Title: These Mistakes We Make
Author: destial
Pairing: Sam/Dean (ish… this seems to be a recurring theme in my Wincest)
Warnings: Angst of the Dean persuasion, season4!Sam
Spoilers: Season 4 through 'til 4x18
Word Count: 5,016
Notes/Prompt(s): Written for the spn_reversebang to a piece of art by getyourguns. And I owe all the credit in the world to the lovely and talented weimar27 who was everything from a springboard of ideas and beta to the person I bitched at when scenes weren't being co-operative. All my thanks go to you, my dear.
Summary: After a night to remember, Dean just tries to forget.
These Mistakes We Make
"Dean?"
Sam's voice is sleep thick and slow. His eyes are barely open, just enough to make out Dean's silhouette against the window.
"Yea, Sam?" Dean asks, because he's never been able to ignore Sam's call before. He snorts then, putting Sam next to that siren in his mind. The comparison isn't too far off; after all, the siren had been all about crashing those poor schmucks lives against the rocks. Dean feels pretty shipwrecked.
"Dean, 's too early, come back to bed."
He doesn't look back at his brother. He knows how to say no, now that dad's been gone a while and Sam's pedestal isn't quite as high as Dean imagined. Dean had realized that he'd actually always been in a ditch and his brother had been slowly falling in with him. But it's still hard, still feels wrong, saying no to Sam when he sounds so earnest, so innocent in this moment. It's not just an honest request, it's an assumption that Dean's fine with this. That Dean's okay with what happened.
Dean isn't sure how they got there. They had been coming in from a hunt, physically exhausted but high on adrenaline. They had both had close calls that night and Dean remembers how his pulse had thrummed so strongly, he'd felt it in his wrist, heard it in his thumb when he pressed it to his temple. Dean, of course, is used to adrenaline. What he isn't used to is his brother grabbing him by the lapels and crushing their mouths together. One second, Dean had been standing there, trying to come down from his near-death energy boost and the next, he'd been bent over backwards across Sam's bed, his brother, crouched over him, pressing him deeper into the mattress using mostly his mouth.
Saying no feels wrong, but saying yes is.
"Nah, Sammy, I- I think I'm gonna get a shower and head out for breakfast."
His voice barely even wavers.
Sam stares at him a few seconds before grunting and falling back into the mess of pillows.
Dean kind of wants to sigh or laugh, something to show his relief at being let off that easy. He wants to, but he knows the hardest part hasn't come yet.
Maybe that makes him cocky, makes him feel like he can handle this situation, because when he reaches the bathroom door, he looks back at Sam.
Sam, who is stretched naked across the bed, back almost glowing in the morning sun. There are stark red lines running down Sam's spine, slanting over the small of his back. If Dean were to look, he'd find Sam's skin lodged under his fingernails.
The realization brings bile to Dean's mouth and he barely has time to slam the bathroom door shut and reach the toilet.
Dean doesn't remember fighting Sam. He might have. He might have tried to push him off, at first. What Dean does remember is pulling Sam into him, eventually. Kissing him back. "Sam," he gasped, when they finally broke away from each other. "Got you, Dean," Sam said and his breath was so hot against Dean's mouth. "It's okay. I've got you." His lips were even hotter, pressed back against Dean's; Sam's tongue was like fire as it licked its way into Dean's mouth, opening him up. Dean moaned, arched into Sam and that heat. Sam's hands were all over him, grabbing at his jaw, tugging at his clothes, pulling at what little hair he could get a hold of. He had never realized how big Sammy was, but he couldn't deny it when Sam was blanketing him like that.
He doesn't actually throw up. His chest tenses, entire upper body clenching in a quick but steady roll upwards, and he chokes on the fowl taste in his mouth, but nothing more than that.
"Dean? Dean!"
Sam is at the door, pounding at it. He jiggles the door knob and falls through the doorway, not expecting it to be unlocked. He stumbles, just for a second, before sinking in next to Dean, wrapping his arm around Dean's waist, saying, "Dean, what's wrong?"
Dean's answer is a reflexive elbow towards Sam, a panicked, "Don't touch me!"
Sam springs back as if burned. Dean can't see his wide eyes, his mouth slack with shock, but he hears the hurt in his voice as Sam asks, "Dean?" as if his name is all Sam needs to communicate his pain.
Of course, it is. Because Dean knows his little brother. He remembers when most of Sam's vocabulary had been limited to variations of his name.
Sammy's first word had been 'Dean.'
With a groan, Sam pulled away from Dean, who could only pant and stare blankly at the ceiling as Sam began trailing hungry kisses across his jaw. "Sam," Dean tried again. He wrenched his head to the side, but whether it was to keep Sam from kissing him again or to give him room to work with, he wasn't sure. "What are- Sam, what are we doing here?" Teeth dug into the flesh of Dean's neck, briefly, and it caused his whole body to shudder from the unexpectedness of the sensation. Sam licked at the spot he'd just bitten; to apologize, maybe, or in an attempt to soothe the tension in Dean's shoulders. "Just doing what feels right," Sam finally said before dragging his teeth across Dean's neck. "Gonna make you feel so good, Dean. Gonna make you scream."
Dean doesn't respond. He lays his arm across the seat, his forehead against his arm, and he sits. He can feel Sam's mood shift, feel the crackle of Sam's anger when it shows itself. Sam is so quick to anger, as soon as he doesn't get his way. It's not just these days, either, and he can't believe he didn't see it before.
But Dean doesn't know how to placate his brother this time. He doesn't really want to.
Sam makes an angry noise behind him and Dean can feel how close he is. Hovering right over Dean and Dean hasn't felt this trapped, this cornered since the ghost fever and the vision of Lilith tried to drag him back to hell.
"I'm not going to wait around, Dean," Sam says and his voice is as tense as a wire, the same one he uses when Dean drinks too much and makes an ass of himself or when Dean leaves porn up on his laptop for him to find. "Make up your damn mind, clue me in, and stop dicking me around."
Sam stalks out of the bathroom and a few minutes later, the hotel room door is wrenched open and slammed shut.
Dean just laughs.
Dean didn't respond but he doesn't think he was expected to, because Sam was already pushing at his over shirt, tugging Dean up, into his chest, so he could get rid of it. "Damn it," Sam muttered somewhere beside Dean's ear. "Come on, help me out here, Dean." "Bad angle," Dean responded. At first, he didn't even get what he meant, but then his legs sort of flailed from where they hung off the bed, trying to gain him some leverage. Sam twisted around and snorted. "Guess so," he admits, already nudging Dean into a better position, rotating them on the bed so Dean was pressed into the pillows properly.
Sam is pissed at him for a few days and he's not there when Dean wakes up in the middle of the night. Dean wants to mention it, but there's a mark on the side of Sam's neck, right below his left ear, in the shape of Dean's teeth that Dean doesn't even remember making. If Dean can't look at him, he can't very well confront him either.
By the time the mark has faded, Sam has stopped disappearing, though Dean is almost positive there's no direct correlation between the two.
Dean is pretty sure that night may have permanently ruined his relationship with Sam. He realizes this very suddenly as they're driving to Kripke's Hollow to check out some hopefully routine haunting. They still have the job to do, so they've actually been getting along the last few days – Sam's still pissed, Dean can see it in the tensing of his shoulders whenever Dean starts talking or one of them realizes how close they are to each other. But Dean has been looking for a way to reconnect, really reconnect, with his brother since he got back from hell and it doesn't look like that's going to happen now.
He glances over at Sam, who is leaning against the passenger door, fast asleep, and his chest just aches.
Sorry, he thinks at Sam, knowing he can't say the words out loud, that Sam would never accept them. It would only make all of this an even bigger mess. Sorry. Don't know how I let it get so out of hand, Sammy. Sorry.
Sam doesn't respond, of course, and Dean knows he isn't thinking similar things, he isn't dreaming similar things.
Any other day, Dean would have clapped a hand onto Sam's leg, tossed his arm around his shoulders, mussed up his hair. Something to reassure himself Sam was there, alive and breathing, warm and safe. He would have grounded himself in the reality of Sam and they both would have felt the better for it.
He can't even have that now. He isn't sure what's left.
Almost immediately, Sam had twisted around to begin the most awkward struggle to rid two people of boots that Dean had ever seen. Dean didn't help; he just lied there and watched his brother until Sam, with a triumphant, "ha!" tossed the final shoe away from the bed, turning back towards Dean. Sam's lips quirked and he said in a forcefully kidding tone, as if trying to lighten a tense situation, "Gonna just lie there, Dean? Didn't know you were such a lazy lay." Dean didn't answer, didn't want to. He didn't want to think right now; thinking was hard and just proved to complicate matters. Sam had been right. This felt good and Dean was used to just reacting to things like this, to feelings like this. So he grabbed Sam, dragged him back down to his body and kissed him with a desperateness that seemed to surprise them both. "Dean," Sam said, the beginning of a frown crinkling his forehead when he tried to back away but Dean wouldn't allow it, pulled him back in with tongue and teeth and lips. And Sam fell into him, sighed into his mouth a word that may have been Dean's name, but his forehead was smooth and his mouth was slack and responsive, pressed against Dean's. Dean lost some time then, still doesn't know how long they traded those slow, deep kisses or when, exactly, Sam's hands started to roam again, digging into Dean's sides, snaking up his shirt, pulling his thighs up, tight, around Sam's waist. Before he knew it, Sam had broken off from Dean to tug his shirt up and lay greedy kisses across Dean's shoulders. He bit Dean's collar bone, hard, and all Dean could do was let out a small noise, deep in his throat, and close his eyes to the world. He could only grasp weakly at Sam's shoulders as his brother began using more teeth than lips, making hungry little noises as he bit Dean, again and again, as he sucked on the skin between his teeth and then soothed the angry bruises with his tongue.
It feels almost normal, getting dressed for a case with Sam. It feels like forever since they wore the suits together. Until they're pulling on the good button downs and slipping into "respectable" shoes, Dean hadn't realized he had missed this.
Upon contemplation, it probably wasn't this he missed. The suit was itchy and never set right and he always felt like an utter tool wearing it. But it's the first case they've been on since that last one, the one that almost went bad a hundred times but was so much better than the aftermath. Even when they fight, though, cases were safe. It's life or death, then, and they can't afford to let their problems interfere. They'd already done that enough in the years they've been hunting and it's never come out good for them.
When Sam was sixteen, right after his growth spurt when he could pull off early twenties as long as his voice didn't crack and he refrained from blushing, Dean used to have to tie his tie for him. The boy was clumsy as sin, always got those suddenly long fingers tangled up in everything.
Watching Sam tie the knot perfectly now, his fingers graceful as they pull and push the material right where he wants it to go, forms a pit in Dean's stomach. Things were easier when Dean still had to help Sam with his tie, when Sam was too clumsy to be graceful.
When Dean could still step into his brother's personal space and touch him, without it being something to notice.
Dean turns away from Sam and puts on his own tie. If Sam notices him fumbling the knot – he actually has to retie the damn thing – he doesn't say anything.
Someone was talking and it took Dean a minute to realize it was him, muttering the same thing over and over, a continuous loop of, "Come on, come on, Sammy. Come on." He fisted his hands, unconsciously pulling on Sam's shirt, and realized as it came loose in his hands that someone – he wasn't exactly sure who – had unbuttoned it. Sam grunted something, Dean wasn't sure what but it sounded like an affirmative, and started shrugging the shirt off with Dean's help. Next were Dean's pants, which tore a startled curse from Dean as Sam pushed down, applied just the right amount of pressure, when he unzipped him. "Damn it, Sammy," Dean panted. "Give a guy some warning." Sam just grinned as he got Dean's jeans and then boxers down past his thighs, past his knees, to bunch around his calves. "Come on, dude, you going to be an active participant or what?" Sam teased as he began shucking his own pants. "Shut up," was Dean's reply. He kicked almost ineffectually at his jeans, managing to dislodge one leg. Sam gave him an unamused look. "Seriously, man," he said, "with all your prowess, I kind of expected you to be, you know, all over this." "Shut up," Dean repeated and, without thinking, without even realizing he was moving, he had his hand wrapped around Sam's half hard cock. Sam swore, pumping twice into Dean's fist before going still. They stared at each other for a moment, then, green and hazel connected in an unblinking gaze. Dean was startled by how very familiar Sam was in that moment, startled that he recognized Sam at all. This was Sam in his entirety and Dean knew him. It was a side of him that Dean had seen before, even if he'd never been this close, never touched it nor been touched by it. Dean closed his eyes, broke the stare, and let go.
"What's a slash fan?"
The smile Sam sent Dean's way could be called nothing but self deprecating.
"As in… Sam 'slash' Dean. Together."
Dean was almost sure he could feel his heart stop and start up again, in the moment after Sam's statement. There is no way a new book could have been published in the few weeks since that night, but that doesn't stop the panic from rising in Dean. That doesn't stop the instant thought of, They know.
He swallows that, though. Pushes it down where Sam hopefully can't see it.
"They do know we're brothers, right?" Dean asks, because he figures that addressing this issue is less likely to piss Sam off again than ignoring it. Sam loves calling Dean on his avoidance issues.
"Doesn't seem to matter."
It's the way Sam says it that makes Dean look up and meet his eye. He is staring straight back at Dean and his expression screams "because it doesn't matter," just like his tone had. As if Dean would just get over it from that simple suggestion.
Dean's reaction is involuntary. He honestly doesn't mean to say it but then it's out and he can't take it back.
"Oh, come on. That... That's just sick."
Sam clenches his jaw and his expression goes stony. Dean can't look at him any longer, so he shuts the laptop and says, "We got to find this Carver Edlund."
It was Sam that had control of this thing between them. And Dean let him, because it was easier that way. It was easier to just hold onto Sam as his baby brother pushed his legs up and out, made a place for him there as he prepared to make a place for himself deeper. Sam had lube underneath his pillow, the freak. Dean thought about making a joke, something about Sam and just how bad he was wanting it, but for once kept his mouth shut. He gasped when Sam's freshly slicked finger rubbed across the pucker of his ass, eyes clenching shut. Sam was surprisingly confident in his actions, as he teased at Dean's hole, pressing against it then rubbing around it again. When he finally pushed in, it was without hesitation or even an attempt at subtly or distraction. Just one long, sure movement that left Dean momentarily unable to breathe. "Damn it, Sam," he croaked out once in control of his lungs again. He absolutely refused to squirm and give his brother any more proof of his discomfort. Sam snorted somewhere above him and Dean could hear the smirk even if he couldn't see it. Then Sam moved his finger – damn long finger – rubbed it up against one of Dean's inner walls and Dean was seeing stars. Dean, of course, knew about the prostate. That wasn't the first time he'd had a finger up his ass. Pick up enough women in enough bars and you can't help but find a few real kinky broads. That wasn't even the first time he got fucked, technically speaking, if toys counted. But that was the first time with another man, a living, breathing guy with a warm, hard dick. That was the first time with Sammy and Sammy, god damn it, knew what he was doing.
If he's extremely honest with himself, Dean will admit that somewhere, deep down, he still thought they could undo what happened. If they ignored it, stopped thinking about it, if neither ever mentioned it again, then maybe it just wouldn't have happened. It's the same part of Dean that thought finding and killing what killed their mother could bring her back.
So when they meet Chuck, he kind of terrifies Dean.
He honestly had not expected to have to deal with some psychic that seems keyed into all the big occurrences of their lives – occurrences that seem to include most of times Dean had sex and all of the times Sam did, so it's safe to assume Chuck knows.
The revelation that Chuck is a prophet really doesn't help matters any. The last thing Dean needs is to think about how the God he barely believes in must be judging him now.
Dean is almost out of Chuck's place – Castiel having flitted off someplace, yet again – when Chuck stops him.
"Dean, you um." Chuck shies away from Dean's glare, though the prophet can't seem to decide where else to look in the room. "Uh, that thing you've been beating yourself up about. You need to stop doing that."
Dean turns away, then, looking back out the door and not at Chuck.
"Did you write it down?" is all he can bare to say.
"No, no, nothing like that," Chuck responds instantly. "I just dreamed it. But, you guys… Dean, you and Sam have always been something more than- er, besides just brothers."
Dean's hand clenches where he's holding the door frame.
"Are you telling me it's okay to fuck my brother?"
He doesn't see Chuck flinch but he hears him curse and something clatters to the ground.
"I'm, uh, not telling you to start up a relationship or something. But it happened and, Dean, don't you already have enough stuff to hate yourself for?"
Dean was very aware when Sam pushed in with two fingers instead of one and started actually stretching and not just messing around. He couldn't not be; Sam was concentrating completely on the task at hand. Dean even opened his eyes to look at him for a few seconds, but the sheer intensity of Sam, what he was doing, how he was staring, everything about him in that moment, was too much for Dean and he took refuge once more behind his eyelids. By the time Sam was stretching him with three fingers, Dean's erection was fading. It must have taken his brother a minute to notice because suddenly he stopped and made a tutting noise that any other time would have forced Dean to tease him. "None of that now," Sam said and then Dean's cock was in his mouth. Dean sucked in air like he was trying to prove something, one long, hard pull that made his chest ache until he breathed it out again. He was as unsubtle about this as he seemed to be about everything else. There was no coy licking, no experimental sucks around just the head. Sam's lips were halfway down his cock and his mouth was hot and wet and moving, tongue plastered to the underside. "Yea, yea, that's better," Sam muttered as he pulled off Dean with a wet pop. He moved back up so he could kiss Dean again, short and sloppy and tasting like precum. "You ready for me Dean?" Dean didn't know if he was ready but that seemed to be a rhetorical question anyway since Sam was already pushing in.
Dean drives Chuck back to his house after the deal with Lilith. Chuck is fidgeting so badly Dean kind of wants to put him in the trunk or at least the back seat.
"Can't you sit still?" Dean finally snaps.
"I'm not used to facing powerful demons, in case you hadn't noticed." He leans forward in the passenger seat and starts tapping his fingers against the dash, only to stop when he catches Dean's glare. "So, uh, what will you do now?"
"Do? You know everything we do, don't you?"
"Not the stuff in between," Chuck responds. "That's the stuff that really matters, Dean. When it's not life or death, that's when it's real. I don't see a lot of that. What are you guys going to do?"
Dean shrugs.
"Not something we plan, usually." He sighs, then, because it is something Sam would plan. Even if it wasn't someplace specific, he'd have a direction to point them in. "Drive, I guess. And keep an ear to the ground."
Chuck hums and nods and the two fall silent for the rest of the trip.
He felt a whine rising in his throat; Sam was a lot bigger than a few fingers and the slow burn of penetration was more torturous than orgasmic. It wasn't pain, necessarily, because Dean had felt pain in every shape and form and this was different. That was pressure from the inside, stretching muscles that didn't stretch like that naturally. That was accepting a foreign object into the body and it was uncomfortable in more ways than just physically. But he clenched his jaw around that whine and resolved to ride it out. Once Sam had bottomed out – his pelvis as snug against Dean's ass as humanly possible in the position they were in – he stilled. "Look at me, Dean," Sam said and Dean wanted very badly to deny him. But it seemed that night, he denied his brother nothing. He looked at Sam but what he saw – the love and lust, the pure hunger combining into one urge in his brother's eyes – what he saw overwhelmed him. Dean's breath caught and he turned his head away, only for it to be turned right back so Sam could kiss him. Sam was still staring at him when they broke apart and he asked, "Are you ready, Dean?" Dean didn't answer, even though he was sure this one was less rhetoric. Instead, he tilted his head, just enough to put his mouth back on Sam's. Sam started slowly, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in, watching Dean the entire time. It still felt awkward and uncomfortable, the slow drag of skin in that normally untouched place. The urge to squirm almost overtook him, but, again, he repressed it, choosing instead to throw a leg around Sam's waist and urge him on.
The brothers are quiet as they pack up the car and leave. They don't discuss where they should go next or what they should do. Dean climbs in behind the wheel and Sam slides into the passenger seat beside him; they close their doors and then Dean is driving. He takes the first on ramp he can find, ending up on an old highway, running parallel to the common express way.
After almost ten miles, Sam shifts, uncrossing and recrossing his arms. Dean's grip flexes on the wheel.
"I wasn't having sex with her," he says eventually. "You do know that, right? Dean, I was about to-"
"I don't care, Sam." Dean can't make himself not sound tired. "It didn't happen, it's over now. Let's just forget about it and move on, alright?"
He isn't looking at his brother, so when Sam slams his fist down on the dash, Dean startles so badly he almost takes the car off the road.
"What the hell, Sam!"
"We forget about a lot of stuff around here, don't we, Dean?" Sam is glaring at Dean, his jaw clenching and unclenching spasmodically. "I guess I keep forgetting that's how things work. Something big happens and you decide if it's important enough to remember and talk about, or you decide when we finally do talk about it."
"Sam, that's not-"
"No, Dean, I get it. You need to control every-"
"God damn it Sam! That night was a mistake!"
It's the first time either has referenced it directly since it happened. Dean's breath catches and he realizes he pulled over at some point, but god help him remember when. When he finally works up the courage to look across the front seat at Sam, his brother is staring back at him.
His eyes are as hard as flint and his voice is cold, so cold, when he says, "You're right. That was a mistake."
Dean swallows and turns away, gripping the steering wheel tightly so Sam can't see his hands trembling.
"Come on, Sam," Dean said. "Not gonna break. Come on, man. Sam. Just- come one." Which seemed to be what Sam had been waiting for because then he started to fuck in earnest. He had this almost pained look on his face, which Dean thought was interesting as he was the one with the dick up his- and right That was when Sam bit him, hard. Not a love nip, but a full on bite to his jaw. Dean's eyes flew open and despite how he was being fucked pretty good at the time, he still considered punching Sam. Rough was one thing; Dean didn't get off on pain. "Don't close your eyes," Sam warned, emphasizing his point with a particularly sharp thrust that, ironically enough, kind of made Dean's eyes roll and flutter shut. "Sam," Dean panted, and it was almost a plea. "Don't," was Sam's only response before he leaned down to kiss Dean again. The kiss didn't last long and Dean still couldn't meet Sam's too-intense gaze so he concentrates on Sam's jaw. He flexed his hands, which had been resting against Sam's sides for a while, and dragged them around to Sam's lower back until his fingertips met over Sam's spine. He used his hold to urge Sam on. That was about the time that Sam's hand found his cock, grip tight and sure and so damn good. Immediately, he was on edge, hands turning to claws on Sam's back, leg around Sam's waist clenching, trying to bring him closer. He hadn't noticed at first that Sam had leaned down and was muttering things into his ear. He remembers staring past Sam's hair up at the motel ceiling and absently trying to understand the words. That's all it really was, too, a jumble of words that boiled down to, "Dean, come on, Dean. Come for me. Want to see you. Dean." "Sam," was his only response. It was almost a sob. Sam pulled back then, eyes trained on Dean's face as Dean came apart in his hand. Sam followed him not a full minute later, hands turning into vices on Dean's hips. He remained still like that for a long moment before pulling out and lying next to Dean. Dean didn't look at him then, though he suspects now that his brother wanted him to. He turned his head away, closed his eyes, and fell into his usual troubled sleep.