. They're not gonna stop now, are they? Looks like it, the way Sam's pawing at his shoulder to pull out, to get off.

It's a terrifying second, but Dean's worries are eased when Sam only turns to lie on his back, making childish grabby hands at him. He drags Dean over him– no small feat, Sam is strong– and pulls him into a kiss, sweet enough to dissolve all his thoughts. Thoughts about what they're doing, about if Sam even really wants this. Because he does. He's showing Dean he does.

His legs wrap around his older brother’s torso, ankles crossed at the small of Dean's back. The latter is too busy licking into Sam's mouth to push back into his hole, because fuck, who taught the kid to kiss this good?

Dean groans. Right. He had.

“You’re,” he says into Sam's mouth, “so fuckin' amazing. Still remember all I taught you, hm? How to kiss a lady?”

Except he hadn't taught Sam this one thing, sucking on his tongue. It makes Sam whimper, and Dean promises himself to learn all the ways he can make him make that noise again.

“Yeah, I, ‘course I remember,” Sam slurs. The fact that it's even a little intelligible tells Dean he's not doing a good enough job. He will make this the best Sam's ever had.

“Gonna fucking ruin you, you hear, Sammy? Fuck you so hard, so deep, you'll– god, you'll forget how to talk. Forget your own name, college boy, forget about fucking any demon bitch before me,” he says, and pushes in at the same time.

This position is so, so much worse. His cock wants to tilt upwards, even inside Sam, so the drag against his walls is a filthy hot fire down his spine. He sees Sam's face while he talks dirty to him, the way he can't keep his eyes open for too long, the way his mouth is hanging open as moan after moan floods out. God, he's already stupid with it.

His chest is on display for Dean to touch, to admire while he fucks into his little brother. And for some fucking reason, he can't stop running his damn mouth.

“You're so pretty, like a, like a girl,” he gasps out, using one hand to rub a pert nipple. Sam sounds almost hurt.

“Not a fucking girl, Dean, stop,” he says, but he makes that noise again, high and breathy. He's whimpering.

“No, not a girl, baby, okay,” Dean concedes. He doesn't want to piss Sam off, not when he's having the best sex ever. “But you're so pretty here anyway,” he smirks down at Sam, and just has to say it, “look a little like tits to you?”

Sam blushes, all the way down to his chest, and doesn't say anything. He doesn't ask Dean to stop, just leans his head back like he's pained when Dean's biting at them. Once again, Dean's surprised at how sensitive he is. Makes him want to bite hard enough to bruise.

He does do that, and Sam jerks under him like he's about to come, the little freak. He snakes a hand down to palm himself while Dean fucks him, faster now, before catching Sam's wrist, wordlessly pinning it above his head. His brother goes insane, by the looks of it, and Dean pats himself on the back.

He presses down against Sam's lower abdomen, trying to feel himself. Sam's all muscle, but he can still feel it, feel the slide of his dick inside of him. It's such a fucking rush. “Can you come like this, angel?” He asks, voice embarrassingly rough. Sam whines.

“God, don't call me that, I'll–” he cuts himself off with a breathless little laugh, hands struggling against Dean's grip. He only pins him harder.

Dean blinks, and oh yeah, he called him angel. He doesn't know why. The pet names just kinda spill out when he's close.

“You'll what, Sammy?” He says, raw hunger in his voice, green eyes probably looking closer to black. He wants to hear him say it.

Sam takes a shaky inhale, setting his jaw. “I'll come.”

“Yeah, baby?” He's going crazy, he's actually going batshit insane, god, Sam's voice. “You gonna come untouched, just from me talking to you? Calling you my angel? My good boy?”

He speeds up while he talks, babbling nothings by this point. He's not even sure Sam's listening to him, his back arched almost right off the bed. Dean's leaning down and sucking Sam's nipple before he even thinks, and now Sam is so fucking loud, high pitched and broken and just like a fucking girl, no matter how much he denies it.

“Good fucking girl,” he growls, without thinking about it, and Sam clenches so hard around him that it feels like he's being choked, like he can't breathe. It's so impossibly tighter that Dean feels his vision black out for a second, hips stuttering. And then he's back, and Sam's hole is fluttering around him, and his little brother sounds like he's just taken a fucking bullet, like he's hurt from all the pleasure.

“God,” he says, mindless and still talking, fucking him through the aftershocks, “knew it, knew you'd be perfect. You're the best I've ever had, you know that? So fucking good, such a good boy, coming on my cock, baby.”

It's pure filth, the feeling of Sam's spend sticky between their sweat-slick bodies. He spills inside of Sam and it's totality, it's how everything was supposed to be, since the beginning. Him with Sam in his arms, fucked out and sated, filled with his come, safe from anyone else taking him away. 

He leans down to kiss Sam's sweaty forehead, pushing his hair back, and he says, “love you so fucking much, Sammy, scares me sometimes.”

He freezes. Shit. Inside thought.

Sam's instantly dozing off, not even asking Dean to pull out, even though the oversensitivity must be killing him. His eyes droop, and he's dead to the world, but not before slurring, “Love y’too, Dean.”

It's simultaneously the most drunk and the most sober Dean's heard him say that. He's fucking giddy, like a child. Maybe post-nut clarity hasn't hit him yet.

He resists the urge to just collapse onto Sam, deciding to be the adult here. He ties off the condom and throws it somewhere on the floor, not remotely near the trashcan, grabbing Sam's discarded shirt off the floor to clean off the extra come. Clean enough. He flops back down onto the bed.

“Where'd you learn that,” Dean has to ask, looking up at Sam from where he's nestled against his chest, “the whole coming-without-your-dick. I didn't teach you that.”

Sam's silent long enough for Dean to think he's asleep. He looks so juvenile,  damp hair strands pushed back, finally out of his face. He eventually responds, “Had a lot of sex at Stanford.”

Dean ignores how that opens a whole crypt of jealousy and longing in his chest. Not Sam's first rodeo, then. Obviously.

Sam smacks his arm gently. “Don't get all pressed, you're reaping the benefits.”

That is true. It's the hottest thing he's ever seen, and Dean's not even into guys. Just Sammy.

He can't help himself. Muffled by Sam's skin, he asks, “Out of curiosity, do you remember their names or–”

“Dean. You are not going to kill innocent people.” Sam looks at Dean, fighting off sleep with every fibre to smile at the way Dean mutters innocent like he's offended.

He sighs. “If it helps, I imagined they were all you. Even said your name once or twice.”

That… does help, actually. A lot. Dean's too sleepy to be half hard again, so he just snuggles deeper into Sam. Trying to be as close as possible. 

They drift off, and Dean isn't looking at the clock anymore, so he doesn't notice how early in the morning it is. Like it matters at all; they set their own working hours. And they won't be working, not until Dean's had Sam again in the morning, and again after breakfast, and maybe again in the Impala.

He's stupid to think his hunger for Sam could be satisfied after one mind-blowing fuck. Like he's not one to go back to him, again and again. Biting into every bit of him until they're one, whole again.

Dean's right where he wants to be.

fin