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sam stands in the corner, arms crossed, looking out of the cathedral's stained glass windows. sam acts like he doesn't want to be here, but he preens on the inside, dean knows. self-righteous as ever, dean acts like he does this only for sam's enjoyment, but it's ultimately about himself. a reward for himself.

to have the primal source of their existential dread on his knees before them is intoxicating. dean lets the vitriol roll off his lips, degrading every choice john has ever made, watching the cracks form in his weathered face of stone. dean lets spit drip from his tongue into the downward quiver of john's parted lips, presses a palm under john's jaw and watches him suck it all in.

my favorite variation of samdean would have to be him being the most pathetic lover to grace the earth, regardless of if he tops or bottoms. dean has never been with someone so okay with being humiliated, until sam.

the first time they fuck, dean lets sam top — keyword, lets - because he fears sam might be mind-numbingly vanilla (foolish, what vanilla guy fucks his brother?) and that dean will scare him away with anything beyond that.

he is very wrong.

dean thinks there is something psychologically wrong with sam, on a level Beyond the Freudian. because sam defaults to begging for permission to come, hunched over dean in the darkness, salt dripping from his weepy eyes and into dean’s panting mouth. dean still has ahold of his leash, even with sam buried inside of him.

the power dean holds is maddening. he is mildly unamused that this dynamic seems exclusive to the bedroom (or the impala). but he also adores and would not so readily give up seeing the curl in sam’s lips as he snarks at him, the blood on sam’s knuckles when he dares punch back.

still, it’s easy to lull sam into that desirable state after their first time. one where sam is apologetic for the littlest of things, one where he latches onto every vowel falling from dean’s mouth like it is scripture. all dean has to do encircle sam’s wrist and tug, and whisper something sternly enough to be interpreted as disappointment. sam’s knees lose agency and his face falls at the same time his limbs do.

i love the domesticity of them like they know all of each other's habits and preferences so so well as eternity stretches on. they have every contour of the other's skin mapped out. tell dean to close his eyes and find a mole on sam's skin and he will find that fucking mole and sam is all "i didn't even know i had that. stalker." but he's the same with dean's freckles so. truly who is the greater freak.

i think sam and dean’s first time would be so devastating. it would be the day sam shows dean his acceptance letter to stanford. so like. 17 year old sam, 21 year old dean. sam just hands dean the letter and to dean’s wary “what’s this?” he’d just say “read it.” and the utter betrayal on dean’s face would say enough. and then it would occur to dean that he can’t let sam go, not like this, not when he’s spent years acting oblivious for sam’s sake. not when he ignores every hard-on sam’s been sporting for him since he was old enough to start having them.

dean has to fuck sam. maybe just once. and sam deserves better than a hurried fuck in the impala but it’s better than anything dean’s ever dreamed of. and sam wants it, too. he acts like he doesn’t, he burns with shame and self-hatred, but he’s arching back into it and crying into the seat. sam cries that it hurts and it burns but oh, he wants it. and dean’s secretly glad it hurts. he wants to leave sam with some kind of hurt. sam’s leaving him. he’s going to go light up someone else’s life in sunny california and dean will have to suffer and watch as sam stops belonging to him. sam will only glow like that when he is far, far away from dean.

and at the end, sam cries into dean’s lap in the backseat. sam tells dean that he won’t go if dean doesn’t want him to. but dean loves him enough to let him go.