Keepsake

This takes place during Season 2, in the episode "Playthings". You know the scene…

Some dialogue is taken directly from the script and belongs to Matt Witten. The boys belong to Eric Kripke, I suppose.

Big sloppy kisses to BookwormBaby2580 for putting up with my kink. Whatever is worthwhile in my writing attempts is mostly because of her.

So far, this has been a weird case. Don't get Dean wrong, he is more than happy to sink his teeth and his brain into some weirdness, something that has nothing to do with his brother and some dark destiny or people trying to kill him. Dean thought he was going to lose his mind when he heard the second explosion go off in that dump Gordon had booby-trapped. He knew, knew, that Sam was dead, and he didn't think he could deal with that. Dean never learned how to live without Sam. Even when Sam was at Stanford, Dean knew he was alive, could drive past his building when he was anywhere in the vicinity of California (and he could always find excuses to be in the vicinity of California), and catch a glimpse, see for himself that Sam was doing okay. He called a few times, but it was mostly just awkward. Sam didn't need to know that his overly dependant creep of a big brother was lurking around, hoping to see floppy hair and dimples just to make him feel like he could go on for another few months. But no one had ever told him how to live without Sam being alive and inherently Dean's responsibility. Dean just didn't know how to do that. And when he thought Gordon had finally done it, he thought he would lose his damn mind. When Sam finally walked into the room where Dean was tied up, Dean had thought he was a hallucination at first. And when Sam untied his hands, he couldn't touch enough of his brother, needed to prove to himself that Sam was there, alive and smiling. Dean couldn't do anything to alleviate the rush of relief and love that threatened to crush him, so he just kept touching, like he was checking all of Sam was still there. Just kept touching and looking, and convincing himself that Sam was fine.

He nearly did kill Gordon. It was really only that Sam was already walking out the door and Dean couldn't not be near enough to see him that made him leave the fucker on the floor.

So yeah, it's good to wrap his mind around something else that isn't primarily worrying about Sam. But this is the third death, and they still don't know what they're dealing with. Dean thinks they need to go through the house with the EMF meter again. They must've missed something, and waiting for morning doesn't seem like an option right now. Dean would hate it if something happened to Sherwin or Susan and her girls. Although it does seem as if only newcomers are being targeted…

Dean hasn't seen Sam in a while.

He's not panicking. He isn't. Sam is a big guy who can take care of himself. Dean made sure of that. Still, the EMF meter is in their room and Dean could use some help. Covering the hotel. He's absolutely not worried about his little brother.

He walks into their room and shuts the door behind him, turning around to see Sam silhouetted in a corner by the window. He's sitting in the dark which is probably not a good sign. He must've seen the guy get carried out of the hotel and lifted into the ambulance. Just to make sure, Dean says, "There's been another one. Some guy just hung himself in his room."

"Yeah. I saw."

Sam is definitely sulking. Dean would know that surly tone anywhere. He tries to snap Sam out of it. They've got work to do.

"We've gotta figure this out, and fast. What'd you find out about Granny?"

Sam huffs out, "You're bossy."

What the hell?

"What?"

"You're bossy. And short." Sam giggles. Honest to god giggles. Crap.

"Are you drunk?"

Sam giggles again, "Yeah. So? Stupid."

It's only then that Dean notices the empty bottles around the armchair Sam is slumped in. Many empty bottles. A drunk Sam is never a good thing.

"Dude, what are you thinking? We're working a case."

Sam sniffs a little. "That guy who hung himself. I couldn't save him."

Dean feels like he's missing something. "What are you talking about? You didn't know, you couldn't have done anything."

Sam sort of rolls his head back to look at his brother. "That's an excuse, Dean. I should have found a way to save him. I should have saved Ava too."

Oh. Ohhh. Dean was wondering when this would catch up with them. He knew Sam was being too sensible about the whole Ava thing. He should've pushed him harder to talk about it, but he was hoping they could just bury it, like they do so, so many things.

"Yeah, well, you can't save everyone. Even you said that." Dean knows this is too little. He knows as he says the words that they aren't going to help Sam at all.

There's a loud thump as Sam slams his hand onto the small side table next to him. Goddammit, the stupid kid is going to break his other hand.

"No, Dean, you don't understand, all right? The more people I save, the more I can change!"

"Change what?"

Sam leans forward, like he really needs Dean to hear this, to get what he's about to say. "My destiny, Dean!"

Oh fuck. So that's what this is about. Dean should've known that too. He knows how Sam broods and internalizes. And they haven't really spoken about it since just after the Croatoan disaster. Dean honestly just couldn't. He still can't. So instead, he does what he does best. He takes care of Sam.

"All right. Time for bed. Come on, Sasquatch."

Sam is not a small guy, and he's not a small guy who is currently unsteady on his feet. Dean plants his own feet, and hauls Sam up. "Come on," he groans, pulling Sam over to the bed.

Sam nuzzles a little into Dean's chest and mumbles, "I need you to watch out for me."

Dean rolls his eyes, shuffling his brother around so he can sit him on the bed. "Yeah. I always do."

"No! No, no, no. You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever ... turn into something that I'm not ... you have to kill me." Sam has this desperate quality to his voice that just breaks Dean.

"Sam," he chokes out.

"Dean! Dad told you to do it. You have to."

"Yeah, well, Dad's an ass." Dean feels a small twinge of guilt. He's never spoken about their dad like that. Ever. Still, "He never should have said anything. I mean, you don't do that. You don't. You don't lay that kind of crap on your kids." Dean has been carrying around resentment and anger over the fact that John put this all on him. Who does that?

"No. He was right to say it! Who knows what I might become? Even now, everyone around me dies!" Sam is starting to whine a little now, and Dean can totally deal with a whiny baby brother. Hell, he has been since Sam turned 12 and suddenly turned into a teenaged monster of sulk.

"Yeah, well, I'm not dying, okay? And neither are you. Come on, Sam." Definitely way past time for bed. Hopefully Sam will wake up with a hell of a hangover and no memory of this conversation. Dean tries to push Sam down so that he can pull the blankets up, but Sam, stubborn as ever, holds fast and just doesn't budge. It's a little like trying to shove a tree. Sam clutches at Dean's jacket and pulls him a little and Dean has to use Sam's shoulder to hold himself up, stop himself from falling onto Sam.

"No, please! Dean, you're the only one who can do it. Promise." The desperation is back, and Dean just isn't sure that he can do this. He can't talk about this, he can't think about this.

"Don't ask that of me." What the fuck is Sam thinking? And the way he's looking at him, like he knows his big brother will take care of this, fix this, like he has so many other things in Sam's life. And Dean is going to let him down. Again.

"Dean, please. You have to promise me."

Sam is pawing at Dean's shirt, his hands moving up to his face and Dean looks down at him, all the anguish he feels at what his dad told him and all the love for his brother and all his take-care-of-Sammy instincts welling up inside of him until there is just one possible outlet for it all. His hands clutch at Sam's collar roughly, and before he can overthink it, he leans down and kisses his brother—his everything—frantically. He only stops when Sam's muffled cries and hands pushing on Dean's chest finally get through to his addled mind. He pulls away warily, fully expecting a look of disgust or maybe a drunken punch to his jaw. What he gets is dark, hazel-rimmed eyes looking at him with far more intensity and focus than whisky and Jäger should allow. He starts to say something—what, he isn't sure, he has no idea how to even begin to explain what he just did—when long fingers curl hungrily in his shirt and pull him down. Sam kisses him ferociously, passionately, all teeth and biting and licking, as if kissing Dean is the only thing keeping him breathing.

Dean does fall on Sam then, but he barely notices, and Sam doesn't seem to mind. Dean's collarbone smashes into Sam's cast, as Sam tries to manoeuvre his arms from gripping Dean's shirt, to around his neck and clutching at his back. He's trying to pull Dean closer and closer and Dean feels as if he can barely breathe, he's being crushed so hard, and he simply doesn't care. It's all Sam. Everything Dean can feel, and hear and see and smell is Sam. And it's fucking perfect. He can't think any further than that; won't allow himself to. As Sam pulls at him, he pushes himself further into Sam. Sam is so solid, he's just- it's like the solidity of Sam is all that's keeping Dean sane these days, and now he can physically feel it. He's being allowed to feel all that solid muscle and flesh and the heart and soul wrapped inside, everything that makes Sam Sam. Really the only thing that Dean has ever cared for, above everything else. So yes, he pushes closer, and he doesn't care about the small whimpering sounds that seem to be coming from him, because Sam is making some heavenly noises in the back of his throat that Dean can almost feel with his lips. He needs to be closer.

Dean opens his mouth and licks at Sam's, slipping his tongue in to glide against Sam's. Yes, there's the sound. If he could spend his life making that sound come from Sam's throat, Dean reckons it would be a life well spent.

Sam groans, and Dean finds himself being rolled over, until Sam is straddling him. Still too focused and in control considering the amount he's been drinking. Sam leans over and licks a long stripe from Dean's collarbone, where he's sure he'll have a bruise from knocking into Sam's cast, nibbling along his neck and up to his ear, where he whispers, "Dean", in a long drawn out sigh. If Dean hadn't been fully hard before, that would've done it, but he was and he is, and he can feel Sam grinding his own hardness into his groin, and god, Dean thinks if this is all they do he'd be more than okay with that. Sam feels fucking fantastic.

But Sam has other ideas. He trails from Dean's ear to his mouth, licks into it, like he's trying to get at some taste, and Dean can taste the whisky and Jäger but underneath that is Sam, and it's like Sam is trying to lick the taste of the alcohol away so it will just be them.

Sam slowly sits up and takes a long look at Dean. Dean looks back unflinchingly. This is happening, and he needs to see what Sam is thinking about, needs to see his brother's reactions. Sam shakes his head slightly, and then gets to work on Dean's over shirt.

"This has gotta come off. I need to feel you." Sam is practically talking to himself as he undoes the buttons on Dean's shirt, a little clumsily, his cast getting in the way, but Dean is too busy watching Sam's face to even think about helping. He sits up a little as Sam pulls the shirt off and before he can lie back down, Sam is pulling his t-shirt over his head, and then pushing Dean back down. He looks up and down Dean's torso, a hunger in his eyes that Dean doesn't think he's ever seen before. Sam runs his hands, god his hands are so big, over Dean's chest, fitting his hands over his pecs, making Dean gasp as he pinches his nipples before running his hands lower, over his abdomen.

"God, Dean," Sam whispers before leaning down and running his tongue along the path his hands had just taken. Dean thumps his head back on the pillow, just for something to do because he feels like he's going to explode. Sam scooches back a little, allowing his tongue to lick lower and lower, until he's nibbling at the waistband of Dean's jeans, then bringing his hands up to hover over the button. Before he can do anything further—because Dean can't take anymore and also it isn't enough and he's terrified that it will never be enough and that this thing they're doing right now is going to cause him to lose his brother forever—he surges up and locks his mouth against Sam's, kissing frantically and using every trick in his seduction tool kit to distract Sam from going further and also maybe to motivate Sam to go further.

Dean doesn't wait for buttons, just pulls Sam's overshirt and t-shirt over his head in one almost smooth move. The shirts get stuck on Sam's cast, and Sam seems oblivious, perfectly happy to carry on with clothing hanging off his right arm, but after a little concentration Dean gets them off and lies back down. To just look at Sam positioned on him and above and looking like every wet dream Dean has tried to forget he ever had. Sam lays down, over Dean, flesh against flesh and kind of nuzzles into Dean's neck, and Dean is going to lose his mind, he knows he is.

But Sam, god love him. That kid has always known what he wanted and was always persistent in getting it. Sam starts moving down Dean's body again. Dean is about to protest, but Sam looks up at him with a piercing look, a look Dean knows, a look that says don't even think about trying to stop me. Dean is so familiar with that fucking look. It was seared into his retinas the night Sam left for Stanford. So Sam works his way down Dean's body, tonguing at every groove and freckle, stopping to pay special attention to Dean's belly button, looking up with a dimpled smile that is all little brother and makes Dean want to scream and vomit and maybe die a little.

Sam works the button open with his teeth, and where the hell did he learn that? That's something Dean would normally want to ask about, maybe tease Sam about, but how do you ask your brother where he learned to undo your pants with his teeth?

Sam sits up and rubs a hand along the bulge so clearly outlined by denim. He scrapes his thumb up the zipper before pulling that down, and the relief is bordering on painful. Dean doesn't thing he's ever been this hard. Sam pulls the denim and the briefs down to Dean's thighs, and leans down again, nosing his way up Dean's cock, breathing deeply through his nose as he goes. Sam is fucking smelling him. And from the sounds he's making, he's enjoying it. It's so filthy and the hottest thing Dean has ever experienced. He's still overwhelmed by this sensation when Sam takes the head into his mouth, tonguing at the slit before sliding down Dean's length, meeting the hand he'd wrapped around the base. Dean is breathing so heavily he thinks he might be hyperventilating but no fucking way is he missing this, so he fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, and sits up a little, leaning on his elbows, so that he can watch Sam go to town on his dick. Sam has definitely done this before. Often, Dean would guess. He presses his tongue along the underside of Dean's cock as he pulls his head back up, then swirls his tongue around the head, before sucking him down again. If Sam keeps this up, Dean isn't going to last and no way is he putting his relationship with his brother in jeopardy like this without even seeing Sam naked. Dean thrusts a little into Sam's mouth before pushing on his shoulders to get Sam to sit back up. God, his mouth is glistening with saliva and precome, and Dean has to taste that before Sam licks it all away. Dean slips his hand around to the back of Sam's neck and pulls him in, sucking on his lips, tasting himself on Sam's tongue. He can't breathe, he can't fucking get enough air, so he pulls back a little, just enough to lean his forehead against his brother's.

"Jeans," he pants. "Off."

Sam gets off the bed just long enough to toe his shoes and socks off and to pull his jeans down so he can step out of them. Then he honest-to-god smirks at Dean, and does the same for his brother, pulling the legs of his jeans so hard that it pulls Dean down the bed a little. Dean humphs as he crashes back down on the mattress. He's lying on his back, naked, and his little brother is looming over him, with wicked intent written all over his face. And Sam is gloriously naked too. And there is so much of him. Dean can't stop looking.

Sam kneels at the bottom of the bed, and crawls over his brother, until their heads are even again. Dean doesn't really want to look at Sam now, doesn't want Sam to see all the dirty-bad-wrong that is his brother, but he can't help it. Sam's elbows frame Dean's head, making sure that Dean is looking at him.

"God," Sam breathes. "You're beautiful, Dean. All I've ever wanted." Dean is pretty sure his brain is just making things up now, because no way Sam just said that, but then Sam lowers his groin to meet Dean's, making sure Dean is looking at him, and it's like an electric jolt. Dean has never felt anything so perfect and so wrong, and it snaps something in his head, because before he knows what he's doing, he's pulled away so fast that he knocks his nose on Sam's jaw, and motherfucker that hurts, but he's got to stop this. He pulls his knees in and crouches up against the headboard, as far from Sam as he can be when they're both on the same bed. Sam looks a little dazed, a little confused.

"…what?"

Dean is shaking his head. "We can't do this. What the fuck are we doing?! What the fuck am I doing to you, Sam?" He covers his face with his hands. "Sam, you should leave. You take the Impala and get as far from me as you can. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."

Sam huffs a little, and gives, Dean an annoyed look he is also very familiar with because Sam is his little brother for fuck's sake. "Dean, don't stop. Jesus look at me," Sam says indignantly, gesturing down to his cock, which is hard and dark and glistening a little and Dean has to force himself to look away, because he really wants to taste that and this has got to stop.

"You're drunk, Sam. You don't know what you're doing. And you're doubly vulnerable because of what you're going through, and what do I do? I take advantage of my traumatized, drunk little brother. Christ, I am one sick fuck. Sam, you gotta go. You just…"

Dean is interrupted when Sam pulls him down the bed once again, because Sam is strong, and Dean knew that, but feeling that strength being used on him in this situation is all kinds of crazy hot and Dean is going to Hell.

And Sam is kissing him again.

"I'm not that drunk. If I didn't want this I'd be perfectly capable of pushing you off and stopping you. I'm not some little kid anymore. And if you're a sick fuck, the same sickness runs through my veins. It always has. Dean, I've wanted you, like this," Sam gestures at Dean, naked on the bed, looking more than a little debauched, he's sure, "…for longer than you probably want to know." Sam gives Dean another filthy kiss, before moving to the flesh where his neck meets his shoulder, and bites into it, hard, before sucking. Fuck. It's almost like Sam is marking him. And that's just it. Dean is not strong enough.

"Okay," he shudders out. "Okay, Sammy." And Dean surrenders, stretching out beneath his brother, running his hands down his back, feeling the muscles bunch as he goes, before grabbing Sam's ass and pulling him down into him. They both groan, a filthy co-ordinated sound, and it sounds perfect. Sam keeps sucking at Dean's neck, licking and biting, holding himself off Dean just enough that he can start thrusting against him. And god. It's so perfect.

Sam is thrusting and grunting and this is going to be over so fast, so Dean rolls them over, sits back on Sam's thighs, and just looks. For a long moment, he looks over Sam, taking in the expression on his face, the broad expanse of his chest, further down to where Sam's cock is twitching, just little, against his stomach. Dean runs his finger through the little pool of precome collected on Sam's stomach and brings his finger to his mouth, sucking the liquid off his finger. It tastes like Sam and sex and sin.

Sam's eyes widen and he groans out, "Fuck. You're killing me Dean." His fingers are digging into Dean's thighs and Dean knows he's going to have red, half-moon marks there in the morning, and he wishes he could keep those marks forever.

But Dean can't say anything. He has no words to cover what he's feeling, the joy and the terror and the self-loathing. So instead, he shuffles forward a little on his knees, until their cocks are lined up, as close as they can get, and he wraps his hands around both of them. Both of them together, Sam and Dean. Like it's some kind of imperative, they fit together so perfectly. Sam folds his hand around Dean's, and they work each other like that, together. A little dry, a little uncomfortable, a little sublime.

Dean watches them together like that for a little while, breathing heavily, hearing Sam's groans and huffs, and then he looks up and watches Sam watch them. Sam looks like nothing short of armageddon could drag his eyes away from the sight of them together, aroused and reaching for something that they should never want in the first place. God, Sam is gorgeous, and Dean can't take the scrutiny any more, so he leans down again, slows things down a little, and kisses Sam again. Languidly. Dean has never really understood that word, 'languid'. There has been very little 'languid' in their lives, but this kiss? It's languid and Dean is going to make it last as long as he can.

They're thrusting against each other again, slower at first and but then speeding up again. They're heading over the cliff together, and Dean is terrified of the crash that is surely coming. But he keeps thrusting because there's simply nothing else he can do.

"Fuck, Sam. I can't...this is…" He's rambling now, not even sure what he's saying. "I'm sorry. Fuck destiny. You're staying. You're staying with me. Safe, I'll keep you safe," until the only word coming out of his mouth is the only one that really matters. "Sam. Sam. Sammy. Sam."

Sam has been running his hands over every part of Dean that he can reach, stroking his back, his thighs, pulling his head closer, squeezing his ass, and Dean feels consumed. He's so close.

"I'm so close," Sam says against Dean's lips. And then Dean feels Sam slip a finger between his ass cheeks, and nudge at the opening there, and Dean's world explodes. Another thing he wants to ask Sam about and never will. Sam has been with guys before and Dean doesn't know whether to feel impressed or jealous. Right now though, all he can feel is bliss, and he's coming against Sam's cock, and then he feels an added warmth and wetness between them, and Sam shuddering underneath him. He kind of falls down on top of Sam, his forehead on Sam's chest.

"Oh my god," Sam pants.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, rolling off Sam and collapsing on his back beside him.

A few moments pass, and all Dean can hear are their pants, and all he can smell is them, and his mind is spiraling again. He feels Sam move, but can't make himself look over. Sam moves a little more and then leans over him and wipes him with something dry. Probably one of their t-shirts. Sam flops back down beside him, and Dean listens closely to his brother's breathing even out. He doesn't think he'll sleep, but he's exhausted physically and emotionally. The last thing he remembers is the feeling of Sam's fingers linking through his own, and squeezing.

Dean makes sure he's showered and out of the room before Sam wakes up the next morning. He has no idea where they go to from here, but he sure as hell isn't facing Sam naked and smelling like sex. He goes for a walk, hoping to clear his head, but that's a lost cause because how do you get more fucked up that this? Eventually he gets coffee for both of them and heads back up to the room. Time to face the music. But Sam is bent over the toilet. Seems like he spent the morning emptying his stomach, and Dean feels bad for him and also renewed horror at what he did to his drunk brother. Sam lifts his head and groans when he sees Dean. Dean decides to take this one step at a time; see where Sam's head is at before rushing into some desperate confession.

"How you feeling, Sammy?" Dean tries to inject some cockiness into his words, a big brother ragging on his little brother for drinking too much.

Sam groans again, "I can still taste the tequila."

Normal. This is normal. Maybe Dean will be lucky.

He tells Sam what he found out about Rose's Creole nanny, and they jump straight back into the hunt. It's new information that needs to be followed up, and if Sam isn't talking about last night, Dean sure as hell isn't. Sam drank enough that he might not remember, and this makes Dean feel a little better and also a lot worse.

He doesn't have much time to dwell though, because when Susan finds them with her mother, it all goes to hell. They barely make it in time to save Susan from her possessed car, and then they discover just how much trouble Susan's daughter Tyler—her only daughter—is in.

But they get to be heroes again, and save lives. A good hunt always makes Dean feel better, like it will make up for all the ways he fucks up. Dean is pretty sure he's headed for Hell anyway you slice it, but saving people still feels good.

They see Susan and Tyler off and Dean doesn't even know what makes him say, "Think you could have hooked up some MILF action there, bud. I'm serious, I think she liked you."

He gets the patented Sam Winchester eye-roll and, "Yeah, that's all she needs."

And Dean isn't having that, because Sammy did really good out there, and the kid is forever selling himself short. They deserve a win. Sam deserves a win. "Well, you saved the mom, you saved the girl. Not a bad day. Course, you know, I could have saved 'em myself, but I didn't want you to feel useless.'

This is normal. It's all normal. It's all going to be okay.

"All right, I appreciate it." And he gets the Sam Winchester patented dimpled smile and head-duck.

"Feels good getting back in the saddle, doesn't it?'

"Yeah, it does. But it doesn't change what we talked about last night, Dean."

And Dean's stomach drops. He feels like he might throw up.

"We talked about a lot of things last night," he says cautiously.

Sam eyes him. "You know what I mean."

"You were wasted. You don't know what we said. Or did…" Dean just really wants it to be true.

"I told you last night, Dean. I wasn't that wasted. And I remember everything. We need to talk about this. And you owe me a promise."

They get into the car, and Dean pulls away from the hotel, gravel flying up behind them.

Fuck.