Author: Regala Electra
Spoilers: SPN S7, Meet The New Boss
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language
Word Count: 2,552
Summary: Sam lets go because he has to have faith in Dean since there’s not much else out there left for them to hope for. He can’t quite close his eyes either, as the shadows are there too, waiting for him.
Author's Notes: Written for salt_burn_porn with the prompt: nothing like a little sin. Thanks to memphis86 for the beta.
Lucifer is patient he tells Sam, Michael would not be so. He cants his head to the side, eyes full of his treacherous sympathy. The memories, he decides, that’s how we’ll begin.
It’s each first that’s the worst, the sharpest memory twisted into ruins.
He kisses him like he’s pulling from a cheap, forgettable beer, pushing him away when he’s taken his fill. This is how he will remember it from now on, how Dean can barely look him in the eye afterwards.
Sam’s grip on Dean’s hip leaves bruises that linger on for days; the kind that purple into blossoming yellow, the spring of Dean’s eventual death. He brushes Sam’s hands away, every time, they know his days are numbered and Dean is still defiant.
Don’t start getting teary-eyed on me now, Sam. Why don’t we just fuck and forget it.
You hold him down and mark him as your own. Did you press your hand over the angel’s scar and regret that you did not save him like you promised?
Sam tastes the bitter tang of demon blood and spits, mouth dry, parched.
Lucifer’s smile is bright in the shadows.
Dean gets so fucking drunk it’s like he’s forgotten how to receive a blowjob, slipping out of Sam’s mouth in haste, grabbing the back of Sam’s hair and muttering something that Sam can barely translate into actual words, though his name must’ve been mixed in there.
“No, c’mon,” Dean says against Sam’s mouth and he’s tugging Sam over him, pressing hard against the crappy motel mattress, taking the full weight of Sam like it’s nothing. The magic fingers buzz intermittently like it’s on its own haphazard schedule and just as it kicks on again, Dean’s got his hands shoved between them, opening up Sam’s jeans. He’s still got good reflexes, even though Sam’s almost getting tipsy from the smack of Jack Daniels in Dean’s mouth.
Sam helps him line their cocks up as they fuck against each other, regretting that it feels good when it’s so desperately sloppy, how he’d just have to pause for a moment to grab some lube and make it smoother but there’s no way he’s stopping. There’s sweat pooling at the hollow of Dean’s throat and he licks it away and kisses the salt into Dean’s mouth, mumbles how he could’ve been pushing come into Dean’s mouth.
Dean bites Sam’s bottom lip hard when he comes.
He’ll barely remember it in the morning and eventually Sam pretends it never happened too.
I will absolve you of your guilt. Close your eyes.
Lucifer’s lips are ashes on his eyelids.
One day you’ll be free from this hunger.
The first time they really fuck it’s stone cold sober and imperfect and they don’t talk about it after, just clean up and sleep in the other queen bed that isn’t rumpled and sex-soaked. Sam knows they barely fit and he might kick Dean his sleep but they settle there without any words.
Dean showers at some point in the morning while Sam’s still sleeping. He combs a hand through Sam’s tangled hair to get him to wake up. “Might be some hot water left for you.”
That’s all the conversation they have.
The next time it happens, Dean ribs him in the car about the hickeys Sam left on him.
“You could wear a scarf,” Sam suggests and Dean stares incredulously at him before asking if he should also wear a skirt with it too and if Sam’s got a letterman jacket so everyone’ll know they’re going steady.
“’Cause if we’re doing the 50s, the least you can do is invite me to a sockhop or take me to a malt shop. I’m not easy, you know.”
Sam gives him a handjob while driving and Dean doesn’t complain anymore.
“We’re gonna stop this one day,” Dean tells him after he’s blown Sam in a dark alley, their hunt a total bust so far.
“So let’s focus on today.” It’s a lie, and Sam winces a little when he’s zipping his fly up, a chill arching down his spine, because this is now but it’s going dim and he waits for Dean to make a joke but he doesn’t remember what happens next.
“Wake up, Sam.”
It’s Dean and not Lucifer this time with the orders, jolting him out of his shattered past. An interesting flip of the script and he almost shakes his head no.
Dean fists Sam’s hair, the pain sudden and hot. The sharpness doesn’t cut into the memories he has left; it grounds him.
Take, take, take. They’ve taken so much from each other. He keeps a steady gaze with Dean, wondering what new dilemma faces them other than the end of the world all over again.
“Let me do this,” Dean says. “Please Sammy.”
Dean’s pieced the Impala back together with his bare hands time and time again, who’s to say he can’t do the same with Sam?
“Let me do this and don’t let anything else stand between us.”
“There’s just us,” Sam agrees because he isn’t looking in the shadows now, not when he’s focusing on Dean’s eyes.
The tension in Dean’s hands is tight as he holds Sam close, pressing his face against Sam’s neck, nose nudging against his throat. Sam can feel rather than hear the almost defeated laugh. He knows what it means—I don’t want to lose you, not again. And again. Hand over fist, they’ve fought until their knuckles are bloody and lost so many times. They’ve challenged Death and he’s sure it’ll be painful when Death finally claims them both, penance for their own defiance of the natural order and for their insolence in treating Death as an ally.
But they are not dead yet.
Sam lets go because he has to have faith in Dean since there’s not much else out there left for them to hope for. He can’t quite close his eyes either, as the shadows are there too, waiting for him.
They’re never tender with each other, is the thing. Sure, sometimes unease brought caution but this act together, but it was never gentle or sincere.
There is a goal in mind and as Dean had it finely ingrained, the act is simple. There is nothing nobler than fucking and without orgasms, it’s a pointless venture, so the better the orgasm, the finer the job and Dean might not have been good in school but he knows a gold star worthy accomplishment. Dean’s always been happy to brag about conquests; newly learned techniques, refusing to be called out for all hat and no cattle.
That single-mindedness has given Sam a good arsenal of jokes at his disposal; which Dean always seeks to deflate, mostly centering on if it doesn’t feel good what’s the fucking point?
This is the point—it’s the proof that things can be fixed, and Dean is desperate now. Every touch is meant to keep Sam from drifting off, from memories that are free to be wrenched into nightmares. It’s so easy to mangle every good thing he has left.
Dean can’t shut up as he strokes Sam through his jeans, saying how they’re both there and that it’s possible to overcome and win, like his memories aren’t equally tarnished. They’ve both paid too much and there’s a stretch of incalculable time between them—they are men, Dean just in his 30s and Sam almost there, but so much older than that.
Dean always thought he talked a good game and a couple of times Sam let him believe it.
The first time, and there are so many firsts that are hazy now, what is real and what is not is so hard to remember, there is just now, he is sure this is real. The first time. I did this. We did this. Sam. You don’t ever forget your firsts.
That’s what Dean whispers against Sam’s skin as they tug off clothes, remembering.
Lips, tongue, the scrape of teeth follow. The first time Dean touched there, the first scar he healed there, the first scar Sam healed on his own, the first time Dean sucked the thin skin along his pelvis, had complained that it wasn’t fair that Sam has better fuck cuts than he does. The first time Dean sucked Sam off. He’s better at it now, of course, practice makes perfect even if it infuriates Dean that he can’t do everything easily right off the bat with a can-do attitude, at least they got off, so it still counts.
So many firsts, seconds, mores along the way, and he could bring Sam off now with little effort. Two hands around his cock, not quite circling in opposite directions, tonguing over the head, bottom lip dragging over a discovered sensitive spot. Sam could come so easily just from that.
This isn’t easy and this isn’t salvation, though Sam’s sure it’s as close as he could ever get when he hits the back of Dean’s mouth. There’s no hesitation, not a single second of it before he’s pushing into the back of his throat, and his fingers clutch desperately at the soft, short spikes of Dean’s hair.
He hasn’t been told to hold on or to fuck Dean’s face but he does exactly that, a dark moan from Dean as he starts up, a pace that’s utterly selfish. Just from this, he could, he knows he could, he could abuse Dean’s mouth, leave it red and near bruised and Dean takes it, eyes closed, noises coming from him unbidden and broken.
This is only the beginning.
It’s when Dean’s almost has his dick as far as he can ever take him comfortably that Sam’s ready to back off, maybe come on Dean’s face, because he’s in need of marking him too, that it happens, Dean’s arm braces against Sam’s pelvis, stilling him. He doesn’t ask for Sam to let go so Sam runs a hand against Dean’s cheek, a silent question. He can’t form the words.
Dean opens his eyes and winks, just winks and Sam shudders as Dean sinks down further, nose pressing into the thick patch of hair against the base of Sam’s cock. The slide back up is forever, and Dean pulls off with a rough cough, voice harsh as he asks, “You wanna come from this, or me fucking you?”
Can’t it be both? He wants to ask it but he doesn’t.
“Guess I’ll have to improvise,” he mutters, tongue flicking out real quick just to get a taste from the tip, like the pre-come will give him an idea. Dean smiles then and it’s not a shadow of its former self, there are no shadows at all, even in the semi-darkness, there is just Dean almost burning bright, rough hands spreading Sam’s thighs apart. He squeezes hard and smirks when Sam’s breath hitches. “We’re gonna do this right.”
Improvising is right, Sam guesses as Dean takes one of his balls in his mouth, that fucking mouth all pressure and tight, and he does say that out loud. When he’s done making Sam curse him out for that, his tongue makes a truly bizarre trail against his balls, like he’s got no particular aim but Sam thinks all the same that there is some kind of purposeful path, a method to Dean’s particular shade of madness.
His tongue flicks out against the perineum.
“Shouldn’t I turn over for this?”
Dean moves away, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “Always gotta be the boss. We could do that. We could do nothing too. Wanna play tiddlywinks?”
The slap against his thigh is startling, for all the noise it makes, the pain fades away quickly.
Sam’s been hard for too long and Dean knows this. It’s an impasse, a challenge and Sam doesn’t know the right answer. To fall back, accept whatever Dean’s giving him because it’s Dean and that’s all he wants to do, is to keep giving Sam back something that they barely have, a sense of rightness to the world, or to fight. Fighting hasn’t worked out that well for them either.
“You’re not going to fuck me.”
Dean raises an eyebrow but he looks pleased, mouth shiny. “Nope.” His voice is still rough and ruined, otherwise he’d sound cheerful.
“An order or an insult?”
A little of both but Sam feels it’s in his dick’s best interests not to answer. “I could fuck you.”
“Tempting,” Dean says as he wraps his fingers loosely around the base of Sam’s dick. “But you’ll drift off.”
“No, I won’t.”
“What are you thinking about?” Dean asks abruptly. “Just now, not anything in the past.”
“That I really need to come, Dean. Fuck.”
“You or me, we’re fucked together.” It’s weird that Sam finds it uplifting but it does, so much that he doesn’t hesitate when Dean pulls him into a better position, one leg pushed up, knee bent, as Dean licks between his ass.
He’s spread apart almost flying apart when Dean’s tongue traces along the hole, the faintest of hesitation before he pushes in. It has been awhile but the body remembers where his thoughts become disjointed, the dark reluctance from enjoying this almost makes it hotter, as are the sloppy noises as Dean keeps pushing it, setting Sam’s nerves on fire.
Dean’s still gripping the base of Sam’s cock, and he’d do anything for more but it’s enough holding the position, feeling Dean pushing it and out of him, wanting a slicked finger when Dean’s mouth is away, teeth scraping against his ass, worrying the curve.
“Don’t you dare leave a bitemark on my ass,” Sam hisses and he almost considers kicking Dean in the head when he feels the bite but it’s a tease and nothing that’ll leave a mark.
That might have been the right answer all along somehow, because Dean’s licking into him, flicking against the rim before pushing back in and he’s jerking Sam off now with shameless enjoyment, his other hand griping Sam’s ass like Sam would dare move away, not when he’s building towards what’s sure to be everything he needs, right at this fucking moment, this is them, Sam and Dean, and he doesn’t risk pushing Dean further or grabbing at him, clutching the bed sheets as he comes, shooting over his own stomach as Dean’s hand leaves his cock, sliding into the messy streaks.
Dean’s not done tasting, sitting back and licking the come off his fingers, showing evident pleasure at a job well done.
“But you’re—” Sam nods down at Dean’s cock, still hard.
“Suck me off when you can actually finish a sentence. Or I’ll jerk myself off.” Dean shrugs like it’s easy, idly pumping himself while looking at Sam.
Sam blinks and waits for this to shift, for something to sneak out of the shadows. There’s no barrier anymore and everything still lingers close. It’s a touch, Dean’s hand on his knee, that keeps him from staring into the darkness.
“Don’t go there. Not yet.”
“I won’t,” he says. Maybe he’ll even stay sane through the night. He shoves Dean on his back. “My turn now.”
Not even the devil is taking this from him and Sam knows he’ll try.