Fic title: Angels Without Wings

Author name: Scarlett_wilde

Artist name: Yanjara

Genre: wincest

Pairing: Dean/Sam

Rating: NC-17

Word count: 32,189

Warnings/Spoilers: contains wincest and graphic slash, mentions of possible mpreg – but no actual mpreg happens in the fic.

Chapter 1:-

"Wazzat? Make it stop…" Dean mumbled, turning over in his sleep and burrowing further under the pillow.

When it didn't stop and Sam didn't seem to be doing much in the way of finding it, Dean threw one of Sam's pillows in his general direction and smirked at the 'hey' that followed the dull thump.

Sam groaned as his phone started the relentless buzzing again, and it was obvious it wasn't going to stop until he got up, found his pants on the floor and answered the damned thing. And that was easier said than done in the pitch black room in the middle of the night, when he couldn't remember which part of the room he'd dropped his pants in.

"Sammy, make it stop," Dean's muffled voice groaned from under his pillow.

"I'm tryin'," Sam snapped, terser than he meant it to sound. But then his foot caught in fabric and a quick scramble meant Sam had finally located the cell phone from hell. The caller display said Unknown Caller, but he answered it anyway. Obviously whoever it was wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

"Sam? Sam Winchester? Is that you?"

Sam frowned into the phone. "Umm, yes?" he mumbled, still sleepy.

"Oh thank God. I've been trying to… oh, I don't know where you are… Is late where you are?"

"Yeah, kinda. Who is this?" He scrubbed his hand over his creased forehead and hoped to hell this was important or otherwise he was gonna put Dean on the phone and let whoever it was bear the brunt of his brother's lack-of-sleep-meanness.

"Oh yes, sorry. I hope you remember me. It's Angel Marin from Stanford."

Sam vaguely remembered someone called Angel, but…

"I was a friend of Becky's, Rebecca Warren? She gave me your number and told me to call you… I have a problem that no one else can help me with…"

Oh yeah, Sam remembered Angel now. She was the quiet, mousy one who always hid herself in Becky's shadow. "I remember you. What can I help you with… it's kinda late here and…"

"I'm really sorry. The thing is, I got married recently and we moved into my husband's family's farmhouse. But the thing is, and everyone thinks I'm insane, I think the house is haunted. Ever since we moved in, there's been this… presence… I think it's a man, but I could be wrong… I feel him watching me, hiding in the shadows…"

Sam stopped her, holding up his hand even though she couldn't see it. "Angel, I…"

"I'm not making it up, Sam. There is something in that house and it doesn't like me. My husband thinks I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown and I heard him talking on the phone about having me committed. Then yesterday, I happened to bump into Becky, and she asked me what was wrong with me because I looked dreadful… and the whole thing just came pouring out, like the verbal vomit I used to get when I was nervous in college, remember?" she paused but not for an actual answer. "Sam, please, I'm begging you for help."

Sam remembered Angel's verbal vomit. Whenever they had to do a presentation, or a debate, or anything that required her to stand up in front of more than three people at a time, she'd just start spouting words and not stop until someone – usually Becky – made her stop. "Did you tell Becky everything? I mean, did she tell you about what it is that we do? What my brother and I do?"

"Yes, she told me everything. Told me that you helped her a while back when her brother was in trouble. I told her about the nightmares, about the strange presence I can feel, and even about how the house doesn't seem to like me. She gave me your number and said that you'd understand… that you'd be able to help… that you wouldn't think I'm mad at all…"

"I don't think you're mad, Angel. Tell me about the nightmares," he said, keeping his voice hushed and soothing, and not rush her. His interest had definitely spiked, even for the middle of the night when he'd much rather be curled up in bed.

"They started about a week after we moved in. They're different from any kind of nightmare I've ever had. They're, well, they are almost sexual… but rough… and unsettling. It's a man, always the same man, and he has me tied to a chair, and I'm gagged, and he starts touching me – not gentle – and wrapping his hand around my throat until I can't breathe. Or he'll start cutting away at my clothes and nicking my skin, saying things like 'how pretty you bleed for me'. And they feel so real… I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is check to see if I have marks of any kind on me. Of course, there never are because I'm just dreaming."

Sam 'hummed' and 'ahhed' in the right places as he listened. Her voice was verging on becoming hysterical and he could tell that she was genuinely scared. He glanced at his brother lying motionless on the bed and tried to decide what to do…

"Please help me, Sam. Please. I don't want to be committed…"

Sam wondered if there was ever a doubt that they wouldn't help her. He wasn't programmed that way, and neither was Dean. Dean could never turn down the chance of a good hunt. "We'll help you," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving his brother's still form in the huddle of motel blankets. "Just give me your address and we'll be there as quickly as we can. I'll call you in the morning – my morning – and let you know the plan."

"Oh, thank God. Thank you, Sam, thank you…" Angel recited her address for Sam and then hung up, apologizing once again for calling him in the middle of the night.

Sam switched the cell phone off and placed it on the wobbly excuse of a kitchen table before walking over to the bed and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. He only remembered his nakedness when he started shivering.

"Get back under the covers, moron," Dean's muffled voice ordered.

Arms enveloped Sam, pulling him back into the warmth of the bed, and into the warmth of the bare skin that met his. Sam curled instinctively into Dean's body and wrapped his arms around his brother's back.

"Got us a gig?" Dean yawned, lips brushing over Sam's collar bone as his mouth stretched wide.

"Looks like it," Sam nuzzled into the touch, the feel of Dean's warm, moist breath on his skin made him tremble again.

"Gonna tell me 'bout it? I don't have your psychic 'bilities," Dean muttered from where his face was now buried in the curve of Sam's neck – which was just about his most favorite place to sleep.

Sam relayed the story Angel had given him over the phone, mentioning how scared she'd sounded when she'd begged for help.

"Never were one to turn away a damsel in distress," Dean whispered, his voice seeming much louder than it was in the stillness. "I'm guessing you already told her we'd take the job, huh?"

Sam nodded but didn't answer. He just lay there enjoying the closeness of his brother, the feel of Dean's hands slowly caressing intricate patterns on his back, the flutter of Dean's breath against his neck, and the beat of his heart against his own chest.

He sometimes wondered if Dean had any real clue of the way these little things, these intimate moments, between them affected him. He wondered if Dean relished them as much as he did. It had been even more needful since Dean had come back from Hell… like Sam had to constantly reassure himself that Dean really was here and wasn't going to disappear while he slept. Deep down inside, Sam knew Dean needed those same touches, those same intimate reassurances that he did, but they didn't talk about it.

Dean couldn't get close enough to Sam if he tried, and he had tried. Sometimes he wanted to crawl inside Sam and just stay there, breathing the same breath, feeling the same emotions. He wondered if Sam would ever know how important he was to Dean. How every moment spent in Hell was filled with thoughts of how to get back to Sam. His Sam.

The warmth of Sam's body was lulling him and his mind was wandering to thoughts of Sam at Stanford. And it wasn't that Dean hated Sam for going there – or more truthfully, for leaving him – but it was more to do with the innate curiosity as to what Sam was like when he was there. Was he the same Sam there as he was when he'd been with Dean before… or afterwards?

Dean had only ever really met Rebecca from Sam's days – weeks… months… years - there. He'd wanted to ask Becky stuff about Sam from those days but things had gone slightly belly up when a skinwalker stole his identity and tried to kill her, and afterwards, he hadn't had a chance.

There were a lot of things about Sam that Dean didn't know. And he hated that. He himself was pretty much an open book, or at least he considered himself to be. But there was just this ominous cloud that hung over Dean that he didn't quite know everything about Sam – and he wanted to. It was more like a need to every little detail about him, as if it would bring him closer.

Yeah, he knew what turned him on, knew the places to touch to get an instant reaction, knew that words could get him just as hot sometimes… And he knew all the regular stuff like Sam's favorite band, and song, and what his favorite food was, which was his favorite book and why, what his favorite color was, his favorite holiday – or rather, lack of favorite holiday.

But Dean had always had this feeling, ever since Sam first learned to walk and talk, that there were facets of Sam he'd never fully know, or understand. And it made him ache deep down inside.

It didn't hurt as much as knowing that his brother had fucked that demon bitch though. Nothing could hurt as much as that slice of life had. Every time he thought about it, it still cut like a knife to the gut. Hated thinking about Sam's hands all over her stolen body, her hands all over him.

He sucked in a sharp breath and asked: "Why, Sam?" before he could stop himself.

"Why, what, Dean?"

"Why'd ya fuck her?" Dean couldn't stop himself from asking. As if, somehow, knowing would make it hurt less.

"Don't ask me that, Dean. Please…" Sam's voice stuttered falteringly in the darkness. They'd promised with unspoken words to never talk about that again.

"I just… I need to know… okay?"

Sam sighed softly, burying his face into Dean's neck and wishing he could just not do this… ever. "I can't. I just… no, I can't… don't ask me…"

Dean moved away from Sam enough so that he could cup his brother's jaw and look him in the eye. "I need to know, Sam. I need to know because every time I picture it, it cuts me up, and I can't bear it eating away at me from the inside out…"

"Because I was drunk, Dean… because I was hurting so far inside I wasn't sure I'd be able to crawl back… because everything I tried to bring you back failed, and I couldn't even bear trying again… because all I wanted was you… to feel you… touch you… hold you…"

Sam's voice echoed like a scream in Dean's ear, and Dean could feel the wetness of Sam's tears against his hand. He brushed them away by slowly swiping his thumb over Sam's cheekbone. He couldn't speak, all he could do was share Sam's pain the way he had been doing all their lives.

"She was just there… and you weren't… and she pushed herself at me… and I needed. I needed. But I wanted you… I needed you… but you were gone… and you weren't coming back… and I just needed to feel something more than nothing all the time…"

"Shh," Dean whispered. "Shh. I'm back now, Sammy, and I'm never going to leave you again. Not if I can't help it. You know that. I never wanted to leave you. I get why you did it, though. I get why you needed it… just wish it had been anyone but her," Dean bit the last sentence out between clenched teeth.

"I wish it had been anyone but her, too, but I can't go back and ask for a do-over, Dean. I'm sorry it happened, though. Sorry I let myself be manipulated into that. She saw how much I ached over losing you, and she clawed her way in. I can't---" Sam's voice broke, his quiet speaking louder than his words had.

Dean pulled him back in, cradled him in his arms and whispered that it didn't matter any more, that he was there now and she wouldn't get to touch Sam ever again. "You shouldn't feel guilty… I shouldn't have made you feel guilty… never meant to… just hate the thought of her… touching what's mine…" Dean's whisper was broken, fragmented into tiny little shards, already embedded in his soul.

"I couldn't go through it again, Dean. I couldn't go through losing you again. I swear, if you ever…"

"I'm right here, Sammy. Feel me. I'm warm… I'm breathing… and as long as I am, I'll never leave you. I can promise you that," Dean whispered, keeping his voice hushed as he kissed along Sam's jaw bone.

Sam leaned eagerly into the touch, craving the intimacy his brother shared with him. He'd never needed it more than he did, right there and then, in that dingy motel room with its threadbare curtains, sticky carpet, and dubious bedspread.

Dean's kisses became more urgent against Sam's mouth, with teeth-clashing and lip-bruising force. Tongue pushing in between the seamed lips, forcing its way inside to lick and taste Sam.

Dean arched into Sam's body. He loved the hard feeling of muscle and toned sinew pressing back against him. He loved knowing he could be rough if he wanted to, that Sam would take it… would be more than willing to take it…

Sam's hands spread out, covering almost the whole of Dean's lower back. Fingers pressing into the muscle. Sam holding and rolling them until Dean lay cradled in the width of Sam's spread thighs. Cocks, hard and hot, rubbing against each. Friction so sublime they rocked harder, seeking out more.

Wordlessly, Sam reached under Dean's pillow as they kissed, as they rutted frantically against each other, fingers searching for what he knew was there. Dean's hand covered Sam's and together they withdrew what they needed. A small tube of lubricant and a double foil of condoms. They really needed to buy these things in bulk instead of just grabbing what they needed when they needed it… but then, things would get desperate and frantic with a flick of an eye, or an innocent touch that lasted a second longer than necessary, and they'd grab enough to get them through the night.

With a well-practiced ease, Dean flipped the cap on the tube and squeezed enough lube out to coat his fingers. Working his hand between their plush bodies, Dean went back to kissing Sam as he worked him open. It didn't take much, Sam was as eager for this, needed this, as much as Dean did.

Sam reached between them and wrapped his hand around the thick columns of both shafts, stroking hard and slow, tip to base, base to tip, as if he were trying to make them into one.

Dean's stomach fluttered against Sam's. "Keep doing that and I'm not gonna need this," Dean murmured, the gold foil between his fingers rustled, fingers of his other hand still busy inside his brother, stretching, stroking...

Sam nipped Dean's lower lip, sucked it into his mouth and ran his tongue along the bite mark. His hand never faltered on their cocks as he kissed hard into Dean, tonguing his way into Dean's mouth. Too filthyhotwetwantneednow to be anything but sexy.

"You have no fucking idea…"

Sam knew that was one of Dean's ways of saying I love you. They'd never said it to each other – not in that way at least, never needed to. It was just one of those unspoken things, like who topped and who bottomed and absolutely no switching, Sammy, got it?

Dean broke away from Sam with a hoarse, reluctant groan and only stayed away long enough to tear open the foil and roll the condom down over his pre-come slicked cock before he was back down in the haven of Sam's thighs, cockhead pressing against the tight, lubed hole.

Sam's knees pressed against Dean's hips, urging him on. Feet winding themselves around Dean's calves. Sinewed muscle against sinewed muscle.

With a broken 'Sammy' hanging on his lips, Dean surged forward entering his brother in one thrust… filling him and stretching him wide…

Sam clutched at Dean's biceps, back arched and head falling back onto the pillow, he waited for the first burning thrust… sharp and thick…

Dean's hips stuttered. He bit down on his lip as he fought the urge to thrust wildly into his brother. Willing himself to not come just from being inside Sam. It was hard, though, with Sam urging him with words, with his eyes, with his body.

"Don't… Dean… Just… move…" Sam grunted out. "If you don't… I'mma gonna flip us…"

And oh God, if that didn't turn Dean on enough to spur him on to move. He pulled back until just the head was still inside Sam, then thrust hard and deep back into the tight heat that surrounded him. Over and over, until he felt like he was drowning in the tight feeling surging through the pit of his stomach.

Push and pull… in and out… again and again… over and over…

Panting… grunting… gasping… whimpering…

Sam's fingers dug into the muscle cording along Dean's arm as he fought to hold himself above Sam. Feeling Sam arch beneath him, teeth bared in agonistic ecstasy. Feeling Sam clenching around his cock as he came, hot, wet spurts between them, slick, viscous…

After that, Dean had no chance. He thrust deep, burying himself balls-deep and came with a satisfying grunt. "Holy fuck…" he murmured before collapsing on top of Sam, breathless and winded.

Sam chuckle-grunted beneath him. "You wanna get off anytime soon, Dean…"

"I just did, Sammy… or was I dream-fucking you again?" Dean chuckled. Still, he eased gently out of Sam and rolled to his side. After he'd removed and tied off the sticky condom, and aimed it in the direction of the bin, he curled possessively around Sam with his face buried in Sam's sweat-damp neck.

Sam rolled his eyes in the dark, wiping across his stomach with the corner of the scratchy sheet.

"Don't do that," Dean mumbled, sleep already dragging him back under.

"Do what?" Sam yawned and nestled into the curve Dean's body made against him.

"Roll your eyes at me," Dean told him, the words punctuated by noisy yawns. "`S'always been you…" he yawned again. "Never been anyone but you."

Sam pressed a kiss to Dean's temple and yawned his own tiredness out. "I know."

Sleep came quickly for both of them, but morning came too quickly.