Save your anaesthetic for the boy next door
Summary: RoboSam's got a great idea: it's efficient and fun!
NC-17, Sam/Dean, dubious consent and breathplay. Spoilers to date.
Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
giandujakiss for beta.
Of all the things Dean feared RoboSam would do next, saying "We should fuck" like he was replaying the last scene in Eyes Wide Shut hadn't even been on the list.
"The fuck!?" Dean yelped, skittering backwards until he stumbled into the nightstand. He didn't feel it, what with the shock and the half bottle of Jack he'd put away, hoping to get some sleep.
Sam shrugged. "I want to get laid. You don't like it when I go out and find a girl." He stepped forward again. "And I know you think about it."
Dean froze, every muscle tensed.
He'd thought that was his secret: one of the lasting deformities of forty years in Hell. Or, really, on his good days, that's how he tried to see it, though honestly his memories of life with Sam before Hell were faded enough that he could easily be wrong. Alastair might've just cultivated something neglected and denied beforehand. His love for Sam, after all, had never been right.
Sam couldn't have known. If he had, he would've dumped Dean long before the final seal broke. That's what Dean had thought, anyway, but now—
Dean swallowed the panic down like a mouthful of blood. Just because soulless Sam had figured it out, just because he didn't have a shred of morality keeping him from even thinking something so twisted, that didn't mean Sam knew.
Dean couldn't ask.
Sam smiled at him, the friendly grin he had for witnesses and other people they lied to. "It's okay."
"It's not okay!" Dean yelled. "And you saying that just proves how very not okay it is!" He thought for half a second about his gun, about whether he had the time and the space to grab it, then let the idea die. Anything he needed to say to Sam he could say with his hands.
"I don't understand," Sam said—truer fucking words—"You want to have sex with me, I want to have sex with you. I mean, I know that we're not supposed to want to, but given that we already do, why is it worse to do it than to want it?"
"I don't want to have sex with you," Dean told him, and it was almost half true.
Sam was in his face even before Dean stopped talking, hands wrapping around his biceps, pulling him in close. His mouth was hot, teeth sharp against Dean's lip as Sam bent him back, one hand coming up to cup the back of Dean's neck and hold him in place. He kissed like he fought now, brutal and overwhelming and with an underlying precision that was probably the most unnerving part.
Dean wrenched himself back, earning more bruises from the nightstand. "No, Sam." He wanted it to come out like his other orders, irritated and unhesitating. He had no idea what Sam was hearing.
Sure enough, Sam made one of those lightning-quick moves, and Dean was staring up at him from his position flat on the bed. Sam smirked and pulled off his T-shirt. Dean felt his eyes widening, but his face was numb, the drunk kicking in hard now along with the surprise. Sam's body—Jesus, Dean'd think that Sam had done a ritual to ensure that every bite Sam ate ended up around Dean's middle instead, except that Dean knew Sam took his pullups as seriously as Dean took his drinking. Like that, Sam was on top of him, arms bracketing Dean's as he looked down. His lower half rested heavily on Dean, rough denim grinding against Dean's legs. "Come on," he said, breath hot against Dean's skin. "I'll make it good." Dean felt the pressure of Sam's half-hard cock, and his own body was already responding to the friction and to Sam's tone.
"You're sick," he said, telling his stupid fists to rise up and smack Sam a good one. Make his nose bleed, make his mouth swell, mark him up.
Sam only shook his head a little, lips quirked. "I don't have a soul. What's your excuse?" He thrust his hips against Dean's and closed his eyes, head going back to expose the arrowline of his throat while Dean rocked up into him unthinkingly. "Mmm, that's right," he purred, like Dean fucking needed praise for this.
Dean growled and shoved at Sam, but Sam was ready: he grabbed on to Dean's shoulders and they went rolling across the bed together, and somehow Dean ended up on his stomach, Sam straddling him, one hand on Dean's neck to keep his head down against the pillows.
By putting every ounce of his strength into it, Dean was able to push up on his arms just enough to feel Sam's fingers press into his windpipe. One-handed, Sam couldn't cut off his airway entirely, but it was still a threat. Sam's cock seemed even bigger from this angle, pressed against Dean's ass.
"I remember wanting to touch you all the time," Sam said, running his hand up Dean's back, under his shirt. "Not sexually, not specifically. Just feel you, your skin, your pulse. Even before you made your deal. I wasted a lot of time not touching you."
"Sam," Dean said, because he couldn't say please.
Sam sighed, like Dean was just eating with his mouth open or something equally annoying. "Would it help if I made you?"
Dean couldn't move. If he said no and then fought hard enough, he could convince Sam he was serious about the no. Almost for sure. Probably. But he was dizzy-drunk and corrupt from Hell and his brother had no soul, and his head dropped down below his shoulders as he whispered the word like he was making another deal. "Yes."
"Fine," Sam said, pulling at Dean's boxers with his free hand, tangling as Dean tried to rise to his knees, not quite sure whether he was helping or resisting. Either way, Sam quickly had him naked from the waist down, and then almost instantly a cold, slick finger was prodding at his ass. Dean didn't know whether to be grateful that Sam had been ready for this, or even more freaked.
"You're so tight," Sam said, like it was a surprise. "How long?" He gave Dean time to answer, then went on, "Not since Lisa, anyway."
Just like you told me, Dean thought, and grunted as another finger entered him. He wasn't struggling any more, and Sam allowed him to get his hands and knees under himself, making the angle better.
"I used to wonder how you picked them," Sam said conversationally. "You had standards, obviously, even if I didn't get them, but I could never figure it out."
And maybe it was just that Dean could do dirty talk, or maybe it was a chance to talk at the Sam he'd lost, but he wanted to explain. "Anybody—unh!—anybody wants to suck my cock, I'm good. If I'm fucking or going down, 's a girl. I just, I like pussy better."
"And getting fucked?" Sam asked, coolly, adding a third finger, stretching him right to where the pain and the pleasure balanced out, just the way Dean liked it.
Dean dropped his head until his forehead touched the pillow. "Needed—needed to remind me of you." All he had to see was a flash—dimples, the way a guy pushed the hair out of his eyes, once even the way he plunked a shotglass down on the bar after tossing the shot back. A couple of times Dean had let dark-eyed smart girls with smarter mouths peg him, groaning as they opened him up while he squeezed their tits. It was best when they were big, though, heavy enough that when they held him down it felt real. He didn't go out intending to get fucked a lot—too dangerous, who knew what Sam would get into his head—but he liked it. Got him through a few bad nights. Pre-Hell anyway; after Hell there wasn't anything that got him through a whole night other than Jim Beam and stubbornness.
Sam made a little pleased sound. "It's weird, how much time I spent not quite thinking about what you were doing out there. It's like I was afraid of saying anything, but I can't tell you why."
He moved his fingers carefully and Dean half-sobbed. Of course Sam without a soul didn't have the first idea why he would have tried not to think too hard about his brother's sickness. God, his fingers, so strong, like Dean had always—and the smell of him, so familiar, completely unchanged from the real thing.
"You love this," Sam said, wonderingly, like it was a surprise even now. Nothing like Alastair's silky-slick confidence in Dean when Dean came off the rack, but it made him feel just as helpless. This is your choice, Alastair whispered in the back of his head.
Dean couldn't stand it; he flailed back, trying to push Sam off, but Sam just shoved Dean so hard that he was pressed up against the headboard, wedged there as Sam forced his knees even wider. The head of his cock pressed against Dean, big and wet and lube-cool, not enough time to warm up before Sam fucked forward, grunting as he got inside.
Dean muffled the noises he was making in the pillow, shaking as Sam worked himself deeper, slow measured thrusts like this was just another of his exercises. Sam put a hand under Dean, just pulling him up and back, until Dean was up on his hands and knees, staring at the fake wood grain an inch from his nose. Sam's hand was hot on his belly, Sam's cock was thick and invasive inside him, heat pouring off him and onto Dean's back even though Sam wasn't touching him there. Dean moaned and Sam stuck his fingers into Dean's mouth so Dean could suck on them and shut himself up. Sam around and on and through him, like rot, like his own blood.
Sam pulled on Dean's hip one last time, so that he was all but sitting on Sam's dick, and wrapped his hand around Dean's cock. His skin was damp with sweat, and that was just enough to avoid too much pain from the friction. Dean's thighs were aching with strain and he could barely breathe, Sam's fingers rough and salty against his tongue. He could feel the orgasm rushing towards him, like something deep in the earth arrowing his way—
And Sam clamped his fingers down at the base just before Dean came, forcing it away. Dean yowled, unable even to bite Sam in protest, as Sam fucked faster and then stilled, so deep that Dean was already aching. His hand came down to Dean's shoulder, with his other still circling Dean's erection.
"Aaaah," Sam sighed, and somewhere in the overwhelming sensation Dean felt the pulse of his cock.
"Motherfucker," he all but screamed. "What the—"
Sam hooked his chin over Dean's shoulder, another point of pressure as the bone dug into Dean's skin. "Shh, I want to watch, just give me a minute—" His tone was reasonable, pleased even, which was not so surprising given that he'd just gotten to come. He did some pushing and pulling and then Dean was free, still achingly hard, already feeling the wet slip-slide of Sam's come between his thighs.
"Turn over," Sam ordered, and that was it, Dean had damned himself deeper than ever and Sam was still this selfish soulless bastard; Dean wasn't going to play any more.
"Fuck you," he snarled, and started to roll away. He was out of here. He didn't fucking care if he ended up streaking bareassed to the car to spend the night.
But Sam just reached out and flipped him over, bringing his forearm down over Dean's neck so quickly that Dean didn't even have time to breathe. And then he couldn't, what with Sam pressing down hard.
His vision grayed and started to spark at the edges. Sam kept the pressure on as he pushed and shoved himself back inside—even in the middle of everything Dean was kind of shocked that the recovery period apparently disappeared with the soul, either that or Sam was just always a machine—and Dean's awareness narrowed to his straining lungs and the pounding Sam was giving him, each thrust now setting off explosions just behind Dean's eyes.
It felt like being down two pints of blood and replacing them with whiskey; fuzzy and held together by spiderweb. He would've floated away if not for Sam's arm across his throat and Sam's cock up his ass. He was spinning, flying in place, flickering like a candle in a fast breeze. Sam loomed above him, gaze as hungry as he'd ever seen, all that intensity narrowed in on him. Watching Dean's mouth open and close, as useless gasping for breath as it'd ever been asking for what he wanted. Dean couldn't think, and that made this, Sam, closer to perfect than he ever thought he'd get.
Just as the orgasm started, Sam pulled his weight back enough that Dean could suck in a breath, a scream in reverse, air rushing in as everything in his head exploded. Dean was dynamited, grateful to fall into the whiteout, pleasure going all the way over into pain and back again.
Dean wasn't surprised to wake up alone and sticky-cold, stomach and wet spot under his ass both. Well, he was a little surprised to wake up at all, what with Michael and the others not around to resurrect him every time he got his fool self killed. But given his continued existence, of course Sam wouldn't have cleaned him up, hands tender and careful of his oversensitive skin. Sam wouldn't have gotten in the bed behind him, tugging him over until he was the little spoon, whispering 'shut up' into his neck even though Dean wouldn't have said anything. Sam wouldn't have fallen asleep with the covers tangled around his waist, one arm over Dean so that Dean couldn't move, ensuring that Dean's skin exposed to the air was freezing and the parts in contact with Sam were summer-sweaty.
Dean turned his head and found Sam, sitting at his computer, typing occasionally. He'd bothered to put shorts on, at least, though that was probably just for comfort.
"Sam," Dean rasped, and winced. His voice was going to be out of commission for at least a day.
Sam heard him fine, though, and the keyboard clattered for a couple more seconds before Sam twisted in his chair. "Yeah, Dean?"
Dean kind of wanted to pretend that his Sam was there, just to talk to. Apologize, and imagine Sam doing the same, even though Sam had nothing to be sorry for, seeing as how it turned out that he wasn't actually the freak in the family, not the natural-born one.
But he was still pretty drunk, and he could tell he was going to pass out again, so he didn't have time for fairytales. "We're not doin' this again, Sam," he said, and even though he was flat on his back and sounded like he'd gotten in a growl-off with Castiel, it came out sounding like he needed it to: game over, deal done.
"Sure, Dean," Sam said, and smiled that little liar's grin of his, because what the fuck did he care if Dean got his words in order?
Dean grunted and let himself go under, because there was nothing else to do.
But Dean never had to find out just how much this Sam was like the real one for ignoring how Dean said the world was going to be, because right quick after that Dean had his talk with Death. And then there was Sam's wall, and it wasn't even selfish for Dean to want that wall to stay six feet thick. He knew it bothered Sam, thinking about all the chicks his body'd slept with, like being possessed only worse. And that was straight-up hookups, normal on the girl's side. However badly Sam would've taken Dean's secret otherwise, if he remembered now he'd hate himself as much as he'd hate Dean.
And the best part of it was: now, when Dean thought about it, he had a model. There'd always been a chance that it was just some sick fantasy, nothing he'd ever really do, but now he knew better. Worse.
Sam's wall protected him from a lot of stuff. But nothing Down Under was as bad for Sam as the man sitting beside him, and this Dean knew the way he knew his guns. Objectively, fucking Sam's body wasn't even the worst thing he'd done, though it definitely proved that he was still on a downward trajectory.
It wasn't selfish for Dean to want that wall to stay in place. What was selfish was dreaming about Sam, hands wrapped around Dean's throat, giving him exactly what he wanted and exactly what he deserved.
He wondered, a lot, whether Sam really knew. If so, he was better at denial than most of the folks who'd seen a ghost. He shared rooms with Dean, walked around in just his shorts, even kept up some of that ridiculous workout, and Dean tried not to look and tried not to avoid looking.
Sam did ask, even if he didn't know what he was asking: For a couple of days after he'd gotten most of the story from Castiel, he spent a while switching between staring at Dean and not being able to meet his eyes. Finally, just when Dean was about to start yelling about it, he sat down on his bed and put his hands between his knees and pulled out the sincerest face of all.
"What?" Dean asked, wary and ready to up and leave if necessary.
"Did I … do anything to you, before I got my soul back? And don't say it wasn't me," Sam said as Dean opened his mouth.
"Okay, I'll lie," Dean snapped. "And, yeah, Sam, you got me turned into a vampire." And let me think you were burning in Hell, he didn't say, because in fact that part had been true, for all Aboveground Sam would've disputed the point.
Sam, who'd extracted the (literally) gory details about the whole vamp thing early on, stared down at his hands. "But after that, you didn't—nothing happened."
"Uh, I gave you a massive beatdown?" It was a given that Dean didn't like where this was going—he didn't like where it started—but he was getting a twisted feeling in his stomach. He wanted a drink now almost as much as he'd wanted one the entire time with desouled Sam.
Sam held himself very still. "So, once I knew that you wouldn't leave me, no matter what I did—was there anything else?"
Like nearly killing Bobby? Dean almost asked, except that Sam knew that part too already. "You didn't rip off any babies' heads, if that's what you're asking."
"I'm asking about you," Sam huffed, and Dean just couldn't think about that.
He turned so that he was facing the door. "Soulless you was a shitty roommate," he said. "Never brought me breakfast, used all the towels. 'm glad you're back," he mumbled, because maybe that was what Sam needed, or at least what would shut him the fuck up.
Sam sighed, like Dean had disappointed him again. "I'm glad I'm back too," he said. "I just—when has hiding stuff from each other ever worked for us?"
Dean thought that, while Sam had told way too many lies to Dean's face, things might've gone better for them if Dean had never coughed up the truth about what Dad had told him about having to kill Sam—that seed had grown into Sam's conviction that he was different, and worse, than the rest of them. Plus, Dean's nasty little secret wasn't the same, and he'd been keeping it just fine since Castiel pulled him out of the earth.
He turned, enough that he could see Sam, still with his shoulders hunched like he expected Dean to start whaling on him and wasn't planning to defend himself. "I don't know what you think went on," he said, "and I don't know what happened that year you were out on your own, 'cause I sure as shit don't count Samuel and his crew. But you and me, we're good."
Sam turned wet eyes to him and Dean resisted the urge to go—yeah, he resisted the urge. "Okay," Sam said, soft, releasing Dean to flee to the bathroom.
Sam had more than made up for everything he'd done that ended up helping the angels uncage Lucifer. But they'd shared a Heaven, him and Sam, and that meant that there was only one way Sam would ever be free of Dean (assuming that Heaven didn't care enough to lobotomize Dean, and they already knew how little anyone up there paid attention). Dean was okay with that. He'd fight as hard as he could to make sure Sam went out old and contented, though honestly he wasn't laying good odds on either. Then he'd go back to Hell, and he'd complete the formalities so his eyes matched his soul.
Sam would be safe then, and Dean would be proud of his own corruption. When Dean tightened his hand around his own throat, when he leaned against the shower wall and let the pleasure take the world away for a minute, he let himself think about it, and, just for a little while, he was happy.
Summary: RoboSam's got a great idea: it's efficient and fun!
NC-17, Sam/Dean, dubious consent and breathplay. Spoilers to date.
Thanks to
giandujakiss for beta.Of all the things Dean feared RoboSam would do next, saying "We should fuck" like he was replaying the last scene in Eyes Wide Shut hadn't even been on the list.
"The fuck!?" Dean yelped, skittering backwards until he stumbled into the nightstand. He didn't feel it, what with the shock and the half bottle of Jack he'd put away, hoping to get some sleep.
Sam shrugged. "I want to get laid. You don't like it when I go out and find a girl." He stepped forward again. "And I know you think about it."
Dean froze, every muscle tensed.
He'd thought that was his secret: one of the lasting deformities of forty years in Hell. Or, really, on his good days, that's how he tried to see it, though honestly his memories of life with Sam before Hell were faded enough that he could easily be wrong. Alastair might've just cultivated something neglected and denied beforehand. His love for Sam, after all, had never been right.
Sam couldn't have known. If he had, he would've dumped Dean long before the final seal broke. That's what Dean had thought, anyway, but now—
Dean swallowed the panic down like a mouthful of blood. Just because soulless Sam had figured it out, just because he didn't have a shred of morality keeping him from even thinking something so twisted, that didn't mean Sam knew.
Dean couldn't ask.
Sam smiled at him, the friendly grin he had for witnesses and other people they lied to. "It's okay."
"It's not okay!" Dean yelled. "And you saying that just proves how very not okay it is!" He thought for half a second about his gun, about whether he had the time and the space to grab it, then let the idea die. Anything he needed to say to Sam he could say with his hands.
"I don't understand," Sam said—truer fucking words—"You want to have sex with me, I want to have sex with you. I mean, I know that we're not supposed to want to, but given that we already do, why is it worse to do it than to want it?"
"I don't want to have sex with you," Dean told him, and it was almost half true.
Sam was in his face even before Dean stopped talking, hands wrapping around his biceps, pulling him in close. His mouth was hot, teeth sharp against Dean's lip as Sam bent him back, one hand coming up to cup the back of Dean's neck and hold him in place. He kissed like he fought now, brutal and overwhelming and with an underlying precision that was probably the most unnerving part.
Dean wrenched himself back, earning more bruises from the nightstand. "No, Sam." He wanted it to come out like his other orders, irritated and unhesitating. He had no idea what Sam was hearing.
Sure enough, Sam made one of those lightning-quick moves, and Dean was staring up at him from his position flat on the bed. Sam smirked and pulled off his T-shirt. Dean felt his eyes widening, but his face was numb, the drunk kicking in hard now along with the surprise. Sam's body—Jesus, Dean'd think that Sam had done a ritual to ensure that every bite Sam ate ended up around Dean's middle instead, except that Dean knew Sam took his pullups as seriously as Dean took his drinking. Like that, Sam was on top of him, arms bracketing Dean's as he looked down. His lower half rested heavily on Dean, rough denim grinding against Dean's legs. "Come on," he said, breath hot against Dean's skin. "I'll make it good." Dean felt the pressure of Sam's half-hard cock, and his own body was already responding to the friction and to Sam's tone.
"You're sick," he said, telling his stupid fists to rise up and smack Sam a good one. Make his nose bleed, make his mouth swell, mark him up.
Sam only shook his head a little, lips quirked. "I don't have a soul. What's your excuse?" He thrust his hips against Dean's and closed his eyes, head going back to expose the arrowline of his throat while Dean rocked up into him unthinkingly. "Mmm, that's right," he purred, like Dean fucking needed praise for this.
Dean growled and shoved at Sam, but Sam was ready: he grabbed on to Dean's shoulders and they went rolling across the bed together, and somehow Dean ended up on his stomach, Sam straddling him, one hand on Dean's neck to keep his head down against the pillows.
By putting every ounce of his strength into it, Dean was able to push up on his arms just enough to feel Sam's fingers press into his windpipe. One-handed, Sam couldn't cut off his airway entirely, but it was still a threat. Sam's cock seemed even bigger from this angle, pressed against Dean's ass.
"I remember wanting to touch you all the time," Sam said, running his hand up Dean's back, under his shirt. "Not sexually, not specifically. Just feel you, your skin, your pulse. Even before you made your deal. I wasted a lot of time not touching you."
"Sam," Dean said, because he couldn't say please.
Sam sighed, like Dean was just eating with his mouth open or something equally annoying. "Would it help if I made you?"
Dean couldn't move. If he said no and then fought hard enough, he could convince Sam he was serious about the no. Almost for sure. Probably. But he was dizzy-drunk and corrupt from Hell and his brother had no soul, and his head dropped down below his shoulders as he whispered the word like he was making another deal. "Yes."
"Fine," Sam said, pulling at Dean's boxers with his free hand, tangling as Dean tried to rise to his knees, not quite sure whether he was helping or resisting. Either way, Sam quickly had him naked from the waist down, and then almost instantly a cold, slick finger was prodding at his ass. Dean didn't know whether to be grateful that Sam had been ready for this, or even more freaked.
"You're so tight," Sam said, like it was a surprise. "How long?" He gave Dean time to answer, then went on, "Not since Lisa, anyway."
Just like you told me, Dean thought, and grunted as another finger entered him. He wasn't struggling any more, and Sam allowed him to get his hands and knees under himself, making the angle better.
"I used to wonder how you picked them," Sam said conversationally. "You had standards, obviously, even if I didn't get them, but I could never figure it out."
And maybe it was just that Dean could do dirty talk, or maybe it was a chance to talk at the Sam he'd lost, but he wanted to explain. "Anybody—unh!—anybody wants to suck my cock, I'm good. If I'm fucking or going down, 's a girl. I just, I like pussy better."
"And getting fucked?" Sam asked, coolly, adding a third finger, stretching him right to where the pain and the pleasure balanced out, just the way Dean liked it.
Dean dropped his head until his forehead touched the pillow. "Needed—needed to remind me of you." All he had to see was a flash—dimples, the way a guy pushed the hair out of his eyes, once even the way he plunked a shotglass down on the bar after tossing the shot back. A couple of times Dean had let dark-eyed smart girls with smarter mouths peg him, groaning as they opened him up while he squeezed their tits. It was best when they were big, though, heavy enough that when they held him down it felt real. He didn't go out intending to get fucked a lot—too dangerous, who knew what Sam would get into his head—but he liked it. Got him through a few bad nights. Pre-Hell anyway; after Hell there wasn't anything that got him through a whole night other than Jim Beam and stubbornness.
Sam made a little pleased sound. "It's weird, how much time I spent not quite thinking about what you were doing out there. It's like I was afraid of saying anything, but I can't tell you why."
He moved his fingers carefully and Dean half-sobbed. Of course Sam without a soul didn't have the first idea why he would have tried not to think too hard about his brother's sickness. God, his fingers, so strong, like Dean had always—and the smell of him, so familiar, completely unchanged from the real thing.
"You love this," Sam said, wonderingly, like it was a surprise even now. Nothing like Alastair's silky-slick confidence in Dean when Dean came off the rack, but it made him feel just as helpless. This is your choice, Alastair whispered in the back of his head.
Dean couldn't stand it; he flailed back, trying to push Sam off, but Sam just shoved Dean so hard that he was pressed up against the headboard, wedged there as Sam forced his knees even wider. The head of his cock pressed against Dean, big and wet and lube-cool, not enough time to warm up before Sam fucked forward, grunting as he got inside.
Dean muffled the noises he was making in the pillow, shaking as Sam worked himself deeper, slow measured thrusts like this was just another of his exercises. Sam put a hand under Dean, just pulling him up and back, until Dean was up on his hands and knees, staring at the fake wood grain an inch from his nose. Sam's hand was hot on his belly, Sam's cock was thick and invasive inside him, heat pouring off him and onto Dean's back even though Sam wasn't touching him there. Dean moaned and Sam stuck his fingers into Dean's mouth so Dean could suck on them and shut himself up. Sam around and on and through him, like rot, like his own blood.
Sam pulled on Dean's hip one last time, so that he was all but sitting on Sam's dick, and wrapped his hand around Dean's cock. His skin was damp with sweat, and that was just enough to avoid too much pain from the friction. Dean's thighs were aching with strain and he could barely breathe, Sam's fingers rough and salty against his tongue. He could feel the orgasm rushing towards him, like something deep in the earth arrowing his way—
And Sam clamped his fingers down at the base just before Dean came, forcing it away. Dean yowled, unable even to bite Sam in protest, as Sam fucked faster and then stilled, so deep that Dean was already aching. His hand came down to Dean's shoulder, with his other still circling Dean's erection.
"Aaaah," Sam sighed, and somewhere in the overwhelming sensation Dean felt the pulse of his cock.
"Motherfucker," he all but screamed. "What the—"
Sam hooked his chin over Dean's shoulder, another point of pressure as the bone dug into Dean's skin. "Shh, I want to watch, just give me a minute—" His tone was reasonable, pleased even, which was not so surprising given that he'd just gotten to come. He did some pushing and pulling and then Dean was free, still achingly hard, already feeling the wet slip-slide of Sam's come between his thighs.
"Turn over," Sam ordered, and that was it, Dean had damned himself deeper than ever and Sam was still this selfish soulless bastard; Dean wasn't going to play any more.
"Fuck you," he snarled, and started to roll away. He was out of here. He didn't fucking care if he ended up streaking bareassed to the car to spend the night.
But Sam just reached out and flipped him over, bringing his forearm down over Dean's neck so quickly that Dean didn't even have time to breathe. And then he couldn't, what with Sam pressing down hard.
His vision grayed and started to spark at the edges. Sam kept the pressure on as he pushed and shoved himself back inside—even in the middle of everything Dean was kind of shocked that the recovery period apparently disappeared with the soul, either that or Sam was just always a machine—and Dean's awareness narrowed to his straining lungs and the pounding Sam was giving him, each thrust now setting off explosions just behind Dean's eyes.
It felt like being down two pints of blood and replacing them with whiskey; fuzzy and held together by spiderweb. He would've floated away if not for Sam's arm across his throat and Sam's cock up his ass. He was spinning, flying in place, flickering like a candle in a fast breeze. Sam loomed above him, gaze as hungry as he'd ever seen, all that intensity narrowed in on him. Watching Dean's mouth open and close, as useless gasping for breath as it'd ever been asking for what he wanted. Dean couldn't think, and that made this, Sam, closer to perfect than he ever thought he'd get.
Just as the orgasm started, Sam pulled his weight back enough that Dean could suck in a breath, a scream in reverse, air rushing in as everything in his head exploded. Dean was dynamited, grateful to fall into the whiteout, pleasure going all the way over into pain and back again.
Dean wasn't surprised to wake up alone and sticky-cold, stomach and wet spot under his ass both. Well, he was a little surprised to wake up at all, what with Michael and the others not around to resurrect him every time he got his fool self killed. But given his continued existence, of course Sam wouldn't have cleaned him up, hands tender and careful of his oversensitive skin. Sam wouldn't have gotten in the bed behind him, tugging him over until he was the little spoon, whispering 'shut up' into his neck even though Dean wouldn't have said anything. Sam wouldn't have fallen asleep with the covers tangled around his waist, one arm over Dean so that Dean couldn't move, ensuring that Dean's skin exposed to the air was freezing and the parts in contact with Sam were summer-sweaty.
Dean turned his head and found Sam, sitting at his computer, typing occasionally. He'd bothered to put shorts on, at least, though that was probably just for comfort.
"Sam," Dean rasped, and winced. His voice was going to be out of commission for at least a day.
Sam heard him fine, though, and the keyboard clattered for a couple more seconds before Sam twisted in his chair. "Yeah, Dean?"
Dean kind of wanted to pretend that his Sam was there, just to talk to. Apologize, and imagine Sam doing the same, even though Sam had nothing to be sorry for, seeing as how it turned out that he wasn't actually the freak in the family, not the natural-born one.
But he was still pretty drunk, and he could tell he was going to pass out again, so he didn't have time for fairytales. "We're not doin' this again, Sam," he said, and even though he was flat on his back and sounded like he'd gotten in a growl-off with Castiel, it came out sounding like he needed it to: game over, deal done.
"Sure, Dean," Sam said, and smiled that little liar's grin of his, because what the fuck did he care if Dean got his words in order?
Dean grunted and let himself go under, because there was nothing else to do.
But Dean never had to find out just how much this Sam was like the real one for ignoring how Dean said the world was going to be, because right quick after that Dean had his talk with Death. And then there was Sam's wall, and it wasn't even selfish for Dean to want that wall to stay six feet thick. He knew it bothered Sam, thinking about all the chicks his body'd slept with, like being possessed only worse. And that was straight-up hookups, normal on the girl's side. However badly Sam would've taken Dean's secret otherwise, if he remembered now he'd hate himself as much as he'd hate Dean.
And the best part of it was: now, when Dean thought about it, he had a model. There'd always been a chance that it was just some sick fantasy, nothing he'd ever really do, but now he knew better. Worse.
Sam's wall protected him from a lot of stuff. But nothing Down Under was as bad for Sam as the man sitting beside him, and this Dean knew the way he knew his guns. Objectively, fucking Sam's body wasn't even the worst thing he'd done, though it definitely proved that he was still on a downward trajectory.
It wasn't selfish for Dean to want that wall to stay in place. What was selfish was dreaming about Sam, hands wrapped around Dean's throat, giving him exactly what he wanted and exactly what he deserved.
He wondered, a lot, whether Sam really knew. If so, he was better at denial than most of the folks who'd seen a ghost. He shared rooms with Dean, walked around in just his shorts, even kept up some of that ridiculous workout, and Dean tried not to look and tried not to avoid looking.
Sam did ask, even if he didn't know what he was asking: For a couple of days after he'd gotten most of the story from Castiel, he spent a while switching between staring at Dean and not being able to meet his eyes. Finally, just when Dean was about to start yelling about it, he sat down on his bed and put his hands between his knees and pulled out the sincerest face of all.
"What?" Dean asked, wary and ready to up and leave if necessary.
"Did I … do anything to you, before I got my soul back? And don't say it wasn't me," Sam said as Dean opened his mouth.
"Okay, I'll lie," Dean snapped. "And, yeah, Sam, you got me turned into a vampire." And let me think you were burning in Hell, he didn't say, because in fact that part had been true, for all Aboveground Sam would've disputed the point.
Sam, who'd extracted the (literally) gory details about the whole vamp thing early on, stared down at his hands. "But after that, you didn't—nothing happened."
"Uh, I gave you a massive beatdown?" It was a given that Dean didn't like where this was going—he didn't like where it started—but he was getting a twisted feeling in his stomach. He wanted a drink now almost as much as he'd wanted one the entire time with desouled Sam.
Sam held himself very still. "So, once I knew that you wouldn't leave me, no matter what I did—was there anything else?"
Like nearly killing Bobby? Dean almost asked, except that Sam knew that part too already. "You didn't rip off any babies' heads, if that's what you're asking."
"I'm asking about you," Sam huffed, and Dean just couldn't think about that.
He turned so that he was facing the door. "Soulless you was a shitty roommate," he said. "Never brought me breakfast, used all the towels. 'm glad you're back," he mumbled, because maybe that was what Sam needed, or at least what would shut him the fuck up.
Sam sighed, like Dean had disappointed him again. "I'm glad I'm back too," he said. "I just—when has hiding stuff from each other ever worked for us?"
Dean thought that, while Sam had told way too many lies to Dean's face, things might've gone better for them if Dean had never coughed up the truth about what Dad had told him about having to kill Sam—that seed had grown into Sam's conviction that he was different, and worse, than the rest of them. Plus, Dean's nasty little secret wasn't the same, and he'd been keeping it just fine since Castiel pulled him out of the earth.
He turned, enough that he could see Sam, still with his shoulders hunched like he expected Dean to start whaling on him and wasn't planning to defend himself. "I don't know what you think went on," he said, "and I don't know what happened that year you were out on your own, 'cause I sure as shit don't count Samuel and his crew. But you and me, we're good."
Sam turned wet eyes to him and Dean resisted the urge to go—yeah, he resisted the urge. "Okay," Sam said, soft, releasing Dean to flee to the bathroom.
Sam had more than made up for everything he'd done that ended up helping the angels uncage Lucifer. But they'd shared a Heaven, him and Sam, and that meant that there was only one way Sam would ever be free of Dean (assuming that Heaven didn't care enough to lobotomize Dean, and they already knew how little anyone up there paid attention). Dean was okay with that. He'd fight as hard as he could to make sure Sam went out old and contented, though honestly he wasn't laying good odds on either. Then he'd go back to Hell, and he'd complete the formalities so his eyes matched his soul.
Sam would be safe then, and Dean would be proud of his own corruption. When Dean tightened his hand around his own throat, when he leaned against the shower wall and let the pleasure take the world away for a minute, he let himself think about it, and, just for a little while, he was happy.
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Brilliant, though. This story, like all of your stories, made me go "Oh, Dean" a lot.
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Great story.
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