Disclaimer:I don't own any of the characters featured in this fic, it's just a bit of fun, don't sue me!
Title: Holding Up the Sky above Us
Rating(s):NC-17
Warning(s): M/M, Consensual Incest, Alcohol, Blood, Angst, Kissing
Spoiler(s): End of Season 1, End of Season 2 (AHBL part 1 and 2)
Summary:They didn't even have to look up or count steps to the room they always shared when they'd stayed here, just opened the door and trudged in, and Sam could feel it. Feel Dean's eyes on him. Right on the throbbing white line where the knife went in.
A/N:This is Un-Beta'd so um yeah, con-crit is always welcome and CommentsLove, so I hope you enjoy and don't be shy to tell me if you do :)
000
Too exhausted for pride, and too glad for shame. Dean couldn't stop his gaze passing from the road and the back of Bobby's truck to Sam. Sat in his usually place, dirt and blood speckled over him and his eye's a tired brown.
Dean's heart couldn't stop swelling. On the verge of breaking or bursting every time he saw the familiar silhouette of his brother from the corner of his eye. Even the small contented smile he couldn't wipe away as he gripped onto the steering wheel.
When they pulled into Bobby's place, the hinges of both vehicles squealed in unison of protest, all of them trudged in with an air of despair and gladness as Bobby opened the door.
It was whiskey and all sat round the battered kitchen table, greedy glasses filled nearly to the brim with Jack and the silence smelling like sulphur and loss as Sam slid his chair out with a screech and murmured,
"Goin' upstairs." Glass not even empty and Dean hot at his heels. The painful twist in his gut and the fiery panic of seeing Sam's retreating back haunting him like a ghost and the horrifying flashes of seeing him on the mattress.
Passing towers of fragilely stacked books and mounting the dented stairs like a wooden hill, banister wobbling with protest and Sam's eyes following his own accenting feet.
They didn't even have to look up or count steps to the room they always shared when they'd stayed here, just opened the door and trudged in, and Sam could feel it. Feel Dean's eyes on him. Right on the throbbing white line where the knife went in.
And Sam couldn't put his finger on why his steps seemed so heavy now. Why his heart ached with every beat and how his bones felt so old.
But also he felt so detached. Maybe it was the realization of 'he shouldn't be here', because as he walked around being fed the lie "Bobby patched you up" he hadn't felt the weight on him. Like a wall between him and warmth.
But right now he could hear Dean. Hear his breath and if he was lying to himself, Dean's heart. Sam knew it was broken. He couldn't understand at the time when Dean had hugged him. All warm leather and familiar bulk, and why Dean's eyes held a desperate relief.
Sam always took the bed closest to the window, maybe his fantasies from being a pissed off teenager of flying away played a subconscious part, but his limbs couldn't take the few steps and instead he landed on Dean's usual bed.
It groaned with his weight but Dean was right there beside him in a suffocating second. Sam had felt a similar feeling when he'd watched Dean in a hospital bed but maybe not as crushing as Dean's feeling of being completely alone.
But he felt dirty, and he knew Dean had felt the same way when he realized Dad had sold himself for Dean, but now he knew Dean was going to end up the same and as Sam stared down at as hands he was...angry.
It was the type of fleeting anger, white hot lashes of it wrapping his heart as he felt Dean's shoulder bump against his. The air was already stained with musky sweat, acrid sulphur and blood.
It was an unconscious move but Sam's fingers reached round and brushed the tear in his clothing and the crusty stain of blood around it, but he didn't expect Dean's hand to snatch at his wrist, yanking it away from the evidence and crushing it in his calloused grip.
Ring bitting into his flesh and gritty with dirt, and god they were both so tired. Bone deep and aching in places they didn't know the names of but Sam needed to be clean. He felt so dirty. Even with Dean's familiar hand holding his, it didn't stop his skin crawling with a soul deep guilt.
"Where're you goin'?" Dean hadn't meant it to sound so desperate, but his voice was ruff and he felt so drained he couldn't even force the mask into place.
"I need a shower, I smell like death warmed up." It was unintentional but it had slipped, and Dean's eyes narrowed hard and he didn't even think he had it in him.
"Dean-I didn't- I'm sorry-"
"No, no. You're right, you reek. Go." Dean just waved him off with a sigh and a watery smirk, watching Sam exit in the room, he tried to swallow the panic that nearly chocked him.
Scrubbing his hand over his face and through his hair, looping the words.
"He's fine. He's here. Sam's alive, Sammy's here."
He hadn't even brought in they're duffel bags, he couldn't even will himself to stand. His feet felt rooted to the floor and as he heard the old pipes groan and gurgle with pressure.
He just looked over at the dresser. One of the draws was missing and a few handles were missing but he knew there was nothing in there except for a few too-small shirts and a pair of battered boxers.
But he needed to get Sam his clothes, he could walk for Sam.
When he got back to their room, Sam was laid on the bed. Towel wrapped round his waist, skin pricked with goosebumps and long locks of hair, hugging flat and soaked to his head.
And the blind panic was back, it was almost too much. He thought he was going to puke and cry his soul out.
Sam opened his eyes at him, a heavy brown that spoke all the trauma of 24 hours and Dean's mouth went dry and his heart skipped a damaging beat.
"I didn't use all the hot water." Sam whispered, cheek pressed into the discolored blankets, pink lips open and breathing so slow, like he was savoring the stale air and the scent of forgotten loss.
"Thanks" Dean's voice failed him a little, it all still had the miracle sparkle. The glow of Sam's living skin making Dean want to throw himself onto his knees and worship with a faith he never had.
It hurt to turn away, but Dean was down the hallway and peeling his mud/blood soaked clothes away from his aching body and letting the water burn it all away.
Sam just laid on the bed for a while longer, his skin felt to tight. Trying to breath but he felt so...Trapped. His skin was to much, like he was wearing four layers in the Las Vegas Desert and all he wanted is to walk around naked.
But he managed to summon up the strength to get to the duffel bag and pull out a pair of white boxers, elastic loose and worn to softness.
He was soft, with no desire to become hard but he wanted a little pleasure, he felt so lost to his own body, alone in his own skin as he listened to the pipes complain against the water.
When Dean came back, Sam's towel was a crumpled ball of the floor, wet and it was a curve ball to Dean because Sam's the tidy one but something clicked in Dean's head and the Yellow Eyed Demon's words were so loud in his head he could swear he could feel it's breath.
But he just gripped onto his towel and pushed the words away and looked at Sam.
He was laid out, chest reassuringly moving up and down with breath, and miles of golden, clean skin. His boxers white and stark against the darkening room, his hair was still damp and leaving patches against the pillow, but he looked so soft and warm with living.
A faint pink rose to his cheeks when Dean realized he was staring and the squeak of the floorboards under his feet made him wince as he pulled on a pair of black boxers and a white T-shirt, feeling a little more modest then Sam but he could forgive him anything in that moment.
Dean tried to be quiet as he crawled into the other bed, it was cold and staring out of the window just made him feel alone.
"Dean." Sam's voice was ruff with sleep and a certain amount of no use, but it was still Sam and Dean thought he'd cry because he knew at one point during those last few days that he thought he wasn't going to hear Sam again.
Dean turned onto his side and looked through the growing darkness at Sam.
Sam held out his hand between the divide of their beds, reaching out with his long, strong fingers.
"C'mere." He breathed, just bellow a whisper but loud enough for Dean to hear and gasp silently.
Sam knew somewhere deep and familiar that Dean needed to know he was here, he knew the sight of him wasn't enough. Dean liked to learn with his hands, that was his way and Sam knew his brother needed this.
"Sam-I-" Dean's protest was tired and with not enough heart behind it. It just made Sam sigh and grip onto the sheets of Dean's bed.
"You look at me as if I'm not here. You want proof Dean, you need it I can tell, so just-just let me do this, let me prove I'm still here." Sam's voice was soothing and Dean didn't have it in him to protest.
It was awkward and Sam wasn't even under the sheets, but when they finally bunked down, Dean was facing the window and Sam was staring at the back of his head.
Even in the gloom and the shaft of light coming through the bottom of the door Sam could see the spray of brown freckles on Dean's muscular shoulders, and he could feel the ache in his fingertips to trace them in their sporadic pattern.
"Dean. Dean, look at me." Sam whispered, low and an edge he didn't want to call pleading.
Dean just sighed, heavy and full of "For God's sake" as he grunted and twisted the sheets, landing with a squeak of rusted bedsprings and a sigh, Dean was facing Sam.
The silhouette of Sam's body, sheeted and the the curve of his shoulders, the long column of his neck and the erratic waves of his hair, no real colors except for the golds and dark.
"Dean, don't just stare, touch me." Sam's voice held the edge of an order, Dean needed orders, he felt so lost, a solder with no commander. Dean could feel it, the silent weight taken from his shoulders.
Dean reached out, there wasn't enough space between them to not feel the heat of each other but it still felt like forever before Dean's hand landed on the round of Sam's shoulder.
His palm was warm and dry. Dean could feel it, his heart in his throat, thumping so hard he couldn't breathe, but it was the heat. The heat from living flesh that really hit him like a cheap shot, all smooth and hot.
"Not there. Here." Sam ordered, catching Dean's hand in his and pressing it on his chest, palm to nipple and fingers curled awkwardly on his collar bone, heart beating hard and constant, just for Dean to feel.
It wasn't like Dean could stop himself, he gasped. It wasn't supposed to be this intense. Knees bumping, sharing breath and his hand pressed so hard against the beat of Sam's heart he thought it was beating straight into his palm, he could feel the ba-dum, ba-dum of it's perfect drum.
Sam's nipple was hard under his calloused hand, and his chest rose a little faster, breath hard and hotter against Dean and Dean felt his own heart break.
"See Dean, I'm right here." Sam sighed, his hand still gripping Dean's wrist, not even daring to let go, just in case Dean pulled away. Thumb curled on his pulse, feeling Dean's heart speed up with his.
Dean could feel he words were stuck in his throat lodged against his lost breath and thumping heart against his voice box. Skin too tight and flesh too hot, all under an old blanket that felt like a sheet of lead on him, and all of this was living.
Sam could feel it, the molten curl in the pit of his stomach, could feel the sheen of sweat on his skin. He took a leap of faith and pressed his forehead flush against Dean's, the slight hot wetness of his sweat, and the humid brush of their breathes on each others lips, so close and yet so far. Sam wanted more.
Dean closed his eyes against it all. So hot with living and the fast heart beat under his hand, all reaching out to him, Sam's close contact was breaking him apart, but Sam never relented. All their touching had started to solidify Dean's heart again.
Making him vulnerably whole in a single second. But the silent whisper for more had turned into a deaf roar in their bubble of silence and no personal space. But Sam was here and Dean was willing to give anything left of him to make sure he had that guarantee.
It was a brush at first. Just chaste and a fleeting tingle against his already wet lips but it was enough to want more. Not enough oxygen in the air and the silent tendrils of a new found addiction curling round them both was becoming almost desperate.
Too exhausted for pride and, too glad for shame, Sam pressed in for more of what they both wanted.
It was slow and something gentle about the whole sensation, just a simple press of lips and legs tangled at the ankles. They were both capable of giving more but that moment was just simple, the hunger could grow but first they just wanted this, together.
It didn't take long for a gentle brush of lips to progress. Open mouths and Sam was the first to push, trying to coax Dean, it didn't take much, gentle stroke on his teeth and tip to tip Dean pushed forward.
Dean was hard and the desperation almost had a taste to it as he pushed Sam onto his back and the weight of his brother settled on him.
Hand still on heart and Sam spread himself open willingly, Dean and him had lost so much for being Winchester's. Dean had even sold his soul.
Sam could give him this, he'd being around Dean so long it was hard sometimes to know were he started and Dean began, just laying here, the taste of faded whiskey and tears, and it hurt more to taste those tears then it was to taste the whiskey.
Because for longer then he could remember he'd hated whiskey, drunken rows with his father had always smelt that way. But now it was warm with tongue and need right in his mouth.
Dean's hand roamed pressing against the curve of his side, and the expanding bone of his ribcage with every sped up breath, the hard lines of his abs and the course hair under his arms but his ringed hand stayed on Sam's heart.
It wasn't a shock when he felt it. It wasn't a shock when he pushed up his own hardness, boxers damp with sweat and sex. Growling into each other, feeling the reality and dream of living.
Sam's fingers were bitten down numbs and bruising against his shoulders, the heel of his hand nearly crushing his collar bone and his teeth hard against Dean's lips, the metallic taste of warm pennies and the scent of Sam driving his hips harsh and down into the curve of Sam's hot erection.
And Sam could practically hear the heat of both of them under the blanket crackle in the their non-existent space, Sam could feel the sweat pooling between them, his back arching into touch and sticking to the sheets.
It was mess. All sin and love. All sweat and blood Dean thought he couldn't spill anymore of. But it was all right in his hands. Muscles burning from the holding himself up, could feel the strands of Sam's hair brush against his split knuckles and the other pressed, wet and scorching to Sam's chest.
Both not shaven and the coarse stubble giving a sandpaper scrap against their bumping chins, but Dean moved his mouth kissing the corner and moving into the long line of Sam's jaw, relishing the prickle of short, sharp stubble against the pink, softness of his tongue.
The white shirt was damp and too much for Sam to feel, he wanted Dean's heat, tugging at the hem and tilting his head to bare the column of his throat. Thighs spread wide and inviting as Dean finally pulled himself from the edge of Sam's jaw. The imprint of his palm on Sam's chest red as he sat on his haunches and peeled the shirt off his skin.
Somewhere distant and not fogged in Sam's mind, he hoped he painted a pretty picture for Dean. Spread wide and wanting, eyes almost black and shiny like volcanic glass and wet with each others sweat.
Because Sam's awe was painful as he stared up at his brother. Chest wide and ripped with power and sex. Panting and pink with want his amulet golden and shadowed against it all, his eyes dark and endless with a dangerous edge that made Sam want to drown and melt into the heat they had created.
But Dean didn't let him stare or drown long, he was back and cocooned with flesh and fabric as Dean fingered the elastic of his boxers. Tugging them down and freeing his bobbing erection, the desperately, almost purple tip smearing pre-cum against the ripple of his abs.
Sam's fingers soon pulled at Dean's boxers, slipping his fingers so his knuckles brushed the the hollows of Dean's hips and yanked, freeing his weeping cock abruptly to the cool air, Dean just hissed and landed with no grace, flush against him as latched onto his pulse.
Sucking hard, sloppy with teeth and lips. Sam's mouth feel open lazy and lax as he let the sound out. Breathy and all his desperation as Dean rocked them together, slipper with fluids that weren't red but bitter, holding the crown of Dean's head and pushing him in and down.
Dean followed his direction, sucking and biting against the flush flesh in front of him, every primal urge to mark, brand, scent, Sam was his and here and it was all he could do not to sink in to draw and taste blood.
The springs wailed against the speed and bounce of their cocks slipped together sliding messy and desperate, no direction except for the ultimate natural goal of their orgasm. And it was their orgasm, fueling the heat on the skin, the wet sliding sounds. The chocked off moans and growls of pure need filling the space.
Sam grunted and sighed as Dean bit his chest, sucking against the beat of his heart and stroking the ache with his hot tongue, wide broad stroked feeling the beat of his heart and the taste of his skin.
Dean's fingers mapped ever scar, skimming the pink and the silver, remembering ever time Sam bled and tried to hide his tears. The smell of his blood and look in his eyes when he past out from the pain.
But old and new scars decorated the flesh before him and Dean craved to taste each one. Taste the salt and smoothness against his tongue as he sucked in Sam's nipple, drinking in the sound of Sam.
They we're both close and Sam's voice was hoarse as he stared down at the feral darkness of Dean's eyes. The sight of Dean sucking in a nipple and licking the scar that curled just round the caramel disk looked like Dean was eating him. Tasting his flesh and hungry for the soft meat of him and Sam would let him, ask Dean how he tasted and probably cum as he died on Dean's lips.
But they both hit the solid, light wall of orgasm together, Dean braced on his elbows and breathing moaning into Sam's hot, alive mouth, tongues lashing out and hands digging into each other for grip as they tumbled in the bliss together, coming apart in white ropes of cum.
Dean's weight was hot and wet and the hot slickness on there abs, rocking out the last waves, and muscle rippling with afterglow was almost close to what Sam thought heaven was.
Too exhausted for Pride, and too glad for Shame, Dean lifted himself on shaky, aching muscles and turned Sam towards the window. Pressing his torso sticky and flush against the hot expanse of Sam's back and tried not to cry as they feel into dreams of each other.
The End