It was strange, something Dean couldn't entirely explain.
Life was made of all kinds of simplicity—that was what Dean liked best, after all; that's what he could understand: simple. Demons were bad. Leviathan were bad. Ghosts and monsters were bad. Hell, the angels were bad, too. Anything not human was bad. Anything bad needed to go. That was a Hunter's mentality, and that was something simple enough for Dean to live by. It got him through the days, the weeks, of this life he only half-loved. And sometimes, he thought he only half-loved it because it was the only thing he'd ever truly known, and all the attempts he'd made to learn something else had ended in misery.
But then, what about the things that were human? If everything else was evil…if everything they did was for the defense of humankind, what were they supposed to do about the human things that didn't make sense? And the good things monsters did that didn't make sense? That's where the lines got blurry, and that's when he would dip out. Decide he didn't want any part of it. Complexity meant thinking—hard. Making impossible decisions. Dean didn't like that.
Like when they found out demon blood was flowing through Sam's veins. When they discovered Sam was Lucifer's hand-chosen vessel. When Sam lost his soul and wasn't…well, Sam, anymore. When Dean escaped Purgatory…and realized Sam hadn't even tried to search for him. When Sam began the Trials…and Dean had the choice of either saving the world…or saving Sam.
And when Dean realized that the answer would always, always and forever, be Sam.
There had come a time, somewhere along the road, when everything else in Dean's life had faded away to make way for his little brother. At some point, without Dean even noticing, Sam had become the only thing that mattered. He was able to fool himself on occasion, using Kevin's progress or a job as a distraction from the all-consuming feelings that came with Sam's presence—or absence. Every now and then, he could convince himself that there was something else that he cared about. Anything else.
Oh, but there wasn't. There wasn't at all. When he'd surfaced from Purgatory, only one goal was in mind: finding Sammy. His dad was gone. Bobby was gone. Sam was the only one who mattered. He needed to get to his brother. Then he'd discovered what Sam had been up to for the past year. And it wasn't the typical slap-in-the-face he normally felt when his brother did something particularly dick-like. It wasn't…normal at all. Crowley would have been proud, the sheer force of agony Sam's admission had caused him. The idea that Dean had, for an entire year, fought like Hell through the only place comparable to Hell, with only the thought of being reunited with his little brother in mind…and Sam hadn't…even…tried. It still, to this day, made his stomach burn with fury. A fury that only hid his grief.
To realize how much he didn't mean to Sam. To feel like such an idiot for loving him that much…
That wasn't simple. Something in him…had changed in Purgatory. Or perhaps, it was just something that had been awakened by all the shit he'd had to trek through. Purgatory was so different from Hell. In Hell, he'd been helpless. He'd seen and done things that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Purgatory, though, came with a sense of empowerment. He hadn't felt whipped and broken once he'd gotten out…rather, the world itself was clearer. It was all in a single, simple perspective, and only one thing was on his mind: Sam.
But returning to Sam wasn't how it had played out in his head. And even now, when Dean thought about it, he couldn't quite remember how he'd expected Sam to react. It was different, though… So different. As that pain had festered inside him, as Dean sorted through his feelings about Sam's indifference, things started to make sense. But something like that couldn't make sense. It was wrong. So he pretended it was something else.
That's why he'd wanted to do the trials. If he did the Trials, then Sammy would be safe, and Dean wouldn't be around to bother him anymore, and then Sam could have the kind of life he really wanted—the kind of life Dean wasn't able to give him. Stupid Sam. Why couldn't he have just let it happen? Sam…he was still such a baby in some ways. So gentle, so naïve… Always trying to prove something. The right woman would be a perfect remedy. A strong woman who could outsmart the giant, who could put him in his damn place, because God knew Dean couldn't do it anymore. Dean had become too lenient with him. He'd become too…
So Sam did the Trials instead. At first, Dean wanted to fight it with all he had. He still wanted to fight it. He still thought it'd be okay if he died. Sam wouldn't miss Dean as much as Dean would miss Sam. Dean knew that for certain now. But Sammy was Dean's brother. His…partner. And he would do what he could, with the role he was given. He would play that part as best as he was allowed to. He would stand by Sam's side, lift him, support him, he would fuckin' carry him for the rest of his life if the idiot would let him. He would not abandon him. He would not leave his baby brother's side. Ever. No matter what the cost.
Dean slowly, with a sure and strong grip, wrapped his fingers around Sam's open hand, and squeezed. He brought both hands to his lips, where Sam's knuckles rested, warm and far too still. He shut his eyes in a moment of brief, desperate, fleeting prayer, and then opened them again to gaze on his brother's face. It sat like stone, as it had for the past two weeks. Since Sam had given up the trials for good. Since the angels had fallen from Heaven. Since the coma began. A layer of blonde scruff was already softening his steely jawline, even though Dean had cleaned him up less than twenty-four hours ago. A smile broke his firm frown as Dean recalled the time Sam had found his first traces of facial hair. He'd felt like such a man, still stuck in his too-small-for-his-own-strength body. Sam had always been strong. In more ways than one. Dean just wished he wouldn't insist on keeping everything locked inside so much. If he would just…talk to him, damn it.
"Come on, Sammy," he whispered, weakly enough he could barely hear himself. His mouth trembled against Sam's lifeless fingers. Dean felt his eyelids flutter desperately, trying to fight off the tears. Except the tears were always coming in unexpected spurts, every time varying in strength. This time, he couldn't help the gentle stream that leaked out and down his cheeks. "Please don't give up… I need you, Sammy… Don't forget that. I need you…"
I love you.
Except he couldn't say that. It meant something it wasn't supposed to mean now.
"Dean."
He didn't turn. Partly because he didn't want to look away from Sammy. He didn't want to miss it when he opened those beautiful hazel eyes. The other part of him just didn't want to look at Cas. The bastard was all up and down lately—Dean didn't know where his head was at anymore. He didn't really fuckin' care anymore, either. Cas didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He clutched Sam's hand hard.
"You can't ignore what's going on out there forever," Castiel continued, and Dean counted every footstep that resonated in the too-cramped, too-sterile hospital room. "Things are crazier than ever. It's full-out war between the angels and demons. It won't be long before all the stories making the headlines become more than just the occasional local story, Dean. None of the other Hunters are willing to take on this task—"
"Then why don't you clean it up?!" Dean yelled, kicking his chair out from beneath him as he stood. It clattered violently across the room, smashing into the wall and back down onto the floor. All the while, Dean pinned down Castiel with the most hateful stare he could muster, ignoring the tortured, pitiful look in his now-human eyes, and not once did he drop Sam's hand. "This? This one's on you, you bastard! We had nothing to do with it! Now get the hell out of here before I kill you, Cas, because I have had it with you! Do you understand me?"
"I…" Dean could see how it hurt Castiel. He knew. But the pain in his own chest was too much this time. There wasn't anything in the world that could make the misery within him reside, and right now, Cas was one of the things making it infinitely worse. Finally, Cas deflated. "If I could heal him, you know I—"
"Yeah, well, you can't," Dean hissed, squeezing Sam's hand so hard in his, he had to tell himself to inhale deeply and loosen up. "No one can. Because you're not an angel anymore. Nobody is an angel anymore."
"Dean—" He shut his eyes, put everything into the force of his voice.
"Leave!" Silence.
Head down, shoulders slumped, Castiel left. Dean turned and kneeled in one swift movement, pressing his lips together as he took in Sam's limp, sick body once again.
"I'm not leaving you, Sammy," Dean told him, unable to keep his voice from cracking or breaking, unable to keep the tears from burning out of his eyes. He reached out, with his free, shaky hand, and let the backs of his fingers wistfully grace his brother's cheek. He inhaled sharp and deep, and clasped what he could of Sam's skull. The soft, chocolate-blonde hair cushioned his grip, the stubble scratching at his palm. "Everything else can wait. The world can burn for all I care. Without you… I don't want… I can't live in a world without you, Sammy. I can't… I can't…"
The tears rushed, exhausting his words and his breath. Dean let his forehead fall against the hospital cushion, and he let himself sob and mourn for his precious, beloved baby brother.
Sam had travelled his own world many times before. That was, the world inside his head. In his life, it had been a dark place, a confusing and twisted, unmanageable one. It had been a torturous one. An empty one. During the Trials, it had been…blinding. It was as though everything in his mind was being wiped clean, washed away with a blinding, white hot light. Anything that had once made sense, had made him angry, had given the world one of its many, essential layers of complexity, was slowly, excruciatingly extracted from his mind until all that was left was a horrible, primal simplicity. All the walls he'd built over himself, as a child and as an adult…gone. And all alone, he was left exposed and vulnerable to the rest of the world.
It was safer here, in his own world. Where everything was simple and white. He knew, somewhere deep down, that he needed to go back. But he also knew that he couldn't just yet. Literally couldn't. He didn't have the strength to, even if all he wanted was to know what was going on in the realm outside his mind. The idea of it terrified him. Of facing his mess. Of facing…Dean. Would he be disappointed in him?
Of course he would. Dean was always disappointed in everything he did. Sam was the screw-up. The fuck-up. The freak. He was born that way, after all. Dean was a natural at everything he did, and no matter how Sam tried to catch up to him…it just wasn't possible. Sam was the cursed one. Dean had been chosen by Michael, an archangel. Sam? Lucifer. He wrapped his arms around his knees, pulled up close to his chest, and hid the lower half of his face behind his legs. He was dirty, inside and out. Who would want Sam? Least of all, his perfect, untainted brother?
That's what the Trials had made Sam see. It had made everything so clear. Dean would be better off without Sam screwing everything up for him. Dean would be better off. He knew how to Hunt, could survive and thrive off this world. Sam just burned everything he touched.
Don't you dare give up.
Sam raised his head briefly, glancing around the whiteness with aching, red-rimmed eyes. They burned, along with all the rest of him. Not just his body, his face, his wounds, but his very core as well. Hesitant, he turned slowly, searching the area around him for any source of the voice. Had he imagined it, like he imagined everything else? Was it just his wishful thinking getting the better of him again? He was certainly alone in this blanked slate state.
I need you, Sammy. Come back to me…please.
Sam swallowed hard, and with shaking legs, forced himself to stand. Lips trembling, eyes desperately searching, arms spreading out to keep himself balanced. Still, no sign of anyone else manifested before him…but he knew he had heard correctly. And only one person called him that.
"Dean?" he whispered, spinning round and round. "Dean, is that you? Where are you?"
There was no reply. Sam paused, looked down at himself and his own hands. He gnawed on his bottom lip and glanced about the emptiness once again. He had heard him, hadn't he? That had been Dean—he was certain of it. Tentatively, Sam took a step forward. And then another. A few more.
"Dean?" he called out, trying to keep his movements precise. He couldn't let himself get frantic. If he lost his head, he'd, well…lose himself. But the panic that rose up in his chest was impossible to stifle. "I can't find you, Dean!"
The white flickered. He froze, eyes wide, waiting. Had he just…? No, there it was again. Like static on an old television screen, the image blinking in and out. Maybe…if he could get out of this white prison, he'd be able to find Dean. Get back to him. Make him proud, for once. That's all he wanted. Sam kept walking, picking up his pace, and as he did, the white faltered more adamantly. If he just kept going…
He'd been so close. That's why he'd given up. Let go of the Trials, of his fierce determination to set things straight by shutting the gates of Hell. He'd thought, maybe, that if he could put all demons back in their place, it would somehow help him make up for all the evil he'd done in the past. For the demon blood…all the demon blood. But…if Dean didn't want him to…he had to make things up to Dean. That was more important. He didn't know why, but the Trials had helped him see that. They put everything on one level of understanding, and now Sam knew that nothing mattered…except Dean.
The white blacked out so abruptly, Sam skidded to a stop, nearly tumbling to his knees in the process—he caught himself just in time, throwing his hands out to balance himself. All at once, the world was coming into focus around him. Trees around him, the road in front of him, the sound of a perfectly tuned engine and Metallica filling his ears like sweet honey. He turned his head this way and that, taking in the familiar dark interior and warm smell of leather.
"Knock off the gawkin', would ya?" Dean snapped playfully from the driver's seat. Sam twisted his head, taking in his brother with a deep breath. Dean shot him a firm look. "What's your problem?"
"You…" Sam paused, looking around the Impala again before frowning. "This…you aren't real, are you, Dean?"
"What are you talking about?" Dean scoffed, leaning forward to fiddle with the radio. "Did that job mess you up or somethin'?"
"Job?" Sam asked, brow furrowing. Dean glanced at him, growing more concerned. If Sam was right, though, that concern was only a figment of Sam's imagination…or more like…his memory. But here, in this car, this memory could be from anywhere at any time. "What job?"
"Sammy, are you seeing things again?" Dean asked, in that way he did when his voice dropped an octave and got all gruff and scratchy. That tone he used when he took charge, when he was putting Sam in his place. "Look, if we need to go over this whole…Hell, Lucifer…brain damage shit, you let me know, you understand me? You have to let me know, Sam. I can't read your damn mind."
"No, Dean," Sam said, shaking his head furiously. He felt his hair flick across his cheeks; it was long, which meant this memory couldn't have been too long ago. "No, I'm fine. Listen—"
"Yeah, that's what you always say," Dean muttered, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and pursing his lips. His eyes were fixated on the windshield, but his thoughts were miles away. Sam curled his fingers into fists and stared down at his lap. He knew that expression; it was the expression Dean wore whenever Sam had upset him. "But you never let me in."
Please wake up, Sammy. Don't leave me.
"What?" Sam asked, looking back at Dean, who raised an eyebrow at his question and cast him a brief, uninterested look.
"What?" he repeated, but Sam was already looking out the window again. He was definitely in his head…but Dean… The real, present Dean was out there, waiting for him to re-surface. Waiting for him… And he couldn't let him down.
He just might have fucked everything up by abandoning the Trials. But…if he'd fucked them up for Dean…he could live with himself then.
Everything, after all, was starting to make sense.
"I have to go," Sam said, finding his hand on the door handle. Dean whipped his head around at the sound of the door popping open, the sudden whistling of air forcing its way in. "I'm sorry, Dean, but this isn't real. I need it to be real."
"Sammy, what the hell?" Dean yelled, slamming on the brakes, but Sam had already thrown himself out the door.
His feet landed flat on white tile. It took him a moment to compose himself, but when he did, his surroundings became immediately apparent. White jackets flitted by him with purpose, the chorus of beeping from various open doors sounded in his ears like canons, and step by step, he moved toward the room he'd never forget. Touching the frame, he peeked around the corner, and felt his breath catch miserably in his lungs at the sight in front of him.
"Oh, Dean," he breathed, and stumbled forward on to his knees. His hands fumbled earnestly, finding the strong, calloused ones waiting for him, limp and warm on the bed sheets. He brought it up to his face with both of his, closing his eyes for just a moment before staring desperately at this memory, one of his worst. "I almost lost you, Dean… I don't want to relive this."
It seemed like such a long time ago, but the memory was so fresh and vivid, it almost broke him. Not just the sight of Dean, pale and dying on one of the hospital beds he'd come to despise, but the feelings of anxiety, of despair, of horror, that had come with that car accident and the resulting coma… Truth was, Dean really had almost died. If their dad hadn't… Sam squeezed Dean's hand, pressing it to his cheek as the tears came pouring—he felt like he'd spent years crying. He just couldn't stop.
"Dean…" His lungs gasped helplessly against his words, but he forced each one to live. "Don't leave me… I can't do any of this without you… I don't know how."
Sammy…
"Dean?" he straightened up, reaching out with one hand to his brother's face, but his hand came up short. No…it was…from out there again. This Dean, the one in his memory, was as terrifyingly still as he had been all those years ago. Sam bit his lip, then nodded furiously. He stood and made to move to the door, but paused to lean forward and press a kiss tentatively to Dean's forehead. "I'll be back, Dean. I promise. I'm coming."
"Sir, there's someone here to see you," the nurse said from the doorway, careful to keep her distance from him. The first time they'd tried to get his attention, one of the nurses had put his hand on Dean's shoulder and had nearly ended up with a broken arm. "He asked that you meet him in the waiting room."
"Tell him I'm not leavin' Sammy," Dean growled over his shoulder. The chair still sat, toppled and askew, on the floor behind him, but he'd moved now to perch on the edge of the hospital bed. He could be closer to Sam this way. He heard the nurse sigh behind him; they all hated him, he knew. And Dean didn't give two fucks.
"I have work to do, sir," the nurse said patiently. "I can't play messenger all day."
"No one's askin' you to," Dean muttered, but the nurse was already gone. That was what he wanted; to just be alone with Sam.
They'd told him a million times that Sam would be fine if he left for a moment. There were occasions when a particularly kind nurse—there was one in mind who'd been more sympathetic than the rest—would bring him something to eat or drink, to make sure he kept up what strength he could. If he didn't have to, Dean didn't move. He hardly felt hunger or sleep anymore. Sometimes he would just wake up and realize he'd been knocked out for hours. Usually, he'd run to the bathroom or to the vending machine down the hall when the doctors needed him to clear the room to do their work. That was the only time he let them kick him out. He didn't want to get in the way of them fixing his baby brother. Not that they were doing a great job.
"You really think he's going to wake up?"
Dean whipped his head around. Of all the voices he'd been hearing the past three weeks, Kevin's wasn't one he expected. He was standing in the doorway, cleaned up and freshly shaven—but the haunted look in his eyes was no more absent than it had been when Dean had asked him to read the Angel Tablet. Kevin shrugged. There was no pity in his posture, no tact in the way he nodded toward Sam's body, as if Dean hadn't known who he'd been referring to.
"Of course he's going to wake up," Dean snarled, and would have moved at him if it hadn't meant letting go of Sam. But when his voice cracked, and Kevin raised his chin a little bit, Dean knew any attempt of intimidation wasn't going to work this time. It wasn't what had made Cas leave, it wasn't what pissed the nurses off, and it wasn't going to rid him of Kevin's questions. Dean couldn't muster up whatever it was that made people fear him. Not now. Even still, he muttered under his breath, turning back to his brother, "Don't make me beat you, too, idiot."
"Right," Kevin sighed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth before shuffling into the room with long, slow strides. The soles of his shoes slid and squeaked against the tile floor. "And the second you leave will be the moment he decides to wake up, right? So that's why you've glued yourself to his side and completely tuned out everything else?"
"Shut up, Kevin," Dean muttered, refusing to look up and meet those eyes. "I don't need this from you, too."
"Yeah, well actually, you do need it, Dean," Kevin snapped, harshly enough it made Dean lift his gaze. "People are dying out there, Dean, lots of people. Not just Sam. This shit is something you are a part of, whether you like it or not. And you can't just hole yourself away because you're afraid of losing something."
"I have lost everything!" Dean yelled, tearing himself away from Sam and charging toward Kevin so quickly, the prophet took a couple steps back. "You have no idea what I've lost. Don't you go makin' judgments because you have been around to see it all!"
"And what do you think I've lost, Dean?" Kevin asked, choking out a half-laugh and gesturing purposelessly with a wave of his hand. "You have seen it! My girlfriend, my future, my mom."
"I watched my mom burn, gutted, on the ceiling of my baby brother's nursery!" Dean shouted, his voice filling the room like smoke. Like fire. Every word hotter than the last. "My father made a deal with a demon and traded his life for mine! Bobby gave up his life for a fuckin' set of numbers! And do you really want to know how many fuckin' times I have lost Sam?! Do you want to know how many times?!"
"You're going to get us thrown out," Kevin said softly, but Dean had made his point. He glowered over his shoulder, shooting glares at all the people who had stopped in the hall to stare in concern. "Look, Dean… I know you've had a horrible life. That blows. But you can't just ignore what's happening out there."
"Oh, yes I can," Dean hissed, lips stretching into a forced, miserable grin. "And I will. I'm going to sit my ass in this room 'til the end of times if Sam doesn't wake up first."
"What's the point of Sam waking up if he wakes up to a world that's already gone?" Kevin asked him gently; he'd learned in his short time with the Winchesters what made each boy tick. Especially Dean. At the thought, Dean's fists tightened. "You know he'll only hate himself if he sees what's going on. If he had completed the Trials, after all—"
"Don't even," Dean interrupted, holding up his hand. "I don't want those words ever coming out of your mouth. When he wakes up, you so much as mention those damned Trials, and I will slit your throat myself, you hear me?"
"Dean," Kevin said, his once afraid-of-everything eyes now steely and hard. "You're going to have to talk to him about this. You know what this is going to do to him."
"I know," Dean muttered bitterly, kicking at the floor and turning from Kevin, because it was the only thing left to do. "But I'll handle that. Trust me, I'm not letting this one go. What Sam said to me before…you know, before…"
"Heaven fell?"
"Yeah, that," Dean sighed, rubbing his forehead. Shit, he was exhausted. He let his hand drop and his eyes fall on Sam. "There's a lot I need to talk to Sammy about."
"And you aren't going to do anything to help us between now and then?" Kevin asked. It was enough to pique Dean's interest.
"Us?" he repeated. Kevin shrugged.
"Me, Garth…" Kevin hesitated, and then sighed, "You know, Castiel. Some other Hunters. Look, Dean, we know you're upset, but you're the best of us. We don't know what to do without you."
"Yeah, well, what about Sammy?" Dean growled. "When he wakes up all alone, what the hell do you think he's going to be going through?"
"He'll understand—"
"He is broken, Kevin," Dean said, walking back to his brother and putting one, strong hand on Sam's unruly head. He stroked those long curls, Sam's deathly pale forehead. "I can't… I'm all he has left, and I can't…abandon him."
"You can't do nothing either," Kevin said, crossing his arms. Dean turned his head, and looked him dead in the eye.
"Watch me."
Sam stumbled wearily through the next doorway. He'd found the pattern. Every doorway opened as he faced each of his memories, whether good or bad—and there were plenty of both. Sometimes, the good ones hurt more than the bad, because of the longing that came with them. There were all the days his father pressured him to be the Hunter he never wanted to be, the day he left home for Stanford, Jess, Ruby… So many regrets and mistakes and errors. And so many Deans. Dean was everywhere.
He meant to catch himself, but he somehow ended up on his knees instead, breathing heavy and hard. It was getting more difficult, the further he got from the white. Bending over, he propped himself on the floor with one hand, his other arm curling around his stomach. Like he could somehow keep the pain locked in tight…smother it, maybe. There was no getting rid of it, though, at least as far as Sam could see. What the Trials had done to him…it was permanent. It had stripped him of too much.
"Not giving up just yet, I hope."
Sam forced his eyes open in a frown. That voice… Clutching his torso, Sam jerked his head up and scrambled back in the same instant, writhing in agony when the white hot pain shook him violently from the core. The weathered old face, those beady, piercing crow eyes watched him indifferently. Long, spindly fingers tapped one by one on the giant leather armchair he sat in, comfortably as though dropping in for a chat. Then again, knowing Death, one could never be truly sure the context of the visit.
"What do you want from me?" Sam growled through his teeth, shoving himself away until his back met the nearest wall. Death cocked his head to the side, but Sam was already adding on hastily, "I'm not going with you. You can't… You can't reap me yet. I won't let you."
"Oh, Sam," Death said, and it might have been a chuckle had his voice not been so cold. "That's not really up to you, I'm afraid."
There was a long silence between them, and just a moment of spine-chilling, gut-curdling fear in Sam's mind, before thin lips twitched up in a cruel half-smile for only a second.
"Well, don't be such a coward," he scoffed, rolling his eyes and picking himself up from the chair with the grace of a twenty-year-old athlete. "No need to disgrace yourself like that. I don't think Dean would ever crawl on the floor like a child, and he's been through a trifle more than you have, hasn't he?"
"You could say that…" Sam muttered, watching Death, waiting anxiously for his next move—but it was so damn hard with his body feeling like it was about to burst.
"Giving up again," Death tsked, shaking his head briefly. "Who am I to say your brother's suffered more than you, hm? You wouldn't argue with me at all?"
"Well…by your count…" Sam breathed, groaning as the white swelled inside him. "He's died more times than I have."
That made Death grin.
"Aren't you a clever boy," he murmured, taking a step forward. The sheen on his ring glinted in what little light remained in the room. Sam couldn't remember it getting so dark. The smile vanished from Death's aged face. "Do you think, maybe, it's time to settle the count, dear Sammy?"
"Please," Sam gasped, shaking his head furiously, trying to get away from Death, even as the old man stepped closer and the burning became more intense within him. Hot tears rolled down his face. All he could think of was Dean. Dean, out there, waiting for him to come back. Dean, lost and disappointed and angry and alone. "I can't die. Not now. Please."
"Cut from two completely different cloths, aren't you?" Death sighed, staring down at him pitilessly. There was nowhere left for Sam to go. "Calm down, Sam. You aren't about to die."
Sam swallowed hard, past the fear, past the agony. He stared at Death uncertainly.
"I'm not?"
"Even if you did, it's not as though anyone could expect you to stay dead for very long," Death continued, giving the slightest roll of his eyes. "Now, why don't you calm down and listen to me? We haven't had much interaction in the past, but I don't remember you being quite so…skittish. All that Heaven juice making you feverish, boy?"
"It hurts," Sam admitted through a clenched jaw. Not that it wasn't obvious already. Death pursed his lips, unimpressed. "What do you want?"
"You know the angels have fallen from Heaven, don't you?" Death went on, cocking his head to the side again. Sam nodded furiously. "You know demons are still walking the earth because you didn't seal the gates of Hell, correct?"
"I…" Sam bit his lip to keep it from trembling any more than it already had been. "Yeah… Dean...we…"
"Can't live without you, yes," Death finished for him. "Touching. Now, are you aware that Dean has refused to do anything about this unfortunate mess until you are up and on your feet?"
"What?" Sam pressed past the pain in a moment of shock, moving to get to his feet, but the throbbing came back full force as soon as his initial surprise had faded. He collapsed back onto the ground with a long, suppressed scream. Death blinked. Sam glared at him through half-lidded eyes. "How long has it been?"
"Nearly a month," Death said. "Now, for reasons I don't care to disclose, this entire fiasco has created something of a nuisance for me and the rest of my reapers, you understand. And quite frankly, the market for you self-proclaimed heroes isn't getting any bigger. I need you two Winchester boys to finish what you started, once and for all."
"Why don't you go ask Dean?" Sam snapped bitterly, turning on his side and fighting to at least get on his hands and knees. "He's your favorite."
"Cute," Death said, and suddenly he grabbed Sam by the shoulder and yanked him upward, and within a single shout of protest, Sam was on his feet. He jerked away from Death, who tilted his head back, lips pursed. "I'm done making deals with humans. This will be the last time I interact with you or your charming brother."
"We never asked—" Sam stopped short, a jolt of realization freezing him in his place. Death's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise as Sam took a step back and held out his arms in disbelief, staring down at himself. "You…it's gone?"
"Not for long," Death sighed, making a grand show of looking at his watch. "If you want it to last much longer, you'll agree to set all this straight once I send you back to the real world."
"What's the catch?" Sam asked slowly, straightening up, even though puffing his chest at Death had never seemed to do much. "What do you want?"
"I told you what I want," Death told him. "I want the angels back in Heaven where they belong, powers restored and all. In other words, I want Metatron dead for all this unnecessary chaos."
"And you'll…help us…in return?" Sam asked. Death stared at him.
"Not really," the old man grunted. "Healing you is simply one of the means I must go through to achieve my goal. It's not at all a favor to you, if that's what you're getting at."
"But…after…?" Sam fidgeted. "Once you're satisfied…?"
"Will you lapse into another coma?" Death finished. He didn't go on until Sam gave a jerky nod. The Horseman gave him a long, fake smile. "No. You and Dean can live happily ever after. I don't care what you do."
"That seems awfully easy," Sam said, to which Death made an impatient noise.
"Tick tock, Sam," he said, cocking his head to one side. "You're not looking at too many options here."
"Fine," Sam said, nodding. "I'll do it. We'll do it. We'll fix the angels for you."
"Good boy," Death said, and then gave an abrupt jab of his fist, right toward Sam's stomach. The hand went straight through, and with it came a torturously sharp pain. Sam screamed, clutching at Death's arm, but there was no pulling the anchor from his flesh. "You have one year to sort this out, Sam. If the clock runs out of time and you haven't fulfilled your end of the deal, Heaven's fury will consume you. There won't be a thing I can do about it if you fail. So I'd get a move on if I were you."
Dean woke to movement. It was the most subtle of movements, just beneath his hand, but it triggered the part of his brain that was hardwired to Sam. Blinking his eyes open, Dean raised his head just enough so he could look down at where their hands were still linked and lying on the bed. Everything was the same. Sam was quiet, eyes closed, pale and looking like he was so close to crossing the line. Except for one thing.
He was squeezing back.
"Sammy?" Dean whispered, sitting upright, eyes frantically searching his brother's face. Those fingers trembled around his hand, and responded to his voice by tightening their grip abruptly. Breath coming quicker than he could keep up with, Dean leaned forward, touching Sam's face lightly, unsurely. "Sam…? Can you hear me?"
Sam's head shifted briefly on his pillow. His mouth twitched once…twice. His eyelids squeezed tight together in a grimace, and then they were opening. Slowly, like it took all the strength in the world to open his eyes. They flitted around the room for just a moment before landing on Dean's. At first, they just stared at each other, Dean's throat so swollen, he couldn't get the words out.
"Sammy…?" he breathed, returning Sam's death grip on his hand and staring into those sad, dark eyes. Sam raised his free hand and after touching Dean's cheek with the tips of his fingers, clasped his hand around the base of his skull.
"Dean," he choked, and yanked him into a desperate embrace. The floodgates burst apart, and Dean fell upon Sam, wrapping him up and holding him close. Sam sobbed against his shoulder, clutching his back as though letting go meant death itself—and though he cried, Dean reigned it in. He had to be strong for Sam.
"It's okay, brother," he whispered, voice gruff and solid, even as the tears came. He held Sam tighter. "I've got you now. You're safe, Sammy, I promise."
As they sat there, Dean's mind went into a whirl of thoughts. Sam wasn't one to break down completely, not like this… This was bad. Memories of Sam about to finish the Trials filled his head, memories of all the things Sam had done and seen—of all the times he had been tortured. Of the obvious agony he'd harbored within him—that damned light that had lived inside him during the Trials. Had…had this been the last straw? Why else would Sam fall apart like this? Sam was a man—he had his pride, too. He hadn't held onto Dean like this since they were children.
"I want to leave," Sam gasped against his shoulder. Dean pulled back, still holding Sam by the shoulder as frantic hazel eyes met his. Sam gripped him firmly and whispered past his sobs, "I don't want to stay here. Let's go anywhere but here."
"Alright, Sammy," Dean said, and without thinking, stroked Sam's hair, pushing it back away from his face. "We'll leave, okay? Top priority. I promise."
"Now," Sam gasped. Dean pressed his lips together, chest swelling painfully.
"Sam, I…" He shook his head, then stopped and dug into his pocket. He leaned forward to press his lips to Sam's forehead, and he kept them there, perhaps a few seconds longer than he should have. He met Sam's eyes. "Alright. We'll leave."
It took only a single phone call for the arrangements to be made. Then, all they had left to do was wait. As they did, Dean sat on the edge of the bed, holding Sam's head dearly to his chest, running his fingers through his hair. It seemed to calm him down, and frankly, having something to do with his hands put Dean at ease as well. He'd spent the past month motionless, and now he had something to do. Sam sat, trembling, hands clutching at Dean's shirt, eyes vacant aside from the perpetual fear within them. When shouts sounded from outside, and Dean watched as all the hospital staff moved in a rush toward another area of the building, he knew it was time.
"Come on, Sammy," he grunted as he stood and pulled Sam from the bed. His brother groaned, but he did his part, finding his legs despite the weariness and the pain. Dean dragged him out of the room, and though Sam struggled to keep up, he did. "Good boy. That's right. It isn't far."
Dean tried to ignore the way Sam limped, the way his breathing became labored within a few steps, the way his whole body trembled beneath the pressure of pushing himself. He had to move quick, so he couldn't baby Sam on the way out—if any of the hospital staff caught them, they'd be in for more trouble than they could handle. They made it to the elevator, which was thankfully empty. Dean hit the first floor button and mashed the "close doors" button until they were tightly confined and on their way down. Once the elevator started moving, though, Sam collapsed to his knees. Dean was right beside him in an instant.
"Sammy, come on," he pleaded, gut twisting as Sam's face contorted in pain. "You've got just a little farther to go. Don't give up on me now."
"It's inside me," Sam gasped, looking at Dean. "It's leaving, Dean. It hurts."
"We can't wait," Dean told him, and picked him up again with a grunt, slinging a long arm over his shoulders. "Shit, you're heavy."
"Sorry," Sam coughed, straightening up a little so all of his weight wouldn't fall so hard on Dean. Dean rubbed his back for a moment absently.
"Don't you apologize for anything, Sammy," he murmured quietly, almost to himself. "I've got you. We'll be there in just a minute."
When the doors slid open, Dean poked his head out experimentally. To his left was a long hallway, and to his right, the lobby. There, from what he could see and hear, Garth was raising hell, flipping over the sparse furniture, shouting at the receptionist. Damn, was it a distraction if Dean had ever seen one.
"Let's go," he whispered, and pulled Sam out of the elevator and down the hallway. As they half-ran, half-limped to freedom, Dean repeated Garth's directions under his breath. He wasn't as familiar with navigating the bottom floor as he might have liked. Finally, though, they reached the red and white exit stairwell. "Alright, Tiger. Just a little farther."
Dean shouldered open the door and they stumbled clumsily down the stairs. Sam almost fell a couple times, but Dean kept him upright. There, waiting for them, was the Impala, idling just by the stairs. At the sight of them, the driver door popped open and Kevin's face appeared, but Dean waved him back inside with his free hand.
"No, be ready to drive," he commanded. He pulled open the back door and, as gently as the situation allowed, guided Sam inside. Once he was in, Dean followed, and was shouting before he'd even closed the door, "Go, Kevin. Now!"
Kevin didn't argue; he didn't say a word. He put the car in drive and hit the gas, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street. As Kevin whipped out his phone, probably to give Garth and the others the okay to retreat, Dean focused on Sam, who was curled up on the entire backseat, clutching his stomach and pressing his face into the leather.
"Sammy, come here," he murmured, pulling Sam upright. He groaned as Dean pulled on him, exhaled erratically, as if expelling whatever it was inside him. Frowning, Dean ignored it as he settled Sam in more comfortably, getting on his seat belt while he was at it. As he did, though, Sam folded into Dean's chest, as helplessly as a child. Clenching his jaw, Dean let him, unsure what to do with his hands. Eventually, he settled on resting them on Sam's head and the dip between his shoulder blades—Sam shuddered in his hold. "Alright... It's okay. We're okay."
"It's leaving," Sam said again, lips moving against Dean's neck. The wet friction against the tender skin there made Dean still, close his eyes, and inhale slowly. Now was the not the time. But Sam was pressing closer, unaware of the way Dean's body was responding. "He's taking it out, Dean."
"He?" Dean snapped to attention, looking down, but there was no pulling Sam away from him. He was latched on like a little leech—or in this case, a towering leech made of solid muscle. "Sam, what are you talking about?"
"It's going to stop hurting," Sam gasped, and this time, it was a breath of sheer relief.
Slowly, bit by bit, Sam's violent shivering subsided until he was trembling only from the aftermath. For a long while, there was only the sound of everyone's breathing, and the Impala speeding along. They were well out of town by now, on the road to the Men of Letters' hideaway. Dean kept holding Sam, even after his brother had drifted into a peaceful sleep, not knowing what else he could do. Kevin met his eyes in the rearview mirror.
"You weren't kidding," he commented worriedly. "He really is broken."
Dean put his face to the softness of Sam's hair.
"Just drive, Kevin."
"Rise and shine, sleepin' beauty," Dean greeted as he entered Sam's room and found his brother in the midst of waking up. Dark eyes searched their surroundings briefly before landing on Dean. Sam's lips parted, as though about to speak, but Dean beat him to the chase as he set a food-laden tray down on the bedside table. "I want you to eat, okay? Figured it'd be best to start you off with something light. If you can get down this whole bowl of soup, then we can talk about somethin' a little heartier."
"Dean," Sam interrupted, placing a hand on Dean's forearm. It was the touch that brought Dean's eyes straight to Sam's—and shit, if those eyes weren't the definition of tortured. The rest of him looked good though, as if that…weird light leaving him had left his whole body restored. Sam opened his mouth, struggling with his words, before finally breaking a smile. "I'm free."
"Good," Dean murmured softly, letting his mouth turn up in a returning smile. The moment he went to move away, though, Sam's grip tightened and his face fell in fear.
"No, no, no." Dean watched as Sam swallowed hard, his pronounced Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His strong grip pulled Dean forward just the miniscule amount. The look in Sam's eyes was something ashamed and embarrassed, yet utterly terrified at the same time. Eventually, he found the strength to say, "Please don't leave, Dean."
"I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," Dean promised him, and sank to his knees beside his brother, moving his arm so he could clasp Sam's hand reassuringly. "You're safe. You can get better now."
"I know," Sam said, nodding absently, but his eyes were searching Dean's, for something the latter couldn't guess. "But… I don't want you to leave me."
"I won't," Dean said, frowning in concern. "Why would you think that?"
"I didn't…" Sam looked away, sniffled once through his nose, and fixated his gaze on the floor beside Dean. "I didn't shut the gates… I fucked everything up for—"
"Woah, hey," Dean snapped, giving Sam's cheek a light slap when he refused to look up. Sam met his gaze timidly—way too timidly. But Dean was too preoccupied with fixing his brother with a determined look and jabbing him in the chest with a finger. "That was my fault. Do you hear me, you big idiot? I told you to leave the Trials. Don't you dare take the fall for that."
"But—"
"No buts!" Dean shouted, shutting Sam's mouth. Those eyes bore into him, bright and shiny and as vulnerable as they had been twenty years ago. Dean deflated at such a heart-breaking sight. "Sammy…please talk to me. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Sam said, shaking his head and looking away. Dean grabbed him by the back of his head and forced him to turn back to him. His little brother trembled, his eyes meeting Dean's with the same uncertainty as before. "I'm fine."
"I'm not having that this time," Dean demanded, refusing to let Sam break free of his grasp. "No more shutting me out, Sam. You tell me what you're feeling, or I will beat it out of you."
"I just…" Sam glanced away, unable to move his head but averting his gaze awkwardly. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"What about all that bullshit you were spouting at the church?" Dean moved, trying to lock Sam's eyes down, but every time he moved, Sam looked somewhere else. "You think you disappoint me, is that it? You think you let me down?"
"Because I do, Dean," Sam sighed, looking down in defeat. "When's the last time you were happy with something I did?"
"I'm always happy with you," Dean told him, but it was like Sam didn't even hear him.
"The Trials made me see," Sam went on. "It's like they took everything in my brain and rewired it so I could see the world as it really is. I can see every bad choice I've ever made, like they're right there in front of me. So many times… So many of the worst moments of my life… It's your face I see, Dean. Wearing that look you get when you don't want anything to do with me."
"What look?" Dean scoffed, but Sam glanced up at him, and the expression in those eyes made Dean hesitate.
"That one," he said. The sheer shock was enough to get Dean to loosen his grip, but Sam didn't quite pull away. Rather, he turned to Dean more fully instead, getting even closer. Dean breathed in long and slow and careful. "All I want is your approval. Just once. I'm tired of being your burden to carry."
"Sam, please don't think that." Dean let his hand fall, but it didn't make it that far. Rather, it found its place on Sam's shoulder, where it squeezed in an attempt at reassurance. "I wouldn't know what to do without you. Why do you think I stopped you from finishing those stupid Trials?"
"Because you don't want to be alone," Sam told him, and suddenly, Dean wished he would look away. He couldn't handle those eyes. "Because everyone else is dead, and I'm the only one left."
"Don't be stupid," Dean snapped. Sam laughed without a trace of humor.
"I'm not," Sam argued, tilting his head at Dean, as if he was just trying to make him understand. "Everything is so clear now. Those Trials… Everything makes sense, even if it shouldn't. So I'm sorry, Dean. Of all the times I let you down, of all the times what I did wasn't good enough, of all the times I made the wrong decision for being so damn proud or selfish—"
"Stop it, Sam," Dean said, quietly, but firmly. He took Sam's head in his hands and held him there, drawing him in until their foreheads were nearly touching. "You listen to me right now. There is nothing I would not do for you. Don't you get that? I love you, more than anything. Don't you ever think otherwise."
"You…" Sam paused, something foreign creeping into his eyes. Dean waited, but when Sam met his gaze, heat washed over him. No, he recognized that look—he'd just never seen it in Sam…directed at him. Sam's voice dropped at his next words, "You love me?"
"Of course I do," Dean answered, but there was no brushing off his breathlessness. If he didn't know any better, he might have thought Sam inched even closer.
"You love me like a brother," Sam said, voice still terribly low. Dean tightened his jaw and swallowed.
"Yes." This couldn't be happening. The look Sam was giving him…the tone he was using…the way he was moving his face toward Dean's… He tried to talk, but his own voice was so low and husky, it was hardly convincing. "Sam…"
"How much do you love me?" Sam whispered, so close now, Dean could feel the way his lips moved to form each word. He shut his eyes, and slowly began to draw his hand away, but familiar fingers caught his wrist. Dean opened his eyes to be consumed by stunning hazel. "Please. Tell me."
"Sam…" It was all Dean could think to say. He shook his head, but the movement only made their skin brush more than it had to, so he stopped immediately. "Don't."
"Dean," Sam moaned, with such breathiness, Dean inhaled sharply. His reaction gave Sam courage, and he was suddenly right there, foreheads pressed together, the sides of their noses touching, their mouths just a hair away from meeting. Sam gasped, murmured desperately, "Please don't leave me, Dean."
"I told you I won't," Dean growled, his fists curling as Sam's eyes lit up. His hands crawled up Dean's chest and pressed into his collarbone. No. He was not about to do this—Sam was broken; he was vulnerable. He didn't know what he was talking about.
"I love you, too, Dean," Sam whispered.
Dean yanked him forward the rest of the way, and the moment their lips collided, Sam melted against him with a throaty moan. Hard muscle flexed beneath his hands, unlike anything he'd ever caressed before, but there was something primal and sexy about it all the same. Sam's mouth was hard, but his soft lips yielded with every kiss, allowing them to meld together. Dean ran one hand into Sam's hair, tangling it within and pulling Sam's head back as Dean pushed himself up from his knees. He discovered quickly as he did, the harder he pulled, the more of a response he got from Sam. Before he could stop him, Sam was pushing his coat off his shoulders and going for the shirt beneath before the outer layer had even hit the floor.
"Woah," Dean breathed, but he was so caught up in tasting every corner of Sam's lips, he wasn't making much of a point. "Easy there, Tiger."
"I want you," Sam groaned, pulling him down onto the bed shamelessly. When Dean made a sound of surprised protest, Sam caught his mouth in the hottest kiss yet. "Don't you want me, too?"
"Fuck," Dean gasped, sitting up straight to throw off his shirt and then fall back onto Sam, who allowed himself to be lowered onto the bed. He gazed up at Dean with a look that sent blood straight to his groin—as if he wasn't hard enough already.
"Yes," Sam panted as their mouths came together again. Dean couldn't help himself. He thrust his tongue forward, deepening the kiss with a furious growl, and Sam let him. Dean had never dreamed of him being this…submissive. And all of a sudden, Sam was yanking off his own shirt.
"Are you sure about this, Sammy?" Dean lost his voice as he took in Sam's body. Hard, chiseled, enviable as all hell. And it lay there, chest heaving, head tilted back, throat revealed, everything so…accessible. Sam's eyes glinted up at him.
"Shut the door."
Dean was across the room in a heartbeat, closing and locking them inside Sam's room. When he turned around, it was to Sam pushing aside his own boxers—it was all Dean had thought to dress him in when he'd gotten rid of his hospital garb. All breath, all resolve left him as Sam's body came into full view before him. A memory of Sam as a little boy, complaining about not hitting his growth spurt—about being too small, too short—fluttered through Dean's mind briefly.
"Now look at you," he murmured under his breath. Sam tilted his head, pushing himself onto his elbows, as he cast Dean a questioning look.
The eldest Winchester shook himself and crossed the room, more slowly now, growing warm as he watched Sam's eyes rake his body. When he arrived at the edge of the bed, Sam moved forward. Their eyes never leaving each other, Sam's fingers found the button to Dean's jeans. Dean bit down on the inside of his cheek as his member twitched anxiously at Sam's nimble touch. He stood, motionless, as Sam pulled aside Dean's obtrusive pants, and lifted his hands to the stiff cock in front of him. Sam shot him a single, lustful look, and without warning, took Dean entirely in his mouth.
"Shit," Dean gasped, pushing his hips forward as his head fell back in a single reactive moment. Sam's mouth, warm and wet, sucked at his shaft, tongue deftly stroking his underside. Dean found his fingers wrapped around Sam's neck and in his hair, scraping his nails across his scalp. "What the hell… Have you done this before?"
Sam didn't answer, only hummed contentedly around Dean's bulk. He glanced down, catching a glimpse of Sam's lips wrapped around him earnestly, head bobbing gently back and forth. And what a sight it was… It was enough to bring him close to coming on its own. Through a deep half-growl, half-groan, he tightened his grip on Sam's hair and yanked his head away from his crotch. Sam hissed—Dean could tell it was from the pain because of the way he shifted his jaw around in his mouth—but when he peered hotly up through his eyelashes and licked his lips, Dean got the idea.
"You want me to be rough with you?" Dean murmured, raising his eyebrow as Sam pressed his head into Dean's hand and let his eyes flutter shut. The pose offered excellent access to Sam's throat. Dean lowered his mouth to that long, tan neck and kissed it gently, all the while keeping his grip on Sam's hair firm. "Is that it, Sammy? Huh…figures."
He sank his teeth into the side of Sam's throat without warning, and hissed in approval when Sam released a long groan of contorted pleasure. Unable to restrain himself, Dean latched his mouth around the patch of skin he'd bitten and sucked long and hard. Sam squirmed, pressing himself closer to Dean's mouth. As he did, he fell back, pulling Dean down on top of him. Dean kicked off the clothing pooled around his ankles and crawled over Sam.
"You know this is wrong," Dean whispered as he kissed his way up Sam's neck to his ear, down his jaw. Sam met his kiss eagerly, and looked his brother in the eye as they broke apart.
"No it isn't," he replied, just as quiet. He reached up and brushed his fingers over both sides of Dean's face, gazing up at him with longing. "It can't be wrong, when I love you this much."
"You don't know what you're saying," Dean said, to convince himself. Sam pulled him down for another kiss, and it was abruptly sweet. Dean felt his chest tighten as their lips found each other and melted together, and that pressure didn't go anywhere when they pulled away.
"I do," Sam insisted, wrapping a long, lithe leg around Dean's and drawing him closer. Dean closed his eyes as their members brushed and pleasure shot through him. "Do you?"
"Of course." Dean gave in. He leaned forward, and fell into a series of gentle kisses, but Sam pulled him in every chance he got. It wasn't long before they were grinding against each other feverishly. Dean murmured against Sam's mouth, "I don't want to go too far right now, Sam."
"Why?" Sam asked, licking at his earlobe. Dean groaned, trying to stay focused.
"Because I don't want you to regret anything," Dean sighed, pushing himself up on his forearms so he could give Sam a firm look. But Sam was starting to grow exasperated.
"Little late to go back, isn't it?" he snorted, showing a little bit of the normal Sam. The one Dean was used to teasing and bantering with. Not this submissive, come hither Sam so keen on seducing his older brother. Dean didn't know if he was relieved or distressed to discover that they were one-and-the-same Sam. "Why do you keep hesitating?"
"Because I don't want this to change anything," Dean admitted after a pause. Sam caressed his face gently.
"Too late," he scoffed, and something about the way he said it made Dean grin and decide then and there that is was relief. He didn't want it awkward. He wanted Sam. That lusty glint still in his eyes, Sam punched Dean in the shoulder, with enough force in it to make Dean jump back a little. Sam grinned at him playfully. "Come on, Dean. Don't be such a pussy."
"Shut your mouth, you little bitch," Dean laughed, and kissed Sam deeply between small bouts of mock wrestling. It didn't take long before they were writhing against each other again. Dean reached down to grab at Sam's cock, and he began to pump slowly at first. Sam moaned deeply from the back of his throat, but then grinned, and gathered up Dean in his own hands. He leaned in and whispered into Dean's ear.
"I bet you'll come first," he told him, giving Dean a firm squeeze. Dean made a noise somewhere between a snort and a grunt.
"Yeah, right."
Dean wasn't kidding—if anyone knew how to do this, it was him. He stroked up and down a couple times, leaning forward to nip and lick at Sam's throat and collarbone as he did. Without warning, he pressed his thumb into Sam's slit and rubbed it slowly in a circular motion, spreading the precum around. Sam inhaled sharply and shuddered, his own hand pausing for a moment as his body tried to recover from the assault. Dean grinned and kept going, not giving Sam a chance to keep up. He squeezed his hand around the head and pumped vigorously until Sam's grip on Dean loosened considerably.
"Don't underestimate the master," Dean breathed deeply into Sam's ear. A grin cracked across Sam's face, and he turned his head to meet Dean's smiling face with a kiss.
"You're such a loser," he gasped, but when Dean shifted the pressure of his palm, a look of sheer bliss erupted over Sam's face. Dean raised his eyebrows and bit his lip, watching as Sam fought to keep back his climax. When it looked like he might stand a chance, Dean leaned forward and kissed him before sliding down to Sam's other ear.
"Come for me, Sammy," he murmured, no hint of joking lingering. Sam groaned beneath him. He grazed his teeth across the cartilage of his ear. "You don't want to disappoint me, do you? Come for me."
"Dean," Sam growled, and he came, hard if the look on his face said anything. Dean kept pumping until Sam's trembling body had nothing left to give.
"That's right," he whispered, prepared with a grin for when Sam opened his eyes and glared at him. "Good boy."
Without warning, Sam flipped them both and pinned Dean beneath his weight.
"I see you're feeling better," Dean quipped with a grunt, but Sam's mouth was on his, and it was in full demand. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's waist as their tongues danced, but then Sam was worming his way out. Or down.
"Your turn," Sam breathed against his neck and licked his way down Dean's chest. After a moment of consideration, Dean shrugged, then crossed his arms behind his head and relaxed, much to Sam's amusement. "Getting comfy?"
"Why not?" Dean closed his eyes and settled into his spot, humming softly at every slow, wet kiss. Thumbs pressed into his hipbones, sending a rush through his groin. "You're fuckin' good at this."
"Good at what?" Sam questioned, dipping his tongue inside Dean's navel and swirling it around a little. "Making love?"
Dean's eyes shot open.
"Um…" When the words wouldn't come out, he was afraid Sam would stop. But his brother only chuckled against his hipbone, which he kissed affectionately.
"That's what it's called, jackass," Sam told him, and when Dean glanced down at him, he found his brother looking up at him with eyes that made his heart stop. Then, without a hint of the fear or awkwardness that had been there in the beginning, with every ounce of the confidence Sam normally harbored, he asked, "You do love me, don't you?"
"I…" Dean couldn't believe it. He smiled and forced out a laugh. "Yeah, I do, Sammy."
"Then we're making love," Sam told him, and licked up his shaft sweetly. Dean shuddered as Sam paused at the tip and smirked at him cockily. "Whether you like it or not."
That's when he swallowed him deep, right to the back of his throat. Dean collapsed back onto the bed, lifting his hips, as if he could get Sam to take even more of him in. Sam pressed both hands onto Dean, holding him down easily as he began to create a little friction, moving up and down at the most agonizing pace Dean had ever felt. He groaned impatiently, trying to wiggle his hips out from Sam's weight. It felt amazing, but it was so fucking—
"Who goes this slow?" he asked, bucking his hips forcefully enough Sam pulled back his face, mouth included. Dean grimaced at the lack of heat and moisture and Sam, who cast him an amused look.
"I do," Sam answered, crawling up to give up him a slow, breath-taking kiss, before heading back down again. His tongue flicked out across Dean's tip, and Dean's fingers curled into the bed sheets.
"Jesus," Dean groaned. Sam tsked at him, kissing the top of his head and licking the slit forcefully. Dean growled long and hard in the back of his throat. "Sam."
"Yes, master?" Sam whispered, lips wet and glistening as he over-pronounced the title—and Dean didn't know whether to be pissed that his baby brother was mocking him in such a compromising position or if he was turned on because it was hot as hell. He pressed his mouth into a thin line.
"Make me come, damn it," he snapped. Sam cocked his head and grinned teasingly.
"That's what I'm doing," he replied simply, and without taking his eyes off his big brother's, took in Dean's member and sucked right at the head. Dean inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw back his head. He refused to look away.
His resolve, though, could only stay strong so long. Sam sucked and licked, never taking Dean's member out of his mouth. Dean's face went from unimpressed scowl to eyes fluttered and muscles trembling within a few seconds. He had to seriously doubt this was Sam's first time doing this.
"Please," Dean groaned heavily. Sam paused.
"Please what?" he asked sweetly, placing a gentle kiss on Dean's member.
"I can't take this," Dean gasped, glaring down at him, and taking a full fist of hair into his hand. Sam purred, lips parting in appreciation. "Fuckin' suck me off or don't do it all, damn it."
Sam's eyes were alight the next time he opened his eyes. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Dean's shaft, fondling carefully with his balls as he put Dean's cock in his mouth and began to suck vigorously without another word. Dean groaned and twisted his head, but made a point to keep Sam's head firmly in place with the grip he had on his hair. His jaw popped open as Sam's movements grew more erratic and sloppy, his back teeth grazing his head every so often when he went down, his tongue swirling whenever he came up.
"Ah…" Dean gasped, fingers holding on tighter and tighter as the pleasure in his lower stomach began to build, and finally, find release. He cracked his eyes open just in time to see Sam tilt his head around his cock, and swallow every bit of the white, creamy liquid it ejected. When he was finished, Sam lifted his head, Dean's fingers now loose in his hair. He tilted his head and looked up at Dean with a contemplative look, and then grimaced subtly.
"That tastes disgusting," he concluded, to which Dean snorted in laughter. He had no words; he just laughed. And Sam smiled as he crawled back up to lay down beside his brother. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam with a sound of satisfaction.
"Well, it wasn't exactly what I meant when I said you needed to eat your soup," Dean snickered, earning him a roll of the eyes, but Sam met him nonetheless when he went in for a kiss. It somehow, in the seconds they were connected, became slow and sweet again. Dean gazed at Sam, pushing his hair from his face as he murmured quietly, "You have no idea how long I've wanted that."
"I can't say I do," Sam admitted, searching Dean's face before knocking their foreheads together. "This is new to me…but it makes more sense than anything has in years."
"New," Dean snorted. "You've done that before."
"Says you, jackass," Sam shot back, nudging him roughly, but the movement only made their bodies closer. Dean inhaled slowly, and Sam swallowed. They stared at each other in silence until Dean shook his head disbelievingly.
"How is it you still make me feel like this?" he whispered, curling his arm around Sam's ribs. His body was the largest, hardest, and most beautiful he'd ever touched like this. "I thought some of it might go away…if we…"
"Just sexual tension?" Sam guessed, and Dean shrugged with a light laugh.
"It's not every day you legitimately fall in love with your little brother," Dean reminded him, but Sam's smile was half-hearted.
"Do you…regret it?" he asked. Dean closed his eyes.
"Don't be stupid," he commanded, and opened his eyes to see Sam hesitating uncertainly. "I wouldn't be here right now if I regretted it. Sam, you know me."
"Yeah…" Sam smiled once, seemed to think of something, and then let the grin break across his entire face. It had been such a long time since Dean had seen that smile. "I do."
"Now," Dean sighed, settling in and letting his gaze drift away. "How do we explain this to the others?"
"We're going to tell them?" Sam choked, a look of panic erupting over his expression. Dean pursed his lips.
"Well, we don't have to," he said with a shrug. "I came to terms with this kind of thing a while back and decided that if anyone gave me shit about it, I'd beat 'em senseless. But we can keep it quiet if that makes you more comfortable."
"Uh, yeah," Sam laughed. "Let's keep this to ourselves."
"Fine with me," Dean said, touching his cheek with a rare, kind smile. "As long as you're all mine."
"Trust me," Sam breathed, bringing him in for a kiss. "I'm no one else's."
I. Hate. Writing. Lemons. I suck at it. End of story.
But whatever, I'm obsessed with this show and it's characters. I think they're beautiful, and I would have written a fanfiction in the past, but I don't know... I just finished Season 8 on Netflix, and I must say, they took the Bromance to a whole new freakin' level with that season. Especially the last episode. I mean, come on. I couldn't resist. Anyway, I finished Season 8 on Saturday, and spent all day Sunday, Monday, and today finishing this oneshot. It's rushed and really bad, but I wanted to get it out before the season premiere, so hooray! Goal met! I hope somebody likes it more than I do. 3
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