Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Another Wincest Wednesday, another time rushing my beta (hate on me if anything's still wrong), but still hope you'll enjoy this. The prompt was isolation this time.

First Blood (Extended Edition)

Dean has issues. And he knows it, okay? He's functioning on his lucky days. And when he feels close to thriving...that's because he's doing something he shouldn't. Something that would horrify any sane person. Whether that involves spilling monster blood...or his brother's cum.

But really, fucked up as he is, he's a man of few needs. The bare minimum of sleep, enough food and water to get up from the bed (he will bitch about it, but really, he even survived on rabbit food when the Leviathans made it necessary)...and Sammy.

Ideally, Sammy right at his side, where he can take care of him. But he can make do with knowing Sam is okay somewhere. So long as he gets to look in a few times, like a ghost haunting his brother.

He'll never, ever admit that it's what Alastair broke him with. The promise that if he did get off the rack and accept his lessons, he would become a demon...and then he'd be sent upstairs. Working the crossroads, sure...but if he wanted to roam a little and check in on baby brother, who was gonna complain? Thirty years gone, and however many more to learn... He'd become a demon, eventually. Everyone did. But did he want to do that after Sam was dead and gone...maybe to heaven, where he couldn't reach? Dean had no idea about the time difference between hell and earth. Alastair had his star pupil, just like that.

He'd assumed that he could never be more miserable than that. He'd been in hell. That was kind of the point of it. Inflicting agony was what the place was built for, and Alastair was a master of his craft.

But this...this was worse. Any stranger would think he was insane. Nobody ever touched him. Not with a finger, much less with a knife or...other implement. (So many tools...extra points for creativity.) He was fed at regular intervals. Nothing to write home about, sure, but not his own body parts or rotten things..or alive, wriggling critters. He has a cot, lights out happens regularly, and for more hours than he'd usually get. Nobody is talking to him, but that could almost be a relief. They're not picking at his every insecurity or shameful secret; they aren't tempting him. That old fucker was right. If this goes on any longer, they won't need to. He's trapped, is all. And if that was really all, he'd almost treat it as a vacation.

But there's the little detail (everything that's ever mattered) of Sam. Sam isn't right there, knee pressed against his knee, nose at Dean's nape when he needs big brother to make things better. And he isn't safe at the bunker, undoubtedly researching how to get him out. No, Sam's right there, one (too sturdy, too thick, Dean tried to get him a message but never heard so much as a faint echo in response) wall apart. Trapped, too. Caged. One word that makes Dean want to be sick, and he can't even start imagining how it is for Sammy. (He's pretty sure Alastair wasn't remotely in the same ballpark as Lucifer.)
Dean can't protect him from the memories. Not when he can't get to his baby brother, not a hour a day, not five frigging minutes. Dean's an expert at not thinking (maybe why he's so dumb, so many slammed doors in his brain) but Sammy's overactive mind is so often his own worst enemy. Sure, Dean taught him a few tricks, but they don't always work.

Case in point: he can't do anything about it, so might as well stop worrying for Sam, right? ...As if. There's the greater, better half of his soul past that wall. Dean feels cut in half. He tries not to lose his sanity, counts the days, calculates how long they can afford to wait until they're saved. Or until he has to take things into his own hands and do something.

Do what, is the question. He doesn't have the material for a proper demon summoning (how weird it is that treating Crowley like a fucking Uber doesn't sound weird). Cas would spring them out, but Dean doesn't know how well he is. If he has enough grace. If he even has the radio turned on. Plus, their mom is around now. What if they're hunting, what if she needs backup and lacks it at a crucial moment because Cas went to answer Dean's begging? He doesn't exactly trust the angel's powers of assessment.

And of course, there's the small matter of fucking Lucifer. He's out of the President (what got them in this situation in the first place) but he's not dead. What if mom, Cas, even Crowley are dealing with him at the moment? Nah, he's gotta find another solution.
Quick, though. Because mom and Cas being on Lucifer's tail is still almost the best case scenario. The worst case scenario is Lucifer going unchecked. Maybe he'll just want to play and enter a cult leader or something. Maybe he's pissed off that they keep ruining his plans and he's hopping from body to body till he can come back here. Get his mitts on Sam again. With these fucking walls, would Dean even hear him scream?

He curls up against the wall, ears sharp, heart beating too loud. If he had anything to barter with, he would. Alastair got what he wanted. These fuckers would get it too. But Dean has no idea what they want to hear. Not the truth, of course. The truth is insane, they've already decided. A terrorist web? He doesn't have anyone he's willing to sell. Sending these bastards after his mom, Jody and her girls, Garth and his pack? If he could trust his captors, he would. For a hour with his brother, he would. But he's not in the hands of demons. They don't have Crowley's ethics to contend with. And he isn't going to sell people for nothing. But what can he do? He can't break them out. They're not getting out unless they're dead.

...Well, there's a thought. Old Death was...accommodating, really. Until Dean had to kill him, but honestly, who the fuck thought that him killing Sammy was an option? Dean isn't going to. How could they miss the previous, huh, 3 and half times maybe that the question was in the air? Assuming he hasn't managed to forget a few by the power of sheer blackout drunkenness? Besides, all that stress because everyone was terrified of Amara. Like she's that bad.
Look, Dean gets her, and not just because he bore the mark. Because when the brother that's your world fucks off in search of a better life that doesn't include you (whaat?), being pissed off is a given. Sure, Dean never considered razing Stanford to the ground, but there were tons of actual other people there. If Sam had fucked off to breed chihuahuas (and that was probably wildly overestimating Chuck's creations from Amara's point of view) he'd be more tempted to burn the place down. And not kill (never kill) but definitely kick Sam's ass for the stunt.

All they really needed was for Dean to point out that killing Chuck wasn't going to make her any less lonely, no matter how many souls she gorged herself on. And tell Chuck to fucking spare a weekend for her. Or however long. Sammy had been adamant that he'd only help Dean for a couple days. Then, well...shit happened. He's never going to stop being guilty over dragging baby brother back into the crazy, painful thing that's their life, but not guilty enough that he'd make a different choice given the chance.

Yes, the current Death doesn't like them one bit. Dean is well aware. But he knows how to beg all pretty, and if he's lucky there's something she'll want. He's not surprised, in the end. She wants to keep one of them. And it's okay, it's fine, not the first time Dean'll die for his baby brother, even if probably the last. Considering he doesn't even know in which kind of hole she's going to stash him, he can't really expect to come back this round, but it's okay. Sam will be out. He'll be safe. He'll have mom, and Cas, and Jody, and everyone else. They'd help him...and most importantly, he's not going to be a sitting duck in case some evil fucker, human or not, becomes tired of waiting them out.

Sam is going to be furious, no way around it. But it's still better than not doing anything. They'll have a few hours together, and that's worth everything. Dean, pathetic beggar that he is, always takes the dirtiest, stingiest deals. Nothing new there. Sam will get over it. Dean's not going to apologise over doing what needed to be done. And he doesn't want to spend his last few hours arguing anyway.

Sam doesn't either, not really, because he lets Dean shut him up every time he tries to start on it. Sam's here, alive, breathing, talking...physically fine. And Dean can finally breathe right too. The poor doctor they stumble on first is utterly shocked, but he wouldn't understand if they explained anyway. Besides, even if Billie was involved in the resurrection bit, part of Dean thinks that the first part of this adventure would have happened soon anyway. If he hadn't found a way out, they'd be dead all the same, of sheer heartbreak. Together, naturally. A soul can't be split too long and hold on.

Instead, he'll get to go happy. Cas answers the phone, and he'll be here to bring Sam home. He doesn't know if he'll be able to say a proper goodbye to the angel or if Cas will end up being too slow, but it doesn't matter.

One last fight, by Sam's side, and sure, it's humans, and it's not their fault they assume the Winchesters are evil, so Dean doesn't actually go all-out on a killing spree... but still, he feels like a spring finally uncoiled. A predator broken out of a zoo. And oh God, Sam's so clever, and gorgeous, and powerful. It breaks Dean's heart a little that he'll have to abandon him so soon, after missing him forever. (Yes, he counted the days...he still stands by that). He wants to kiss his boy, but he's afraid. That'd be too cruel – give him what he'll have to give up in a few hours. Sam looks, and looks, hungry...but he doesn't make a move either, so he must agree.

Then mom and Cas are there - and a couple of British assholes, who apparently helped, but mercifully, they fuck off – and all too soon, it's time. And Dean's ready too, he's willing, won't take any arguments, only their mom offers, too...and he should take the gun from her, should do something, but he's paralyzed. Oh, he'll hate himself, alright, but if this buys him a little more with Sam... They've spent most of their life without mom. They need each other, and these few hours haven't even started to set them truly right, not with the impending separation looming. Cas acts, out of all the weird scenarios, and there'll be cosmic consequences, and Dean's pretty sure they're not nearly equipped to deal with them. But they're alive. They're all alive, and together, and on the way home. In the Impala, and he lets mom take the wheel, and Cas the front seat. Because they're fugitives and the backseat feels less exposed. And because...

Because Sam curls up around him, and pretends to fall asleep, but Dean knows. He knows these soft snuffles at his collarbone aren't sleepy baby brother. Sam's breathing him in, now that there's no one left to fight, now that Dean's going to stay – reacquainting himself with his smell and his sweat and barely holding back from licking him, what with mom driving. He knows the way Sam's tongue feels heavy with want, biting his own in sympathy.

Dean pretends to just be holding him, stopping him from slipping at a too-fast curve or something, and he lets just his thumb slip underneath the clothes, touch skin, brush over and over until that one tiny point of contact is so oversensitive they both could scream with it.

They drive through the night, just like that, rushing to safety. To the bunker. Dean loves his new home, he does. But how do you say that the thought of being buried...underground...again is almost enough to make you break out in hives? That if mom stays, they'll have to keep to their respective rooms, and Dean's not sure he won't die of heartbreak again if he doesn't have Sam right there? (It's a mystery how anyone believes the sham that is "Sam's bedroom," by the way. Dean kept insisting that the boy needed to touch it up, make it his own. But until mom resurrected, they had so few overnight guests that it was more the "Sam's in the doghouse" room, and he didn't need (deserve) comforts when he fucked up so badly that Dean kicked him out.

"No." ...Oh. Like that. It's morning by now, and they're rushing through Lebanon, and Sam woke up – actually, he did manage a couple hours at some point, which is great – and maybe that's why he doesn't have a lot of control yet, because he sounds scared, and it breaks Dean's heart.
Mom slows down; she's definitely listening.

"I need...air, mom, please," Sam's got a handle on his feelings, now, but he still sounds too pitiful.

Mom stops the car. "Ok.." She sounds a little hesitant, like always. Fish out of water. "Where to?"

Sam just shrugs. Clearly, he needs to step in. "I don't know, but there has to be a case somewhere, right? We've been out of the game too long already." A case means motels. Motels mean they share a room.

Cas hands him his phone. "If you want to look..."

"Thanks."

Another hesitation, then mom says, "Mind if I stop off at the bunker and catch up with you later? I'm not an angel, and I've been driving more than ten hours straight..."

"Sorry mom," they chorus. It'd be closer to 14 if she hadn't rushed both ways, actually. Dean knows. He just...forgot, not being there for half of it. Priorities. "Sure. Let's."

Soon, they're at the bunker. And it's home, and they're not expected to stay, so – they really need a couple duffels for their trip. But he's still hesitant to go. Underground. Walls that you'd need a grenade to start to touch (maybe). He usually loves the safety features, but now they feel daunting.
Mom's already in bed, undoubtedly, and Dean – having passed the phone to Sam just for an extra excuse to touch him – is still hesitating. Like a pathetic idiot.

"Do you need something?" Cas asks.

And it's stupid, and probably a risky decision, but anyway, are they sure that Cas doesn't know already? What with his habit of visiting unseen sometimes... "I know it's stupid, but – could you get us a couple bags for the trip? Bet you know what we pack anyway." The angel is nosy, but that's going to be an advantage right now.

Cas glows – well, not literally, but being trusted with responsibilities seems an easy way to make his day – and disappears. Sam throws him a look, but Dean shrugs. They haven't left anything damning around that he can think of. Ten minutes later, Cas is back with their bags, and a quick check confirms that nothing major is amiss.

Sam gives him back the phone. "Thanks. There's a likely ghost in Nebraska, so." Close. Ish. Salt and burn, they can do these in their sleep. "And, huh, I didn't know you worked with the Men of Letters now."

Yeah, what the fuck was that about? They've hurt Sammy. They aren't in the 'friends' list. "They offered to help," Cas says, like that explains everything. And maybe it does, but they don't have to like it.

"Since they can get into the bunker, maybe it'd be best if you stayed with mom until she's awake. Just in case they decide to help more," Sam snarls.
They won't kidnap her too. Probably. They could have already, if they wanted. And Cas isn't going to be much help, because they know how to handle angels. But it's as good a reason as any to get him to stay, and Dean isn't arguing that.

Cas maybe could, if he dared, but apparently he knows better than that. Or possibly they're really obvious about what they need to stay sane. Dean doesn't know, and after so long, frankly, doesn't care. He slips behind the wheel, Sam gets into the passenger side, and he moans. Christ. "Tell you what, baby. We're going North for like a hour, then I'll text mom that we've had an adrenaline crash of our own and we're having a nap on the way, and that I'll text her when we're back on the road to the case if she wants to join. Breakfast, and we get a room."

"No breakfast." Because of course if Sam just went along with his plans he'd need to whip out the holy water.

"Yes breakfast, you'll want your strength for what I have in mind."

"Okay," and Sam falls quiet again.

He can't stand it. He's driving one-handed, the other's fingers interlaced with his brother's, but it's not enough.

"Talk to me, Sammy, come on."

"About?"

"Anything, I don't care. Just...talk. Why didn't you say anything on the way here?"

"I wasn't sure. " His baby boy's voice is still a little croaky, unused for so long. So is Dean's, for the matter, but if there's another second of quiet, he might just scream. "That I could talk and not – not give us away. And then, sometimes, not ever...if this is real. I got close, Dean." Sam sobs, so broken that Dean turns fully towards him. The road will cope with being in the corner of his eye.

"I know, Sammy," he says, tugging, and the boy (officially 34, still Dean's boy) goes easily, nuzzling him again. Dean had been this close to losing his goddamned mind too. That's why he had to act in the first place.

"You don't. I was – I considered praying." Wet against his collarbone, like it's the worst thing Sam could possibly be doing.

"Did too. I wasn't sure about Cas' situation, so..." He'd shrug, but he doesn't want to dislodge Sam, even minutely.

"Cas doesn't answer me." Sam's bitter, and it's not true, not always, but – it's a bit of a gamble, yeah. Or has been often enough. "He would have, and he could – he's done it already, and I'd take an illusion Dean, I'd take it and be grateful for it. What if I did and he made me forget?"

Dean slams on the brakes. He'd been worried about flashbacks, worried about Lucifer getting to his brother, not – not Sam reaching out to him. That hadn't been in question, not in a million years. He kisses Sammy, swallows the fearful keen that he's broken into, pets his hair. "You didn't," breathed against his lips. "You didn't, because I got us out." Saved his brother, this time. Exactly like it should be. "I did it, you hear me?"
Sam nods, curled up into him, and how he can make himself small when he wants is more inexplicable than a lot of creatures roaming around. But it's okay, it's perfect, because Dean's going to take care of him. That's his job.

They kiss again, and again, and the panic recedes until the whines take another tone, and Sam's grinding against him, needy. Dean's hard as diamond, too, but if he let Sam sway him every time, they'd never get things done...and besides, Sam's entirely too cavalier with himself. "Better?" he asks, almost amused

"Please." Voice soft, puppy eyes in full effect.

"Right after breakfast." He does have a "take care of Sammy" plan already settled after all. "Come on, I'll hand-feed you."

"Promise?" The happy glint in his brother's eyes is too adorable. But they disentangle, just enough that things can go back to a semblance of normalcy.

"Yeah, Sammy. If you behave."

His brother smiles. "You don't want me to." And it's right, Dean is in love with every headstrong, annoying quirk of that man.

"Hedge your bet, if you're convinced. Just don't complain if you lose." They trade teasing quips all the way to a diner, and by the time they reach it, Dean has finally started to feel like a human being again. The wheel in his hand and his brother at his side. This is life.

They slip inside hand in hand, and Dean doesn't care. They haven't been here before; nobody knows that they're brothers. Everyone will know they're in love, and so what? They'll see Sam. What's not to love?

It's a rare treat, getting to act as besotted as they are, and in public. It almost hurts to separate, to sit in front of each other, like always, but their legs entwine underneath it to compensate. The food arrives quickly, crunchy bacon and fluffy pancakes and more. It's the first decent food in too long, but that's not what draws moans from them.

Dean keeps his promises, always. Especially when he loves the result. Hand-feeding Sammy little morsels? The way his baby boy nibbles on his fingers, licks and sucks them clean before reluctantly letting them go? It's going to be front and center in his heaven if they ever find their way back there. And when Sam gets the idea of reciprocating in kind – it shocks him a second, because Dean still thinks that it's his place to give and not get.

But God, it's so good, he feels a little insane with it. It's been so long...If Sam's as needy as Dean feels, he wouldn't even blame his brother if the nibbling went further and he sliced clean into his pads. If he wanted a bite of them, a little bit of Dean to keep inside.

Things don't get quite so far, because Sammy is good. He wouldn't. But this simple pleasure has dragged out eating way longer than Dean normally would take, and he wants more. He needs more. And from the look in Sam's eyes, so does he. Tab settled, and they're off again, towards the closest motel – which better be very close indeed, for their collective sanity.

For once, the universe is on their side. Ten minutes later, a text is sent (if mom woke up early and figured enough to interrupt...it doesn't bear thinking about) and room taken. One bed, and not just for the obvious reasons; if they do crash after, as it's likely...well, even just sleeping five inches from Sam would be an untenable chasm.

The door slams behind them, and they're all over each other. Clothes fall haphazardly around, hands and lips and everything too eager to care. Skin finally, fully sliding against skin that's just starting not to feel overstretched over a wrong, barbed frame. Tongues tracing well-remembered paths, when they don't curl around each other, or a beloved name that encompasses the only reason reality's worth anything. Sighs of desire, of sheer, bone-deep relief. Holding and grabbing and pinching, bodies finally feeling alive and their own only when their soulmate is there to make it so.

Hardness sliding against hardness, and it's still not enough, never enough. The need to finally become one. Ideally, climb into each other's ribcages, or at least sew themselves into some sort of Siamese twins, vein seamlessly fusing into vein. That'd be impractical, though. They're making do – closest thing.

Only Dean was sure in one of their duffels there would be lube, because they usually never take it out, they have a separate bottle at home...but, right. Before the whole POTUS Lucifer thing they'd finished what they kept at home, and fished the travel one out, unwilling to wait, to waste time to go buy more when interruptions are now a much greater worry. Cas hadn't thought of it, and why would he? Dean hadn't double-checked. As he'd be too tempted to make use of it right there and then, parked in front of the bunker.

The interruption is too long, and Sam whines, but a disappointed look and empty hands are enough to let him guess.

"So?" His brother huffs, as if he doesn't see the fucking problem. "You take me." And okay, there's no way to handle Sam's monster cock on faith and spit, no matter how much Dean wants to...but he doesn't want to hurt his brother, either.

"Please, Dee. Make it real." And Dean hates himself a little, for teaching Sam to discern fantasy and hallucination by pain rather than anything else. But with what Sam had confessed earlier? Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea regardless.

"I will. I'll make it better, baby boy. Just – trust me."

"Always," Sam's voice is so soft, and his eyes so full of love, and Dean's been deprived too long. He almost comes on the spot and ruins everything. Instead, he kneels down, a worshipper to his idol, and traces his brother's cock with his tongue.

When he takes it in his mouth, Sam keens, an almost hurting, overwhelmed sound. He thrusts, instinctively, and Dean lets him, welcomes him into his throat, clenching around it, but he has a plan. One that doesn't include the pleasure of Sam's cum down his throat. So he's careful, letting up for more tongue action, then deepthroating Sam again, just a moment, because for all that he can't breathe, it's like his throat is reshaping the right way when he's inhaling his (not so) little brother's cock. He knows all of Sam's cues, so – too soon, but it's not a surprise, with the want cursing through their veins – his boy (always)'s cock explodes on his tongue.

He pushes Sam on the bed, and despite the orgasm, he's still begging, "Please, please, please Dean – need."

Dean would reassure him, that he will, that he knows, that he feels it, but his mouth is full. He lets Sam's cum dribble into his pucker, and between that, the orgasm starting to relax him a little, and Dean's eager tongue that follows it, there's at least a minimum of ease when his licked fingers enter the game.

Sam keeps moaning, desperate, "Need you – Dee," and in this situation, slowing down is only going to make things worse. So finally, with a little more spit (it's good that Sam can make him salivate more than the most delicious pie, really), Dean's cock breaches him. Yes. Yes, home. Sam snug around him, the drag of his insides almost refusing to let Dean go, even knowing he'll return in a moment. The breathy sound that tells him he's nailed Sam's prostate. Too soon after the last orgasm, perhaps, but with the way Sam is arching against him, eager, demanding, any discomfort his brother might feel is clearly worth it.

Dean is so close himself, but he can't yet. Not until – Sam grows hard for him again, quicker than he's done in years, and Dean touches his cock, needy himself but almost – reverent, too. "Ready, baby?" he asks. "Together?"

"Dean," his baby boy grits out, wound so tight, already desperate all over again, and he knows Sammy. Knows a yes when hears one, even when the actual word has fled from his brother's brain, vocabulary reduced to the only one that matters. (They're the same.)

So, he doesn't say now, or come, or anything of the sort. He screams, "Sammy," and as promised, Sam lets go, letting the orgasm crest, clenching around him. And doing so again when Dean comes back from white-hot pleasure (he might or might not have passed out) and tries to move, if only to clean them up.

"Don't you dare," Sam growls, in the dark tone that means he's not kidding.

"You'll thank me," he tries to reason, but for the moment, he doesn't.

"I don't care. 'M tired. Stay. Right. Where. You. Are."

"I might hurt you." Because yes, probably he'll just slip out in his sleep (he's tired too; exhausted, in fact). But if he doesn't...the human body is what it is. The idea of waking up hard and already inside...he'll wreck Sam.

His brother knows, he's smart...and he wants that. Rather have the very real hurt of Dean fucking him awake than giving up one single molecule of him for any length of time.

He should put his foot down. He should make sure that Sammy is properly taken care of.

But then Sam confesses, "I've been unhurt longer than I can take," and Dean can't argue with that. Sure. Him too. They settle, still joined, embracing, and it should be uncomfortable. Too tight, too heavy, too – something. For the first time in forever, it's exactly like it should be.