brothers

Sam swallows hard, his injured shoulder throbbing. He must have fallen asleep earlier; he’d come into his room to grab something, sat on his bed, and then he was apparently out. He should have just stayed in that damn room to keep on an eye on his brother, and now he’s escaped.

Dean frowns, tilting his head to the side. “When did you get so skinny, Sammy?” He’s staring in awe at how large his hand looks on Sam’s waist. “You need to eat more.”

“You’re not gonna kill me?”

“No. I just don’t like being locked up. So I found a way out. Don’t worry - no fault of yours.” He presses down into him a little harder. “C’mon. What’ll it be?”

Sam makes a pained sound at the harder press, his good arm shooting out to press back against Dean’s chest. “That hurts,” he whispers.

Dean doesn’t want to care - but seeing Sam like this - tired, weak, injured - it kind of makes him feel…guilty. He couldn’t care less about anything else in the world, but seeing Sam like this is doing things to him. “Alright.” He lets up the pressure, and then he’s sitting back on his heels, pulling Sam into a sitting position. “Your shoulder, right? Can I look at it?”

Sam knows he shouldn’t trust him - should be running away as far as he can. “Okay,” he agrees shakily, not even believing that the words are coming from his own lips. “Just –”

“I’ll be careful,” Dean promises, and he’s already reaching back to untie the sling. “While we’re doing this, though, I think you and I need to talk about some kind of truce.”

he always insists on having his sex playlist playing, which is 99 percent heavy rock because apparently it gets Dean going and Sam gave up complaining because ok, getting fucked to Led Zeppelin is actually kinda hot, but the playlist is cycling through and they're fucking when

out of absolutely no where, 'time after time' starts blasting out the speakers, and Sam pauses, stilling against Dean's lips, and Dean's thrusts pause, and Sam can feel the heat radiating from his brothers cheeks with their proximity

Sam meets his eyes, arches an eyebrow in question and Dean's blush deepens slightly

"It... it reminds me of us, alright? I can skip it-" Dean starts, a fumbling and embarrassed mess as he reaches towards the radio, and Sam doesn't even have the heart to tease him or remind him of 'no chick flick moments' because honestly?

His heart has never quite felt so full.

He grabs Dean's wrist, pulls it back and kisses him.

"Leave it on." He says simply, biting playfully at Dean's bottom lip to get him to relax.

Dean nods, smiles a little into their next kiss and continues to thrust into Sam - slow but hard, and Sam arches his back off the seat and moans as his fingers curl around Dean's shoulders.

If you're lost you can look and you will find me,

Time after time.

If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting,

Time after time.

If you're lost, you can look and you will find me,

John set a bag of groceries on the table, the six pack clinking and sweating in the heat, and blinked at his oldest son. 

“Jesus, Dean. You hunt a vampire without telling me?”

Dean flushed violently red and lifted a hand to his neck. The line of hickeys down his jugular vanished beneath the hem of his t-shirt, vivid purple and fresh looking. “Um.” 

John chuckled. Dean was seventeen and had been getting laid for a couple of years as far as John could tell from the condom wrappers in the trash, but it looked like he’d discovered a new pleasure of the flesh. 

Sam poked his head over the back of the couch. His unruly hair was in his eyes, cheeks slightly pink, probably a sunburn. Whenever they stayed someplace with a pool Sam developed an inability to keep his clothes on. “A vampire with bad table manners. Get it? Because you shouldn’t play with your food.” 

Dean growled, still blushing brightly, and lunged across the room to put his brother in a headlock. Sam yelped and kicked at him and John turned away smiling as his boys scuffled. 

~

John pulled Sam out of 10th grade in Louisiana to chase down a lead in Oregon, and Sam threw a predictable fit. He was still giving John the sullen silent treatment when they arrived in Bend Oregon a week and two thousand miles later. John dropped the boys at a motel, paid for the week, and then took off to meet his contact. 

He ended up spending the night on a ranch sixty miles or so out of town, where there had been some possible spirit activity. When he got back late the next afternoon, Dean was at the tiny table cleaning the guns and Sam was sprawled out on one of the beds with the TV on. 

“Find anything?” Dean asked. 

John popped a cap off a lukewarm beer. This place was too crappy for a minifridge. “Some EMF. The new owner doesn’t know any of the property’s history, so I’ll have to do some research.” Dean nodded and the movement shifted the collar of his shirt. “That was fast,” John commented.  

“What was?” 

John touched two fingers to his own throat and watched color flood his oldest son’s face as he mimicked the gesture, hand covering the broad hickey on his jugular. John was damn proud of the man Dean was growing into - loyal, smart, a brilliant hunter and smooth with the ladies, but he couldn’t help thinking sometimes that Mary would have wanted her nineteen year old boy to be dating the girl he took to senior prom, not practiced enough to pick up a girl in a brand new town in less than two days. “We’ve only been here 36 hours,” he said. 

Dean squared his shoulders, visibly sliding on the bad boy mask that he flashed at bartenders and bouncers to distract from his fake ID. “It’s not my best record,” he said. 

John shook his head, clapping his boy on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

If anything, Dean went even redder at that. “No, sir.” 

At least Sam seemed to have gotten over his snit. He didn’t even bitch when John ordered him to get off his ass and help his brother with the weapons, just yawned and grinned at Dean. John rolled his eyes. Truly, his youngest’s mood swings would be the death of him.

~

“Aren’t you a little old to be letting girls mark you up like that?” 

For someone who clearly liked being chewed on - and John wished he knew a little less about his son’s sexual preferences - Dean always looked guilty as hell when John brought it up, and John was starting to feel like a broken record. But Dean was almost 22 and old enough to play second fiddle to some of John’s FBI or Federal Marshals roles, and the hickeys were juvenile. Dean, with his big eyes and attention-catching mouth, didn’t need anything to make him look younger when they were on a job. “Just tell them to keep it below the collar.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean mumbled.

~

John spent two days drunk after Sam caught a bus for California. He wasn’t proud of it. He was getting too fucking old to go on benders like that - the hangover started to catch up with him before he was really drunk enough to make it worth it, but that just meant drinking more to forget that too. 

When he recovered enough to look at his oldest son - his remaining son - he was swallowed up by guilt again. Dean had clearly been on a bender of his own. His hair was unwashed, there was three days of stubble on his cheeks and his neck was a mess of bite marks. 

John hadn’t seen Dean marked that badly since he was sixteen or seventeen. There was a constellation of hickeys from his clavicles to the tender skin under his jaw. They were starting to fade from crimson purple to bruised indigo and pink. Dean must have gone straight from dropping his little brother off at the bus station to get laid. Two days of drinking hadn’t been enough to erase John’s memory of his oldest boy’s face when Sam stormed out the door, so Dean must have more game than John had given him credit for, to pick up a girl when he was that distraught. 

I keep thinking about other days, like a post-hunt morning where Dean sleeps in, sore because getting thrown into walls is harder to handle than when he was in his 20s, and Sam brings him coffee and they sit on his bed watching morning cartoons

Where they both wake up at the same time because Miracle needs to go for a walk, and Dean pulls on a sweatshirt still in his pajamas and goes with Sam around the bunker

He lets his eyes fall shut again and blindly reaches for his phone, figuring it was likely dad just informing him he was heading towards his location after completing his solo hunt. He was going to inevitably give Dean shit for already being done with his, but Dean was still trying to adapt to hunting without Sammy. His dad may be used to working solo but Dean certainly wasn't.

When he answered the phone and held it to his ear though, it wasn't his dad at all.

"Hi, is this Dean? Dean Winchester?" The female voice caught him off guard and he sat up slightly, brows burrowing as his eyes opened properly.

"Yeah, this is him. Who the hell is this?" He questioned, and he could hear a loud noise in the background and the girl spoke again, although it was clearly not directed to him.

"Sam, settle down. You're going to hurt yourself, please."

Dean's blood ran cold, panic filling his veins.

"Sammy?! Look, just tell me who the hell you are and what is going on or so help me-"

"I'm Jessica. I'm Sam's girlfriend." Dean felt a pang in his chest at the idea of Sam dating other people, but he knew that wasn't the main issue right now. "We were asleep and he must've had a nightmare or something and was really freaking out. I managed to wake him up but he's still panicking and on edge" she explained, her voice tight with obvious worry.

Dean forced himself to relax, focus on helping the situation rather than freaking out over it. God, he wished Sam had never left his side. Then Dean could be with him, making sure he was ok and comforting him with their usual gentle touches.

But Sam wasn't by his side. He was hundreds of miles away in a crappy college dorm with his new girlfriend who had no clue how to settle him after something like this. All Dean could do was use his words.

"Put him on."

There was some shuffling from Jessica's end, and then the familiar voice of his brother came through the phone.

"Dean?" Sam sounded apprehensive, and it hurt. This was the first time they'd spoken since Sam left, and his brain was overflowing with things he wanted to say.

Not now though. Right now all he needed to do was settle Sam down.

"Yeah, it's me Sammy. I'm here. Your girlfriend says you had one of those nightmares again."

"I- it was horrible. You- you got torn to pieces while I watched but I couldn't- I couldn't s-save..." Sam trailed off with a broken sob, breathing rough as he cried.

"It wasn't real, ok? You know it wasn't. I'm alive and fine, still in the same one perfect piece like when you saw me last" Dean promised, trying to add an edge of humour to distract Sam a little.

Sam didn't say anything, just continued to cry.

"Alright, I need you to do as I say ok? Breath with me" Dean instructed, inhaling deeply then exhaling out slowly. Sam copied, and after a minute or so Dean could tell his crying had stopped at least.

"That's it, that's good Sammy. How we feeling?" Dean asked, keeping his tone as soft as he could manage.

"I- a bit better. I- I think I mainly needed to hear your voice. For a few minutes I really thought it was all real and that... that you were gone" Sam admitted, and if the motel room Dean was in hadn't been completely silent he probably would've missed his brothers words completely.

"I know Sammy, it's ok. I promise I'm alive and breathing. It was just a bad dream" Dean promised.

There was a heavy silence, and even through the phone Dean could tell Sam was holding back on saying something, but then...

"I miss you, Dean. So bad" the words seemed to climb up Dean's throat and suffocate him, because God did he miss Sam.

He missed him so bad it hurt, and nothing seemed to flush him out. Not alcohol or girls or any of Dean's vices, because his biggest vice of all was Sam. It had been his very first one, after all, and the one he always leaned on the most.

And they hadn't talked in weeks, but now here was Sam in the aftermath of a panic attack telling him he missed him so bad, and Dean felt a sick sort of satisfaction that Sam was so reliant on him too. That his baby brother still needed him, and more important, his baby brother still wanted him.

He felt sickeningly happy about the fact that Sam was sitting in his apartment wanting him all the while his girlfriend was likely just a few feet away.

"I miss you too Sammy, you have no idea how much. It's super late though and you need to try and get some sleep, 'kay? You need me I'm just a phone call away."

"Y-yeah. Ok. I'll talk to you soon?" Sam murmured, and Dean swallowed.

"Of course. Night Sammy."

"Night, De."

The line went dead, and for a few moments Dean just stared at his phone.

“he’ll get sick,” he explains when Bobby gently asks what he’s doing, thumb skidding over Sam’s cheekbone with his fingers cupped around the back of his neck to lift Sam’s forehead to his hand, check for a fever. “I gotta get him inside, Bobby, he’ll- he’ll get sick,” Dean asserts, teeth chattering. 

Bobby doesn’t say anything for a while, watching Dean struggle to shove Sam’s hands through the jacket sleeves while he repeats, let’s get you inside, little brother, we’ll fix you right up.

“Dean.” Bobby speaks after a while, his voice too loud in the calm-quiet of the thunderstorm, miles away. “He’s gone, son.”

Dean’s still smiling, assured. “Let’s get you up.” He tries to haul Sam vertical by his armpits, lame footing on the slick ground, but slips back onto his knees with all of the weight and the wretched rain. Sam’s head lolls to the side and the light catches on his pale cheek, fresh blood smeared there from Dean’s hand- transference from Sam’s gutted spine. Bobby cringes. 

He tries again. “Dean-”

“Help me get him up,” Dean half-yells, frustrated, pressing Sam’s face into his chest. “C’mon Sammy, let’s get you inside, you gotta help me out, here, sasquatch.” His voice shakes even though he’s half-smiling, chin tucked against the top of Sam’s head. Bobby can’t watch this anymore.

“Kid.” He lays his hand on Dean’s shoulder- “look at me.” And when Dean doesn’t, shrugs him off- “Look at me!” 

Dean turns then, finally, and Bobby is nearly knocked flat by the look in his eyes- an expression he doesn’t know if there’s a word for yet- horror, confusion, nausea, pleading- Bobby has to choke back his own tears as one falls down Dean’s cheek, following the same path as the rainwater.

“No,” he says, mouth twisted, sick, chest shivering. Absolute. “No.” The tears come faster now, dam broke-open, and he gasps, heaving, falling forward onto Sam in the muck like he can’t hold himself up anymore. “No,” he says again, and it’s shaky, loud, drawn-out, muffled up against Sam’s chest. “Please, god-” he chokes, fingers gripping white-knuckled in his own jacket against Sam’s still ribs. 

And so maybe his essay on Romeo and Juliet leans a bit more into the sexual tension between Romeo and Mercutio, Romeo and Benvolio, Romeo and Tybalt than his teacher would prefer but Sam can’t bring himself to care.

Sam swallows hard, his injured shoulder throbbing. He must have fallen asleep earlier; he’d come into his room to grab something, sat on his bed, and then he was apparently out. He should have just stayed in that damn room to keep on an eye on his brother, and now he’s escaped.

Dean frowns, tilting his head to the side. “When did you get so skinny, Sammy?” He’s staring in awe at how large his hand looks on Sam’s waist. “You need to eat more.”

“You’re not gonna kill me?”

“No. I just don’t like being locked up. So I found a way out. Don’t worry - no fault of yours.” He presses down into him a little harder. “C’mon. What’ll it be?”

Sam makes a pained sound at the harder press, his good arm shooting out to press back against Dean’s chest. “That hurts,” he whispers.

Dean doesn’t want to care - but seeing Sam like this - tired, weak, injured - it kind of makes him feel…guilty. He couldn’t care less about anything else in the world, but seeing Sam like this is doing things to him. “Alright.” He lets up the pressure, and then he’s sitting back on his heels, pulling Sam into a sitting position. “Your shoulder, right? Can I look at it?”

Sam knows he shouldn’t trust him - should be running away as far as he can. “Okay,” he agrees shakily, not even believing that the words are coming from his own lips. “Just –”

“I’ll be careful,” Dean promises, and he’s already reaching back to untie the sling. “While we’re doing this, though, I think you and I need to talk about some kind of truce.”

s2 first kiss where sam’s sloppy drunk and begging “promise me, promise me dean” and all dean can do it grip his face and kiss through both their tears and say “i can’t, i can’t.”

s3 first kiss that’s angry and possessive and flavored with “why, dean, why. how could you do this to me.”

s4 first kiss because there’s too many words they can’t say, too many secrets and this is the only way to tell the truth, all lips and no words.

s5 first kiss that’s full-on end-of-the-world urgent and defiant, with “sammy, we shouldn’t,” and “it’s wrong,” and “fuck it I don’t care,” because why even fight it anymore?

s6 first kiss and there’s something missing behind sam’s eyes, his smile’s just a bit too smug, but dean’s wanted this since forever, so he ignores that and takes and takes and takes.

s7 first kiss because they’re hand in hand and sam’s hissing through the pain but he’s still seeing things that aren’t there and all dean can think to do is this, kiss him like it’s some fairy tale, and suddenly all sam sees is dean.

s8 first kiss desperate and hard and “i’m begging you,” because grand speeches aren’t enough, because the “i love you” can’t just be implied, not this time.

s9 first kiss with pleas and apologies and “sam, sam i just couldn’t lose you again, i’m sorry,” and gentle but firm hands pushing them apart and “no dean. i can’t.”

s10 first kiss that tastes like blood and tears and “i’m proud of us” still hangs in the air but dean’s not kissing back and it’s too late and it’s “no, please, please wake up.”

He watches spit-slicked slim fingers wrap around a little boy pink prick his little brother already so big for his age. He tells him how to twist and stroke, to play with his slit, to gather the beads of pre-come, to slick himself up with it; encourages him to play with his nipples till they’re stiff reddened little peaks and to fondle his smooth balls. Sometimes he has Sam flip unto his stomach, has him spreading his legs and pushing his bony hips down until he’s trusting against the mattress or pillows.

Sammy always flushes such a pretty red on those nights, burying his embarrassed face in his arms as he starts to hump, whines and wet gasps escaping his mouth as the pressure builds up his little balls growing tight, giving Dean glimpses of his perfect, pink, hole as he increases his pace following big brothers commands. 

Dean is constantly touching Sam on the way back to the motel, his hand resting on his shoulder or thigh or wherever he can reach because he just needs to feel Sam. Needs to know he's still there and alive.

When they finally get to the motel Dean begins to undress him, fast but careful as his calloused fingers remove the layers of fabric before he gently pushed Sam back onto the bed. He fell back with ease, body thrumming with the desire to obey and let Dean take care of him.

He needed this just as much as Dean did.

Most of their nights together were rough and fast, with Dean yanking at his hair and pounding into him relentlessly, but tonight was different.

The passion and desperation was different. It was no longer a desperation to screw Sam into unconsciousness, but instead a desperation to know he was still here and fine. A desperation for physical confirmation and reassurance.

Dean made sure to fuck him slow and gentle, pressing their foreheads together as he thrusted his hips rythmically all the while Sam clung to his shoulders.

"I'm ok, De. I'm here" Sam whispered, and Dean was long past the surprise regarding Sam's ability to read him like a book.

hm, let’s see! For survivors,

8.What advice would the main characters parents or parental figures give them if they were aware of the situation?

literal lol, oh man. Poor, poor Mary. Okay, let’s think.

So, survivors is set in a spot where Sam and Dean barreled through the shitty apocalypse world to find Mary; Sam died; Dean found Mary; Sam was brought back to life; Mary was like “lol nah I think I’d rather stay here”; they convince her to come along by dragging back the rest of survivors too as refugees; they get back, and Sam and Dean have a private post-resurrection reunion.

Honestly, neither Sam nor Dean seem to be feeling particularly… soft about Mary, right in this little time period. They “saved” her, but she didn’t want it; she’s now spent more time with Jack and AU!Bobby than she did with them. They love her, apparently, but the relationship isn’t exactly chummy. (Which is super duper interesting, as presented, even if I can’t totally tell if it was on purpose.)

So, let’s say… not that Mary walks in on them, because that’s too easy. Let’s say instead that they drink and talk a little longer, and then they kinda half-assedly clean up, and when Sam’s buttoning up his jeans again and Dean’s watching, smiling, that’s when she knocks on the door to the plant and calls out, Sam? Dean? Caroline said you were up here.

And there’s not really time to panic, or scramble apart, or even really think of an excuse. They haven’t done this when she was in the same state for a reason. She walks in and they’re still standing close, and it reeks like sweaty come in here, and Sam’s shirt that got sacrificed for clean-up is still balled up in Dean’s hand, and she blinks and inhales and then looks at them shocked. They fumble out something–sorry, we were– yeah, we just– but it’s stupid, and unbelievable, because everyone in this room is an adult and they all know exactly what it looks like. That sharp stink.

She backpedals and goes away, whatever question she was going to ask forgotten. Sam looks at Dean, stricken, and Dean just says–no, Sammy–no. damn it–and it takes a few minutes but they leave shoulder to shoulder, because nothing in the universe has been able to really break them up, and this won’t either. Still. Dean goes and takes another shower, and Sam hides in his room, and it’s not until Dean ventures out for coffee the next morning that he finds Mary sitting there, in the middle of a group of refugees talking about how much better food is when it’s not covered in ash and shit, and she stares at him white-faced and he meets her eyes and he’s not being soft, not being her-little-boy easy, and she’s the one who looks away first.

They’re not going to talk about it. She doesn’t get an opinion. No one left living does.

He straightens his back and looks again. He hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror a lot, these past years – not much to see, he’d figured. Now, he looks.

New scars. The same guilt-ridden tautness in his shoulders. He doesn’t look young anymore: the fullness to his mouth that has been there has faded, the lines around his eyes are sharp and tells tales of sleepless nights full of whiskey. There used to be a playful gleam in his eyes, but he realizes now that he’s lost it somewhere along the road: he looks somber and tight jawed, and there’s a touch of grey around his temples.

He looks like John had, the last years of his life; tired and pinched, the planes of his face a little mean looking.

Dean looks away.

“Hey.”

Dean turns around. Sam’s watching him, standing in the door opening with his arms crossed over his chest. He smiles softly, and Dean’s heart flutters in his chest; nothing’s changed, there.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“Same as you,” Sam says easily and steps into the room, one eyebrow arched. “Admiring the view.”

Dean scoffs out a disbelieving laughter and feels his cheeks go a little warm. “You’re cheesy.” His eyes flickers back his reflection again. He adds in a murmur: “Ain’t that much of a view anymore, anyway.”

Sam walks up behind him, and Dean’s breath catches a little in his throat when Sam’s fingers curl around his waist. It’s a little softer these days, and he bites his lip as his gaze drops to the floor.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles into his ear, his warm breath sending shivers down his spine. “Look up for me.”

Dean does. He stares at them in the mirror: Sam’s behind him, one arm wrapped around Dean’s waist, his long hair falling in a soft curl around his face. He still looks young, Dean thinks: his mouth is still pink and soft, his gaze glittering. He looks like something Dean doesn’t want to tarnish.

“Do you know what my biggest fear has been?” Sam asks quietly, running his knuckles softly against the scruff of Dean’s jaw.

Dean’s eyes meet Sam’s in the mirror, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Dean feels Sam swallow, his grip around Dean growing a little tighter. “That I never would get to see you like this,” Sam says. Dean almost, almost, misses the tremor in his voice. “That I wouldn’t get to see you age. Dean, I’ve been so terrified I’d have to go on living, without you. With just. With just the memory of your young face, while I grew older.”

Dean’s fingers find Sam’s; braids them together. “Sam.”

“You have no idea, do you,” Sam murmurs. “Just how beautiful you are to me like this. You’re. You’re alive, and ageing. Dean, you’re so perfect.”

Sam turns Dean around gently, lifts his chin, and Dean feels like he’s sixteen years old again; melting into Sam’s arms, just as powerless as he had been all those years ago when he’d first realized how gone he was for his beautiful baby brother.

Sam’s mouth is hot against Dean’s when he whispers: “Never been more in love with you.”