#erotically codependent

[frecklesndimples]

Sam: I’m big and tough, you don’t scare me- go fuck yourself.. torture me all you wan-

Dean: Sammy?

Sam: dean, yes.. that’s the mean lady right there.

#wincest #sam winchester #sam x dean #big brother dean #incorrect supernatural quotes #protective dean #dean winchester #supernatural #baby brother Sammy #dean x sam #gencest #codependency #erotically codependent

[psychicsamlover]

what I really love about sex and violence ep is that the siren curse can be interpreted in different ways and it will still make sense.

like in canon, I think it was mostly platonic (but still weird and we love that). dean wanted more than anything to get his relationship back to normal with sam. he wanted sam to be his little brother again. so their platonic brotherly love surpasses any sexual/romantic/erotic desire or attraction because it is the most important thing to them.

at the same time, it fits perfectly into the wincest context - dean is most attracted to sam, and sam is most attracted to dean. "It wasn't some bitch in a g-string. It was you".

#sex and violence #samdean #wincest #sam winchester #dean winchester #weirdcest #s4 #spn #classic spn #kripke era #codependent brothers #erotically codependent

[hurricanejane]

I love Mystery Spot because it seems like a very silly, light episode with the coloring and ridiculousness of Dean's deaths, when in theme it's really one of the darkest episodes up to that point. It highlights the desperation and dark obsession within Sam in such a juicy way. Sam is insane about Dean in season 3, maybe even moreso than Dean was about him in season 1. It's delicious.

#sometimes i feel some type of way about it being one of my favorite episodes #because it's everyone's favorite #but it's everyone's favorite for a reason #it gets at the core of the show #sam and dean #erotically codependent #3x11 Mystery Spot #supernatural season 3 #unhinged sammy

[wincestdailyheadcanons]

Wincest Headcanon #120 Sam has Dean's name tattooed on his lower back, Dean has Sam's name tattooed on his inner thigh.

#Supernatural #wincest #sam/dean #erotically codependent #WincestDailyHC

[codependentfreaks]

hi guys I made something. I hope it loops like it does on twitter.

#samdean #supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam and dean #angst #edit #video #fancam #samdean video #samdean edit #this was really hard to make #please be nice #first video #wincest #gencest #erotically codependent

[fussy-sammy]

faith was such a heartbreaking episode

between dean's guilt and sam's fear and desperation

and the way sam isn't even a little bit remorseful about the circumstances in which dean was saved because dean is okay now and that's all that matters

#faith #1x12 #sam and dean #sammy #dean #codependent brothers #al rambles #erotically codependent

[according2thelore]

with hearts that are guilty, not remorseful on ao3

link here

rating: Explicit

word count: 14,595

relationship: sam/dean

important tags: season 3, yearning, love confessions, anal sex, getting together, angst, hurt/comfort

excerpt:

“I’ve wanted you since I knew what wanting was.” It’s a fact, as plain as the day. The sky is blue. Their mother was killed by a demon. They hunt monsters. Sam wants Dean. “I’ve loved you for longer, I think.”

“God,” Dean’s voice is barely a whisper, raising a hand to grip his own hair by the roots and pulling. He looks absolutely wretched. “I fucked you up, didn’t I?”

Sam slams the motel door shut behind him. Dean is already sitting down on the foot of his bed, shucking his muddy boots as if nothing is amiss. It makes Sam irrationally pissed, and he has to take a deep breath just to beat back the urge to start throwing punches.

Dean had been incredibly reckless—a-fucking-gain—and almost gotten his head ripped off by a lake monster two towns over. Sam had a clear shot (consecrated silver pellets) but Dean had shoved him to the ground to take the incoming blow from a stray limb instead, sending Sam’s shot wide. The fight had lasted twenty minutes longer than it had to, with them having to scatter in a dock-side storehouse, hiding underneath nets and overturning buckets of chum. They both smelled fucking atrocious, but their clothes had remained relatively unscathed. Small mercies, as Sam didn’t see a laundromat coming into town.

Dean was always doing this now: being stupid and reckless and almost trying to get himself killed. If it were just that, Sam could safeguard against it, but Dean was always doing it for Sam, which made him mad enough to spit. Whenever Sam would try to approach Dean’s near-suicidal idiocy, Dean would get all forehead-wrinkly and irritated. I don’t know, Sam, I guess I was just tryin’ to save your damn life. As if Sam was the crazy one here. Save your life. That was another goddamn thing.

Sam wasn’t supposed to be saved. Not like this, and not at the expense of Dean’s own life. 

When Dean eventually died, he would join Sam on the other side, whatever that looked like. If there was a Hell, there could be a Heaven, right? Dean couldn’t have just waited, could he? They would never see each other again now, unless Sam decided to really fuck things up for his future. And in the dark of night with Dean breathing quietly across the room, Sam wondered…but no. What pissed Sam off the most though, was the fact he was a fucking hypocrite. He didn’t have to imagine anymore—a life without Dean, fifty, sixty, seventy years (if the world was feeling particularly cruel) was becoming an increasingly probable unescapable nightmare.

Sam had loved—been in love with—his brother as long as he could remember, before he knew that there were different kinds of love. There was just Dean, and Sam would do anything for Dean. He had realized, horrified, in the sixth grade that other kids didn’t talk about their siblings the same way Sam did.

I hate my brother, his friend had said. I wish I was an only child. An only child? When Sam tried to picture life without Dean, he couldn’t—it was just…blank.

Dean had been front row at all of his soccer games and plays and recitals. Dean had showed up to family day at school, had snuck over from the high school to have lunch with Sammy on Wednesdays, had taken Sam to get a rental suit for prom.

And then Sam realized that the reason his skin heated up wherever Dean touched him wasn’t just because Dean was a particularly warm person. It was because Sam was wrong, was fucked-up, and wanted too much.

His first wet dream was about Dean’s mouth.

And Dean couldn’t get it through his thick fucking skull that he was the axis of Sam’s life.

When he started college, he tried a bunch of different classes to pick his major. Now that he had a world of possibilities, he had gotten drunk on it. In physics, he had learned about something called restoring force. The further that you pulled a mass from its equilibrium position, the greater the force is returning it to where it’s supposed to be. The farther that Sam had pulled away from Dean, the greater the restoring force had been in his shitty kitchen with Jessica looking at him and Dean, unable to drag their eyes away from each other. Dean had told him, in the dark of the Impala, no oncoming lights to illuminate the look on his face. C’mon, Sammy. You get the life you always wanted. Find a nice girl, have a couple a’ kids. A normal life. You don’t need me—you were always the stronger of the two of us. The words had almost made Sam slam his head into the dashboard until the echo of them left his ears.

Look at me! Sam wants to shout. You have doomed me to a half-life. Everyone who passes me on the street will know that half of me has been obliterated. What is that? They’ll scream. What the fuck happened to it?

There wasn’t a delineation between what was Sam and Dean anymore. They had merged, burrowed into each other so deeply that to separate them into two disparate parts could only be called a massacre. 

You can have a normal life now, Dean had said. But Sam knew. Who would want me? Who would want me with my guts falling out into my hands, with my muscles twitching in the aftermath of being stripped, string by strong, with my breath heaving, unable to adjust to taking in half as much oxygen?

The problem with the request lies in the first word: “find.” A command. Sam couldn’t. Dean couldn’t make him. His life had never had a pre-Dean, and the gaping maw of a post-Dean threatened to swallow him—not whole, but bite by excruciating bite. Sam didn’t want to find another person to fill the looming paralyzing vacancy in his life. If his arm had been amputated, he didn’t want to hold up a series of strangers’ arms until he found the one that made him look most like himself again. It wouldn’t be his dependable hands, familiar nails, the hairline scars on his fingers. A stranger, even once acquainted, would never inherently know Sam in the way Dean did. 

Sam has no desire to share skin with anyone else.

Sam needed Dean in the way a musician needed their ears, in the way a chef needed their taste, the way a painter needed their sight. He could survive, in a way without him, but the color of life would be leeched from every corner.

Sam crosses over to Dean, the fight slowly draining from him with every thought. Dean shifted over to face Sam’s bed, so when he sat down, they sat knee-to-knee. 

“You still pissed?” Dean asks. Sam just looks at him. He has a barely-there cut above his right eyebrow. It’s already scabbed over, but the fact that it exists at all makes Sam’s chest constrict. “You’ve gotta stop.” He says. Dean blinks at him, a little taken aback. “Stop what?” “Trying to get yourself killed. For me.” “What the hell—“ “You already sealed the deal—isn’t that enough?” Sam shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling the pressure there. Dean doesn’t say anything for a long second, and Sam finally caves, looking back up at him.

Dean’s face is closed off, and he’s not looking at Sam. His gaze is fixed on Sam’s knees, jaw working. 

When Sam had nightmares as a kid, Dean would shove him over in bed, crawling into the space between the door and Sam, as if a silent promise that Dean would protect him from the monster in the dark. Sam would press his face into Dean’s collarbone, tiny hands grabbing uselessly at the collar of his shirt. Dean had effortlessly calmed Sam’s panic attacks, put bandaids on his scraped knees, told him bedtime stories when Sam couldn’t sleep, taught him how to tie a knot and shoot a gun and throw a punch. Dean had never hesitated to comfort Sam, always doing exactly what Sam needed in the moment. Sam had been chasing the goal of returning even a fraction of that devotion back, pressing small acts into Dean’s collarbone, for a decade. 

Sam never had much dignity when it comes to Dean, so he slides from his perch on the bed. He tucks himself into the space between their beds, on his knees, looking up into Dean’s face to catch his blank gaze. Dean—too shocked to fight the instinct—opens his knees wider to allow Sam room to slip between them. 

“I can’t lose you a second before I have to, okay? For me, Dean.” Sam tries to press as much emotion into the words as he can. Do this for me. Live for me. Try for me. 

Dean looks back and forth between Sam’s eyes, his own wide. A thin smile splits the disbelief. “Yeah, whatever you say, Sammy.” Sam doesn’t know if Dean means it—prays silently, fervently that he does—but can’t do much better than that tonight. Sam searches Dean’s face for any trace of falsehood, but Dean’s looking at his face just as intensely. Dean’s trying to probe Sam for something, but what? 

He can’t make Dean want to live, even for Sam’s own selfish sake, and it kills him.

Sam sits back, but falls forward into Dean’s legs, exhausted. He can feel Dean tense, along the line of his spine, thighs clenching. “Sam, what are you doin’?” Sam shakes his head, feeling the hard dig of Dean’s patella into his cheekbone. Sam feels his familiar impotent anger curling low in his stomach. He hates Dean, sometimes, when he gets like this. When Dean pretends that he doesn’t need Sam, too. When he freezes up and gets his smarmy, cocky smile plastered on his face in time to hide (God forbid) an actual, genuine emotion. Sam hates him, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he believes it yet. Right now, he’s just exhausted. “Just…shut up for a second. I just need…just a second. Please.”

Sam needs to feel the press of Dean’s bones against his own—before Dean takes them away, before they become dust and ash. Before Dean becomes the worst thing he could: not Sam’s anymore. Dean acquiesces, as he is wont to do when Sammy asks with this particular brand of whine in his tone. He should feel bad about using his Dean-power for evil, but he doesn’t. He wishes Dean’s legs were bare, so they could be pressed skin-to-skin. As it stands, Sam can barely feel his warmth through the thick denim.

Sam presses his forehead into the side of Dean’s knee. His knees aren’t as knobby as they used to be, when Sam would sleep pressed to Dean’s side, when he was young enough for that type of comfort. Dean reaches down, pressing a warm hand into Sam’s hair. His fingers are so familiar that Sam aches with it. How is he supposed to live without this? How can Dean expect him to, when Dean couldn’t live without Sam for seventy-two hours?

“Sammy,” Dean says. Just that. Just Sammy.

Sam looks up into Dean’s face, caught by the anxious need to see his eyes, as if he’ll disappear. The vise in his chest doesn’t relax until Dean looks back at him. His eyes are green, always so green and beautiful and they shred Sam’s lungs like a hellhound. 

The need to be closer, as close as possible, doesn’t abate. Sam is brimming with the need to weave them together—as if anything that wants to get to Dean has to tear him asunder first—almost spilling from his lips, bursting from every pore.

He doesn’t think.

He sits up, Dean’s hand still tangled in his hair, and kisses him.

The angle is awkward, as Sam has tilted his head almost ninety degrees to get at Dean’s lips, but Dean jerks back, a little shocked. Their lips don’t part, as Sam presses forward again, blind to anything but the feel of Dean’s lips, slightly chapped.

And then.

And then, Dean kisses back.

Sam’s brain explodes in a white, hot rush of Yesyesyesyesyes. Dean presses forward, hand in his hair tightening, a noise akin to a wail coming from his mouth. 

Sam had watched Dean kiss people his entire life—faceless girls in every bar in America, housewives on cases, and on one occasion, a boy with long brown hair pressed against the wall of an alley behind a motel in Vermont.

Sam had become an addict, obsessed. He watched Dean’s mouth with the reverence of a pilgrim, eyes traveling to the shrine of a full bottom lip, teased with teeth and soothed with tongue. And now, he was touching. Dean’s full mouth was pressed to his, and Sam could do nothing but fall to his knees and worship.

Sam gasps, heart catapulting so fast in his chest that he’s distantly surprised he hasn’t keeled over. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere, in his ribs, in his ears, his tongue heavy with it and pulsing against the zipper of his jeans.

Sam opens, begging Dean to come into his mouth. Anything, anything you’ll give me pleasepleaseyesyesplease. Dean’s tongue flicks out, a flutter against the top row of his teeth, testing.

Sam makes a noise he would definitely be embarrassed about later, whining and pained and so desperate it feels like his skin will peel off if Dean doesn’t touch him everywhere. The noise does something to Dean, for his other hand comes up and presses against Sam’s chest, feeling the rapid pulse there. His grip on Sam’s hair tightens further, and he uses his grip—(a scratch of nails against his scalp, Sam keens)—to force Sam’s mouth up against his so hard Sam’s sure his lips with bruise as they set in to devour each other. He’s steering Sam’s mouth where he wants him using his grip on his hair, and he tastes like whiskey and warmth and home. 

It’s filthy, the way Dean is eating him alive. Sam wants it, with a power and desperation he has rarely wanted anything. He has become an animal of need, pawing at Dean’s face, letting himself be devoured by the throbbing pulse of them, combined. Dean’s tongue is on the inside of his mouth, pressing against the roof, tender strokes against his own. Sam’s lungs are burning but he’d sooner cut off his legs before he’d pull away. Dean makes the decision for him, pulling back for barely a second to reposition their mouths, biting savagely down on Sam’s bottom lip. Sam hopes desperately that it’ll leave a mark, that he will be indelibly marked with Dean’s incisors and everyone will know.

My turn, my turn, Sam’s brain whines, and he raises a hand to ball in Dean’s shirt, pulling him back to his mouth. He has to press the heel his other hand down on his cock, still straining against his zipper painfully, to alleviate some of the aching, throbbing tension there. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and it twitches in his jeans at the pressure, causing Sam to whimper again into the cavern of Dean’s panting mouth. Sam worries Dean’s bottom lip with his own teeth, tongue driving out to lick a damning “S” against the flushed angle of it. Mineminemine Dean please.

“Sammy,” Dean rasps, and it’s a shock to Sam’s system more than any punch to the gut. Dean locks up all at once, tension pulling his body tight like a bowstring, and mouth leaving Sam’s in an agonizing shred of flesh.

Dean pulls away, hands pressing at Sam’s chest to keep him at a distance. A string of saliva snaps as they part, and Sam’s eyes are glue to where it sits now on Dean’s lower lip. Dean’s eyes are wild, half-feral—desperate and hurt. In the summer of 1996, Dad and Dean came back after a werewolf hunt, and Dean’s arm had almost been ripped off at the shoulder. The werewolf had gotten his teeth in the meat of his shoulder and yanked. Dad hadn’t wanted to take him to the hospital, but the sheer amount of blood and raw meat of Dean’s shredded skin—more viscera than anything resembling a human body—made Sam hysterical. The look in Dean’s eyes—genuine, palpable agony that he had always been so careful to hide—was so terrifying that Sam went into a complete meltdown. He had begged so vehemently—screaming and shaking—for Dad to turn his car around that he had vomited all over his shoes.

This is worse. Somehow, the look in Dean’s eyes now is more petrifying than back then because Sam had caused it. Dean is looking at Sam like that. Sam backs off immediately, falling back onto his heels. Dean’s chest is heaving, and he’s staring at Sam like he’s never seen him before.

“No.” Dean’s head starts to shake back and forth, a tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Sam watches the movement helplessly. That was my saliva, his brain whines. Dean, taking in a part of him, makes him throb. “No, Sam, we’re not doing this.” His hands, on his thighs now, start to shake. “You’re not giving me this. You’re not.”

He’s starting to look angry, brow furrowing and mouth flattening into a line. But worse—infinitely, blindingly worse—wetness is gathering at his bottom lashes. Sam feels so wretched, so broken and wrong and evil that he feels like he’s dying.

“No, Dee, please don’t be mad at me.” Sam sits up, distress clawing up his throat and hands grappling desperately at Dean’s calves as he stares up into his face. Tears build in his own eyes. He feels like a child again—broken Dean’s tape player and begging wildly for his forgiveness because Dean is everything. “Please don’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sam’s ruined it. He’s ruined everything. Dean will die hating him, disgusted with him. Dean is still shaking his head, but he reaches down to still Sam’s grasping fingers. He might be pissed, he might be disgusted and repulsed by his fucked up little brother, but he is physically incapable of not comforting a terrified Sam.

“You don’t want me, Sammy. You don’t want this. You’re scared and sad and pissed I’m dyin’, but you don’t want this.” Dean is searching his face, but pulls away from Sam’s seeking fingers. It would have hurt less to be stabbed.

Sam lets his eyes rove in turn, soaking in Dean as he’s been trying to do for the past eight months. The swoop of his flushed mouth, the devastating curl of his eyelashes, his strong jaw. Even the things Dean hates: the curve of his nose, the splash of darkened freckles across his cheeks.

“Do you remember Leah Templesmith?” Sam asks suddenly. Dean blinks. His face screws up.

“What the fuck, Sam?” “Do you?” Sam presses, eyes fixed on the furrow of his brow and fighting every impulse in his body that wants to press his lips to it. “From Iowa. Fall of ‘97.” Dean shakes his head, lips (still shiny and full in the low light) thinning into a line. Sam can’t stop his fingers from tracing the grain of Dean’s jeans, thumb nail trailing over his shin bone.

“She was the first one that looked like me.” Sam says, and he might as well have shot Dean in the sternum. Dean flinches hard, but his body has nowhere to go now that Sam has his legs pinned to the bed. “She had short brown hair, hazel eyes, and I wanted to strangle her in her sleep.”

Dean is still looking at Sam like he’s going to snap and rip Dean’s head from his shoulders. “Stop, Sam.” Sam presses on. “You were still in school. I would see you pressing her against lockers before class and under the bleachers during lunch. I was spitting with jealousy, but I had no idea why.”

“You were fourteen.” Dean says, like it’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard. His eyes are wide. Sam shrugs. “I’ve wanted you since I knew what wanting was.” It’s a fact, as plain as the day. The sky is blue. Their mother was killed by a demon. They hunt monsters. Sam wants Dean. “I’ve loved you for longer, I think.”

“God,” Dean’s voice is barely a whisper, raising a hand to grip his own hair by the roots and pulling. He looks absolutely wretched.  “I fucked you up, didn’t I?”

He tries to give Dean a smile, but it feels false and plastic on his face, like the tree he had stolen for their Christmas all those months ago. Prickly.

“You always assume you’re the fucked up one between us.” Sam laughs, just a puff of air with no humor. “What if it’s just me? What if I was always like this?” Sam wants to start screaming, just to alleviate the pulling tension in his chest.  “Loving you was the only constant thing in my life, and I’m not sorry for it. I can’t be.”

Dean looks suddenly unbearably young. And he is. He’s twenty-goddamn-seven. Way too young to look at Sam like that, to say “The truth is I’m tired, Sam.” and mean it. 

“Sammy.” Dean says around a croak, a catch in his throat that Sam wants to reach up and feel. “You’re…You’re my—“ Dean chokes. Sam leans up a little—not enough to scare Dean away again, but far enough to see the golden flecks in his eyes. “Exactly.” He cuts him off. “I’m yours. Just yours.” 

Dean whispers his name like a curse. He closes his eyes, seemingly unable to bear the weight of what Sam has laid in front of him. He rubs a hand over his face, rough, his ring catching the watery light of the lamp. Sam’s knees are cramping, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to get up if he tried. Sam sits there, an open nerve exposed to a scalpel. Please be gentle. Please sever me with care.

Dean opens his eyes.

There’s a hard set to them, a glint of steel and a flash of gunpowder. He looks at Sam in a way he never has—even when Dad had begged him to, when Sam had sulfur on his tongue and dreams of blood and his finger on triggers they had no business being on. He looks at him like Sam’s a monster, and Dean’s on a hunt. Focus. Undivided, analytical attention that makes Sam feel dangerous. His skin prickles with heat, starting low and traveling to the tips of his fingers, where they still on Dean’s knee. He’s searching Sam for something, and Sam lets himself be searched. Throwing open drawers, helping Dean overthrow mattresses. Dean flays him open, before his eyelids slowly lower, and there it is. The flash of a tongue against his bottom lip.

Sam has seen this look on Dean before, directed forever outward, at waitresses, at Bela, at bartenders and clerks and Leah goddamn Templesmith. But never at Sam. Sam aches, and he can’t tell if it’s a good or bad hurt, but he wants more of it. “Well.” Dean finally says, his voice an octave lower than it was a few minutes (an hour, a decade, a lifetime) ago. “I’m already going to hell, aren’t I?”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat, and he doesn’t get the chance to gasp before Dean’s mouth is on his again.

It’s more violent this time—all teeth like a punishment, but Sam believes in penance, so he melts into the curve of Dean’s body, against the hard line of him as Dean takes.

Dean pulls hard, and Sam has no choice but to follow Dean up onto the bed. It’s a tangle of limbs, Sam having to unravel from his spot on the floor. Somehow, he manages to crawl on top of Dean, pinning him between his arms on the bed. Dean goes eagerly, slotting his thigh against the apex of Sam’s thighs and against the line of his dick. It responds eagerly, and Sam feels himself hardening again. Dean does something simply criminal with his hips, and Sam has to pull back to gasp for air. 

Dean doesn’t let him go far, balling a fist in Sam’s shirt to keep him close. “If you don’t get this thing off,” Dean growls, but doesn’t get to finish his threat. Sam pulls back and rips his shirt off of his head. He’s stopped from kissing Dean again by the look on his face. Dean’s eyes are rapidly tracing over his chest—over his pecs, his abs, the small trail down to his jeans. His irises are almost completely swallowed by the black dots of his pupils. He wets his lips. Sam feels…well, sexy. Sam leans forward, a little hesitantly because Dean is still looking at him strangely, but Dean reaches up and puts a hand on his chest to keep him away. “One sec.” He says, a rasp. “I didn’t allow me to look.” 

Sam tries to string the words together in his brain to something that makes sense. It takes a second longer than it should, because Dean’s touch has turned into a caress, moving over ribs with a steady, firm intent. Oh.

Dean hadn’t given himself permission to look at Sam like this. Before. How long? How long had he looked away on purpose? 

Sam is seized with the intense need to see Dean, too. He had snuck glances as long as he could get away with—which was much more often than one would think. In long, sticky summers when motels didn’t have air conditioning, Dean would parade around their 300-square-foot room with a glistening chest and chiseled stomach. It was enough to drive any horny fifteen-year-old into madness. Sam yanks on the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt.

“Turnabout. Fair play. All that.”

Dean eyes get a little sharper as he pulls his shirt off in a practiced movement. It feels like a mask—Dean pulling on a protective cover as familiar as Dad’s jacket or his worn pair of jeans. Sam immediately hates the look. It’s more lascivious, but infinitely less personal, less like the look that has always been the way he looks at Sam and more like the way he eyes up waitresses and secretaries.

The press of his bare skin against Sam is enough to blast the thought to ashes—salted and burned. It feels like fire, like they will melt together into one being. Sam tries to remember when he had this much of someone else’s skin pressed against him and he can’t. Every pore where Dean connects light up like a neon sign. Sam gasps, but Dean reclaims his mouth, pressing his tongue where it belongs.

Dean slithers a hand down to Sam’s stomach, trailing the softness of his stomach, the divot between his pecs, the swell of his chest. He leaves sparks in his wake.

Sam arches up into Dean’s touch, breaking the kiss to press a series of increasingly sloppy kisses to Dean’s jaw, throat, nape. He hopes, as he bites hard down on the meat of Dean’s shoulders, that he’ll leave marks. He wants Dean to look in the mirror and see what Sam had done, had done to keep him. He wants everyone who passes Dean on the street and every waitress who flirts with him to know that he has been claimed.

As Sam continues to kiss across Dean’s collarbones, his mouth catches against something hard. He pulls back a little, and sees that it’s the leather cord—body-warm and well-worn—of Sam’s necklace. 

He had been surprised, two years ago, to see it still on Dean’s neck. He had figured after the words they had lobbed at each other like needle-point blades—designed to inflict as sharp of a pain as possible—Dean would have cut him from the tapestry of freckle-spotted skin, excising a tumor.

But Dean had come for him. The first thing Sam had felt, when Dean had pressed him to the cold wood of his kitchen, hands rough and warm, was a cold sting of metal brushing his cheek. He had thought, panicking, that it was a knife, but the small face of the amulet had gotten his attention.

Dean. 

Sam trails the cord of the amulet now with his mouth, until his lips are pressed against the burnished gold of the figure. 

Dean is panting as if he had run a marathon, chest rising and falling in spurts, and Sam rises and falls with the movement as he takes the pendant between his teeth. Mine, mine, mine.

Dean had kept it—kept Sam—as close to his heart as possible. Dean makes a noise like Sam had make the amulet into a garrote, choking on air, chest arching up to fit to every curve of Sam’s body. Sam smirks, drunk on the power that having Dean like this gives him. His immediate, unquestioning submission to Sam, to what they have, threatens to undo him. How long could he have had this? Sam tries to imagine a younger, bright-eyed Dean pressing Sam at age eighteen to that motel wall in Vermont, replacing the brown-haired boy. He tries to imagine if Dean would be gentle with him, surrendering his first time to a boy who deserved all of his firsts.

The thought makes an unexpected lump form in his throat. No. He’d still have to leave—he needed to figure out who he was without the twin shadow of Dean, making up more of Sam than Sam himself was. Stanford was hard, but it was the first thing that was his alone. It was better like this: crashing together when they were both strong enough to survive the collision.

Any earlier, Sam thinks, would have destroyed them. It would have mangled them so they would never fit together like this again.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean groans, head slamming back into the pillow so he could press the long, hard brand of his cock harder against Sam’s thigh. “That big head of yours more interesting than me?” 

Sam drops the pendant from between his teeth (which he had been pressing his tongue to unconsciously, and his mouth tastes like metal) and kisses Dean hard to shut him up.

When he can finally pull himself away from Dean’s lips (who gives a hell of a fight, winding a tight hand into his hair to keep him where he wants him), he moves back to the foot of the bed. He reaches up and places a hand on Dean’s belt buckle. He looks up at Dean, with the intention of asking if it’s okay, but the view punches his breath from his lungs.

Dean is beautiful. Objectively, it’s just a fact. But this. Here. He’s looking down the firm, built line of his body at Sam, green eyes almost swallowed completely by pupil. Dean’s necklace is lying on his sternum, visibly wet from Sam’s mouth. Sam has to swallow hard to prevent from choking. “Sammy,” Dean gasps, hands bundling in the itchy fabric of the motel bedspread. 

The look in Dean’s eyes from before is completely gone. He’s looking at Sam the way he always looks at him, and Sam is finally letting himself recognize the devotion there. The adoration. Dean is looking at Sam and seeing him. The armor of before has been destroyed.

This. Here. It’s Sam’s.

Sam’s suddenly fucking starving, and he wraps his fingers around Dean’s belt buckle, pulling with wide eyes. “Dean, can I?” He’s surprised at how deep his voice is to his own ears.

“Fuck,” Dean says, more whine than word. “Fuck. Yes. Fuck, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t think he’s ever undone a buckle faster in his life, despite the fact that he’s so overeager he drops it twice. The heat of Dean’s skin is melting his fingers even through the fabric as Sam fumbles for the button. He looks up at Dean as he pulls the zipper down, hungry for the look in his eyes.

Dean does not disappoint, mouth opening so he can pant, and Sam doesn’t even have his hands on him yet.

Dean is straining against the fabric of his boxers, and Sam eyes the outline of him hungrily. He looks up at Dean as he presses his fingers, barely there, tracing the hard line of his cock. Dean swears, and his hips twitch.

“Are you always this eager?” Sam wonders aloud, “Or is this just for me?” Deans makes a noise like he’s been shot, and Sam can feel his own dick twitch at the noise. Noted.

Sam bends his head, and places his tongue to the spot where the fabric of his boxers is a bit darker. Salt on his tongue. He’s a little flattered, really. Or he would be, if he had the brain capacity to be flattered. If he had anything going on in his head right now but the pulsing, throbbing rhythm of Deanfinallyyesyesminefinally. He kneads the spot with his tongue, soaking Dean’s boxers through and absorbing Dean’s whimpers and trying to feel the head of his cock through the fabric.

When he feels like he can’t take it anymore, he pulls down Dean’s boxers and jeans in one full movement. When he finally gets himself settled back where he belongs (between Dean’s knees), Dean has a hand around his dick, pumping slowly and a challenging smile on his face. Sam swats his hand away, and finally gets a look.

His dick is a wonder. Sam tries to catalogue it as fast as he can (shorter than his but thick enough that Sam’s brain goes a little sideways) before he’s pressing a kiss to the base of it. “Sam,” Dean groans, “Stop teasin’ me.” Sam raises an eyebrow, looking up at him, and Dean opens his mouth in a clearly sass-filled retort. To nip that in the bud, Sam descends. He takes Dean’s cock in his mouth, taking mind of his teeth and sinking down as far as he can without choking. Dean’s spine snaps taut, before bending in a sensuous arch. The noise he makes is probably the hottest thing Sam has ever heard. Sam’s hands find their ways to Dean’s strong thighs, pressing thumbs into the sensitive joint of his legs. 

Sam has never given a blowjob (dreamed about it more than once, Dean in the back of the Impala, Sam in the footwell and taking Dean all the way to the back as he shook apart in his arms), but knows what he likes. He alternates between a gentle suction and teasing the tip, tongue licking into the slit and around the flared head. 

Dean is loud, cursing and giving soft little whimpers that go straight to Sam’s cock. The realization that he’s really here, that it’s Dean on his tongue is enough to have him scrambling for his own belt, shoving his jeans down just enough to work his own hand into his pants.

Sam could get addicted to this: the warm press of Dean’s bare thighs, the power of having Dean entirely at his mercy, the act of finally being able to take care of Dean, returning a fraction of that devotion.

Dean’s hand finally slides into Sam’s hair, and Sam’s everything is Dean—Dean filling his nose and his mouth and his hand sliding through his hair and calves pressed into his shoulders. He smells warm and Dean, and his tongue is heavy, and his eyes are watering, but from how deep he’s managed to work Dean in his mouth or the sheer overwhelming sensation he couldn’t tell. Spit is gathering at the corners of his mouth, dribbling slowly from his lips, but Sam only increases his efforts, wanting to feel the blunt head of Dean hit his soft palate. When Sam presses the flat of his tongue fully against the pulsing vein along the bottom, Dean’s hand tightens painfully in Sam’s hair, pushing down, and Sam’s brain goes white, sparks dancing along his vision. He tries to moan, more vibration than noise and Dean fucking wails.

“Stop!” Dean yelps, pulling Sam up, fingers grazing his neck in his haste and pulling, making Sam almost choke in a way that shouldn’t be as arousing as it is. “Fuck!” Dean is panting, heaving. “Want you in me, Sammy. Don’t want to finish like that.” 

Sam’s brain goes offline. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he has to press tightly around the base of his dick to stave off the rush of FUCK as he imagines Dean spread out, hot and slick and fucking—

Sam tries to speak, but coughs. “I—um. Fuck. Yeah, okay.” 

They stare at each other. “So…” Dean starts, looking suddenly very unsure. A second passes. Dean is looking increasingly uncomfortable, which makes Sam scramble for his brain power again. “Have you…have you done this before?” Sam asks. Dean raises an incredulous brow. “Sex?” Sam swats his thigh. “Sex with a guy, asshole.” Dean shifts his weight on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, I mean. I’ve fucked a couple of guys.” “Have you ever…” Sam gestures down. Dean flushes a truly incredible shade of scarlet that Sam can now see goes down to his sternum. He had always wondered. Dean mumbles something, looking at the TV stand Sam’s sure is over his shoulder. 

“What?” “No! I haven’t.” Dean still looks a little spooked. “But I know the mechanics of it. We need lube and a condom. And…” Dean trails off like Sam is supposed to fill in the blanks. “Wait—“ He cuts Sam off before he can put Dean out of his misery. “Have you done this before?” Sam shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. He had absolutely tried to fuck Dean out of his system in college, but no pair of green eyes or blonde hair or full lips had stuck. Until…well. Until Jess. “Yeah, both ways.” Dean’s eyes bulge almost comically. “You let some guy fuck you?”

Sam snorts. “Um. Yeah? His name was Trevor.” 

Dean scowls. “I didn’t need to know that. Now I’ve got a Trevor on my shit-list. Poor guy doesn’t even know what’s coming.” 

Sam can’t help but smile. Dean had always been almost comically focused on his love life, encouraging Sam to get as much experience as humanly feasible. Is it possible, that maybe, it was projection on Dean’s part? Sam knows that his skin would crawl whenever Dean would pick up a girl at a bar and leave Sam sitting behind sipping a beer and trying not to imagine what Dean would look like mid-orgasm. Jealousy. Dean’s jealous. Of Trevor, from art history. 

Sam keeps having to remind himself: this is Dean. Dean’s jealous over him. Dean, whom Sam loves more than any other person, alive or dead. “I mean, I could always…” Sam says, trailing off. Dean’s eyes widen a little. “Or not.” He hurries to add. “I mean, hell, Dean. We don’t even have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. Or we could always jack each other off and watch TV after, if we want something slower.” Sam would take anything Dean would give him, even if it was nothing. Sam would sit on the ratty motel couch and watch I Love Lucy reruns for hours with an aching boner if Dean wanted him to, and he’d do it with a smile. Okay, maybe not a smile. But at least he’d do it.

“No.” Dean says quickly, and then seems to remember he’s embarrassed.  “I…” He clears his throat. “No. I, uh. I want you.” Dean tries for a smirk, but his eyes are still a little wide, vulnerable. “Aren’t first times supposed to be for someone special or whatever?” 

Sam’s heart makes a valiant effort to eviscerate his chest cavity.

“They can be. Or they can be a logistics nightmare with Stacey Masters under the bleachers at the Homecoming game against Boston.” Dean, caught of guard, throws his head back in a cackle. 

“Your first time was in public? You sex-freak.” Dean laughs again. “You maniac. I fuckin’ knew it.” 

Sam shrugs affably, just happy that the stressed set to Dean’s jaw is gone. When Dean quiets, his shoulders are much more relaxed. Sam shifts to the side, to allow Dean room to move off of the bed. “First things first, you smell like ass.” Sam says. He doesn’t really, but he does smell like the fresh water wet tang of fresh nickel (anything outside of this room feels like it was a year ago, a decade, the only thing that has ever existed is Dean, here, now), and…well. If they’re going to do this, Dean needs to get…clean. Dean shoves his palm into Sam’s face, tilting it to the side playfully. Sam goes with the movement, letting Dean slip past him and off the bed. Sam stares after him, chest feeling unbearably tight. Happiness. Relief. 

A slow exhale eleven years in the making.

Sam follows Dean, an action so familiar that he doesn’t recognize the movement until he’s already standing in the doorway.

Dean’s already turning the water on, holding his hand under the faucet to test the temperature. Sam has to lean against the doorway because…Dean’s still naked. His corded muscles move in his legs as he bends over, baring the full curve of his ass, the small divot where it meets the meat of his thigh. Sam wants to press his tongue there, and has to bite down on his lip to curb the urge.

Sam’s arousal, which had abated somewhat, stirs again. Dean, seemingly satisfied, turns back around to look at Sam in the doorway. A slow smile blooms on his face.

He moves forward, way too much confidence for someone completely bare, body lithe and sure from years of hard exertion. Sam swallows.

“Woah, Sammy.” Dean pulls at Sam’s jeans, unbuttoned but still low on his hips. His thumbs brush against Sam’s dick as he pulls at the waist band. Dean looks up into Sam’s face, slow and inviting. “All for me?”

The use of the nickname, here, now, with Dean’s burning fingers inches away from something more makes Sam flush. 

“Always.” Sam says, a touch too earnest. Something behind Dean’s eyes flickers, then, but he’s turning back around and sliding the curtain back before Sam can chase it.

“You coming?” He asks, throwing a look over his shoulder as Sam shucks his pants. “That’s the idea, yeah,” Sam calls over the water, and Dean boos. Sam, giddy, tries to classify the noise that comes out of him as anything other than a giggle and finds that he can’t.

Dean pulls him into a kiss as soon as Sam’s foot has cleared the rim of the tub. He spins them, clumsily, biting down on Sam’s lip again as Sam’s neck and back get pelted with water. Dean pushes him down a little, so Sam’s hair gets soaked through. He can feel water drip over his closed eyes, spilling into his and Dean’s mouths as their tongues tangle. Dean’s taste is tinged with a metallic taste as the water mixes in their mouths.

Hard water, Sam’s brain supplies distantly. That means that this is hard water.

The name feels hilarious, suddenly, and Sam smiles against Dean’s mouth. Dean, catching Sam’s infectious, shaky elation, smiles back. Sam knows because he feels the slick slide of Dean’s teeth against his upper lip. Sam is floored then, by the realization of how good this feels. Wanting Dean had always been shrouded in so much pain and agony and guilt that even exhausted daydreams about what this would be like were always cast in dark shadows. Sam’s gut would be churning even as he imagined bringing Dean to the precipice, and so the distinct lack of agony was enough to bring Sam to his knees. This, more than anything else, convinces Sam that it is real.

This feels good. Sam’s hand in Dean’s short hair feels like worship. Dean’s hand on his hip, a benediction. Like being forgiven. Absolution. Kissing Dean feels like absolution.

Dean chokes a little giggle into his mouth when he almost slips, and Sam can’t stop smiling. Their kisses are barely kisses, just soaked touching of lips and laughs swallowed by hungry mouths. 

Dean’s hand is tangled in Sam’s hair, and he is panting wet, hot breaths into his mouth, water falling over his eyes and in rivulets down his front. 

Dean pulls back to heave for breath, and Sam is surprised that he doesn’t choke. Dean looks down at their feet, and makes a choked little noise—almost a whine. He looks back up at Sam, and he recognizes the look: indecision. Dean is biting his lip so hard that Sam wants to press his thumb to it and free the flushed skin. “Unh,” Dean makes the noise again. “Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it.” Dean slides to his knees. It involves a lot more maneuvering of long limbs, as they’re both way too big to be in the shower at the same time. The noise Sam makes is probably humiliating, but Dean is already mouthing at Sam’s skin like he loves it.

Sam almost wants to stop him, to tell him that Sam doesn’t expect anything, but Dean’s hands are roaming over his bare calves, his mouth gaping open as he eyes Sam’s cock and up into Sam’s face and Sam’s trying to come to term with the fact that Dean might need this as much as Sam did, to feel Sam’s heartbeat in his mouth, to swallow Sam whole. He runs his tongue over the joint of Sam’s hip, into the crease of his thigh—inches away from Sam’s aching cock. He noses along the length of him, barely a brush of mouth, before he trails lower, a hairsbreadth away from Sam’s balls, heavy and aching.

Sam can’t help himself. He grabs a fistful of Dean’s short hair, fingernails reaching to the nape of his neck. Dean pushes his head into Sam’s fingers, a throaty groan sliding out between his teeth. When his eyes open next, his pupils are blown so wide Sam almost can’t see the ring of his irises. “Shit. Do you know how many cocks I’ve choked on pretending it was yours?” Dean says, and it’s a miracle Sam hears him over the spray of water and the creaking pipes.

And Dean swallows him. 

It is immediately obvious how much better Dean is at this. Sam feels himself abut the soft, velvet heat of the back of Dean’s mouth alarmingly quick. Sam had gotten blown before, but Dean treats it like an art form, bobbing his head and using his tongue in ways Sam feels should be outlawed immediately. Hot, burning arousal almost blinds him, and Sam bites down on a keen. Dean gags, tears coming to his eyes, poising on his lashes before being washed away by the shower but he keeps moving forward, backing off for barely a second before descending again. The sounds he’s making are fucking obscene. His throat keeps constricting around little bids for air, choked whimpers and moans. Sam’s spine is melting. He has to slam a hand into the tile over Dean’s head to keep himself upright. His vision is narrowing into this—Dean’s big eyes, wet with tears, as he stares up into Sam’s face, watching every expression raptly. Dean is fucking starving for this, and that thought alone almost sends Sam over the edge. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, in his mouth, in his cock as Dean flicks his tongue over the head. 

Sam (against every instinct in his body that demands he press Dean to the tile and) pulls Dean off his cock by the hand in his hair. Dean lets go immediately, a wet drag as Dean licks the precome from Sam’s tip.

His smile is carnivorous.

“Sam, you gotta go.” Dean rasps, his voice so wrecked, and Sam’s whole body throbs. It takes his brain a second too long to catch up, and cold dread creeps up his spine until Dean presses a soaked hand to Sam’s calf, nudging him away. “I gotta. I gotta take care of things in here.”

Sam nods, pushing his hair dripping with water, from his face. “I’ll get the.” He has to gasp, not enough air in his lungs. “I’ll get the…shit. The stuff.” Dean looks up at him, eyes still dark. “I’m kinda pissed that that still sounded hot.” Sam’s knees and laughter shake as he awkwardly steps back over the rim of the tub. He walks (waddles, really) back into the room, and beelines for his bag. He fumbles with the side pocket until he manages to grab the lube, blinking water from his eyes and shivering in the cool air of the room.

He rips a condom from the roll, and has to try twice because his fingers slip on the slick foil. He moves to sit on the bed—his this time, as Dean’s is still mussed with the fresh water from earlier. He pulls the sheets down, and cradles the bulk of the lube bottle in his hands to warm it. He’s lost, then, in the image of a younger Dean (how young? twenty? eighteen? younger??) on his knees for hazel-eyed strangers, strange fingers in Dean’s hair. It makes him burn a little, and tries to imagine a younger him (twenty-one? nineteen? younger??) in their place, cradling Dean’s face in his hands as Dean gagged. Sam imagines the reverse—Dean pressed against a brick wall of some bar or motel or warehouse, eyes bright and face unlined with the evidence of a lived life.

“Clean as a whistle.” Dean says, and Sam jumps guiltily. Dean is fucking gorgeous, standing proud in the light of the bathroom behind him, alive and stunning and too good to be real, to be permanent. A sudden feeling of uncertainty hits him then, but Dean doesn’t give him the time to get lost in his head. He walks forward, greeting Sam with an open-mouthed kiss, hands going immediately to Sam’s hair so he can tilt his head back. Sam mewls against his lips. They fall back, Dean crawling on top of Sam with the confidence and ease of a predator sizing up easy prey. He slips off just as easily, laying back like he was just born to take it. Sam gets his knees underneath him, clambering back on top of Dean like a giraffe on roller skates. Coordination. Sam needs to work on his coordination. 

Dean reaches over to his left, snatching the supplies Sam must have dropped. When his fingers brush the foil packet of the condom, his brows furrow. “You wanna use a condom?” Dean seems a little incredulous. He holds up the little foil packet for his inspection, flipping it back and forth like checking for nutrition facts. Sam snatches it back from him. “Um. Yeah?” 

Dean shifts on the bed, the wet head of his dick leaking onto his stomach. Sam watches the wet spot now on his skin with a laser focus so intense that he almost forgets to breathe. Dean shifts his eyes to Sam, which is possibly the only thing that could break his attention now.

“I kinda.” Dean swallows, and his throat clicks. “I kinda want to feel you.” Sam opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t think it’s possible to be harder than he is, but it’s a welcome surprise as his entire body throbs in a shock of heat. His brain restarts slower than a library computer. “That’s super irresponsible.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You gonna knock me up, Sammy?” Sam sputters, and he knows he’s blushing. “You—What—That’s not the only reason to use a condom—“ His voice is mostly squeak. Dean chuckles a little, but holds the packet out to him. “If you wanna.”

Sam looks from him to the condom. He slowly grabs it from Dean’s fingers. He shocks a laugh out of Dean when he throws it over his shoulder, bending down to devour Dean’s mouth in his own again.

Dean is arching up into his body, water-damp skin sliding against Sam’s in a maddening push-pull. Sam reaches for the lube, shakily pouring some onto his fingers. He way overshoots the amount he needs, and the slick running down his arm shouldn’t feel as erotic as it does. He pulls away from Dean’s mouth, and Dean presses a final kiss into Sam’s mouth just as he mouths Dean’s name. Dean falls back to the bed, chest heaving. His lashes are fluttering against his high cheekbones, kissing the freckled skin. A trail of blushing hickeys are already darkening against his lithe column of his neck, and the sight makes a dark, growling part of Sam purr in pleasure. “C’mon, Sammy. Fuck me already.” Dean gasps, humping the air in vain for some friction. “Need you baby boy, c’mon.” Sam lowers his hand to circle Dean’s entrance, before pressing his middle finger slowly past the ring of muscle. Dean inhales sharply, and Sam stills.

“Okay?” Sam asks, looking carefully at Dean’s expression. Dean’s brow is furrowed, but he nods. “Strange.” He says finally, tightly, like he’s been holding his breath. Sam smooths a hand over his ribcage, encouraging him to take a breath. Dean’s chest spasms, filling Sam’s palm around an inhale. “We can—“ Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off with a glare. “If you were going to say stop, I’ll kill you.” 

Sam was going to say that, but switches tacts. “You can flip over. It might be easier starting on your stomach.” Dean looks at him a little strangely. He inhales again. “I’d. I’d like to see you, yeah?” Dean looks like he’s forcing the words out, and Sam’s insides go all hot and fuzzy for a second. Sam nods, and tries make his next words as neutral as possible.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam presses his finger in a little farther, reaching over to add more lube to the stretch. Dean’s insides are wet, hot, tight and Sam has to breathe slowly through his mouth. Dean’s muscles are vise-tight, and Sam tries pressing against his walls to no avail.

“Shh, Dean, you’ve got this. Relax for me, baby,” Sam pets down Dean’s thigh, thumb brushing the base of Dean’s flagging erection. Dean’s panting like a racehorse, lungs expanding and constricting like bellows. His eyes are wide, but his face is neither twisted in pleasure nor pain. “You’re being so good for me, sweetheart. So perfect.”

Dean bites off a whimper, and hitches his hips down. “Not a girl. And ’m not gonna break. More.” Sam soothes him with another hand on Dean’s stomach, but pulls out slightly to insert his ring finger alongside his middle. Sam wants to press kisses to Dean’s hip and tell him that Dean deserves to be treated like he could break—fragile, delicate—but Sam knows Dean wouldn’t take it as he means it.

He scissors his fingers gently, spreading them apart. Dean’s body opens slightly, but his muscles are still so tight. The slick, burning hot, velvet, tight skin of him makes Sam’s brain a little fuzzy, and he tries to keep this about Dean.

He pushes a little deeper (wet groan from Dean), crooking his fingers and stroking Dean’s walls until he finds— Dean jerks in his arms, a sharp cry, as his spine shoots straight. Sam repeats the movement, stroking along the bundle of nerves punishingly. Dean is moaning like one of those girls he brings back to their motel room, and Sam is addicted to the rumble of his chest, the slick, aching heat of him, the way Dean’s hands are scrambling for purchase on Sam’s shoulders, the bed covers, anything.

He’s babbling now, aborted combinations of Sam’s name with Jesus, Fuck, More. 

Dean’s cock, which had flagged earlier due to the uncomfortable stretch, is fully erect again, brushing against his stomach as Sam presses another finger into Dean.

He could do this all day. His fingers are starting to cramp, scissoring and flexing in Dean’s heat, and his wet hair is curling against his overheated skin, but Sam is completely enraptured with the sight in front of him. In minutes, he has reduced Dean to babbling, as he thrusts his fingers gently against his prostate again and again and again. Dean has loosened up enough that Sam can spread his three fingers apart and Dean’s body accommodates him, pulling his fingers deeper and fuck. Sam feels his jaw slackening, but he’s never seen anything hotter, can feel the throb down to his bones, pulsing in his own cock and saliva pooling in his mouth.

Dean starts clawing at Sam’s shoulders, nails turning punishing as he inhales sharply again. “In me. Inside. Now now.” It takes Sam a second to process what Dean is asking, and fuck how could he have forgotten? Sam had been so absorbed with the offering of Dean’s pleasure, the thin sheen of sweat catching the yellow light of the lamp and making his skin glow, that he had entirely forgotten his own body. His dick throbs painfully, bringing him back to the present. Sam reaches for a condom before he remembers that Dean didn’t want one, and now his blood is aflame in his body, overwhelmed with the potential in front of him. Any second.

He pulls his fingers from Dean’s body, and Dean makes a wounded noise. Sam pumps his cock once, twice, before lining it up to Dean’s entrance. “Tell me I can, Dean. Please.” Sam leans over to bite hard on the meat of Dean’s shoulder, where the werewolf did all those years ago—a claiming mark now, as opposed to one of violence—tongue laving the sweat and spots of water. “Say it.” Dean makes an incoherent noise, part wail, part sob. His fingers dig into Sam’s back, pressing hard against the curve of his spine. “Yes, yes please, fuck me, fuck me.” The words are directly into Sam’s ear, hot, wet breath curling around his cheekbone. Sam slides home. He goes slowly, but the second he breaches Dean’s body, every nerve in his body lights up. Even though he’d been careful about opening Dean up, he’s still so tight, still so fucking hot, that Sam’s skin aches everywhere it’s not touching Dean’s.

Sam mouths at the indent of teeth he left behind on Dean’s shoulder, apologetic kisses as Dean gasps around the intrusion. Dean makes a noise that could sound like the word ‘more’ if given more voice, so Sam complies, sliding in inch by inch. 

When he finally is in all the way, Dean sighs loudly, like he’s proud of himself, like he does after a difficult hunt or after Sam compliments him on a plan. “Full. Fuck, Sammy. I’m so full.” Dean presses a hand below his stomach, almost as if he would be able to feel Sam’s cock through his skin. Dean’s throat clicks as he swallows, and Sam watches the movement of his Adam’s apple hungrily. “Mine?” He asks, but he sounds unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he should be saying it at all. Sam feels a whine slide between his teeth. “Yeah, baby. Just yours.” Dean starts making little movements against Sam’s hips, where their pelvises are resting against each other. Being in Dean feels…indescribable. Like an itch that had finally been scratched, relief so thorough and alleviating that Sam shakes with it. Like Odysseus must have felt like stepping onto Ithaca’s shores again, like a shoe must feel placed on a mat, like the falling Sun must feel when it sees the Moon rising. Like Sam is finally whole. A whole person. There’s nothing wrong with this—nothing could possibly be wrong with the sudden, intense calm in his head. Dean’s pelvis bone against his, legs wrapped around Sam’s thighs, as close as two people can be—inside of each other—without ripping open skin. 

Dean starts making encouraging noises, shifting up in Sam’s arms, and Sam—suddenly aware of every nerve in his body—acquiesces, pulling slightly out of Dean. Dean starts making a noise that is punched out of him as Sam slides home again.

Sam’s skin is melting off of his bones—it’s the only explanation for the prickling, throbbing heat over every pore. Sam fucks up into Dean again, and adjusts his angle so the next thrust is aimed at his prostate. Dean throws his head back, eyes wide and blissed out, mouth agape. Sam lets go of Dean’s hip with one hand to tangle in the short hair at the back of his head and increasing the angle, forcing Dean’s head back, into bearing his throat, into submission. Sam begins mauling Dean in earnest, hips pumping and mouth biting, licking, every inch of Dean’s skin he can reach, his collarbones and sternum and neck.

Dean balls a hand in Sam’s hair, down to the roots, and Sam worries distantly that Dean will pull him off, but Dean does the opposite. He presses Sam’s face to his skin harder, turning his head back to what must be a painful angle so Sam has more access to the canvas of skin. After sucking a particularly livid bruise over the skin above Dean’s heart is Sam satiated, and he pulls back a little.

A glint catches Sam’s eye, and he looks to see tears brimming over Dean’s lashes, trailing down his temples and to the pillow. His eyes are wet, and he gasps a wet breath, biting down on his bottom lip punishingly. Sam stills immediately, a hand reaching up to brush the wetness from Dean’s lashes. “‘m good. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare.” Dean says, but his voice is breathy, shaking and tremulous. Sam doesn’t know what to do. He’s paralyzed by Dean’s tears, but Dean is making little hitching movements with his hips, trying to slide Sam deeper.

Sam only rasps Dean’s name, a gentle prod that Dean shakes his head at. “Good.” Dean finally manages. “Harder.” He says, shifting his hips down to meet Sam’s tentative thrust, their bodies working in concert. “More.” Sam’s brain white-outs, and he speeds his thrusts. Every push into Dean’s body is ecstasy, every nerve and pore and inch of skin alight with mind-numbing pleasure. Sam doesn’t know how he lived without his until now—doesn’t know if he can force himself to live without it again.

Dean has fucked a lot of people, but Sam doesn’t think Dean has ever been theirs in the way he is Sam’s right now. He’s completely pliant in Sam’s arms, head rolling and hands tight in the short, sweat-slick hair of Sam’s nape. He keeps trying to say something, but he’s so fucked out that his mouth is only moving around nothing. That sick, possessive thrill runs through Sam again, and he’s dangerously close to coming apart.

“Look at you,” Sam mutters, leaning up to see the full sensuous line of Dean’s body. “God, Dean. So perfect. So beautiful baby, you’re so good to me. So fucking gorgeous.” Dean’s brow furrows, but his cock jerks between them, leaking precome onto his already soaked skin. Sam wraps a hand around his neglected dick, sliding fingers loosely around him. Dean sobs, jerking up into his touch. “Do you like that, hm baby? Being so good to me?” Sam leans down, licking a stripe along the hinge of Dean’s jaw. “Hearing how good you’re taking care of me?”

Dean’s eyes go comically wide, a wail ripping from his throat. 

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?” Dean’s pupils are blown and his words are mostly gasps, but his hips are still jerking against Sam’s hands. When he reaches up to cradle Sam’s face, his hands are shaking. He presses his forehead to Sam’s, breath panting directly into Sam’s mouth, who opens his mouth further to feel Dean’s breath directly from his lungs.

Sam smiles. “Trevor.” Dean puffs a laugh, a finger tilting so he can dig a nail into Sam’s sideburn. “Fuck you.” Sam’s chest is aching, warmth and adoration and emotions too big for Sam’s body beating against the inside of his ribs. “I love you,” Sam says, helpless to anything else. “God, I love you so much I think it’ll kill me.” He speeds his hand on Dean’s cock, tightening his grip just enough to finally provide the friction that he needs. Sam can feel the skin of Dean’s forehead furrowing against his own, as little punched-out noises are poured into Sam’s mouth. Sam pulls back as he feels Dean’s body tensing against his own, desperate to see Dean’s face as—

Dean comes apart in Sam’s arms, mouth snapping open around a noiseless cry and body going taught. His eyes—so green and familiar and beloved—are watery and fuzzy, pupils swallowing his irises. Sam feels the hot spill of Dean’s come in his hand, cock jerking and never-ending. Sam works him through it, hand slowing as Dean starts making little overstimulated noises. Sam chases his own release, grabbing Dean’s hips with both hands as he slams into him. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean rasps, making small movements of his hips to meet Sam’s thrusts. Sam is getting close, so close he can taste it, the blinding crest of agony-ecstasy-Dean, and he moves to pull out. Dean’s hands snap out, grabbing Sam’s hips and pulling him back into the hot cradle of his body. “No, in. In me, Sammy, c’mon give it to me.” Dean’s babbling as he tightens his grip on his waist, eyes wide and watery and adoring. “I want to feel you—as far in as you can go.” It’s the last push, and with two, three, four pumps in, he’s coming.

His whole world explodes, and he buries his cock into Dean as far as it will go, feeling Dean clench around him, pulling him impossibly farther, hot and perfect and Sam’s. The crest of his pleasure threatens to undo him, and every fiber in his body slots into place, hums in perfect key. Sam collapses forward against Dean, as every muscle in his body goes limp. When he finally manages to blink his eyes open again, he can feel Dean squirming against him as he tries to breathe. Shit, Sam probably weighs a ton. Sam pulls himself out of Dean’s body, Dean making a little dazed noise. He just has the presence of mind to grab the nearest piece of clothing (Dean’s shirt that had fallen off the bed) to wipe them off. He rubs Dean’s cock, to a noise of sleepy protest/pleasure, and over his ass, still leaking come onto his thigh. When he’s satisfied, Sam turns over to turn the lamp off, wrangling Dean under the covers, and pressing him close. Dean rubs his face into the space between Sam’s face and the pillow like a cat, making a snort-grumbling noise. He pulls Sam’s leg over his waist, and Sam bends his knee so he can press against Dean’s calf. Dean pulls Sam against his chest, tucking his head over Sam’s. It’s so familiar, Sam pressed to Dean’s chest, legs sliding down until they’re intertwined. It makes tears press against Sam’s sleepy eyes, thinking about how many times he’d fallen asleep in the comforting nest of Dean’s body, too young to know that this love was damning. Too adoring and warm to resist. Dean presses his nose into Sam’s hair and inhales deeply. Sam would like to think that Dean’s thinking the same thing, that this familiar embrace means even a fraction as much as it means to Sam. But Dean’s slow breath betrays the fact that he’s already far away in sleep. And as Sam always does, he follows Dean.

It’s the fastest Sam had fallen asleep since Stanford.

~~~

When Sam wakes up, he’s surprised by how bright it is outside. He’s always up at the crack of dawn, rising with the sun. It drives—drove—Jess crazy, but his nightmares would wake him up more often than not.

Sometimes they were of the fire, of Jess on the ceiling, but some of them were snatches of Sam’s childhood. Hot vinyl sticking to Sam’s legs in a diner. Jeans three sizes too big. Dean holding Sam’s face in place as he taught him how to shave. Girls laughing behind Sam in geometry. Sam being pushed into a motel pool, mucky with algae, by a laughing Dean, sun-spotted with freckles and wearing paper-thin swim trunks from a gas station. Dad’s eyes in the Impala’s rear view mirror. Dad handing him his first knife, loving and hating the natural way it fit into his palm.

Sam rolls over, seeking warmth in a too-small bed, but there’s no one there. 

A bone-deep knowledge, panic, shreds Sam’s insides like tissue paper. He sits up, looking around the room. 

Dean’s gone. Dean is gone.

Dean rarely wakes up before Sam, if ever. Ever since Sam completed his growth-spurt, age fifteen, his anger and anxiety would propel him up at ungodly hours. He would lace up his worn-flat sneakers and run a mile or three before the sun finished rising. The thump of his heartbeat and the rush of adrenaline calmed him a way hunting never did. But Dean was never a morning person. He had to be cajoled out of bed with promises of coffee and whatever breakfast Sam had brought back.

All warmth from seconds ago has been leeched from the room, and Sam throws the blanket off. He rushes to the bathroom, but the door is open wide and Dean isn’t there. Sam stumbles back into the room, his head-rush finally catching up with him as he wilts against the wall. He can feel a curl of white-hot panic wedge itself between his ribs. Did Dean leave-leave? Sam, eyes wide, looks down at their bags. Their. Plural. Dean’s duffel is still next to his on the table, contents splayed open. Sam tries to breathe around the knife in his chest, but the bag does little to calm his racing heart.

He grabs a pair of jeans at random and pulls them up over his hips, only realizing they’re Dean’s when the hems brush the bottoms of his calves. He jerks open the door, blinking away the blinding morning light. Dew has sprinkled the forest beyond, and the air is fresh and bracing, but the Impala is gone. Gone.

Sam steps out, shivering a little in the cool morning breeze. He realizes, somewhere under the chorus of He’s gone, He’s gone, He’s gone, that he should have grabbed a shirt. He wanders, barefoot and dazed, forward into the parking lot. Maybe Dean moved the car away from the road? Sam follows the bank of rooms until the end, turning the corner to find an empty lot, with scattered Doritos bags and plastic wrappers and more forest beyond.

Sam must have gotten back in the room, but doesn’t register anything again until he’s staring at the wall, hands clenched in his lap. Sam runs last night over and over again in his brain. It’s a full rush of Dean, naked, pressed against tile and sheets and eyes wide, watering, as Sam pressed in, in.

Did…Did he pressure Dean into anything last night? Dean had a problem saying no to Sam. It was incredibly helpful when they were younger—it was funny when Dean let Sam have the other Hot Pocket, it was cool when Dean let Sam stay up past his bedtime, it was cool when Sam woke up one day in the fifth grade and a pair of new running shoes was sitting in his duffel like they had been there the whole time. Sam had a sway over his brother—phrase anything with a touch of that little-brother whine—and it came in handy before Sam really realized what that meant.

It stopped being funny when Sam told Dean he wanted a skateboard and Dean had been locked up overnight in Billings, Montana for shoplifting. It wasn’t funny when Sam asked Dean for an extra helping of dinner and Dean handed over his own portion, lying and saying he was already full. It wasn’t funny if…if. If Dean had said yes because Sam had asked him to. 

Dean’s not an idiot, Sam tries to reason. And he’s not a pushover. If it was serious, he would say no.

But it doesn’t ease the tight cramp in his stomach, it doesn’t make the flare of panic recede. Sam is still sitting in an empty motel room, hours after having sex with Dean. Dean couldn’t stand to look at you. Couldn’t stand to sleep in the same bed as you.

And then, a noise as familiar to Sam as his own breathing. More, even. A sound as familiar as the rumble of Deans’ voice, as familiar as the crackle of electricity, as rain. The Impala’s door. Opening. And then closing. Sam sits up straight, heartbeat rising in his throat as he shoots to his feet. He’s stumbling up the door, fingertips on the doorknob when it swings open. 

Dean is there—jolting back as Sam presses forward into his space. Eyes wide, dazed. Dad’s coat and ratty Metallica shirt and scuffed boots and bruises dotted across the length of his neck, a fresh pink. His fingers wrapped around the handle of a plastic bag, a carton in his other hand supporting two cups of—Sam inhales—coffee.

Sam manages to tear his eyes away from Dean to see the Impala parked over his shoulder, where it should be.

“Woah, Sam, what the fuck?” Dean continues to step back, and Sam starts to reach for him—No—when he realizes it’s because the cups perched precariously on the take-out container are wobbling. Dean’s arm moves, trying to stabilize the tower, but Sam reaches out and grabs it from him.

“Sorry,” He says, reflex. It’s a bizarrely mundane exchange, in the face of it all. Sam’s skin crawls. Dean pushes past him to put the food down, and Sam watches every movement hungrily.

It’s just food. Breakfast. Dean went out to get breakfast. Sam feels the tension in his stomach slowly loosen. Dean woke up early and went to get breakfast. It’s a dance as easy as breathing, it’s a routine so engrained its biological. 

Sam finally leaves the doorway, closing the door behind him and shuffling to stand next to Dean. He puts the box and the cups on the table, shifting his weight slightly to press into Dean’s side. He tries to look into Dean’s face, but Dean keeps turning slightly, just out of sight as he unpacks the bag. Two bottles of orange juice. A bag of peanut M&Ms. A bag of Sam’s favorite trail mix. Two Slim Jims. A tube of toothpaste. He crumples the bag and crosses the room to his duffel bag, shoving it into the side pocket. Sam moves the coffee cups and opens the container to find a stack of four pancakes (two chocolate chip and two regular) and a handful of syrup containers.

(It’s bad if Dean got pancakes. Pancakes were a luxury when they were younger, eaten pretty routinely until Sam was eight, at which point Dean stopped buying them. I’m sick of ‘em, Dean had said, And I’m older so what I say goes. From then on it was bacon and egg sandwiches and soggy fruit cups. Sam later found a library book stolen from a library in Vermont in Dean’s duffel titled Feeding a Family: How to Raise a Healthy Child. The pages were dog-eared. It was one of those things that Sam would remember at Stanford that would punch the breath from his lungs. Twelve was too young to realize that your father didn’t care what you ate, that you had to ration your money on food that would provide sustenance for a child. Pancakes were a luxury food—when Sam was sick, when Sam got picked on at school, when Dad uprooted them suddenly from a school Sam really liked.)

Sam can feel his heartbeat in his ears but he tears the styrofoam container in two, lid separating from the base in a noise too loud for the silent room. He separates the food, chocolate chip for Dean and plain for him, dividing the syrup, coffee, orange juice, and plastic utensils evenly. By the time Dean turns around, Sam is shifting awkwardly in one of the chairs at the table, food ready.

Dean’s eyes flick up to his face, and he’s stopped by whatever he finds there.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Dean says, but he sounds agonized, as if Sam is doing something supremely unfair. Sam wants to apologize—maybe, his head is pounding and his mouth is dry, he’s not sure what he wants—but is physically incapable of moving his eyes from Dean’s face.

If this is the end, Sam wants to see it coming with both eyes open.

Dean starts moving toward him, and Sam hears the chair creak. He must’ve leaned forward. Before Dean can make contact (hand reaching up, out, on reflex before falling back down his side), he stops. He clears his throat.

“Okay, we have to talk about it.” 

Sam nods frantically, relieved. He thought he’d have to beat thoughts from Dean. 

“Okay, I—“ “No, Sam.” Dean cuts him off, voice firm, and Sam falls immediately silent, feeling inexplicably chastised. “I’m going first.”

Dean moves to sit across from him, and Sam kind of wishes he had stayed away. His face is so close, the undeniable evidence of his anxiety on full display. 

“This can never happen again.” Dean says, and Sam feels his entire world fall into one single pinprick of light. “It was a mistake. I don’t want this. I don’t want you. You’re my brother, Sammy. That’s it.” Darkness creeps in.

“Don’t do this,” Sam thinks he says, or he means to, but he can’t feel his tongue.

“I was desperate for some kinda connection or something. I don’t know.” Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. “Losing you made me all weird. But that’s all.” The worry of earlier comes back to Sam with a vengeance. Dean was vulnerable last night, and Sam had taken advantage. 

Sam had. 

Sam. 

Sam’s probably breathing hard, somewhere, can hear someone raggedly breathing. Is it him? Dean’s still looking at him with hard eyes, as if he’s practiced this speech a hundred times before, as if he eats Sam alive for breakfast on days that end with ‘y.’

You sick freak, you freak. This was always going to happen, this was always—

“But you—“ told me you loved me, Sam wants to say, as petulant and desperate as a child for it not to be true. But…no he didn’t. Sam tries to run everything Dean said back in his head. I want you. First times are supposed to be special. Mine. Not love. Sam had filled in the blanks.

“You said you wanted me.” Sam has to finally settle on. 

Dean’s face twists uncomfortably. 

“Listen…uh. It’s not too late for you, ya know?”

Sam’s insides settle comically fast. Oh. This isn’t Dean not wanting him, this is Dean being a fucking dick about it. Relief, sharp and bitter, floods Sam’s mouth. He had started to think he had coerced Dean into something—violated Dean, in a real and unforgivable way. He thought Dean was just as desperate as he was, but for a different reason. But, no. The asshole was trying to be fucking noble. Sam still hears his heartbeat in his head, but can finally catch his breath. “Fuck you,” He says. Dean reacts as if Sam had lobbed a grenade on the table, pin mysteriously absent. He bristles. “Excuse me?”

Sam has to stand, nervous energy built and built and built with no release. He starts to walk to the door with the intention to pace, but Dean jumps up, snagging Sam by the bicep.

“Woah, wait a second here, man. Don’t—“

Sam shakes the arm off. “You’re going to ‘man’ me right now?” Sam asks. “And what the fuck is wrong with you? I thought I had assaulted you, asshole.” Dean blanches, backing up a step. “I never said—“ “But you’re just being a dick, like usual. And I’m not leaving—I’m not pulling what you pulled this morning.” 

Dean blinks hard, and Sam can see him process what Sam waking up in an empty room probably signified to him. Dean’s face settles into a hard, dead look. It’s his Dad-face: no emotion, no twitch of expression, just solider. It makes Sam fucking infuriated to see it on Dean now. 

“You wanna talk about leaving, Sammy?” Dean’s face is so flushed that Sam can’t see the spatter of freckles across his nose. “You wanna fucking talk about leaving?” 

Sam’s body lights up in a white-hot pulse of anger-hurt-shock so acute that his face goes numb.

“That’s not fair.” He finally manages to say. “‘Cause leaving is all you know how to do.” Dean plows on, shoulders lifting like he’s expecting Sam to reel back and deck him. “I was seventeen!” Sam knows his voice is way too loud, even in his own ears, but can’t stop the trembling sick rolling up his body in waves. They’re too good at hurting each other—they know every single pressure point to target. “And you’re my kid brother!” Dean shouts. He pales, stumbling back. He sits down, hard, in the chair behind him. The room is deafeningly quiet, only Sam’s breaths and the sound of Dean scrubbing a hand over his face, the shush of skin on skin.

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is choked. “You’re my little brother.” Sam knows that getting in Dean’s space is the wrong move now, but it doesn’t stop the urge to go and press his face into Dean’s chest and keep it there.

He manages to curb the instinct, barely, but sits down on the edge of the bed facing the table. Dean sits with the weight of what he’s feeling, and Sam tries to give him time to process. Dad was a ticking time bomb, and Sam’s no better. Dean has a long fuse, and sits in his hurt before he lets anyone see it. Sam has gotten familiar with sitting in Dean’s tense silences. It always makes him feel like clawing his skin off—he’s not comfortable with sitting in the weight it. Dean inhales shakily. “I’ve been so good about it, you were never supposed to know.” He says finally, hand coming to wipe across his mouth. He looks up at Sam through red-rimmed eyes. “I’ve been working on it. I’ve been really damn good about it.” 

“About wanting me?” Sam asks, hoping that Dean will say no. He’s talking about it like an addiction—like a habit he can’t break. Sam doesn’t want to be that. Dean keeps going, like he’s not listening. “The second I realized, I told myself I’d never do anything that…But you realized anyway? Shit, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

Dean’s shaking his head, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“It’s wrong. It’s so fucked up. I should have never let you—“

“Let me?” Sam repeats incredulously. “You were a pretty willing participant, if I remember.” 

Dean flushes up to his ears, the tips as pink as a sunburn. 

“It’s wrong. You’ll never get your kids, your wife, and your picket-fence-apple-pie life you’ve always wanted. You want normal? Fucking your brother is kind of the opposite of normal.” 

Sam can feel his mouth twist down. It’s so crass, the way Dean says it. Sam’s not a prude—hasn’t been since Dean gave him the safe sex talk when he was thirteen. But still. Sam watches Dean’s face. “If you never want to kiss me again, I’d still be here.” He needs Dean to know that—he’s not a stopover onto something better, he’s it. Dean’s face shutters in a way Sam knows means he hit a nail on the head. “Stop it.”

Sam’s on a roll now, though. “I want you, damn the consequences. We’ve never lived by ‘normal,’ and I don’t see why we should start now.”

“Morally, Sam—forget everyone else.” Dean’s as recalcitrant as a mule, as dutiful and contrite as a penitent. Sam wonders if he’s ever not feared punishment from a higher-up—a striking hand from an unforgiving father. Sam wants to tear his own hair out.

“You literally said it yourself: You plan on going to hell, so what—“ “You believe in Heaven,” Dean says, like a challenge. Like struggling with his religion and struggling with his feelings for Dean aren’t the two cornerstones of Sam’s life. “I don’t think God could make me like this,” Sam says, “And decide to damn me for it anyway.” Dean stops at that, eyes wide. “You think someone made me like this?” 

“Made us like this.” Sam nudges his foot forward until it hits Dean’s. Whatever Sam and Dean are, they are made of the same fibre, the same fabric. “The way I love you doesn’t feel wrong at its core. It just feels like you.”

Dean looks away sharply, casting his eyes to the ceiling before falling back down to his hands. His hands are shaking where he’s clasped them together. His voice trembles, as he says,

“No one should be allowed to love anything as much as I love you.” Dean exhales, a laugh married to a sob.“People weren’t built to carry this shit inside ‘em. It isn’t right, it isn’t sane. I—“ Sam moves forward, falling to Dean’s feet. He breaks the grasp that Dean’s hands have on each other and move them to each side of his face. It’s so similar to last night that Sam’s throat closes with it. 

“I don’t want to die.” Dean says, so close to Sam’s own mouth that Sam can feel each word unfurl on his lips. “I don’t want to leave you like this—now that I can—“ Dean’s mouth twitches, and he’s so damn close to crying that Sam can see the tears building on his lashes. Sam swallows around the lump in his own throat. He’ll do anything to keep him. Any damn thing. The world—hell—will have to claw Dean Winchester from his hands.

“I’m with you until the end, okay?” Sam says, voice breaking. Dean’s thumb moves over his lash line, stopping a tear before it can fall. Sam feels the liquid cool on his cheek. “Whether…whether it’s in four months or forty years. I’m in this.”

Sam watches the bob of Dean’s throat as he swallows. He looks young, so damn young in the light filtering through the window and Sam’s heart in his hands. Sam can feel the thrum of his blood (their blood, their shared blood, molecules unbreakable, down to the foundations, down to DNA) under his fingers on his wrist. His eyes flick between Sam’s own, searching for a falter, a break. He will find none. “Until the end?” Sam leans up, so Dean can feel Sam’s mouth form the words on his own, “The last possible second.”

~~~

Dean dies three months and twenty-nine days later, gasping blood between slick teeth, arm extended brokenly to where Sam is pinned to the wall. Sam wails into the open cavity of his chest. It’s worse than dying. It’s worse than living, too.

#supernatural #wincest fanfiction #samdean #wincest #cross posted on ao3 #fanfic #spn fanfic #sam and dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural season 3 #erotically codependent

[arian-thedreamer]

Jaceluke isn't jaceluke unless it's insanely codependent.

#jaceluke #jace targaryen #jacaerys x lucerys #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #hotd jacaerys #lucerys velaryon #luke hotd #jace hotd #hotd luke #hotd jace #lucerys targaryen #erotically codependent #romantically codependent

[psychicsamlover]

"This brother you're road tripping with. How do you feel about him?"

#wincest #samdean #sam and dean #supernatural #wincestedit #motel room #classic spn #aesthetic #erotically codependent

[hurricanejane]

Dean does Cas so dirty in the beginning of season 9 making him try to find them on his own when he's newly human and then kicking him out as soon as he does. I was a Destiel shipper when it aired so 9 is where I bailed. Like I hate-finished the season and then didn't watch another episode until this year when I fell back in love with the series and became a wincestie.

Now I see that Dean's just so obsessed with Sam he never sees anyone else. He'll throw anyone under a literal bus if it's them or Sam. Zeke says Cas is out or Sam's in trouble (so sus) and I'm like yeah Dean you codependent wildcat, throw that poor human Cas out. Why wouldn't you, you're Dean Winchester!

#destiel #wincest #samdean #dean brother issues winchester #erotically codependent #human!cas #supernatural season 9 #9x03 i'm no angel #i still love cas and can appreciate destiel #but i'm also so here for this insane man who is obsessed with his brother #could even be gencest or weirdcest #no hate to any ship see how easy it is

[peggyelliot22]

Have you ever dated a trans?😕

#trending #stranger things #trans man #erotically codependent

[mentallyunwellsamgirl]

The thing about Sam and Dean is that they’re brothers, they’re best friends, they’re father and son, they’re platonic life partners, they’re enemies meant to kill each other at the end of the world, they’re psychotically, irrationally, erotically codependent on each other, they betray each other and they can’t live without each other, their love destroyed the world, their love saved the world… like… how do I get over that and move on to a different show pls help

#supernatural #sam and dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #sammy #samdean #spn #psychotically irrationally erotically codependent

[haley-lana]

is this anything?

#spn memes #spn #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #sammy #psychotically irrationally erotically codependent #dean #adam milligan #supernatural memes #supernatural meme #spn meming #spn fandom #supernatural fandom #sam & dean #samdean #sam and dean #the winchester brothers #winchester derangement syndrome #weirdchesters #the codependency bros #the blorbos #fandom memes #supernatural meta #kinda funny #as all things should be #sam #sammy <3 #the cage #spn season 6

[monstersandbrothers]

🎶🎶🎶🎵🎶🎶🎵🎶Do you have any clue what walking away meant for me? THAT woman and THAT kid, I went to them because YOU asked me to. I showed up on their doorstep half out of my HEAD. With grief. God knows why they even let me in, I drank too much, I had nightmares. I looked EVERYWHERE. I collected hundreds of books trying to find ANYTHING to bust you out. OF COURSE I DIDN’T LEAVE IT ALONE. SUE ME. A damn year? You couldn’t put me out of my misery?🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵

#insane speech btw #freaks #makes my little heart sing #spn #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn s6 #Sam and Dean #psychotically irrationally erotically codependent