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Title: Making It Right
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean, mentions of past Sam/Ruby
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Up to 5x01.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this story. I am not making money with this, just having fun.
A/N: I wrote this a while ago for this prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spnkink_meme , and going back through it I realized I kinda liked it, so I'm finally posting and claiming it, despite my insecurities about writing any kind of PWP.
Summary: Post Sympathy for the Devil. Desperate to gain back Dean's trust Sam takes to doing little things for his brother, like getting the coffee every morning, packing the bags and giving up the first shower. They don't talk about it, but Dean knows this is Sam's way of showing him how sorry he is, and you know what? It just pisses Dean off.
It starts out small.
A coffee waiting for him when he woke up in the morning, the remote control always on his side of the bedside table, the bags always packed and ready before he even gets out of the shower. Sam grabs the bags when they leave, both of them, and heads out of the room without a word to Dean, waiting patiently by the trunk of the car so Dean can unlock it and Sam can toss them in.
Sam doesn’t give his opinion on where to eat anymore, always deferring to Dean instead. He doesn’t complain about the grease or the fat, doesn’t fling out some smartass comment about clogged arteries or how vegetables really were a food group and not some hell brought demon spawn to be avoided at all costs. He just nods to whatever Dean suggests with a careless shrug and a muttered “Sounds good.”
They don’t fight over who gets first shower after a hunt anymore. Sam just sits down and waits for Dean to get out of the bathroom, doesn’t say a word when there isn’t any hot water left.
Whenever there’s research to do, Sam always makes sure that there is something else far more interesting for Dean to do instead.
He stopped complaining about the music.
Dean knows what he’s doing, knows the sad, earnest looks Sam gives him when he thinks Dean won’t notice, sees the careful way he doesn’t look at Dean whenever he takes a drink of the coffee or picks up the remote control. Dean knows it’s a silent apology every time Sam lets Dean get his way, that every small gesture is saying I want to make this right.
And it grates.
The fifth time Dean wakes up to the smell of coffee by his bed--hot and strong and exactly how he likes it--Dean wants to throw it back in Sam’s face. He clenches his jaw when Sam answers his question about food with a quiet “Whatever, you want, Dean,” feels like ripping the bags that Sam has packed without Dean asking out of his hands and screaming at him.
It won’t work, he wants to say. It won’t make anything better. It won’t take back what you did. So stop, Sam. Just stop.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t because doing so would mean addressing this thing between them, would mean talking about Ruby and the demon blood and how the one person he thought he could always trust--always--he just…couldn’t anymore.
And it hurts.
So he lets them happen, the little things, the coffee and the showers and the looks, and he doesn’t say a word.
Dean collapses in the chair one night in their dingy hotel room with a groan. “Christ, I hate poltergeists,” he mutters, rubbing absently at a bruise on his arm from where a clock radio had flown across the room and hit it him. Sam nods wearily and sits in the chair beside him, but doesn’t say anything.
They don’t speak a lot these days, not to each other.
Dean groans again and takes off his boots, rubbing absently at a sore ankle. Sam shifts beside him, and then he’s reaching down, pulling at Dean’s legs by his calves so that his feet are in Sam’s lap. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he wraps his large hands around Dean’s right foot, strong fingers digging into the muscle.
That’s it.
“God damn it, Sam!” he spits out, kicking away Sam’s hands and shoving himself to his feet. Sam is looking at him with wide, hurt eyes and Dean snarls at him. “If you’re so desperate to make it up to me why don’t you just get it over with and blow me already.”
And Sam falls to his knees.
Dean doesn’t have time to think before Sam’s hands are at his fly, one large palm cupping him through the denim of his jeans, the other pulling at his zipper. Sam’s face is pressed against his hip, nose pressed against the seem of his pocket and christ, he hadn’t been serious. Dean makes an abortive movement to pull away but Sam stops him, clutching at his hip and keeping him in place as he pulls out Dean’s dick, wraps his lips around the head and sucks.
Dean groans, feeling himself harden in Sam’s mouth and he clutches at the table for support.
God.
He needs to pull away, needs to stop this. But Sam has curled long fingers around the base of his cock, squeezing rhythmically as his head bobs up and down, cheeks hollowed out and tongue pressed flat against the underside and fucking moaning around him, like he wants this, like he needs this and all Dean can do is thread the fingers of one hand through his hair and stare because it’s Sam.
Sam who he used to lay awake beside at night, hyper aware of every movement he made and unable to sleep, hard as a rock inside his boxers and just trying so hard to will it away, to not touch, to not think because it wrong and sick and fucked up and Dad would kill him if he knew. Sam who for four years Dean would secretly visit the Stanford campus just to watch, to make sure he was alright, even if he couldn’t just walk up to him like he wanted to, walk up and force Sam to let him be a part of his life again. Sam who he sold his soul for and for who he had fought for, fought with, bitter and angry, the words don’t you come back hateful on his tongue and he walked away anyway, out the door and away from Dean.
Fuck.
Dean clenches his fingers in Sam’s hair and jerks him away. “Is this how you plan to make up for what you did?” he growls out. “Tell me Sam, do you think your body is worth the end of the world?”
Sam doesn’t look at him. He stares at the ground, hands twitching uselessly on his knees, face flushed. His lips are puffy and swollen and there’s spit shining on his chin.
Dean takes a step back. His hands are shaking.
“Strip,” he orders. “Get on the bed.”
Sam stands up, his movement as he unzips his jacket and shrugs it off his shoulders jerky and uncoordinated. Dean watches him as he starts on his own clothes, the anger and adrenaline running through his veins making the motions stiff and abrupt. Sam kicks off his shoes and socks, strips out of his jeans and boxers and walks to the bed, crawling on to it on his hands and knees before laying down on his stomach. Dean eyes the long lines of his shoulders and back, the way his legs are pale against the mud brown of the hotel blanket, how Sam’s hand clutches the pillow beneath him, the white fabric twisted in a clenched fist. He shakes his head. “Not that way,” he tells him. His voice is rough with want and anger. “Your back.”
Sam does as he’s told, flipping over to his back, eyes catching Dean’s for a brief moment before they look away, embarrassed. Sam’s cock is long and hard against his stomach, flushed dark with need. He doesn’t touch it, but just sits there, waiting for Dean and for some reason this pisses Dean off even more.
Still trying to make up for what he can’t.
He heads for the door.
Sam sits up. “Hey! Where are you--” It’s the first thing he’s said since they got back to the room, but he cuts himself off as Dean reaches for the bag against the door. Dean digs around the pockets, pulling out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He holds them up for Sam to see and smiles, sharp and full of teeth. Sam eyes him warily.
“Didn’t think I was going to fuck you bare, did you Sammy?” He asks mockingly as he walks to the bed, unzipping and pulling of his jeans as he did so. “No idea what that demon bitch could have given you.”
The words are like poison and Sam flushes and looks away in shame--or anger--but Dean doesn’t care. He can feel his blood pumping in his veins and even the pleasure as he curls his hand around his cock is nothing compared the utter rage that thrums inside of him, the betrayal he feels, the need to take and to rip and consume and just damn all consequences.
He crawls onto the bed, slides between Sam’s legs. He grips Sam’s wrists in his hands and presses down, feeling the strain of tendons and muscles against his skin and he leans forward, licking a long stripe up Sam’s neck before biting down, hard. Sam hisses and jerks under him.
“Tell me Sam,” Dean whispers as he strokes one lube covered hand down his brother’s stomach, bypassing the swollen cock to slip behind his balls, nudging at the small pucker he finds there. Sam jerks again. “How often did you do this with her?” He circles the hole once before pressing in, biting down on Sam’s collarbone as his finger slips inside. “Was it every time? Every time she called and you snuck out like you thought I wouldn’t notice?” Dean thrusts the single finger in and out of Sam, and Sam pants, deep ragged breaths through his mouth. He presses further inside, crooking his finger and Sam moans, head thrown back as his hips thrust unconsciously off the bed. Dean doesn’t stop talking as he adds a second finger.
“You really thought I didn’t notice, didn’t you? Thought I didn’t know that you would creep out of the room, take my car--” Dean gives his fingers a vicious twist and Sam gasps. “--all so you could become some demon’s fuck toy.”
Dean adds a third finger, spreads them wide and Sam practically writhes beneath him, a broken “Please” escaping his lips as his head twists back and forth. Dean smiles grimly and pulls out, ignoring the disappointed whine that comes from Sam as he opens the condom and rolls it on. He leans forward, hooking one of Sam’s legs over his arm and putting one hand on either side of him, bracing himself as he presses forward into Sam in one long, slow thrust.
Sam groans as Dean bottoms out but Dean doesn’t give him time to get used to it, curling one hand tight against his brothers bicep as he sets a hard, fast pace. His balls slap against Sam’s ass with every thrust and Sam’s breath hitches, voice stuttering out a ragged “Dean” that Dean tries to ignore even as his gut clenches at the pleading sound of it. Sam’s eyes are closed and has one leg curled around Dean, pressing him closer and Jesus fuck he is tight, tight and hot like he’s never done this before and Dean doesn’t think about that, can’t think about it so he digs his nails harder into Sam’s skin and growls.
“Is this how it was?” He rasps out. Sam’s eyes don’t open and he moves his hips faster, changing the pace from hard to brutal and Sam just moans and clutches back at Dean, hips coming up to meet every thrust. “Did you fuck her hard and rough? Did you make her scream? Did you enjoy it when she cried?” Sam groans and shakes his head against the pillow. There’s sweat dampening his temples, and his hair clings to his face, covers his eyes. His mouth is open and panting and red, bottom lip swollen from digging his teeth in to stifle the sounds being ripped from his throat. Dean leans forward. “I bet you did,” he whispers hoarsely before he nips at that bottom lip, sharply.
Sam gasps, eyes flying open and he bucks beneath Dean, hand reaching to pull at his cock. Dean knocks his hand away, pressing his wrist to the mattress and holding it there. He shifts his hips against Sam, changing the angle and slowing down his thrusts so that every time he presses inside of Sam it’s deep and long, dragging slowly across his prostate until Sam’s practically sobbing beneath him, moans now replaced with a steady babble of please and god and Dean like they are all interchangeable.
He licks at Sam’s earlobe, nuzzles the spot behind his ear and feels Sam shudder beneath him. “Or maybe it was like this,” he whispers. “Maybe it was slow and gentle, sweet even. Just enough to convince you that it was okay, that she was different than all the rest, that it wasn’t wrong.”
“Dean, please,” Sam gasps out, and for once he isn’t referring to the sex. His eyes are locked on Dean’s face above him, face twisted in a pained expression. “Please,” he says again.
Dean ignores him. “Maybe that’s why you left, why you chose her over me. Is that why, Sammy? Is that why you fucking walked out that door, walked away from me, even after all we’ve been through. Is that why--” His voice breaks and stops, pressing his face against Sam’s neck. He breathes in hard.
“Dean,” Sam whispers and Dean shakes his head, not wanting to listen. Instead he lets go of Sam’s hand and slides his own between them, curling it around Sam’s cock. Sam groans as he tugs on it and Dean starts moving his hips to match he pace of his hand, not even realizing he’d stopped them. Sam brings one hand up to tangle in Dean’s hair, tugging his head up and forcing him to meet Sam’s eyes. “Couldn’t--” he gasps out as Dean gives a particular twist to his wrist, scraping his palm over the leaking head of Sam’s cock. “Couldn’t have you.”
Dean closes his eyes and chuckles humorlessly. “Could’ve always had me, Sammy.” The words are hard to get out, forced ragged through a dry throat and clenched jaw. “Always.”
He pulls once more on Sam’s cock and Sam shudders beneath him, twisting his head away from Dean and closing his eyes as he comes. Dean presses his forehead to Sam’s chest and thrusts once, twice, three more times before following him, eyes and jaw clenched tight against the emotions he’s tried fight off all night, all anger gone and nothing left but Sam beneath him and Sam around him and god, Sam. Sam.
Sammy.
He pulls out of his brother abruptly, pulling off the condom and not even bothering to aim for the trashcan as he throws it on the floor. He rolls off of his brother and lies on his back, his harsh breathing matching the ones of Sam’s beside him.
They don’t say anything.
It takes a while for his breathing to stop coming out in gasps and even longer for him to realize that what he thought was Sam panting beside him was something else. His stomach clenches when he realizes that Sam is crying. He recognizes the soft, snuffling sounds as muffled sobs that someone was trying to hide.
There was a time that he loved that sound. After thirty years in Hell it was his favorite. The tiny whimpers and gasps that the person he was torturing tried to hide meant that they’d thought they’d had enough, that they just couldn’t scream any more, that it couldn’t get any worse, and it made Dean smile, because that was the point that he got to prove them wrong.
Now it just makes him feel sick.
He never, ever wanted to hear that sound from Sam.
He rolls over. Sam is turned away from him, face buried in the pillow, arms tucked into his chest and for moment he just looks small, his big frame and large hands gone, replaced by an awkward, gangly teenager who looked up to Dean to make everything better, because he was his big brother and that was what he did. Dean swallows past the lump in his throat and lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder, rubbing back and forth over the bare skin. He notices the bright red crescent marks from his own finger nails and self disgust roils through him.
There’s no way I can make this better, he thinks despairingly.
Sam is still crying. “Hey,” he whispers, soothingly. “Sammy.” Sam’s shoulders shake underneath his palm and he’s mumbling something under his breath, over and over again. Dean leans forward so he can hear.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” The words are hard to hear, half broken over the sobs and hitched, shuddering breaths that cause his shoulders to jerk and twist against Dean, but it’s all he says. It’s all he’s been saying, for weeks, only now it doesn’t make Dean angry. Now Dean understands that Sam doesn’t think he can make anything better, that he can make up for what he’s done. Sam thinks that he can’t and he just doesn’t know what else to do but say it.
Dean takes a deep, shaky breath and wraps one arm around Sam, tugging him back against Dean’s chest. He rubs a hand soothingly up and down his chest, presses his face against the back of his neck. “I know, Sammy,” he whispers. “I’m sorry too.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean, mentions of past Sam/Ruby
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Up to 5x01.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this story. I am not making money with this, just having fun.
A/N: I wrote this a while ago for this prompt at
spnkink_meme , and going back through it I realized I kinda liked it, so I'm finally posting and claiming it, despite my insecurities about writing any kind of PWP. Summary: Post Sympathy for the Devil. Desperate to gain back Dean's trust Sam takes to doing little things for his brother, like getting the coffee every morning, packing the bags and giving up the first shower. They don't talk about it, but Dean knows this is Sam's way of showing him how sorry he is, and you know what? It just pisses Dean off.
It starts out small.
A coffee waiting for him when he woke up in the morning, the remote control always on his side of the bedside table, the bags always packed and ready before he even gets out of the shower. Sam grabs the bags when they leave, both of them, and heads out of the room without a word to Dean, waiting patiently by the trunk of the car so Dean can unlock it and Sam can toss them in.
Sam doesn’t give his opinion on where to eat anymore, always deferring to Dean instead. He doesn’t complain about the grease or the fat, doesn’t fling out some smartass comment about clogged arteries or how vegetables really were a food group and not some hell brought demon spawn to be avoided at all costs. He just nods to whatever Dean suggests with a careless shrug and a muttered “Sounds good.”
They don’t fight over who gets first shower after a hunt anymore. Sam just sits down and waits for Dean to get out of the bathroom, doesn’t say a word when there isn’t any hot water left.
Whenever there’s research to do, Sam always makes sure that there is something else far more interesting for Dean to do instead.
He stopped complaining about the music.
Dean knows what he’s doing, knows the sad, earnest looks Sam gives him when he thinks Dean won’t notice, sees the careful way he doesn’t look at Dean whenever he takes a drink of the coffee or picks up the remote control. Dean knows it’s a silent apology every time Sam lets Dean get his way, that every small gesture is saying I want to make this right.
And it grates.
The fifth time Dean wakes up to the smell of coffee by his bed--hot and strong and exactly how he likes it--Dean wants to throw it back in Sam’s face. He clenches his jaw when Sam answers his question about food with a quiet “Whatever, you want, Dean,” feels like ripping the bags that Sam has packed without Dean asking out of his hands and screaming at him.
It won’t work, he wants to say. It won’t make anything better. It won’t take back what you did. So stop, Sam. Just stop.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t because doing so would mean addressing this thing between them, would mean talking about Ruby and the demon blood and how the one person he thought he could always trust--always--he just…couldn’t anymore.
And it hurts.
So he lets them happen, the little things, the coffee and the showers and the looks, and he doesn’t say a word.
Dean collapses in the chair one night in their dingy hotel room with a groan. “Christ, I hate poltergeists,” he mutters, rubbing absently at a bruise on his arm from where a clock radio had flown across the room and hit it him. Sam nods wearily and sits in the chair beside him, but doesn’t say anything.
They don’t speak a lot these days, not to each other.
Dean groans again and takes off his boots, rubbing absently at a sore ankle. Sam shifts beside him, and then he’s reaching down, pulling at Dean’s legs by his calves so that his feet are in Sam’s lap. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he wraps his large hands around Dean’s right foot, strong fingers digging into the muscle.
That’s it.
“God damn it, Sam!” he spits out, kicking away Sam’s hands and shoving himself to his feet. Sam is looking at him with wide, hurt eyes and Dean snarls at him. “If you’re so desperate to make it up to me why don’t you just get it over with and blow me already.”
And Sam falls to his knees.
Dean doesn’t have time to think before Sam’s hands are at his fly, one large palm cupping him through the denim of his jeans, the other pulling at his zipper. Sam’s face is pressed against his hip, nose pressed against the seem of his pocket and christ, he hadn’t been serious. Dean makes an abortive movement to pull away but Sam stops him, clutching at his hip and keeping him in place as he pulls out Dean’s dick, wraps his lips around the head and sucks.
Dean groans, feeling himself harden in Sam’s mouth and he clutches at the table for support.
God.
He needs to pull away, needs to stop this. But Sam has curled long fingers around the base of his cock, squeezing rhythmically as his head bobs up and down, cheeks hollowed out and tongue pressed flat against the underside and fucking moaning around him, like he wants this, like he needs this and all Dean can do is thread the fingers of one hand through his hair and stare because it’s Sam.
Sam who he used to lay awake beside at night, hyper aware of every movement he made and unable to sleep, hard as a rock inside his boxers and just trying so hard to will it away, to not touch, to not think because it wrong and sick and fucked up and Dad would kill him if he knew. Sam who for four years Dean would secretly visit the Stanford campus just to watch, to make sure he was alright, even if he couldn’t just walk up to him like he wanted to, walk up and force Sam to let him be a part of his life again. Sam who he sold his soul for and for who he had fought for, fought with, bitter and angry, the words don’t you come back hateful on his tongue and he walked away anyway, out the door and away from Dean.
Fuck.
Dean clenches his fingers in Sam’s hair and jerks him away. “Is this how you plan to make up for what you did?” he growls out. “Tell me Sam, do you think your body is worth the end of the world?”
Sam doesn’t look at him. He stares at the ground, hands twitching uselessly on his knees, face flushed. His lips are puffy and swollen and there’s spit shining on his chin.
Dean takes a step back. His hands are shaking.
“Strip,” he orders. “Get on the bed.”
Sam stands up, his movement as he unzips his jacket and shrugs it off his shoulders jerky and uncoordinated. Dean watches him as he starts on his own clothes, the anger and adrenaline running through his veins making the motions stiff and abrupt. Sam kicks off his shoes and socks, strips out of his jeans and boxers and walks to the bed, crawling on to it on his hands and knees before laying down on his stomach. Dean eyes the long lines of his shoulders and back, the way his legs are pale against the mud brown of the hotel blanket, how Sam’s hand clutches the pillow beneath him, the white fabric twisted in a clenched fist. He shakes his head. “Not that way,” he tells him. His voice is rough with want and anger. “Your back.”
Sam does as he’s told, flipping over to his back, eyes catching Dean’s for a brief moment before they look away, embarrassed. Sam’s cock is long and hard against his stomach, flushed dark with need. He doesn’t touch it, but just sits there, waiting for Dean and for some reason this pisses Dean off even more.
Still trying to make up for what he can’t.
He heads for the door.
Sam sits up. “Hey! Where are you--” It’s the first thing he’s said since they got back to the room, but he cuts himself off as Dean reaches for the bag against the door. Dean digs around the pockets, pulling out a small bottle of lube and a condom. He holds them up for Sam to see and smiles, sharp and full of teeth. Sam eyes him warily.
“Didn’t think I was going to fuck you bare, did you Sammy?” He asks mockingly as he walks to the bed, unzipping and pulling of his jeans as he did so. “No idea what that demon bitch could have given you.”
The words are like poison and Sam flushes and looks away in shame--or anger--but Dean doesn’t care. He can feel his blood pumping in his veins and even the pleasure as he curls his hand around his cock is nothing compared the utter rage that thrums inside of him, the betrayal he feels, the need to take and to rip and consume and just damn all consequences.
He crawls onto the bed, slides between Sam’s legs. He grips Sam’s wrists in his hands and presses down, feeling the strain of tendons and muscles against his skin and he leans forward, licking a long stripe up Sam’s neck before biting down, hard. Sam hisses and jerks under him.
“Tell me Sam,” Dean whispers as he strokes one lube covered hand down his brother’s stomach, bypassing the swollen cock to slip behind his balls, nudging at the small pucker he finds there. Sam jerks again. “How often did you do this with her?” He circles the hole once before pressing in, biting down on Sam’s collarbone as his finger slips inside. “Was it every time? Every time she called and you snuck out like you thought I wouldn’t notice?” Dean thrusts the single finger in and out of Sam, and Sam pants, deep ragged breaths through his mouth. He presses further inside, crooking his finger and Sam moans, head thrown back as his hips thrust unconsciously off the bed. Dean doesn’t stop talking as he adds a second finger.
“You really thought I didn’t notice, didn’t you? Thought I didn’t know that you would creep out of the room, take my car--” Dean gives his fingers a vicious twist and Sam gasps. “--all so you could become some demon’s fuck toy.”
Dean adds a third finger, spreads them wide and Sam practically writhes beneath him, a broken “Please” escaping his lips as his head twists back and forth. Dean smiles grimly and pulls out, ignoring the disappointed whine that comes from Sam as he opens the condom and rolls it on. He leans forward, hooking one of Sam’s legs over his arm and putting one hand on either side of him, bracing himself as he presses forward into Sam in one long, slow thrust.
Sam groans as Dean bottoms out but Dean doesn’t give him time to get used to it, curling one hand tight against his brothers bicep as he sets a hard, fast pace. His balls slap against Sam’s ass with every thrust and Sam’s breath hitches, voice stuttering out a ragged “Dean” that Dean tries to ignore even as his gut clenches at the pleading sound of it. Sam’s eyes are closed and has one leg curled around Dean, pressing him closer and Jesus fuck he is tight, tight and hot like he’s never done this before and Dean doesn’t think about that, can’t think about it so he digs his nails harder into Sam’s skin and growls.
“Is this how it was?” He rasps out. Sam’s eyes don’t open and he moves his hips faster, changing the pace from hard to brutal and Sam just moans and clutches back at Dean, hips coming up to meet every thrust. “Did you fuck her hard and rough? Did you make her scream? Did you enjoy it when she cried?” Sam groans and shakes his head against the pillow. There’s sweat dampening his temples, and his hair clings to his face, covers his eyes. His mouth is open and panting and red, bottom lip swollen from digging his teeth in to stifle the sounds being ripped from his throat. Dean leans forward. “I bet you did,” he whispers hoarsely before he nips at that bottom lip, sharply.
Sam gasps, eyes flying open and he bucks beneath Dean, hand reaching to pull at his cock. Dean knocks his hand away, pressing his wrist to the mattress and holding it there. He shifts his hips against Sam, changing the angle and slowing down his thrusts so that every time he presses inside of Sam it’s deep and long, dragging slowly across his prostate until Sam’s practically sobbing beneath him, moans now replaced with a steady babble of please and god and Dean like they are all interchangeable.
He licks at Sam’s earlobe, nuzzles the spot behind his ear and feels Sam shudder beneath him. “Or maybe it was like this,” he whispers. “Maybe it was slow and gentle, sweet even. Just enough to convince you that it was okay, that she was different than all the rest, that it wasn’t wrong.”
“Dean, please,” Sam gasps out, and for once he isn’t referring to the sex. His eyes are locked on Dean’s face above him, face twisted in a pained expression. “Please,” he says again.
Dean ignores him. “Maybe that’s why you left, why you chose her over me. Is that why, Sammy? Is that why you fucking walked out that door, walked away from me, even after all we’ve been through. Is that why--” His voice breaks and stops, pressing his face against Sam’s neck. He breathes in hard.
“Dean,” Sam whispers and Dean shakes his head, not wanting to listen. Instead he lets go of Sam’s hand and slides his own between them, curling it around Sam’s cock. Sam groans as he tugs on it and Dean starts moving his hips to match he pace of his hand, not even realizing he’d stopped them. Sam brings one hand up to tangle in Dean’s hair, tugging his head up and forcing him to meet Sam’s eyes. “Couldn’t--” he gasps out as Dean gives a particular twist to his wrist, scraping his palm over the leaking head of Sam’s cock. “Couldn’t have you.”
Dean closes his eyes and chuckles humorlessly. “Could’ve always had me, Sammy.” The words are hard to get out, forced ragged through a dry throat and clenched jaw. “Always.”
He pulls once more on Sam’s cock and Sam shudders beneath him, twisting his head away from Dean and closing his eyes as he comes. Dean presses his forehead to Sam’s chest and thrusts once, twice, three more times before following him, eyes and jaw clenched tight against the emotions he’s tried fight off all night, all anger gone and nothing left but Sam beneath him and Sam around him and god, Sam. Sam.
Sammy.
He pulls out of his brother abruptly, pulling off the condom and not even bothering to aim for the trashcan as he throws it on the floor. He rolls off of his brother and lies on his back, his harsh breathing matching the ones of Sam’s beside him.
They don’t say anything.
It takes a while for his breathing to stop coming out in gasps and even longer for him to realize that what he thought was Sam panting beside him was something else. His stomach clenches when he realizes that Sam is crying. He recognizes the soft, snuffling sounds as muffled sobs that someone was trying to hide.
There was a time that he loved that sound. After thirty years in Hell it was his favorite. The tiny whimpers and gasps that the person he was torturing tried to hide meant that they’d thought they’d had enough, that they just couldn’t scream any more, that it couldn’t get any worse, and it made Dean smile, because that was the point that he got to prove them wrong.
Now it just makes him feel sick.
He never, ever wanted to hear that sound from Sam.
He rolls over. Sam is turned away from him, face buried in the pillow, arms tucked into his chest and for moment he just looks small, his big frame and large hands gone, replaced by an awkward, gangly teenager who looked up to Dean to make everything better, because he was his big brother and that was what he did. Dean swallows past the lump in his throat and lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder, rubbing back and forth over the bare skin. He notices the bright red crescent marks from his own finger nails and self disgust roils through him.
There’s no way I can make this better, he thinks despairingly.
Sam is still crying. “Hey,” he whispers, soothingly. “Sammy.” Sam’s shoulders shake underneath his palm and he’s mumbling something under his breath, over and over again. Dean leans forward so he can hear.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mutters. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.” The words are hard to hear, half broken over the sobs and hitched, shuddering breaths that cause his shoulders to jerk and twist against Dean, but it’s all he says. It’s all he’s been saying, for weeks, only now it doesn’t make Dean angry. Now Dean understands that Sam doesn’t think he can make anything better, that he can make up for what he’s done. Sam thinks that he can’t and he just doesn’t know what else to do but say it.
Dean takes a deep, shaky breath and wraps one arm around Sam, tugging him back against Dean’s chest. He rubs a hand soothingly up and down his chest, presses his face against the back of his neck. “I know, Sammy,” he whispers. “I’m sorry too.”
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