Warnings: Language, anal. Wincest.

Second smut, and there's a little less of it. I think I'll try something different next time. And like last time, if you want to give me any sort of prompt for my next story, I'm always open to requests.

Enjoy.

The silence was driving Dean batshit insane.

Two hours left till they hit Detroit, and there was only the sound of the tires putting blacktop behind them. Dean turned off his music because it sounded like nails on chalk board, abandoned conversation because what the fuck was he supposed to say, and goddammit, it's too fucking quiet. He slammed a hand onto the steering wheel out of sheer frustration and Sam pulled his eyes from the road to turn and look at him.

"…You okay there?"

"Fucking peachy, Sam," Dean spat, and the words burned like acid in his mouth.

Sam would be gone the next night, six hundred feet under in a prison cell with the fucking Devil as his only companion, yet Dean was talking to him like he was salt of the earth. He felt guilty, hatred and anger and Sam understood all of that, which only made it worse. He wanted Sam to get offended, to snap back and fight with him, just like old times, like everything used to be, like he wouldn't be losing everything that ever matter to him in twenty four hours.

He'd rather be fighting with his brother in their last day than sit in that stupid fucking silence.

But instead, Sam just lowered his eyes and turned to watch miles and miles of nothing go by the passenger window. Dean was more than pissed, he was livid – so angry that his eyes were starting to burn, but that was just from, the intense rage, not because he was going to cry. No matter what happened, he wasn't going to cry.

He couldn't.

By the time they finally made it to Detroit, dawn was breaking and they met up with Bobby at some small time motel that looked like it'd fit better in a history museum. They both got out of the car without saying a word and Sam went off to buy two rooms as Dean made a beeline into the parking lot, as far away from his brother as he could get without letting the office door out of his line of view. Sam was going to dance with Lucifer later that night, and there was nothing Dean could do to stop it, but he still had to look out for him. Had to take care of his brother. Had to cling to every last second he'd get to be big brother, and that thought made him want to vomit.

Bobby caught up with him somewhere around his third time pacing the lot, and even he did nothing to break that god-awful silence. Just put his hand on Dean's shoulder and gave him this all knowing look that simultaneously made him want to punch his fist through a wall and scream to the high Heavens.

"Fuck, it's end game, last night on fucking Earth and suddenly no one can speak? Is that it?"

Acid, poison, and Dean couldn't believe he was talking to his surrogate father like that, but Bobby understood. Bobby, Sam, hell, probably even Cas – they all understood him, like this was something that could be compartmentalized and examined and interpreted and fuck, it pissed Dean off. He wasn't some psych patient, this wasn't some basic fucking case of angst and trauma and how the hell could anyone understand him when he didn't even know what he was feeling?

He pulled away from under Bobby's hand and stalked back to the Impala where Sam was just leaving the office and waiting for them. His face felt a million degrees too hot, but it was just all that anger, all that rage. He wasn't going to cry. Nothing was going to make him cry.

He couldn't.

They got inside their room accompanied with the same God forsaken silence, save for the clink of the car keys against the table and the ruffling of sheets as Sam started pulling his bed apart to get ready for sleep. Wrestling match with Satan in less than twenty four hours, boy's gonna need his rest. Dean watched with mild horror, almost disgust, at how habitual Sam's actions were. How he was making the bed comfy like he always did before sleeping in all of the crappy motels they'd ever slept in.

If Dean thought really hard, he could almost trick himself into thinking this was just any other night. That this wasn't the last time he'd watch shitty television on a barely working TV set, laying on beds that lost their comfort some ten generations ago, drinking whiskey that cost all of ten dollars but was still their poison of choice out of habit. He could almost pretend that they'd wake up in the morning and he'd take too long in the shower, just to hear Sam bitch and complain then huff in frustration when Dean told him his hair looks perfect and all the other girls will be jealous.

He wanted so badly to believe it, and couldn't understand why nothing he did let him; how Sam was right fucking there but wouldn't be by the end of the day. He couldn't understand how he was supposed to be okay with that, or what he was supposed to be thinking and feeling. He just felt like he was running on fumes, fire running through his veins instead of blood and such blinding fucking rage, to the point his eyes were glossing over. It was just anger, he wasn't going to cry. There was no way he was going to cry.

He couldn't.

A few hours later, Dean was staring at the cracked and water stained ceiling amidst perfectly sickening silence, matched only by Sam's deep and even breathing that told Dean his brother had managed what he couldn't and found his way to unconsciousness. The sun had to have been rising but the room's blackout curtains did a wonderful job of concealing that fact, and it almost let Dean believe that this moment was frozen in time. That they could stay here forever and that was all he needed, all he wanted.

He turned to look at Sam, who was sleeping on his side with his back to him. Something about that made Dean uncomfortable, something about not being able to see his face, something about him being less than three yards away and yet on another planet. He didn't like it, and his voice was tight and restrained when he decided to test the silence.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?" and that surprised him. He thought Sam was sleeping, didn't expect him to respond. But hearing his voice brought him back to Earth, brought him closer, and suddenly those three yards were was too fucking much. Dean sat up and kicked his legs over the side of the bed, to which Sam merely rolled over to face him. It was dark in the room and they couldn't see each other's faces, but they didn't need light to know they were looking each other clear in the eyes. A few more seconds of silence, or maybe it was an eternity, Dean wasn't sure, and then it was Sam that broke the water.

"I know."

Boiling under his skin, every nerve in his body on fire, and Dean snarled, "No. You really fucking don't." and as he stood up, his skin felt too tight and the room was too dark and everything was blurring together, but he was only really pissed off. He wasn't going to cry. Nothing Sam could do or say would make him cry.

He couldn't.

The three yards was covered in seconds, and then Dean was on top of Sam, the only sound in the room that of lips on lips and shuffling to get blankets and clothes out of the way. Dean stopped kissing Sam only long enough to get both of their shirts off and then he was right back at it, like it was the only thing he had ever been programmed to do. He needed him there, needed to feel his lips moving against his own, needed to know that Sam was still with him. In twelve hours, they'd be on their way to the rendezvous with the Morning Star, but Dean wasn't thinking about any of that.

He was thinking about the feeling of Sam's hands in his hair, the smooth feeling of Sam's muscles under his own, the feeling of absolute elation swelling inside his stomach. But mixed in there was dread and horror and it only made Dean's kisses become more passionate, hands more desperate as they pulled away at the button on Sam's pants. More kicking and shuffling, more terrible, terrible silence, and then they were naked. Dean was lubing up fingers that immediately found home inside of his brother, thrusting and stretching and making Sam breathe faster and faster. Twelve hours, and he wasn't about to waste a single second, because then he was pulling up Sam's legs and pressing inside of him, filling him and Sam let out a wordless moan, head tilted back and throat bared.

Silent, so fucking quiet, and Dean hated it.

Each thrust was slow and deliberate, tantalizing and teasing, because if Sam didn't break the silence and ask for more, Dean could do this up until the very second he went to face Lucifer. But Sam didn't, merely clung to Dean's back and rocked along with him, breathing loudly and deeply, and then he was just going crazy. He wanted to hear Sam's voice, needed to hear him say something, anything, and it was a damn good thing he knew everything about him because he knew just the way to do it.

Putting all of his weight on one hand and his knees, Dean snaked his hand into Sam's hair and pulled his head back so that he would have full access to his neck, and just that was enough to get the younger man digging into the elder's back. But then Dean started biting and sucking and licking all the sensitive areas that he knew would drive Sam over the edge and what a bitter victory it was when he heard him cry out.

"Dean. Dean," and that was all. His name, over and over, louder and louder, and fuck, that was all he could take. He sped up and Sam's nails dug harder, voice cried out more desperate and pleading and begging for this to last because neither of them was ready to say goodbye and fuck, fuck.

They came at the same time, but when he collapsed on top of Sam, Dean wasn't gasping out of exertion or pleasure. His fists were balled against Sam's chest, head buried in the hollow of his neck, and there was nothing to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks. He was gasping because he couldn't speak, because all words were lost to him as he realized that was his last night with the only person he would ever really love. He wanted to tell him, wanted to say how much this was killing him, wanted to show just how much he would give anything to stop him from taking that final leap.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

And the silence drove him insane.