If we're talking hot and steamy and one of my new favorite writers for her amazing style and flow, you cannot go wrong with Saving Faith from Livejournal, currently preparing the 4th arc to her Wing verse about Dean and Castiel. What I liked most about this entry was that she stuck directly to Sam's POV the way I had stuck to Dean's in the first part for a really nice contrast. And of course the amazing hotness followed by some classic sillyness that is just SO the boys. It was difficult not to choose this one, but I went with not-hot instead of hot. Rarely happens, folks, so you know it was a hard decision. Thanks, my dear!

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Saving Faith's

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Sam's pretty sure he's lost his mind. Somewhere between psycho Ernie and the meat grinder of doom and the harpy trying to carve his brother up like a Thanksgiving turkey Sam just plum lost his freaking mind. That's the only way he's got of explaining this, what he's doing, why he's doing it, how he's feeling about it, because he's just not there right now. The lights are on but nobody's home because he really, seriously, honestly should not be liking this as much as he is.

The way his body feels plastered across Dean's like cheap, ugly wallpaper. Hot weight pressing down on hard muscles, blood soaking through Sam's jacket from where it's still spilling out of his brother, sticky and warm.

Or the way his lips tingle as they press into Dean's neck, sweat salty in his mouth, tongue buzzing like he's licking a battery, waiting for his brother to freak out on him, knee him in the groin and toss him off only praying that he won't.

Or the way his pants keep getting tighter every time Dean says his name, breathless, hushed, whispered into the top of Sam's head, soft breeze running through his hair as he moves along his brother like he's the roadmap to his freaking existence right now.

Yep, Sam's out of his mind here. Straightjacket, padded-cell, shock therapy, dad-would-so-kick-my-ass-for-this cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs insane and the strangest part of it all is that he doesn't even care.

Maybe it's hell. Sam remembering very clearly what it was like the last time Dean died, Dean was dead, gone, stolen from him leaving little Sammy alone and miserable and angry. Never being able to forget what that felt like and so every time he sees blood on his brother's skin his heart trip-hammers in his chest like a drummer with a terrible sense of rhythm.

Or maybe it's jealousy. Sam not having been the one to save Dean from the aforementioned hell, took an angel with blue eyes and shy smiles to do that and Dean had saved him so many times in his life that all he'd ever wanted was once, just once, to be able to do that. Return the favor.

Though, if Sam is really being honest with himself – which, considering the fact that he's slowly working his way towards ramming his tongue down his brother's throat, honesty isn't exactly a problem right about now – it's always been like this. Something always there between them, just under the surface, slow boil during the years of growing up practically on top of each other anyway. It just took a harpy and a crazy dude with a name built for trucker hats and gigantic sideburns to draw it out.

The proverbial freaking straw and all that.

He's still kissing Dean, though. Nipping kisses on his neck, in the shallow dip at the bottom of his throat, along his collarbone, sucking lightly at the pulse point until Dean is squirming beneath him. Sam already half hard and Dean well on his way, doped up on his own adrenaline and pain from the shoulder that's still bleeding, the one that Sam really should take care of, only he'd much rather, you know, take care of other stuff right about now.

He's going to do it. Jackhammer beating in his chest and he's going to freaking do it. Licking along the line of Dean's jaw, soft suck on his cheek before he twists his head just so and slips his tongue between his brother's lips. Dean kind of resisting at first, mouth open but tongue stationary, only after about fifteen seconds of Sam probing around in there a hand comes up behind his head, fingers at the end of Dean's good arm now locking in Sam's hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss and this is it.

This. Is. It.

No turning back now and, again, Sam doesn't freaking care.

One hand massaging Dean's earlobe, something Sam used to do absently when Dean would let him sleep with him sometimes, bad dreams and needing his brother's touch. One hand doing that and the other moving downwards, tracing shivering trails across Dean's body, fabric soft and damp before he reaches Dean's waistband, fingers twisting roughly, longingly over denim and cotton beneath as his brother bucks up into him.

"Sammy," Dean bites out, ripping his mouth away from Sam's, and he doesn't think he's ever heard him sound that needy in his entire life.

And Sam is also pretty sure that he's never been this turned on in his entire life either.

And he might be tempted to think up a good reason or two about why those two things are so intertwined only… you guessed it… he really, seriously doesn't care right now.

"Dean… let me…" Sam moans out, his voice needy itself, begging Dean to let him do this even though Dean hadn't really done anything to make him stop. Hadn't asked. Hadn't resisted. Had just said Sam's name like it was the only name in existence and Dean's eyes are open at that. Staring deep into Sam's, fear and lust written in the soft gold flecks mixed in with the green – so much green – as he nods lightly, soft lift and drop of chin beneath Sam's lips.

That's all the invitation Sam needs, his hand slipping into Dean's pants, wrapping hot and sweaty around hard flesh as Dean keens beneath him, eyes slipping shut, breath hissing between clenched teeth as Sam strokes him. Slow and hard, dragging his fingers over the vein, twisting over the head, smearing the precome all along him, making him moan.

Making his brother moan.

And God, if that just isn't the hottest thing he's ever heard he doesn't know what is.

He keeps his hand moving, though. Even though the angle is bad and Dean's pants keep getting in the way Sam won't stop. Can't stop. Can only keep pulling, tugging, dragging along his brother's dick like it's life, somehow, the movement.

Sam's never touched a guy like this, though. A guy other than himself, at least. But he's apparently pretty damn good at it because it doesn't take long for Dean to start making these low, throaty panting noises that just send Sam careening right off the rails. Cock aching where it's trapped in his jeans as he rubs it along Dean's thigh, not nearly enough pressure anywhere and needs…

… damnit does Sam need.

So he stops what he's doing, Dean sucking in his disapproval sharply like someone just turned off his morphine drip, his eyes snapping wide so needy again… dear God in heaven so needy. And Sam shushes him, soft hush whispered into his mouth, tongues tangling wildly, passionately, as he yanks his own pants roughly down his thighs before hefting Dean out of his, soft grunt vibrating along Sam's tongue as he lands on his busted up shoulder harder than Sam wanted him to.

"Sorry," Sam hisses, tearing away from Dean's lips again and he laughs at that, Dean does. Mumbling s'okay into the air between them as Sam looks. Eyes drifting down to their crotches, bare and shadowed in the dark here, pulsing and throbbing and wet and so close to each other's…

… so freaking close that Sam feels something tug loose inside his stomach at that alone. At the sight of their hard, full cocks straining to touch.

He's not going to last long. Coming apart at the seams and no way in hell is he going to last long like this so he reaches down with one trembling hand to align them, feeling his skin tingle as his palm stretches to wrap around both of them at once, together, before he thrusts. Hips pounding down into Dean, flesh on hard flesh, slick and sticky and warm. So… freaking… warm… that Sam's pretty sure he's never known what it means to be alive until this very second.

"God, Dean, so… so hot," he huffs out, his eyes still riveted by the way their dicks are rubbing together, electricity in his veins, blood pounding as mercilessly in his ears as his hips are pounding into Dean's and his fingers are on his face at that. At his words. Dean's fingers trailing shakily along Sam's chin, tilting his head up, eye to eye, so close that he can taste his breath. Can smell the honey lingering somewhere just beneath his brother's skin.

"Sammy," Dean says like he wants to make a point here. Wants to tell him something. Something important. But all he manages to say is Sam's name again, Sammy, the one that only Dean gets to use.

Only Dean.

His voice lost like a dying wind, his head slamming back into the ground beneath them, the only thing holding them together right now as Dean's cock twitches hard against Sam's, warm heat spreading between them like fire.

So much of their lives defined by fire.

Dean coming with Sam's name blistering his lips and that is all it takes. All it takes to push Sam right over the same damn edge, his own come mixing with Dean's as they ride each other through this, hands clutching bloody clothes and hot bodies, holding onto each other because that's all they have.

All they've ever had.

All they'll ever need.

Holding on so tight like they think they'll just fly apart into a million pieces if they don't as they both settle into each other. Soft, rhythmless drags while their lungs figure out how to suck in air again.

"Fuck," Dean whispers once it's all finished, Sam's body still draped across his, heavier now, somehow. Heavier and lighter. And Sam can't help but agree with him.

Can't help but agree with fuck.

His tongue painting lazy designs on Dean's neck again, ending where this all started, as his brother begins to laugh. Deep, belly laughs that vibrate up into Sam's body, making his cock twitch like it wants this.

Wants to do this, all over again.

Forever, maybe even.

And Sam thinks he could probably get used to that pretty damn easily.

"What's so funny?" he says, though. The words rough in his dry throat, saying them to keep himself from saying the millions of other, more dangerous ones lingering just beyond his lips.

I can't lose you again.

I've wanted you from the moment I learned what the word means.

I love you.

God, Dean, do I love you.

Words that don't need to be spoken now, he figures, what with everything that just happened. Only Dean is laughing still and Sam is really, truly curious as to why.

"A fucking harpy right out of Homer?" he asks, Sam lifting his head momentarily to look into Dean's eyes, gold flecks dancing now with the smile that's teasing its way across his brother's lips.

"God, you really are a massive dork."

And Sam laughs at that too, joining in the fun. Because he's right, Dean is. Sam is a dork. A huge, book-loving, brother-screwing dork.

But he doesn't think he needs to add that he's Dean's dork because, honestly, he's pretty sure that point has already been made.

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*fans self*

Crim