Sam watched his brother drink half the night, knocking back one beer after another. This was how Dean dealt with things; drowning his hurts in anything that would make him forget. Anything that would prevent him from feeling at all. These days, he usually drank until he felt numb, until he couldn't feel the pain of Dad's loss. When Dad had died those weeks ago, it had left a hole so big that Dean could barely stand up on a good day. And on the bad days… well, Sam didn't want to think about it. He was tired of thinking. Talking.. that hadn't worked either. Sam's face still hurt from the last punch Dean threw when he had brought up Dad again in the parking lot a few hours earlier. Here in the motel room, after having dealt with Gordon and letting Lenore go, the tension between them was thick.
Dean sat on the edge of his bed and drank his beer, watching the TV. Sam could hear the disjointed voices, how hollow they sounded. It was just noise to fill the emptiness of this place. Another shit motel in a town filled with its monster of the week. With a sigh, Sam leaned back in the chair at the small table. His gaze never wavered from his brother; he who seemed to break down more and more each day.
"Take a picture, Sam," Dean said quietly, finishing off another beer.
"Sorry."
Sam looked away and thumbed Dad's journal just to keep his hands busy. The pages were worn and represented the only damn thing they had left of the man. He missed him, felt guilty that they had never been on the same page. iToo little, too late/i.. that pretty much summed it up.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. The quiet was getting to him and it felt heavy on his skin. Before he could stop himself, he opened his mouth with some half thought-out idea—something he hadn't fully decided on. "Hey. I was thinking—"
"Here we go," Dean groaned.
Sam tightened his jaw, ignoring the jab. "I was thinking we should go visit mom's grave—"
"Dude, no. Why?"
"Why not?"
"There's no point. It's not even her grave. Just a headstone."
Sam frowned. "I know that, Dean. It's about her memory, okay? After Dad—"
"Are you iseriously/i gonna bring up Dad again? Do you ilike/i getting hit?"
"Dean—"
"Just stop."
Sam sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look. I'm going with or without you. You can stay here and.. drink, watch porn—whatever it is you do."
"Fine. Sounds amazing."
"Come on, Dean—"
"Can we just.. inot/i talk? Please?"
In that alone, Sam could feel how deeply Dean's hurt ran. It was palpable, real enough that Sam could have reached out and grabbed it. And each time Dean hurt like this, it was as if someone had punched Sam in the chest. Sam watched quietly as Dean opened yet another beer. His brother's jaw was stern and the frown on his face was just as much as a shield as it was a tell-tale sign; a revelation that Dean was in agony. All Sam wanted to do was take his pain away, his worries, his self-hatred—everything that caused his brother to doubt himself.
Sam stood up and walked over to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Dean tried to pull away but Sam wouldn't let him. "Hey," he said softly, nestling his fingers in his brother's hair. "I know you're hurti—"
"It doesn't matter, Sammy. None of it does. Dad, these jobs.. imom/i. It just doesn't—"
"Dean," Sam pulled the beer out of his hands and set it aside on the nightstand.
"What are you doi—"
"Shh. Just listen a second." Sam turned Dean's face toward him. Instinctively, like he always had, Dean leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. His brother was so beautiful like this; vulnerable, raw. No rough exterior. i Just Dean/i. "iYou/i matter, okay? You matter to me. It was always you, all right? I mean, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't even ibe/i here. Just.. trust me when I say that you matter."
"Yeah. I wish I could, but—"
Sam cut him off with a kiss, hard and fast. Its intention was to show Dean everything that words couldn't express; how much Sam loved him and how much Sam needed him. There was no hesitation. Dean responded in kind, crushing their mouths together with such intensity that it made Sam whimper. After weeks of not touching each other, dealing with Dad's death, they were desperate. In that moment, they clung to each other as if the world was suddenly going to end. Their hands were frantic, pulling at clothes, sliding against skin. Sam could feel that need in his bones, in his soul. He could feel it in the way that Dean trembled against him, the way his mouth opened in full surrender. Dean was giving all of himself and Sam took it with greedy hands, cupping his face just so they could be closer than they already were. As their tongues slid together, searching, itasting/i, Sam pawed at Dean's body, clawed at his clothes like a crazed animal. And it was a whirlwind of clothing, strewn around the room, that left them naked, touching skin-to-skin. The burning pitch of their bodies, so close, made everything feel incredible.
Sam pushed Dean onto his back and climbed on top. He was desperate for that friction and pivoted his hips, grinding so hard into Dean that it almost hurt. With the arch of his back, Dean groaned out, exposing his throat in invitation. Sam sucked at the skin there, bit him, sought out more groans just like that one—deep and rich, ripe with his affection and devotion. It earned him another one and Dean grabbed at his thighs, rolling his hips so that their cocks would brush together. So that they could fill the same space. Neither of them would be able to wait any longer for this. The need for each other was too great and everything screamed with inow/i.
Sam ran his fingers through Dean's hair and gripped it hard, pulling him in for another ounce of that kiss. He moaned into it when Dean returned the affection, nearly called out when his brother shot his hips upward as much as he could to grab at that friction. It was a constant pressure, both perfect and tortuous, that drove Sam crazy. Sam needed his brother inside him or he was going to explode.
As painful as it was, Sam pulled away, leaning toward the nightstand to grab at the lube. Dean's hands explored his skin as Sam squeezed a bit of the liquid into his own hand, reaching down to apply it to his brother's length. Quick and hard strokes had Dean groaning, thrusting his hips upward erratically to fuck into his brother's tight fist. Sam loved the sight of it; his brother falling apart under his hands—Dean who was always so strong and in control. When Sam touched him, Dean had always come undone; rigid muscle and steel exterior turning to water. This time was no different. Dean writhed beneath him and moaned, calling out his name in a way that was obscene. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Sam ached for him.
Wasting no more time, Sam straddled his brother and used his thighs to hover just enough, to position Dean's cock at his entrance before inching his way down. He braced himself against the burn of the stretch, felt Dean fill him up so completely that he gasped at the sensation of it. Slowly, Sam began to move his hips, bit at his bottom lip as the discomfort gave way to pleasure. Beneath him, Dean used his own legs to rock his hips up into him, slow at first then quicker. Harder. Each time Dean slammed into him, took more and more, Sam groaned and called out. His brother's name was fast and loose on his lips and his chest heaved with labored breaths. They moved together as one, like they always did. Perfect and in-sync like they always iwould be/i. Dean's hands slid over his chest, his stomach, marveling at him through touch. Sam reveled in it and could feel his orgasm mounting, charging toward him and just there on the edge of his conscience. He could feel it burn in his gut and intensify each time Dean buried his cock deep into him.
With a groan, Sam grabbed his own hard length and slipped it between his fingers. The added sensations, all of it, had him right there. Dean fucked up into him even harder and took every last inch of him, his thighs slapping against Sam's ass. His moans were filthy, deep, and Sam knew how close he was. Sam could feel Dean's muscles quake beneath him and his fingers, tight and biting into his hips—it was indicative of his impending release. As if confirming it, as if solidifying that Sam knew his brother best, Dean called out his name and emptied into him. The sound of his name, the way Dean shouted it with such intensity, tipped him over the edge. Sam hung his head back with a cry and spilled out over his fist, hot and wet, and onto Dean's stomach. The strength of his orgasm left him boneless against his brother, chest-to-chest, and panting hard. Just like this, Sam felt warm and content. Dean said nothing at all and ran fingers through his hair, sighing. It sounded.. happy.
Sam could build a foundation on moments like these; when Dean found happiness in the chaos of their lives. To him, that was all that mattered.