Dean isn't sure, later, exactly how long they sat like that – him in nothing but his underwear, curled up in a feeble little ball on the floor practically freakin' weeping, collapsed against his not-so-little brother's chest because he doesn't have the strength to hold himself up. If Dean wasn't in the middle of some kind of epic core-meltdown, he might have appreciated how poetically allegoric it was that every hurt and fear he'd spent years shoving down had all bubbled up at once, breaking him down so completely that Sam was now literally the only thing holding him up. In a way, they'd lived their whole lives like that; fighting with everything they had in them and then leaning on each other like a crutch when they just couldn't fight anymore. It's that whole co-dependence thing that Dean's not always so thrilled about but is buried far too deep in to even bother resisting at this point. He needs Sam, he just does. Like those symbiotic relationships in nature he remembers learning about in Biology – the clownfish can't survive without the anemone and vise versa. It's been that way since before Dean can remember.
And then, were he not in the middle of said epic core-meltdown, he'd probably be annoyed with himself on the grounds that he's supposed to be the big brother; the strong one, and what the hell would Dad say if he could see how pathetic Dean's become lately? But Dean's head is swimming with so many other thoughts it's like he's drowning in it, so he doesn't notice any of those things. He's so tired of fighting and losing, tired of some new catastrophe waiting for him around every corner, tired of always being the one who has to hold everybody else together when the world around them breaks. He's tired of constantly being worried about Sam; even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knows Sam's an adult and can take care of himself, Dean can never suppress the constant nagging feeling that if he takes his eyes off his little brother for more than a few minutes, something bad will happen. It's an instinct that's ingrained into him so deeply he can never get away from it – etched into his bones like the Enochian on his ribs – but it's exhausting, worrying about somebody all the time. It's physically draining, and Dean's long since reached his breaking point. Hell, he's practically pole-vaulted past it.
So he just cries, like he hasn't in probably over a decade. He hasn't let himself, because there's a gruff, disapproving voice in the back of his mind telling him not to. Real men don't cry. But fuck it. So fine, if Dean's not a real man by John Winchester's definition then maybe that's just too bad. Dad isn't here; he hasn't had to deal with everything Dean has in the last few years. He never had to sacrifice as much as Dean has. Dad never had to be there for Sam – actually be there for him, instead of just giving up and walking away. Dad never had the entire will of heaven and hell working against him. And Dad only had to lose the love of his life once – Dean's lost Sam so many times he can't even remember them all anymore. So if he needs to be weak and pathetic right now, maybe that's okay. Dean had a pretty good grip on all these nasty emotions until today, but then all the walls came avalanching down faster than he could build them back up again and he's just so god damn tired.
So, maybe, it's okay to just be broken for a while. Maybe it's okay to let himself fall apart. After Dean manages to suppress the swell of voices nagging him to pull himself together, it actually feels kinda good to cry – to just let it out in waves of wrenching, over-dramatic despair until his throat is raw and his eyes feel tight and swollen. And Sam doesn't say a word the whole time, because he's the best little brother on the planet. He's the only one who understands that sometimes it isn't that Dean doesn't want to talk, it's that he can't. Sam gets that Dean needs to bottle everything up until it explodes out in bursts of violence and, apparently, tears. Sam doesn't question him or judge him, he just holds on; gentle fingertips tracing patterns into the skin of Dean's bare back and soothing, nothing-words whispered into the hair just above Dean's ear. Dean can't really make them out with the way his head is throbbing like he's got a giant seashell to each ear, but he keeps catching the word 'okay'. It's gonna be okay.
He doesn't ask how, how is it gonna be okay, Sammy?, because in all likelihood Sam doesn't have an answer. But somehow, it doesn't seem necessary. Somehow, because it's Sam saying it, Dean can just close his eyes and shut down his brain and believe it's true. That this too shall pass, or whatever the saying is. That one way or another, they will get through this. Like he told Sam earlier this morning – they always do. He meant it then, and even though it sort of feels like about a year's worth of crap has all been dumped on then in the course of this one, terrible day, deep down Dean still believes it. They've made it through everything else and somehow continue to come out stronger on the other side, there's no reason this should be any different.
Dean hiccups a few times as the tears start to slow, drawing in shaky breaths that vibrate through his whole chest on the way out. Sam rubs his back through it, giving Dean another minute to reel his self control back in before he speaks.
"Feeling better?" he asks gently.
Dean snorts wetly. "Oh yeah. I'm walkin' on sunshine," he mutters, rolling his eyes just a little even though Sam can't see it; rubbing his forehead against Sam's neck as he shakes his head incredulously. Sometimes Sam is an idiot. Too bad Dean loves him anyway.
Sam laughs quietly. "You're being a sarcastic asshole again, so you must be back to normal."
"If I'm such an asshole, how come you put up with me?"
"You know why," Sam murmurs, letting his lips drag against Dean's temple.
Dean manages a small smile and wipes at the salty wetness on his face with the back of his hand. "Somebody pays you for it, don't they? I knew it."
Sam laughs again, deep and rumbling in his chest, and it's such a beautiful sound that Dean almost starts crying again. Or, he would, if he was a chick or something. Which he's totally not, regardless of how this estrogen-soaked moment is making him look.
"Something like that. Or, y'know, I might just love you. That could be it."
"Such a girl, Sammy," Dean admonishes affectionately.
"I'm not even gonna point out the irony," Sam answers, shaking Dean a little and then tightening his arms around him.
Dean grins, choosing to ignore that comment as he settles against Sam's chest again. The heat from Sam's body seeps through Dean's skin and right down into his bones; warming him from the inside out even though he wasn't cold. Sometimes Dean forgets how big Sam is until he's wrapped around him like this. There'll most likely always be a part of Dean's mind that can't see his brother as anything other then that skinny little kid he used to be. He's a little jaded, maybe, but Dean can still see his sweet little Sammy in those warm, hazel eyes – as hard as the world's tried to beat his compassionate nature out of him. But somewhere along the way Sam became the stronger one of the two of them, physically and probably emotionally too. And somewhere in the course of the last twenty-four hours, Dean became okay with it.
For whatever reason, he's not even ashamed of himself right now for the waterworks and the fact that he's still clinging to Sam like he's afraid to let go. Their whole lives, Sam was never the one telling him it wasn't okay to be emotional - that was always Dad, and then later Dean himself. Dean sort of feels like he should be embarrassed about the way he's acting but for the first time in his life he isn't. He feels like it's okay to let go and sob in Sam's arms just once, because the second Dean gets his head back on straight this will be over. Sam knows him well enough to never bring this up again. So Dean just lets himself wallow a little bit longer in his moment of weakness and manages to mostly be alright with it.
"Are you gonna freak out?" Sam asks, reading his mind.
"'Bout this? Nah." Dean sniffs. "Think m'allowed at least one nervous meltdown in my life."
Sam just nods and doesn't say anything further. He probably wants to – Dean would be willing to bet there are a thousand things swirling around in that big brain of Sam's that he'd like to say, but he doesn't. Again, best little brother ever.
"Hey listen," Dean adds softly, "while we're still channeling Terms Of Endearment here, I – I really am sorry. For everything."
"I know," Sam whispers. "Me too."
"You think we can do it? The whole starting over thing?"
Sam takes his time answering, but when he does his voice is even and determined. "I know we can."
"You sound pretty sure about that." Dean glances up at him and Sam shrugs a little.
"Aren't you?"
"I … sometimes."
"And the other times?" Sam slides one big hand up to drag his thumb on the skin under Dean's eye.
"The other times … it feels like I'm in some kind of tornado or something," Dean answers honestly, lowering his eyes because Sam's piercing gaze tends to take the words right out of his mouth. "Like everything is spinning out of control faster than I can put it back together. And you're the only thing keeping me on the ground."
Sam's brow furrows a little, but he nods thoughtfully. "Guess it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere, then. And I know you probably have a hard time believing that right now, considering … well. Everything." He tucks a crooked finger under Dean's chin and lifts his face again. "But that's alright. I'm just gonna have to prove it to you."
Dean takes a deep breath. Sam's right – he doesn't exactly have the best track record, but Dean wants to believe him this time. God help him, he does. "Okay," he agrees, and then Sam swoops down unexpectedly and kisses him, soft and sweet and so damn good it has Dean struggling to catch his breath after only a few swipes of Sam's tongue.
Sam kisses like he does everything else; calculating and controlled at first but then once he finds the right rhythm he throws his whole self into it. He's constantly in motion, hands running up and down Dean bare back; cupping his neck and then squeezing bruises into his hips with stronger fingertips. Dean surrenders to him and lets Sam plunder his mouth, tongue and teeth almost stubbornly relentless, and so very Sam it makes it even harder for Dean to breathe. It's dizzying and kind of shiny-bright and intimidating all at the same time, and after a few minutes Dean's lungs are screaming from a lack of oxygen and he has to grab Sam's face and pull him back – just enough to rest their foreheads together and pant harshly into Sam's mouth.
"Sammy," he whispers, instantly so hard he's lightheaded and Sam hums appreciatively.
"Love the way you say that," he breathes, taking Dean's mouth again but tenderly this time; more loving. He caresses Dean's lips with his own and tucks his thumbs just under the waistband on Dean's boxers to pet at the dewy skin there.
"My ass is going numb," Dean says between kisses, tugging gently at Sam's hair. He really doesn't want to have to move, but the way his legs are scrunched up against his body is probably going to start hurting pretty soon and there's no point in them doing this on the floor when they've got that big, soft bed only a few steps away.
Sam moves back on a breathy laugh. "Me too.
Dean disentangles his limbs from Sam's and stands, reaching down to pull Sam up with him. Immediately Sam crowds back into Dean's space, settling his big hands low on Dean's hips and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the cut of muscle. Dean leans his forehead against Sam's again so he can turn his eyes downward as he slides the sweatpants over Sam's lean hips and down his thighs. Once they drop to the floor, Dean focuses his slightly blurry gaze to Sam's slowly hardening cock; watching raptly as it fills with blood, thickening and lengthening under Dean's intense stare. Sam's face heats up a little under the scrutiny – Dean feels that rather than sees it – but he doesn't look away. He reaches out and brushes his fingers barely-there over the underside, smiling to himself when it twitches and Sam gasps quietly. Watching Sam get hard, knowing it's all for him; that's a sight Dean's pretty sure he's never going to get tired of, ever.
"So fuckin' pretty, Sammy," he says, rubbing ever-so-slightly at the dark pink head with his thumb. "Always knew you'd be impressive."
"What, you mean even when I was a kid?" Sam's voice is a little strangled and his hands are gripping Dean's biceps too tightly to pull off the air of composure he's attempting.
Dean huffs darkly. "Yeah."
"Well that's just six different shades of disturbing," Sam quips, no real weight to his words as he bumps Dean's nose with his own and pushes Dean's underwear off in turn.
"I know." Dean feels just a quick flash of the familiar tightness in his chest – lasting guilt for over ten years worth of impure thoughts about his little brother – but when he looks up there's nothing but warmth and love in Sam's eyes, and the knot around Dean's sternum loosens.
Sam takes both Dean's hands in his and leads him toward the bed, settling himself down on his back and pulling Dean's smaller body on top of his own, kissing Dean soundly before he speaks again.
"Is it weird to think of me like that?" he asks, lips dragging across Dean's cheek.
Dean rolls his hips a little so his straining erection rubs against the jut of Sam's hipbone. Even that little bit of contact sends a prickle of heat up his spine. "Like what?"
"Like the little brother you had to take care of," Sam explains, sliding his hands down to cup Dean's ass and grind their hips together firmly. "Doesn't it make it feel weird to be …"
"To be lying naked in bed with you?" Dean finishes on a half-moan, nipping at Sam's earlobe.
Sam chuckles. "Yeah, that."
Dean stills, pushing up onto his forearms so he can see Sam's face. "I … no, not really. I mean, I guess it should, but it doesn't. It used to, definitely. But now it – just feels like … this is where we're supposed to be, you know?"
Sam nods and his eyebrows crinkle in the middle, twisting into a half-frown. "Do you have any idea how much I fucking love you?" he asks, eyes glazing over a little as he stares up at Dean like he's the only person in the whole world.
It makes Dean feel a million miles tall when Sam looks at him like that. Like he not only hung the moon, but hand crafted it himself along with every single one of the hundred billion stars in the Milky Way and put them there just for Sam – like he'd do it all again in a minute if Sam ever asked him to. Which, colorful metaphors aside, is completely, irreversibly, dangerously true. There isn't a damn thing he wouldn't do for Sam.
He leans down and presses a long kiss to Sam's slightly open mouth. "I have some idea," he whispers. Actually, he has an exact idea because he loves Sam just as much, if not more. But he can't say shit like that, even when they're naked and hard and so wrapped up in each other Dean can't remember where he ends and Sam begins, so he lets Sam say it for him and tries to communicate with his lips and hands and sways of his hips how much he feels the same way.
Sam shifts under him so Dean falls more flush on top of him and their erections meet between sweat-sticky stomachs. He gets a better grip on Dean and arches up into him so their cocks rub together. The friction is delicious and the heat is so maddening Dean's a hundred percent sure he could come from just this – just Sam's hands on his ass and Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's hips grinding against his own. He doesn't really want to come, not yet anyway since this is supposed to be their epic make-up sex or whatever and it's way too soon for it all to be over but he's having trouble remembering how to voice that. He feels a bit like that stupid puzzle in the newspaper, the jumble or whatever it's called, when Sam gets him like this – he knows what the words are but his brain can't sort them into the right order.
So he reluctantly pushes himself up onto his knees, breaking away from Sam's mouth with an audible smack and immediately ducking down to press a kiss to Sam's collarbone before he can protest the lack of contact.
"Shit," Sam pants, fingers doing their best to tug at Dean's short hair. "Want you so much, big brother."
Dean has to slam his eyes closed and concentrate determinedly on fat, old men playing baseball for a minute because fuck it drives him crazy when Sam calls him that when they're together like this. It's the dirty-bad-wrong of it all, mixed up with how unexplainably right it actually is; and it makes Dean see stars.
"God damn, Sammy," he whispers, reattaching his lips to a spot near Sam's sternum.
"Mmm."
Sam moans like a porn star as Dean licks down his torso; dragging his tongue over a pebbled nipple, and then sealing his lips around it and sucking hard. Sam's everywhere, absolutely everywhere; on Dean's taste buds and in his lungs and in his stomach and in his very soul; and it's perfect. He scatters kisses over Sam's tight stomach, giving every inch of smooth skin a few seconds of attention until Sam's gasping and trembling under Dean's hands. He knows exactly where to suck and sink his teeth in to coax those breathless little moans from deep in Sam's throat that make Dean's dick twitch where it's hanging heavy against his thigh, and he works meticulously like this is just another proviso in his lifelong assignment of take care of Sammy. In a weird way, it is.
When Dean gets low enough, he pushes his nose into the curls at the base of Sam's already leaking cock and inhales deeply. He can't even express how deliriously happy he is that the shower didn't work. The musky smell of an aroused Sam is as pungent as always, but it's just that much sharper because it's a day old and unmasked by the artificial smell of soap. He draws one of Sam's balls into his mouth, the thin skin soft against his tongue and the brazen heat on his face so sweltering Dean feels almost feverish with how turned on he is. It's always like this with Sam; no one else effects Dean like his brother does. No one even comes close. The moist air is peppery in his nostrils and he takes another deep breath, all the way down to his toes – head spinning at the scent that's so uniquely Sam that there isn't anything he could compare it to.
Then Sam chuckles quietly, his belly rumbling under Dean's forehead.
"What?" Dean asks, a little defensively, because he's pretty sure he knows exactly 'what'. He's not sure how long he'd had his face buried in Sam's crotch, but it was clearly too long.
"How come I'm just finding out about this kink now?" Sam asks, smiling and scratching his nails through Dean's short hair.
"What kink?" Dean says automatically. He knows it's pointless, he's been caught more than red-handed, but he still feels the need to protect at least a little of whatever dignity he has left.
"This thing you have with smelling me when I'm sweaty and haven't showered. You've been doing it all day."
Dean is completely mortified at hearing it said so bluntly, and he rests his cheek on Sam's hip so his brother won't see the furious blush crawling up his neck.
"I mean, it can't smell good down there," Sam continues, definite hint of a smirk lilting his voice.
Dean shrugs. "I dunno, it does to me. Does that gross you out?"
"What? No, course not." Sam rubs the back of his knuckles against Dean's temple. "It's pretty hot actually, just a little strange that I never knew about it till now, that's all."
Dean sighs and then smiles a little when his warm breath blows unintentionally over Sam's dick and it twitches. Sam tugs at Dean's arm, but Dean stays resolutely put, safely hidden between Sam's legs.
"Dean?" Sam urges.
"I guess I just ..." Dean sighs again and chances a glance up at Sam. He looks genuinely curious, and not like he's about to judge Dean or laugh at him or anything, so Dean keeps going. "I guess I always thought you'd think I was weird or something."
"Why, because you've got a thing for how I smell? You think I don't have weird kinks about you?"
Dean can hear the playful smile on Sam's face, so he crawls up the length of the bed, dropping down onto his back beside his brother. He takes a deep breath and then tosses his head toward Sam so he can look him in the eye. "Like what?"
"Like, sometimes sunlight turns me on, because it reminds me of this spot right here," Sam taps his finger on the fine trail of hair low on Dean's stomach, "all that gold mixed in."
Dean bursts out laughing. "You're right, that is a bit weird."
"Told you," Sam chuckles back, and rolls onto his side so he can lean down and lick at Dean's neck. "So, you like it when I smell bad, huh?"
Dean shifts his head back a little and cards his fingers through Sam's hair. "You don't smell bad, just – when you haven't showered you smell like you instead of soap. Kind of like bread, but a bit spicy or something. You smell fuckin' good, Sammy, always have."
"Mm," Sam hums as he sucks on the pulse point at the base of Dean's neck. "I remember you used to fall asleep with your nose in my hair. I always wondered how you could breathe."
Dean snorts. He definitely remembers that too; lying with his arms wrapped around Sam's chubby little body and his whole face pressed into the side of Sam's head, back before he knew why it was supposed to be wrong.
"Even my ... well."
"Your what?"
"Never mind," Dean mutters, reaching down to brush his fingers over one of Sam's nipples in the hopes of distracting him.
"C'mon, tell me," Sam persists.
Dean lets out a quick puff of breath; he'd be willing to bet he's going directly to Hell for this regardless of what Cas seems to think. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. But for no reason at all suddenly he's feeling compelled to tell Sam things he never wanted his brother to know before this moment. There's a decent chance that Sam's gonna be disgusted at the true extent of Dean's sick mind, but apparently Sam wasn't the only one who got a wall knocked down today – Dean has voices in his head begging him to shut up but they're not as loud as the voices urging him to finish what he started to say.
"I'm pretty sure my first few hard-ons were because of that," Dean admits reluctantly, turning his face away from Sam's again so at least he doesn't have to meet intense blue-green eyes that can see right through him. "You'd crawl into bed with me after a nightmare or something, and you'd be all warm and sleepy and you'd get this little boy smell all over me. God, it was like you had sprayed perfume or something, the way everything ended up smelling like you. The sheets, my clothes, everything."
When Dean flicks his gaze toward Sam for a second, Sam's eyes have gone all shimmery soft – like he isn't repulsed at all by Dean revealing his pre-teen fetish for his baby brother's scent (emphasis on the 'baby' because at seven or eight that's exactly what Sam was).
"You were pretty irresistible," Dean sighs. "As seriously fucked up as that is."
Sam shakes his head and strands of chocolate brown hair fall into his eyes. "Not fucked up."
"It kinda is."
"Then I guess I'm fucked up too. I used to get wood just watching you fix your car or clean the guns. You'd get all flushed 'cause you were concentrating so hard, fuck you were gorgeous." Sam smiles a little and then leans down and kisses Dean; slow and warm. When he pulls back, he runs the pad of his thumb over Dean's spit-slick bottom lip and adds, "Still are. I don't think it means we're fucked up. I think it means you've been in my head and under my skin since the day I was born."
Dean kisses back, a sudden swell of emotion in his chest stunning him into silence for a few moments. When he does speak again, he can't really help the way his voice wavers and cracks like he's fifteen again.
"So can I get back to sucking your dick now?" he asks, tickling between Sam's shoulder blades.
"You never really started," Sam mumbles against Dean's lips, "too busy perving on my unwashed pubes."
"Oh god, don't put it like that," Dean groans. "Makes me sound like a freak."
Sam grins mischievously. "You are a freak." He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Dean's slightly wilted erection, giving it a squeeze to coax it back to hardness, and whatever retort Dean had dies in his throat. "But it's okay, cause I am too."
"You're such, ah," Dean hisses as Sam digs his thumbnail under the head, "a sweet talker. Can't imagine why you didn't get laid more in high school."
"I got laid plenty in high school." Sam twists his palm around Dean's shaft and sucks at a spot on his jawbone. "Just cause it was with my cradle-robbing big brother doesn't make it not count."
Dean tries to laugh, but it fades into a long moan when Sam bites him gently. "Fu-uck," he mutters shakily. "You keep this up and that thing poking my thigh is gonna have to suck itself."
"Don't want your mouth," Sam rasps, voice low and deep and completely serious again. "Want you."
A generous glob of pre-come blurts out of Dean's swollen head at Sam's words, 'cause fuck he wants that too, wants it so bad it hurts. But the things Sam told him earlier float back to the surface and claw their way through the haze of arousal. He doesn't want to hurt Sam ever again, and even though he'd do everything in his power not to this time, the fact still remains that he did – weighted and poignant between them like someone just dropped an anvil on their heads.
"Dean, no." Sam rolls his body in closer so he's pressed flush up against Dean's side from chest to ankles, and lets Dean's cock slip out of his hand so he can cup it around Dean's cheek. "Don't you dare, don't even go there."
"Sammy …"
"No," Sam insists, holding Dean's face so he can't look away. "Reset button, remember?"
Dean starts to protest again, but falls silent at the intensity of the look on Sam's face.
"You won't hurt me. You wouldn't, I know that," Sam promises, dropping his head to rest against Dean's. "I need this, we need this, just … please."
There are a million reasons why Dean shouldn't give in to this – he doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve to get a second chance after what he did. But, inexplicably, Sam's giving him one anyway and Dean isn't even in the neighborhood of strong enough to resist.
"Okay," he murmurs, just a whisper of breath against Sam's lips and that's all the invitation Sam seems to need.
He pushes himself up on top of Dean, kissing him with desperate ferocity and reaching over to the nightstand for the bottle of lube Dean doesn't remember seeing him put there. He's about to ask but Sam isn't even giving him a chance to breathe, let alone ask stupid questions, so Dean just cups Sam's face in his hands and kisses back. Sam hikes himself up to his hands and knees, somehow managing to get the cap off the bottle and pour some of the squishy gel onto his fingers while still sucking on Dean's bottom lip until it's swollen and tingling. He lets his tongue swipe over Dean's teeth and the roof of his mouth and Dean hums happily into it. Damn, Sam's too good at this. Dean likes sex as much as the next person, probably more, but he would be perfectly content to just do this for the rest of the evening – just trade kisses with Sam over and over again until they can't feel their mouths anymore. But Sam, clearly, has other ideas, and when Dean manages to blink his vision clear enough to glance down their bodies, Sam's arm is draped down his side, hand hovering over his own ass and what has to be at least two fingers buried in his hole.
"Oh holy fuck," Dean groans, lifting his head up enough so he can watch as sparks sizzles through his body like an electric currant. That's got to be the hottest thing he's ever seen, ever.
Sam moans deeply, dropping his head down on Dean's shoulder and rocking back on his own hand, and Dean might as well give up on ever getting it up for anything other than Sam ever again because nothing, not the filthiest porno ever made, could ever be sexier than this is. He splays his hand out on Sam's sweat-dappled back and drags it down slowly until he gets to Sam's ass, squeezing the firm globes of it in his palm and then tracing a whisper-soft fingertip over the rim where Sam's fingers are sheathed in his own body.
"Jesus," Dean mutters, blowing out a quick breath into Sam's hair. The little muscle is slick with lube and twitching around Sam's fingers and Dean's so turned on his vision is whiting out a little around the edges. "So perfect, baby boy. So good for me."
Sam whimpers Dean's name in this voice that's so fucked out it's like liquid sex, and it's nothing short of a miracle that Dean manages to stop himself coming just from the sound alone.
"Spread your fingers a little," Dean whispers, using his free hand to brush the hair off Sam's sweaty forehead so he can lick at the salty moisture.
Sam does, and Dean slips his index finger between the two of Sam's and pushes it fluidly into Sam's quivering hole. Sam whimpers again at the added intrusion, and Dean fights to keep his breathing even through the feeling of them opening Sam up together; the tight vacuum Sam's muscles create around their fingers. It's been a good while since they've done this, but the feeling of being completely buried in Sam isn't one Dean could ever forget regardless of the space between them.
"M'ready," Sam slurs, licking a stripe up Dean's neck and trying to pull his fingers out but Dean stops him.
"One more. Don't wanna –"
"You won't," Sam insists, using his leverage to overpower Dean and push his hand away.
"I just … want this to be good for you." Dean blinks up into Sam's eyes; shiny and darkened to a deep, forest green, and Sam smiles warmly and kisses Dean softly.
"You said that the first time," he murmurs into Dean's lips.
"How do you remember things like that?" Dean asks, shaking his head in amusement.
"I remember everything about that night," Sam answers, brushing their noses together and kissing Dean again. "It was good then, and it's gonna be now. It's always a little uncomfortable at first, you know that. But I love you, so it's perfect."
Dean nods, closing his eyes against another electric thrill of arousal combined with something that feels a lot like the kind of love people describe in poems. Conquering and everlasting and all that flowery bullshit Dean's never really had any patience for until right now. In a way he never wants this to end – there's so much crap waiting for them outside the little sanctuary they've made in this room, in this bed, that Dean would love nothing more than to just stay like this forever; naked and sweaty and needy with his Sammy – but on the other hand he's been hard and leaking for so long it's bordering on painful, so if Sam's in a hurry to move things along Dean's not going to fight him.
He puts his hand on Sam's hip, urging him to roll off him so Dean can get on top, but Sam doesn't move.
"Sit up," he says, nudging Dean with his knee.
Dean goes with it, pushing up onto his hands and scooting up to lean against the headboard. Sam pours another generous helping of lube into his palm and coats Dean's erection up with it; stroking the shaft lightly, like an appetizer. Then he knees-walks forward until he's straddling Dean's lap and his chest is right in front of Dean's face. He grins down at Dean, reaching behind himself to take hold of Dean's cock, lines it up, and then lowers himself down onto it. Dean cries out and his hands snap to Sam's hips to hold on, and Sam's eyelids flutter closed and his head falls back as he sinks about halfway down and then pauses.
"God, Sam …" Dean can hardly catch his breath in the crazy heat that's ricocheting back and forth between them, threatening to consume them both and burn them up into nothing but cinders, and Dean's more than inclined to let it. It's too fuckin' good, too tight and perfect, to spare a thought for anything else.
"Yeah." Sam's voice is choked sounding, and Dean rubs his stomach and reminds him to breathe, but Sam just smiles coyly and shushes him. "I have done this before."
He drops the rest of the way down in one slow, fluid motion, and if Dean had anything else to say he's forgotten it now because shit, he's pretty sure he's never been in this deep before. It's like gravity combined with the weight of Sam's body are forcing him in just that extra centimeter that Dean could never manage when he was lying over Sam, and holy-fucking-Christ it feels amazing. Dean's hips are trying to move of their own accord but he uses all the will power he possesses to keep still. For maybe fifteen seconds longer, Sam's eyes are squeezed tight and his breathing is shallow as he adjusts to Dean's girth and the new position, and then he just melts into Dean's torso and moans deep in his throat.
"Feels good, Sammy?" Dean whispers huskily, because he has to make sure.
"God, you have no idea," Sam mumbles, making a strangled noise when Dean rolls his hips experimentally.
"Tell me."
Dean grips Sam's ass and pulls him forward a bit, echoing Sam's gasp when Dean shifts inside him, hot and wet and so fucking incredible.
"Fuck," Sam chokes harshly, gripping Dean's shoulders like he's worried he might collapse if he doesn't. "It's like I can feel you all the way to my brain. There's this super intense pressure where the tip is digging into me, Jesus it's so good, Dean."
"Yeah," Dean exhales shakily. "Can I – you ready?"
Sam doesn't bother answering, he just huffs impatiently; lifting himself up a few inches and then slamming back down. He circles his hips a few times until he finds a good rhythm, and Dean grunts and pushes his hips up as much as he can to meet Sam's downward thrusts. Sam rocks up and down, his tight channel rubbing all the right places on Dean's cock and squeezing him so tight Dean sees little black spots behind his eyes. The way his gorgeous body moves above Dean, the indescribable feeling of being sheathed in wet heat, the way Sam's letting out these breathless, needy little moans right in Dean's ear – it's all so overwhelming and dizzying that Dean's toes are curling.
He's not even aware of the fact that he's still gripping Sam's hips like a vice until Sam starts pawing at his hands, muttering, "God, Dean, c'mon just … let me … harder …"
Dean growls and complies happily; thrusting up so hard Sam cries out like he's in pain, but Dean can tell he isn't.
"Holy hell, do that again," Sam chokes out.
"Did I hit it?" Dean asks hoarsely, even though he already knows the answer. "Think you can come on just my cock?"
"Fuck, yes," Sam groans, falling forward to capture Dean's lips in a brutal kiss. "S'been so long, so fuckin' close, Dean …"
The rough, burnt-sugar of Sam's voice is very nearly enough to throw Dean over the edge, but doesn't want to finish before Sam does. He isn't sure why, his pleasure-saturated brain is way too alight with other sensations right now to figure it out, but for whatever reason it's really important right now that Sam comes first.
"C'mon, baby," Dean whispers, shoving his cock up again and Sam lets out a beautiful broken noise as Dean rubs against his prostate. "Want you to, wanna see it."
Sam comes half a second later with a throaty yell, as if he was waiting for Dean's permission before he let go, and that's all it takes to make the pressure at the base of Dean's spine explode into a fireball that blankets his whole body. The room around him spins and he can vaguely make out the feeling of the hot ropes of Sam's come painting his stomach but mostly Dean can't focus anywhere other than the throbbing of his own dick as he coats Sam's insides with his release. It's too god damn good to even be real, and Dean holds on tightly to his brother and lets it wash over him in twitchy waves of oatmeal-thick bliss. Fuck what anybody else says, fuck the angels and the demons and all their stupid whining over that stupid kingdom in the clouds – they can have it. 'Cause this, right here, this is what heaven really is. And now that Dean's got it back, he's never letting go again.
For a few long minutes, Dean floats in that post-orgasm haze where he's not really asleep but not really awake either and trying to move his limbs is like trying to tap dance in molasses so he just doesn't move at all. When his heart-rate slows to a slightly more human tempo and his eyes have managed to roll back out of his head, Dean realizes the reason he can't really breathe properly is because Sam is slumped like a dead weight against his chest, blowing puffs of moist air over Dean's neck.
"Did I break you?" Dean mutters, exhaustedly amused.
Sam sighs complacently. "Maybe."
Dean snickers and wraps his arms around Sam's back, pulling his brother in as close as is physically possible.
"Can I sleep here?" Sam mumbles, and his voice sounds so beautifully fucked out that Dean almost gasps.
Then he can't help but smile. "What, with me still in you and everything?"
"Mmhmm."
And that's, well – the idea of Sam waking up tomorrow morning and still being all open for him, shit, that's – "That's kinda sexy," Dean says.
He can feel Sam smiling against his skin.
"Actually, that's really fuckin' sexy," Dean concedes. "But I don't think you'll be able to walk tomorrow if you sleep with your legs bunched up like that."
"That won't be the reason I can't walk tomorrow," Sam jokes, words slurring a little around the edges as he yawns.
"Damn straight," Dean chuckles. "Alright, come on, Jolly Green. You gotta get up."
"Nooo," Sam whines like a little kid, pushing his face into Dean's shoulder. "Don't wanna."
Dean rubs his back affectionately, nuzzling into Sam's hair and letting him rest for another minute or two. It's always like this after Sam comes particularly hard; he gets these fuzzy eyes and his body goes completely lax like he's been roofied. He's never more vulnerable than he is in those moments, and Dean loves it almost more than anything. For a few minutes, Sam is truly helpless. It doesn't last long, but long enough that anyone or anything could swoop down and cut him to ribbon if they were so inclined. It would be as easy as candy from a baby. But Sam just lies there, so sated that he couldn't move if he tried, and trusts that Dean will protect him.
Eventually, Dean's legs start to go numb so he gently rolls Sam off him – Sam goes over so easily Dean's starting to have serious doubts about whether his brother is even still conscious. He gets Sam horizontal and then he settles down beside him, ignoring the thought that maybe he should go get a cloth to clean them up; they've both got come and sweat congealing on their stomachs and Sam's got it dripping between his legs, but Dean decides pretty quickly that he doesn't care. The prospect of not being sticky in the morning is so not worth the energy it would take to get up. And he doesn't really like the idea of being too far away from Sam, even if it's just for a minute. So he pulls the fluffy comforter up over them and settles in beside his brother, worming an arm under Sam's neck so he can roll the floppy body back towards his own. Sam rouses just enough to hum contentedly as he curls himself around Dean, nuzzling into his neck like a cat and sighing sleepily.
"Hey, Dean?" he mumbles, his voice small and little-boyish.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
Dean shakes his head fondly at the way Sam says it – so matter-of-factly, like he's informing Dean of something he didn't already know. As if he hadn't already said it six or seven times today.
"I love you more," Dean answers, tugging Sam in an inch closer and kissing his damp forehead.
Sam smiles blearily and whispers "Not possible," right before he drifts off to sleep.