Title: Nothing Bad Will Ever Happen to Me (Not Even You)
Warnings: simulated non-con, simulated somnophilia, wincest
Dean drives Sam crazy with his mother henning, there’s no doubt about that. But days like today? When Sam is ready to find a crossroad and beg whatever demon shows up to make the pain to go away? He’s grateful that he doesn’t have to say a word for Dean to know just what he needs. He crawls into the backseat and pulls off his flannel overshirt, balling it up into a pillow with just enough left to cover his eyes. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it helps enough he can pretend he’s not going to gouge his own eyes out with a spork the first chance he gets.
The motel Dean chooses is a little nicer than their usual fare. Hiding in the back seat means Sam doesn’t know if Dean chose it on purpose or if it was the only game in town. Then again, Sam doesn’t actually care about anything right now except Dean pulling the blackout curtains and dropping the room into blessed darkness. Sam collapses on the bed farthest from the door, not even bothering to take off his shoes, but Dean’s having none of that.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says with that gentleness he reserves for true fuckedupedness. “If you get mud on the bed you’ll bitch all night, and I’m not switching with you.” He pulls off Sam’s boots and socks, then tugs on the hem of his jeans. Sam groans, but Dean just tugs again. “Go on,” Dean orders. “You know you’ll be more comfortable.” He turns away as Sam mutters bossy under his breath but pops the button on his jeans and shoves them off and onto the floor before sprawling across the bed.
Dean’s right. He is more comfortable. When Sam’s like this, he hates it more than usual when Dean’s right, but that doesn’t stop him from accepting the pills Dean offers on his way out the door.
“Gonna hit that bar a few miles back, see if I can scare up some reserve cash,” Dean says, speaking as quietly as he can. “Maybe we’ll celebrate when I get back, yeah?”
Sam does his best to smile, but judging by Dean’s wince he probably doesn’t succeed. He waits for the door to close before he swallows the pills dry, pointedly ignoring the bottle of whiskey Dean had set on the nightstand. He’d rather not asphyxiate on his own vomit, thanks. He closes his eyes, buries is face in the pillow, and does his best to relax.
Sam comes awake gradually. Fingers slip across his cheek, stroking his hair, his ear. He knows it’s Dean, he’d know Dean’s hands anywhere, but this…Dean has never touched him like this before, so much gentleness, so much tenderness. Sam knows he should stir, give Dean a chance to move away, but he can’t. He can’t. Not yet. He just wants a few more moments for himself, no matter how selfish he feels.
Dean pulls in a shaky breath, and Sam hears the cap from the bottle of whiskey hit the nightstand as Dean takes a long drink. Then his hand lands on Sam’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “Sam?” he says. “Hey, Sammy, wake up, man.”
Sam doesn’t stir. He just wants one more moment of Dean’s attention to savor, that’s it, then he’ll sit up and they’ll go out to dinner and everything will be fine. He hears Dean take another drink, hand still gentle and firm on his shoulder. “Never understood why you wear so many layers, Sammy,” Dean says quietly. Sam can hear the slur in his words, but it’s still a shock when Dean trails his hand down Sam’s back in a warm caress. He can’t help the twinge of disappointment he feels when Dean stops right before his fingers stroke the bare skin between his t-shirt and his boxers. Then he feels it, the rough callouses of Dean’s fingers on his skin as Dean lets himself touch.
Sam bites back a moan, fights not to arch into Dean’s touch. “Fuck,” he hears Dean whisper. Then, “Sammy” almost reverently, almost like a prayer as he flattens his hand on the bare skin of Sam’s back, stroking the smooth skin. This time Sam can’t stop the shiver that rolls through him, can’t help the whimper that escapes as he realizes with instant clarity that he has no intention of stopping this, that he’s going to take whatever Dean will give him regardless of the consequences.
Dean falls to his knees next to the bed, and the press of his lips against Sam’s hip nearly undoes him. It’s all Sam can do to keep quiet as Dean moans against his skin, and all his good intentions disappear completely as Dean’s restless hands grip and knead Sam’s ass. Sam’s body takes over, bucking up against the fingers pushing against his sensitive opening, wanting more.
“Dean,” Sam moans helplessly, grinding down against the mattress. He’s already almost painfully hard, years of pent up desire filling his cock and fogging his brain far more than the painkillers he’d taken earlier. Dean jerks his hand back as if burned, and it takes all of Sam’s willpower not to beg Dean to touch him again. Sam forces himself to lay still, ears straining. He can hear Dean breathing, panting almost, then the sound of Dean’s zipper easing down almost breaks his resolve again. Dean groans a little, but doesn’t touch Sam, and Sam’s mind spins crazily at the thought of Dean jerking off on his back, on his face oh God, branding him, changing him forever.
But it doesn’t happen, even though Sam hears the rattle of Dean’s belt as it hits the floor. Sam doesn’t let himself move, hoping against hope that Dean will finish what he started.
Sam’s concentrating so hard on staying still that he almost misses what Dean’s saying. “Maybe it’s my turn to have something good,” Dean mutters roughly, and Sam feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. “Maybe it’s my turn to just take what I want.”
And fuck if that doesn’t turn Sam on even more, the idea that Dean—fiercely protective, loving Dean, the brother who has never done anything but care for Sam their whole lives—the idea that Dean could so lose himself to this thing between them, could let himself go far enough to simply take what he wants for once in his life. It’s messed up, Sam gets that—he should be pissed as hell by what Dean is doing. But all he can feel is relief twisted up with desire and want so strong he isn’t sure he can control himself long enough not to screw it all up.
Dean’s voice tapers off, muttering under his breath as something thumps onto the bed next to Sam and the mattress dips under Dean’s weight. Sam tries to breathe normally, but that goes out the window when Dean pushes Sam’s shirt up, baring more skin to the cool motel room air. Sam gasps when Dean hooks his fingers in Sam’s boxers, tugging them down so slowly it’s torture. He can’t help himself, whimpering into the pillow and rutting into the mattress as Dean runs his hands up Sam’s legs, groaning under his breath at the feel of Sam’s skin under his hands. His cock, wet and hard, brushes Sam’s leg, dotting the skin with precome as Sam tries desperately to remain still enough not to give himself away. He feels like he could come just from this, just from Dean’s hands cupping, kneading the smooth, firm muscle of his ass as he gently spreads Sam open.
Fuck fuck fuck Sam thinks wildly. There’s no way he can stay quiet for this, no way he won’t give himself away. His hips have a mind of their own, grinding into the coarse hotel comforter in a way that’s almost as much pain as pleasure. He can hear Dean whispering over him, but he can’t make out the words except his name Sammy Sammy Sammy which seems appropriate since Sam can’t seem to say anything but Dean.
Sam moans, almost a sob, as Dean leans forward to blow warm air over his hole then lick the tender skin. Dean hasn’t shaved since morning, and his stubble burns deliciously against Sam’s skin, the contrast driving him wild. Dean seems to realize what he’s doing to Sam, rubbing his face all over, nipping and outright biting in between licking over Sam’s hole and balls, driving Sam insane. Finally, finally he stops teasing and pushes his tongue inside the tight ring of muscle. Sam can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but writhe helplessly underneath Dean, moaning Dean’s name like a prayer, begging for more as quietly as he can. Tomorrow, he thinks wildly, tomorrow he’s going push Dean onto the bed and ride his face until they both come, until Sam can scream his pleasure as loudly as he wants.
Dean pulls back after a few minutes, sweet relief that only makes Sam more desperate when Dean replaces his mouth with his fingers. Dean twists them, stretching and pulling, and God, Sam is going to lose it any second. Dean finds his prostate and strokes him mercilessly, relentlessly. Sam bites his lip so hard he’s surprised he can’t taste blood, doesn’t think he can take much more even though he never wants it to end. He nearly sobs with relief when Dean finally tugs his fingers free even as he can’t help rocking back against Dean’s hand in protest at the same time.
Dean doesn’t make him wait long. Sam hears the crinkle of a condom wrapper, Dean’s hiss of pleasure as he slides it on, and then he’s back. He rubs the head of is dick over Sam’s swollen, sensitive hole, teasing again, and Sam tenses in anticipation. Dean pushes forward, finally, then stops when he feels how tight Sam still is. Sam does his best to hold still, but it hurts when Dean shoves, soft apology soothing Sam along with his hands as Dean strokes his back and hair gently. Dean works his way in slowly, murmuring praise and love so good for me Sammy, so beautiful look so pretty on my cock and it’s so good, each slow, steady stroke wracking Sam’s body with pleasure like he’s never felt.
Dean stops when he’s finally all the way in, Sam gasping underneath him, shuddering at how amazing it feels to be so full of Dean. His brother only gives him a moment to adjust before he’s pulling out again, thrusting back in harder this time, setting up a rhythm that Sam tries to match. Dean’s hands are locked onto Sam’s hips, hauling Sam up and back to meet him with every thrust, and Sam can’t wait to see the bruises he’s going to have tomorrow, to press them and savor this moment again. He groans when Dean slows, suddenly, then rearranges himself against Sam’s back so that he can force his hand underneath Sam. Dean gets a hand on Sam’s cock, warm and rough and calloused and Sam loses it, two strokes and he’s coming harder than he ever has in his life, twisting and writhing under his brother like he’s possessed, biting his lip so hard tears spring to his eyes as he tries not to cry out.
Dean fucks him through the aftershocks, hard and fast and if he could Sam thinks he’d be getting hard again because there’s something about being used, about being fucked for nothing but Dean’s pleasure that lights something inside of him on fire. He feels Dean tighten, feels him pulse against the condom and shudders again, wishing he could feel Dean bare inside him. Dean collapses on top of him, heavy and warm, for a brief moment before pulling out and away. Sam wishes Dean would stay, adds the idea of wrapping himself happy and spent around his brother to his list of things he’s going to do tomorrow and hopefully every day for as the foreseeable future.
Dean rolls off the bed and staggers into the bathroom. Sam smiles and stretches, enjoying the ache in his ass and hips, imagining the bruises he’s going to have in the morning. He’s tired, blissed out from possibly the most intense orgasm he’s ever experienced on top of the residual painkillers still in his system. He’s trying to keep his eyes from drifting closed as his mind tries to turn itself off, needing to stay awake until Dean comes back, but it’s a losing battle.
Sam’s still asleep when Dean comes back out of the bathroom, still sprawled facedown on the bed. The sight hits Dean like a punch to the gut. Sam looks debauched, fucked out and used, and all he can think is how gorgeous Sam looks like this, how much he wants to fall into bed next to his brother and do all of this again the next morning.
That doesn’t last long.
Sam looks debauched, used. He’s bruised, swollen, covered in lube and come. Dean did that, Dean raped his brother, and the shocked realization knocks the breath out of him. He collapses on the empty bed, sick with guilt and horror.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers hoarsely. “God, I’m so sorry.”
After a moment Dean forces himself to stand, goes into the bathroom again and comes out with a warm wet cloth. He cleans Sam as gently and carefully as he can, wiping up drying lube and come. Dean, Sam sighs, shifting, arching into Dean’s touch as if he craves it. It hurts Dean’s heart—he doesn’t deserve even this much acknowledgement from Sam, doesn’t deserve to touch him again, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t hide what happened here, but he hopes this might make Sam feel less violated when he wakes, and—selfishly--Dean knows this is probably the last time he’ll ever touch Sam, take care of him, and he wants to savor it. To remember. If he can take any memory to hell, let it be this.
Dean shifts Sam gently onto his side, away from the cooling wetness underneath him. He wipes Sam down carefully, then pulls Sam’s discarded boxers up over his hips before grabbing the coverlet from the other bed and tucking it in around his brother. Sam shifts onto his side almost immediately, hair falling over his eyes, and Dean has to resist the sickening urge to push it away, knowing he can never trust himself to do that again.
After a few moments of watching Sam sleep, Dean turns away, more determined than ever to do the right thing. He grabs a clean pair of boxers from his duffle and dresses quickly, grateful that he hadn’t had a chance to unpack anything yet. In a matter of minutes he’s ready to go, three quick steps to the door before he stops with his hand on the knob, caught by the pen and paper next to the phone.
I’m sorry, Sam is all he manages to scrawl before his vision blurs, but it will have to be enough. He closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, sits in the Impala with his head resting against the steering wheel as he finally lets the tears drip down his face. It hurts, having his heart ripped out of his chest with his own hands, but he knows he has no one to blame but himself. It's better this way, he tells himself bleakly, and puts the car into drive and pulls away into the darkness.