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s7 but dean 5150s sam himself cause he doesn't trust sam to keep himself alive or safe
in the warehouse, sam holds the gun against his own neck because that was how he got out of the fake worlds lucifer would put him in and dean just about has enough. once he wrestles the gun out of his hands, he pistol whips sam and drags him out to the car. he drives until he finds the abandoned squallor he calls a safehouse and keeps tied to the bedpost.
sam tries to escape once he's up and dean reminds him that "sammy you were just gonna blow my brains out back at the warehouse, you would've if I didn't dodge in time" "what- no, no that's not what happened" "... you don't remember, do you? of course you don't. trust me sammy, everyone's safer with you here."
and sam's just so confused and guilty and dean keeps making him sandwiches and this one time he bit through a pill in one.
and suddenly it's been months since he's seen anyone else. there's atrophy in his legs, the handcuffed hand doesn't quite work the same anymore. but dean's always there.
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Dean kiss-baits Sam without even meaning to. Whenever Dean gets in Samâs space, grabbing his jacket, pulling him closer during an argument, crowding him against a wall. He talks in that low, intense voice and Sam just completely loses it. He stops listening and all he can focus on is Deanâs mouth. How close it is, how easy it would be to just lean in, and it drives him insane because Dean always pulls back before anything can happen.
Sam is convinced Dean can tell. The way his eyes flick down and the way he goes quiet mid argument gives everything away. It gets worse during arguments because Dean gets closer when heâs emotional, grabs harder, leans in more, invades space without thinking.
One time Sam almost snaps and closes the distance and Dean pulls back at the last second to keep talking, completely unaware he just dodged a moment. Sam has to physically turn away after that, acting pissed just to cover it.
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Warnings: Non-con, Necrophilia, Major Character Death
Dean finally forces himself into a motel room heâs been avoiding, and the weight of whatâs inside hits him all at once, raw and suffocating. Left alone with his grief, he clings to what heâs lost, crossing lines he never thought he would in a desperate attempt to feel close again. Itâs messy, quiet, and deeply unsettling, driven more by shock and denial than anything else, as he struggles to let go in the silence.
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The radio was playing some shitty country song, the kind Dean wouldâve flipped off any other day, but right now, he didnât have the energy to reach over and turn the damn thing off. The Impalaâs engine hummed steady beneath him, the only thing still holding together as the world crumbled around him.
"You gonna sit here all night?" Bobbyâs voice was gruff, but there was something softer underneath, something Dean didnât want to acknowledge.
Dean didnât answer. He just gripped the steering wheel tighter, staring at the motel door ahead. Room 14. Sam was in there. Sam was...
"Dean."
"I know," Dean said, hoarse, like his throat had been scraped raw. He didnât look at Bobby. The weight of what was waiting for him crushed his chest.
Bobby sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and grief. "Ainât nothinâ more to be done, son. You know that."
Deanâs jaw clenched. Yeah, he knew. Better than anyone. But knowing that didnât make it any easier.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Finally, Bobby reached over, gave Deanâs shoulder a rough squeeze. "Iâll give you some time. But you ainât stayinâ here alone. Iâll be back."
Dean waited until Bobbyâs truck disappeared down the gravel road before he finally moved. His hands trembled as he pulled the key from the ignition, dreading the sight behind the motel door.
The door creaked when he pushed it open, the sound grating in the silence. The room smelled like cheap disinfectant and old cigarettes, but beneath it, something darker, something metallic.
Deanâs stomach twisted as he forced himself to look at the bed. Sam lay there, too still, too pale, his hands folded over his stomach. Deanâs breath hitched. He stumbled forward, knees buckling as he dropped beside the bed, fingers brushing Samâs cheek. Cold. So fucking cold.
"Sammy," he whispered, voice breaking. He pressed his forehead against Samâs chest, where there shouldâve been a heartbeat, shouldâve been warmth. Nothing. Just the stiff fabric of Samâs shirt and the hollow stillness beneath it. Deanâs hands shook as they trailed down Samâs body, mapping the familiar lines; his broad shoulders, the dip of his waist, the curve of his hips.
Heâd touched Sam like this before, in secret, in stolen moments when the world wasnât ending. But now it was, and Sam was gone, and Dean couldnât fucking breathe.
His fingers fumbled with Samâs belt, the leather stiff under his trembling hands. He shouldnât, but the ache in his chest was too much, the need to feel Sam one last time was too overwhelming.
The zipper sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room as he tugged it down, peeling away layers until Sam was bare before him. Deanâs throat tightened at the sight. Samâs skin was still flawless, still perfect, even in death. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Samâs collarbone, then lower, mouthing at his nipples, licking over the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach.
Deanâs breath wavered as he pressed closer, the scent of Sam fading, but still just there. His hands trembled as they slid down Samâs thighs, spreading them open with a reverence that bordered on desperation. He shouldnât be doing this. It was wrong, so fucking wrong, but the grief living inside him, gnawing at his ribs, and this was the only way he knew how to keep Sam close, even for a moment.
Dean's fingers traced the inside of Sam's thighs, the skin still soft despite the creeping rigidity beneath. He exhaled shakily, his breath warm against Sam's stomach as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the hollow of Sam's hip. The scent of sweat, gunpowder, and cheap motel soap clung faintly, a ghost of the living, breathing man Dean had lost. His throat burned, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall. Not yet.
He mouthed at Sam's limp cock, tongue dragging along the length with a desperation that bordered on prayer. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sam was supposed to groan, arch into him, fist his hands in Dean's hair with that mix of frustration and need that always drove Dean wild. But Sam stayed still, silent, and Dean's chest ached with the absence of it. He sucked gently, fingers digging into Sam's hips as if he could will life back into him through sheer want.
He couldn't take it anymore, Dean pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His own erection strained against his jeans, a cruel mockery of the moment. He undid his belt with jerky movements, shoving his pants down just enough to free himself. The slide of his palm over his cock was rough, almost punishing, but he didn't care. He needed this, he needed to pretend, just for a second, that Sam was still here with him.
Dean leaned over Sam's body, one hand braced beside his head, the other guiding himself between Sam's thighs. The warmth of living flesh was gone, but Dean closed his eyes and remembered the way Sam would hitch his legs around Dean's waist, the bitten-off curses when Dean pressed in too fast. He rocked forward now, skin sliding against skin, and let out a broken breath against Sam's neck.
Deanâs hips moved with a rhythm that felt both familiar and horrifically wrong, every thrust a reminder of what heâd lost, every gasp a plea for something he could never get back. He buried his face in the crook of Samâs neck, inhaling his fading scent. His fingers dug into Samâs hips hard enough to bruise, if bruises could still form, now only leaving a slight dent in his skin.
âSammy,â he choked out, the name cracking halfway through. His tears dripped onto Samâs chest, sliding down the pale skin like raindrops on marble. âFuck, Sammy-â His voice broke entirely then, collapsing into ragged sobs as he moved faster, rougher, chasing a release that wouldnât bring relief.
Dean's hands trembled as he pulled back slightly, just enough to drag his fingertips down Sam's chest, over the faint scars from hunts gone wrong, the ridges of ribs that would never rise again. His touch lingered at Sam's hips before gripping harder, yanking Sam's limp body closer until their hips pressed flush. The friction was all wrong, Sam's skin cooling too fast, no answering groan or squirm, but Dean bit down on a sob and rocked forward again, relentless.
He adjusted his angle, pushing Sam's thighs wider apart with his knee, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Sam's inner thighs, dents of his fingers remaining. His cock throbbed, aching as he rutted against Sam's slack body, chasing the ghost of heat that should have been there. Dean's breath came in ragged bursts against Sam's collarbone, his lips brushing the skin there as if he could kiss life back into him. The weight of Sam's limp cock against his stomach was a cruel reminder that this wasn't passion, this was burial rites.
Dean choked, his hips stuttering as he pressed his forehead against Sam's sternum. The skin was cooling rapidly now, the warmth leaching away with every passing second. He could feel it, the moment when Sam stopped being Sam and became just a body. The realization hit him like a shotgun blast to the chest, and he collapsed forward, his arms wrapping around Sam's torso in a crushing embrace. His tears soaked into Sam's shirt, the fabric damp and clinging as Dean gasped for air between shuddering cries.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice shattered. His fingers twisted in the fabric of the bed, gripping tight enough to tear. "Fuck, Sammy, I can't-" The words died in his throat, replaced by a broken noise that sounded more animal than human. He buried his face deeper against Sam's chest, as if he could press himself right through skin and bone and into the space where Sam's heart should still be beating. The silence was unbearable. No teasing groan, no breathless "Dean-" drawn out between gritted teeth. Just emptiness.
Dean's hands moved without thought, sliding up to frame Sam's face, thumbs brushing over cold cheeks. He pressed their foreheads together, close enough that his tears dripped onto Sam's closed eyelids. For a wild, delirious second, he imagined them as Sam's own tears, that any moment those lashes would flutter, that familiar hazel would blink up at him with exasperated fondness. But Sam's skin was waxy under his touch, lips slightly parted in a way that would've been inviting if there'd been breath behind them. Dean kissed him anyway, desperate and messy, tongue sliding against unresponsive teeth.
Dean's cock ached against Sam's thigh, swollen and leaking. He groaned, pressing his hips forward in a slow grind, the coarse hair of Samâs legs catching against his shaft. It shouldâve pulled a gasp from Samâs lips, but there was nothing. Just Deanâs own ragged breathing echoing off the motel walls. He wrapped a hand around himself, stroking roughly as he thrust against Samâs lifeless body, the slick drag of precum making the slide easier.
His other hand tangled in Samâs still soft, still perfect hair, gripping hard enough to pull if Sam was alive to feel it. The thought made Dean whimper, his hips jerking shakily as he pressed their bodies together tighter. The friction was all wrong, Samâs skin too cool, his limbs too stiff.
A ragged cry tore from his throat as he came, his release streaking hot and messy ropes across Samâs stomach. For a single, delirious moment, Dean imagined Sam laughing at the mess, imagined him rolling his eyes and muttering something about Dean being a 'goddamn animal.' But there was no laughter. No muttered insults. Just thick and suffocating silence.
Dean shuddered, his fingers trembling as he wiped at the mess with Samâs discarded shirt, the fabric rough against his oversensitive skin.
When he was done, Dean collapsed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The scent of sweat, sex, and grief hung heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering traces of Sam. Dean pressed his face against Samâs chest, his. He could feel the stiffness settling in now, the way Samâs body resisted his touch where it had once yielded so easily. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath all over again.
âSammy,â he whispered, voice cracking. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. âIâm sorry,â he choked out, the words barely audible. âIâm so fucking sorry.â His hands moved without thought, smoothing over Samâs chest, his stomach, his hips, memorizing every inch of him, committing it all to memory one last time.
Dean's fingers lingered over Sam's wrist, tracing the faint ridges of veins beneath skin that had already begun turning waxen. He lifted Sam's limp hand and pressed the knuckles to his lips. Dean inhaled sharply through his nose like he could trap the essence of him inside his lungs forever.
The bed creaked as Dean shifted, he wrapped himself around Sam's body with a possessiveness that bordered on feral, one arm slung heavy over Sam's waist, his face buried in the hollow of Sam's throat. The position was achingly familiar, a hundred hungover mornings and exhausted nights spent tangled just like this, but the stillness beneath him was unbearable. No sleepy grumbles, no reflexive shift of Sam's hips pressing back against him. Just dead weight and silence.
Dean's breath wobbled as his fingers crept upward, brushing over Sam's parted lips. He remembered the way Sam used to bite them when he was concentrating, the way they'd soften around Dean's name when they were alone. Dean leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. Sam's teeth were unyielding behind his lips, his tongue a cold weight that didn't respond. Dean kissed him anyway, slow and deep, until his lungs burned and he pulled away gasping.
The room was too quiet. No distant hum of traffic outside, no creak of the bedsprings shifting under Samâs weight. Just the sound of Deanâs own hoarse breathing, echoing off the motel walls like a taunt. He pressed his forehead against Samâs, fingers tangled in that stupidly long hair heâd always teased Sam about. âYou were supposed to outlive me, you bastard,â he whispered, voice cracking.
His hands shook as they trailed down Samâs arms, fingers tracing the faint scars from hunts gone wrong, the jagged line from a werewolfâs claws in Nebraska, the smooth patch of skin where a demon had burned him in Illinois. Dean knew every mark, every story, like they were his own.
When he reached Samâs hands, those big, stupid hands that could snap a vampireâs neck one minute and cradle a stray kitten the next. Dean folded them carefully over Samâs stomach, just like heâd found him. The position felt wrong, too peaceful, and too final. Sam had never been still in life, always fidgeting, always moving, and this forced stillness now made Deanâs stomach twist.
He pressed one last kiss to Samâs palm before letting go, his own hands lingering for a second too long.
The bed creaked as Dean shifted, pulling Samâs body closer, tucking Samâs head under his chin like he used to when they were kids and little Sammy had nightmares. He wrapped an arm around Samâs waist, and closed his eyes.
The tears came again, hot and silent, soaking into Samâs hair. Dean didnât fight them, he didnât have the strength left. He just held on tighter, his breath against Samâs scalp.
i came to this page to tell you that ANY kind of incest is absolutely disgusting. I would understand Jensen and Jared but wincest? that's wild. they are brothers at birth, even they would be grossed out by it AND Jensen and jared would be as well.
Thank you for taking the time out of your day to make a fool out of yourself :)
If you're gonna say sum shit then back it up at least because I've got enough proof myself contradicting your claims đ
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