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Someone has to say it.
Dean won’t and Sam can’t, not with the way it scratches at his heart from the inside.
It’s not like he didn’t know, not like he couldn’t guess. Things were always gonna end like this. Sam was never gonna be enough for Dean.
He’s the little brother, the snot-nosed kid, the ever-present trouble. Sure, Dean cares about him, worries about him, sells his fucking soul for him—but he dreams of someone else, and Sam can’t do anything about it.
Dean drives like he can’t get out of those woods fast enough. Or maybe he just wants to get to their motel, drop into bed, and get some normal sleep, not a quick nap in the car with Sam poking around in his head.
He doesn’t put any music on, doesn’t say a word. Both his hands are on the steering wheel and his face is way too calm. Something’s eating him, something he doesn’t want to share with Sam.
Apparently, Dean’s got many things he doesn’t want to share with Sam.
It’s okay, Sam tells himself. It’s what he’s been preparing for all his life—Dean leaving him, Dean not needing him anymore, Dean finding something good, something real, something that doesn’t come with shame and guilt and a cloud of doubts.
“We could go back to Indiana,” Sam says into the dark silence between them, the words physically hurting him. He perseveres. “You could stay and—”
Dean cuts him off, angry and tired.
“Because I don’t have much time left?”
This is what most of their conversations are like now. Sam tries to do something nice for Dean; Dean suspects that Sam’s just pitying him. It makes Dean angry, which makes Sam angry, and there they go, miserable because they love each other too much, because Dean doesn’t love himself enough, because Sam doesn’t know how to love his brother like he deserves.
All Sam can do is try and try and try again.
“Dean,” he says, as carefully as he can, while his heart tears into pieces. “You want a family. That’s normal.”
It is. It should be.
Sam’s family, but he’s not family. Never could be, not really, not in the way Dean dreams of.
He could throw Dean a picnic, could tell him he loves him a million times, and it wouldn’t change a thing. It wouldn’t fill the hole Sam knows Dean carries in his chest, this loneliness that spills out of him when he sleeps, the loneliness that Sam can’t fix.
Dean takes a turn and doesn’t look at Sam.
“You saying I should spend the last months of my life doing what?” It’s rhetorical, so Sam waits. “Eating homemade pies, driving some kid to baseball practice, fucking one and the same chick?”
“You love pie,” Sam says weakly.
Dean clicks his tongue, frustrated, runs his hand through his hair. He thinks he owes Sam this, the family business, their unbreakable brotherhood, and Sam needs to tell him that it’s okay. That Sam’s fine with Dean getting a life of his own, that he’ll find a way to get Dean out of the deal by himself, that he won’t bother Dean afterward.
It’s the least he can do after what Dean did for him, what Dean’s been doing for him all their lives.
“If you think it’s about pie,” Dean says, gruff and missing the point on purpose, “learn to bake.”
It hits Sam like lightning, this image that Dean probably doesn’t mean. Sam, decked out like a proper housewife, with a frilly apron and everything, humming as he cooks for Dean, waiting for his brother to come home after a normal day at some normal job. It’s all very 50s, Sinatra on the radio, I Love Lucy on the TV, colors bright, air smelling like dough and love.
No, that’s definitely not what Dean meant.
“We don’t have an oven,” Sam mutters as their conversation veers further and further away from what they should be talking about.
“Tough luck.”
Sam digs his nails into his palms to stop himself from yelling. He’s already tried yelling; it didn’t work.
“Dean.” It’s a plea, a reproach, a confession.
“Sam.” A plea, too, but also a warning.
Sam wants to reach out and touch Dean. Put his hand on Dean’s thigh, brush his fingers over Dean’s cheek, kiss him like they’re still doing that, like everything’s fine and nothing hurts.
He doesn’t remember when anything was fine in their screwed-up lives.
“I just want you to be happy,” he says and is surprised to find himself sniffling.
Dean says nothing. He drives for another few dozen miles before he jerks the steering wheel to the right, parking them on the shoulder.
Whatever this is, Sam’s not ready for it. He swallows around the tangle of spikes in his throat and doesn’t dare look at his brother.
“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean asks, more confused than fuming.
Sam doesn’t know how to answer that. It’s the question he’s been asking himself ever since he realized his brotherly feelings went beyond simple family ties.
Time was, Dean would silence that voice inside Sam’s head with a hug and a kiss, and Sam would think this was what happiness meant, for both of them.
How wrong he was. How fucking wrong.
“Your dream,” he says, the words catching on his reluctant lips. “I saw it, remember?”
Dean’s hands are still on the wheel, gripping it tight.
“And?”
Sam looks away from Dean, counting the trees outside his window.
“Don’t make me say it.”
“You started it,” Dean points out, and he isn’t usually this cruel, but things are different between them now.
Things are pretty much catastrophic.
And they’re only going to get worse.
“You want her,” Sam tells the night before him. Behind him, his brother doesn’t make a sound. “What she can give you—I can’t.”
He waits for Dean to start the car, drop Sam at the motel, and drive toward his happy place. It’ll be the most reasonable thing for Dean to do.
True, Dean’s not particularly known for doing the reasonable thing, especially when it comes to Sam. Just take the fucking deal, which has spawned this very situation. But Sam’s not the main axis around which Dean exists anymore, and Sam accepts that. He just needs to make sure Dean doesn’t fall back on his old habits, trying to take care of Sam in the way he always used to.
“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam’s still talking to the window, but he makes his voice steady despite the wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I’m okay. I will be. You don’t need to—”
“Who were you dreaming about at the motel?”
The question cuts through Sam like a shard of glass. He turns around to find Dean staring at him, eyes hard and furious.
“What?”
“Answer me.”
It’s the last thing Sam wants to do.
“What does that have to—”
“Fucking answer me, Sam,” Dean all but snarls.
Sam’s face is on fire, his guts clenching around the truth. He can barely confess it to himself, let alone tell Dean about it.
The problem is, Dean won’t let it go. Sam knows the look his brother’s giving him, and it’s not one of mercy.
“Bela,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “But, Dean, it’s not—I didn’t—I don’t—”
“So you gonna leave me for her?” Dean asks, blunt like a murder weapon.
He says it as if they’re still together, as if Sam hasn’t put up a wall between them, invisible and soundproof.
“Dean—” The first tear slides down Sam’s cheek, and he prays that it’s too dark for Dean to notice. “You know I’ll never.”
“You’ll never what?” Dean demands, like he’s determined to torture the soul out of Sam.
“Leave you!” It comes out loud and high-pitched, bordering on hysterical.
Dean nods a few times, looking down, his forehead creased. When he looks back up, meeting Sam’s gaze, his eyes shine in the dark.
“Why then,” he takes a breath, as if keeping himself from yelling, “why the fuck do you think I will?”
Sam shakes his head, wipes his eyes.
“C’mon, man.” He gives Dean a watered-down smile. “’S not the first time you had that dream.”
Dean stares at him, lips parted around a curse he doesn’t let out.
“And do you know how many times I’ve dreamt about you?” His voice rises on the last word, sharp enough to pierce through the haze of Sam’s resignation.
“You, uh, you have?” Sam asks dumbly, his brain trying to catch up with this new information.
Dean’s eyes are two knives, stabbing Sam right in the heart.
“Haven’t you?”
Does Dean really have to ask?
“Since I was four,” Sam says, pure reflex. “But—”
“Shut it.” Dean looks through the windshield into the darkness, rubs a hand over his face, like he knows he needs to scold Sam for misbehaving but can’t bring himself to do it.
Sam’s letting his brother down and he can’t bear it.
“Dean, listen to me,” he begs, voice growing more agitated with every word that spills out of him. “You’ve cared about me all my life. And I’m grateful, I am. That’s why I want it for you.”
“It?” Dean echoes, hollow and cold.
“Something you don’t have to be ashamed of.” Dean never said he was, but how could he not be? They’re brothers; the wrongness is in the definition. “Something safe, where you don’t have to worry about everything every second.” Not the way Dean always has to fuss over him. “Something that isn’t a fucking crime.”
Dean glares at him, wolfish, dangerous. Sam doesn’t wait for him to blow up.
“You want out,” he says, feverish with the need to make his brother understand, “and you think you can’t, but that’s not true, Dean. You can, and you should, and I swear I’ll see that you do, even if I have to drag you all the way to Lisa, and I—”
Dean pounces. He grabs Sam’s shirt and hauls him forward, smashing their mouths together for the first time in months.
Sam missed him. God, how Sam missed him.
He holds out for all of five seconds before he kisses Dean back, teeth greedy, tongues nimble.
Dean’s practically eating Sam’s mouth, biting and sucking and biting again, and Sam responds in kind, every cell in his body hungry for his brother.
It’s only when Dean reaches for the hem of Sam’s t-shirt that Sam remembers.
He puts his palm on Dean’s chest, trying to push him away.
“Dude, no,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convincing even to himself.
Dean grabs Sam’s palm and brings it to his lips.
“Dude, yes.” He punctuates his words with a firm kiss to the center of Sam’s palm, and Sam can’t fight this.
He could never resist his brother. Not for long, anyway.
This, whatever it is between them, it’s inextinguishable, no matter what either of them does or doesn’t do.
Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s jaw and pulls him in, back into a kiss that could shatter reality itself, burn the skies and dry the oceans—and neither of them would notice.
His back is pressed to the passenger door, and Dean’s practically lying on him, his tongue tracing the contour of Sam’s lips. Sam gets his hands under Dean’s shirts and clutches at him, traces the scars on Dean’s stomach with gentle thumbs.
It’s easy to lose himself in this, easy and tempting and unavoidable. His fingers digging into Dean’s flesh. Their combined spit making their lips shine in the dark. The sound of them breathing, raspy and quick.
Dean withdraws as abruptly as he launched himself at Sam.
“Backseat,” he orders, before Sam can start missing him again. “Now.”
“You don’t mean it.” He can’t, they can’t.
Dean’s teeth flash as he grins.
“Oh yeah, little brother, I do.”
They haven’t fucked since the damn deal. At first, Sam was too angry. He couldn’t forgive Dean, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to touch him, knowing that Dean’s leaving, abandoning him, fucking off to the other side where Sam can’t follow.
Dean understood, wordlessly, and proceeded to fuck around with nameless chicks, telling his brother in this roundabout way that it’s okay. That Dean can blow his load elsewhere and Sam doesn’t need to take care of this particular type of Dean’s needs.
Sam understood, too, also wordlessly, and he hung back, disappearing into the background, letting Dean have all the fun he could before his number was up.
As the result, they’ve reached a shaky, unsatisfactory equilibrium where Dean poked his dick into whoever was willing, while Sam was willing but buried it under layers of supposedly noble excuses.
He’s got no excuses now, not when Dean’s already getting out of the car and sliding into the backseat.
Sam’s next to him in a matter of seconds. Fuck everything. This is them, this is what they are, this is what they always should have been.
They get each other out of their jackets, ruck their respective shirts up. Sam reaches for Dean’s zipper, finds Dean hard under the denim, helps him out of his jeans. His own cock throbs as he remembers why they started fucking each other in the first place.
Because they never had a choice.
This is something they were born with, an itch that grew with them, harder, brighter, more insistent until it couldn’t be ignored anymore.
“Sammy, Sammy, fuck,” Dean mutters as Sam gets rid of all the clothes below Dean’s waist.
He tugs his own shirts off, unbuckles his belt, undoes his jeans. Dean slides into his lap, their cocks brushing against each other, making both of them suck in a breath.
Sam gropes for the bottle of lube which one of them forgot in the backseat way back when and which neither of them bothered to throw back into their bags, both insisting it was the other’s fault.
Right now, Sam’s very grateful to their past selves and their inability to decide who takes care of the mess they make.
He finds the bottle, squeezes the lube into his palm, and brings their cocks together in a tight grip.
It’s been way too long. He almost loses it right then and there.
“Fucking hell,” Dean groans, his forehead pressed to Sam’s. “Your fucking hands.”
Sam pumps them for a bit, slow, careful, while Dean’s fingers find Sam’s nipples and pinch.
“Fuck!” Sam gasps, catching Dean’s mouth and biting his lip. “You jerk.”
Dean just grins against him and twists his fingers, knowing perfectly well how to make Sam lose his mind.
“My bitch,” he says, and Sam is.
Has always been. Will always be.
He lets go of them, grabbing the lube again and slicking his fingers. Hand trembling with the effort of going slow, he presses one fingertip against Dean’s hole, barely keeping himself from shoving his entire fist into his brother.
“You sure?” Sam asks, even though he can’t say he’ll be able to stop at this point.
Dean cups Sam’s face in his hands and makes Sam look at him. It’s dark, and Sam can’t really see the green, but the glimmer in Dean’s eyes is clear as day.
“This is what I want, Sammy.” Dean pushes down against Sam’s fingers. “All I ever wanted.”
Well, Sam can’t say no to that, can he?
He slips his finger past Dean’s rim, and Dean drops his hands from Sam’s face, bracing them on the back of the seat, caging Sam between them. He hunches his shoulders to avoid bumping his head against the Impala’s roof. It’s cramped, but it’s their space, and they make do, like they always have.
They’ve spent so much time in this car, it smells like them: soft flannels and worn leather, rock salt and gun oil, cheap burgers and bad coffee. Familiar skin. Stale blood. Illicit sex.
Everything that constitutes their lives.
“C’mon,” Dean urges, wriggling around Sam’s finger. “Gimme more.”
Sam obliges, adding a second finger, then third, until he’s sure his brother’s good and loose for him.
“I’m gonna fuck you,” he tells Dean as he spreads his fingers inside him one more time. “Is that okay?”
“God, Sam.” Dean laughs. “Do I need to sign a consent form?”
“Do you want to?”
Dean digs his nails into Sam’s shoulders.
“I’ll sign anything if it gets your cock in me.”
That sounds like yes to Sam.
He withdraws his fingers and squeezes a liberal amount of lube over his cock. Dean doesn’t bottom for anyone else, and Sam’s objectively big, which is a source of constant excitement for Dean but also requires careful prep, especially after their long break.
Dean, of course, keeps insisting that he doesn’t mind the burn, but Dean also didn’t mind selling his soul for Sam, so excuse Sam if he doesn’t exactly trust Dean’s judgment in such matters.
He puts his hand on Dean’s hip, steadying him, as he guides his cock slowly into Dean, closing his eyes at the scorching familiarity of it.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, while Dean’s body spreads around him, making space for him, sucking him up inside itself like this is what it’s been made for.
Dean drops his head into the crook of Sam’s neck and moans.
“That’s my brother,” he chants, already hoarse, “yes, that’s my baby bro, fuck, I missed this cock—"
“Missed you too, Dean,” Sam says, half-sobbing. “Missed you so fucking much.”
“Don’t you ever,” Dean growls as Sam bottoms out, “break up with me again.”
“I won’t,” Sam promises, grabbing Dean’s ass and tugging him toward himself. “I won’t.”
He digs his fingers into Dean’s buttocks, kneading the firm muscles, remembering how his brother feels in his hands, on his cock, skin to desperate skin. Dean’s lips travel up and down Sam’s neck, small, nipping kisses, not possessive enough to mark, just a reminder that he’s here for his little brother, for as long as he can.
Sam knows. He also knows they don’t have that long.
“Dean.” He thrusts his hips, fucking up into his brother, needing to feel more, feel everything. “I’d die for you, and you know that.”
He’s said it before and meant it, as he always meant it, as he means it now.
Dean rolls his hips, shifting Sam’s cock inside him, and moans when it hits something good.
“Sorry, kiddo,” he says, nuzzling Sam’s neck. “Not this time.”
Sam grabs Dean’s hips and jerks him down, plunging deeper into him, until there’s nowhere else to go for either of them. He holds Dean there, presses his forehead into Dean’s shoulder.
“Can we just…” He takes a breath that breaks into a sob. “Stop? For a second?”
Dean lifts his head, trying to catch Sam’s eyes, but Sam’s hiding, rubbing his face against the fabric of Dean’s top shirt.
“Stop what?” Dean asks, fragile, his body frozen over Sam’s, like he’s afraid to move.
“Dying,” Sam croaks, and Dean exhales, but it’s only half-relieved. “Stop fucking dying.”
Dean puts his hand on the back of Sam’s head, cards his fingers through Sam’s hair.
“No can do, Sammy.” It’s as gentle as Dean can be, as Sam knows him. “Seems to run in the family.”
Sam’s eyes leak, and he grasps at Dean’s back, pressing him closer, needing to hide his brother in the circle of his arms, no matter how weak they prove to be.
Dean lifts his hips a little, circles them with Sam’s cock snug inside him, drops back down, does it all over again. Sam gasps.
It’s good, it’s so fucking good, being inside Dean again, having him right here, but it’s also bad, it’s the worst because Dean’s tumbling toward hellfire even as they fuck, and Sam should be researching, should be looking for a way out, should be—
“Hey,” Dean calls, pulling back, so he can put his hands on Sam’s face again, nudge it up to meet his eyes. “Sammy. Stay with me.”
It’s the only thing Sam truly wants.
He leans forward to kiss Dean, dropping his hands to grip Dean’s ass, spreading Dean’s cheeks until his fingers brush his own cock where it plunges into Dean. Lube’s dripping everywhere, and Sam slips a fingertip into Dean on each side, while he keeps fucking into Dean, measured and deep.
“God, Sammy, yes—” Dean’s muttering against Sam’s lips, pressing down onto Sam’s cock, Sam’s fingers, swallowing up everything his brother gives him.
Sam wants to give Dean everything. His soul, his love, his life, whatever he has that Dean might want.
The problem is, the reverse is true, and Dean’s already given all he has to Sam, and Sam doesn’t know what to do with it—doesn’t know what to do without Dean.
He needs his brother in ways that perhaps no one in their right mind should need anyone. Dean’s his lungs, his heart; he’s what keeps Sam alive, literally now.
Without him, how would Sam breathe?
“Dean,” he whispers as he slides his lips against his brother’s, “Dean, Dean, I’ll find—”
“Sam.” Dean kisses him, deep and kind. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Sam protests, but Dean’s mouth is on his in earnest now, stopping words and prompting other, much less civilized noises.
Sam pushes his fingers deeper into Dean, stretching him wider, bringing them both to their limits. Dean’s biting at his lips, feral, insatiable, his hips doing unspeakable things as he rides Sam’s cock, his hands heavy on Sam’s shoulders, nails scraping at skin.
The Impala fills with the sounds of their sex, the wet slaps of it, the low, growling moans, the half-coherent expletives that border on prayers, the breathless repetitions of their names. It’s yet another experience that ties their lives to this car, makes it theirs, makes it home.
Here, under its metal roof, they’re family—the only family they have.
Sam yanks Dean down, and Dean lets go of Sam’s mouth, wraps his arms around Sam’s neck, holding on as he shifts his hips forward and backward, changing the angle, clenching around Sam in ways that turn sin into a blessing.
Dean’s cock is leaking on Sam’s bare stomach, but Sam’s hands are busy plundering Dean’s ass, and Dean doesn’t seem in any hurry to take the matter into his own hands. As far as Sam can see, Dean’s only concern right now is squeezing the life out of Sam through his cock, or something to that effect.
They’re both beyond sanity, suspended somewhere between holiness and profanity, knowing that they’re right, aware that anyone else would tell them they’re wrong.
This, their frenzy and their fear, their rapacious need for each other, it’s what makes them who they are, and the thing is, Sam likes who they are.
He likes Dean’s faultless sense of what’s right, likes his brother’s kindness, his boundless capacity for love. Dean’s a hero, and Sam’s doing his best, and together, they’re good, good for each other and for the rest of the world.
Dean’s nose brushes Sam’s as Dean leans closer, his thighs tight around Sam, and Sam’s seeing stars, he’s witnessing supernovas.
“Wait,” he pants, trying to hold it together for at least a second longer, “Dean, I’m—I’m gonna—”
“You better,” Dean says with a smirk and presses his lips to Sam’s.
It’s the gentleness of this kiss that does it for Sam, pushing him softly over the edge and into the warm burst of orgasm. His cock flexes inside Dean, filling him up, and Dean croons something sweet, something nonsensical against Sam’s face, mouth ghosting over Sam’s moles, finding them from memory in the dark.
Sam refuses to believe he’s going to lose this, all of this, in just a few months.
He grabs Dean’s back, fingers staining Dean’s top shirt with lube, and pulls him close, squeezing so hard, Dean makes a creaking noise.
“Sammy.” He doesn’t try to push away, but he sounds strained. “I gotta breathe.”
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, releasing him, even though all he wants is to merge all their cells together.
“’S okay.” Dean kisses Sam’s forehead, like he’s the one who should be apologizing.
Sam feels the tears rise again, and he tries to cover a sniffle with a cough, but Dean’s already pressing his lips to the corners of Sam’s eyes. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t joke, doesn’t mock; just is there for his little brother, while he still can.
“Dean,” Sam pleads, not even knowing what he wants from his brother except, well, his brother.
“Right here,” Dean assures him, and Sam wants to ask him for how long, but they both know the answer, and it’s not gonna help either of them.
Sam grabs one of his discarded shirts and slides out of Dean, pressing the shirt to Dean’s ass to protect the upholstery from his come leaking out of Dean. As he waits for the fabric to soak up everything, he rubs his free thumb over Dean’s stubble, the rough feel of it one of his favorite things since Dean started growing facial hair. He leans in and scratches his chin against Dean’s, his cheek, his nose. Dean stays still, letting Sam take what he wants from him, always letting Sam take everything.
It’s not fair, has never been fair between the two of them. Sam’s the favorite, Dean’s the responsible. Sam’s asking, Dean’s answering.
Sam’s the one getting to live; Dean’s the one going to Hell.
Their scales have been tipped cruelly to one side since the very beginning, and Sam doesn’t know what he can do to balance them, but he sure as fuck will try.
He throws the ruined shirt away and pushes Dean off himself, guiding him across the seat until his back is flush with the door, one leg bent against the back of the seat, the other resting on the floor, his hard cock on full display.
Sam licks his lips, eyes focused on the treat before him.
He folds himself in half, so he can bring his face to Dean’s crotch. Dean smells like them, his own rich, warm scent mixing with the traces of Sam’s, and it both hurts and elates Sam, this evidence of their bond, another thing that he’s going to miss.
“You don’t have to—” Dean starts, bringing his hand down to his cock, but Sam swats it away.
He wraps his own hand around the base and presses his lips to the wet tip.
“You know I wanna.” He knows the words feel hot, spoken against Dean’s cock, and Dean bites off a moan, his hips thrusting up toward Sam’s mouth.
“Perv,” Dean says, and Sam catches the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it fond smile.
“Your perv,” he says, sucking the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth before Dean can say anything else.
It doesn’t matter how many times Sam’s done it. Hundreds; maybe thousands. Every time is still new, still an explosion of taste and texture, still the delicious mixture of serving and controlling his big brother all at once.
He opens his mouth as far as it goes, guiding the head of Dean’s cock toward the inside of his cheek, while his tongue keeps licking up along the shaft.
“God, Sammy,” Dean’s muttering above him, and Sam peeks up to see Dean fold his arms behind his head, while his eyes are fixed on Sam. “So pretty for me.”
Sam lifts his free hand and catches Dean’s elbow, dragging it down toward his head. Dean shudders, his cock jumping in Sam’s mouth.
It’s the dance they do every time: Dean trying to make Sam comfortable, Sam urging his brother to fuck his face.
He doesn’t have to ask too hard.
Dean’s fingers are in Sam’s hair, and Sam’s swallowing Dean’s cock, slow and deliberate, intending to get it down his throat. It’s hot and thick and wonderful, pressing his tongue down, hitting the back of his throat. Sam breathes through his nose as a different kind of tears well up in his eyes. He knows he can do it, and he does, his lips meeting the coarse hairs at the base of Dean’s cock.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, dropping his other hand to touch Sam’s face, almost poking Sam’s eye with a stray finger. “You’re a fucking black hole, little brother.”
Sam grins around Dean’s cock, as much as his stretched lips allow, and rolls his tongue over Dean’s shaft, secure in the heat of his mouth. He starts sliding back, mouth tight and tongue busy, but Dean pulls on his hair, pressing him down, back on his cock.
It’s a special kind of joy, undoing Dean to the point where he loses the most strict imperative etched into his mind—watch out for Sammy—and just lets himself go.
Sam follows the pressure of Dean’s hand, settles into the rhythm Dean sets, no matter how much it makes his eyes water, makes him test the limits of his lungs as he holds his breath.
He wants to be this for his brother. The person who can make Dean feel good, the person who can save him.
Dean’s other hand is latched to Sam’s ear, stroking it with an absent-minded tenderness that would make Sam cry if he weren’t already.
“Sammy, you—fuck—you’re the best, y’know?” Dean throws his head back, hitting the glass with a dull thunk. “You’re the fucking best.”
If Sam could talk right now, he’d tell Dean that it’s one of the best things he could hear from his big brother. He’d tell Dean how much he needs it, values it, cherishes it. How fucking much he loves him.
As it is, he presses his lips tighter around Dean’s cock and steps up his tongue game until Dean’s groaning past coherence, just bits of words and Sam’s name.
Sam puts his hands along the V lines of Dean’s hips, his thumbs brushing the base of Dean’s cock. He could do this forever, and would be happy to, but Dean’s getting close, Sam can feel it, knows the signs: the deeper tone of Dean’s groans, the trembling of his thighs, the grip of his fingers in Sam’s hair.
“I—Sam, I—” The words are followed by something terribly close to a sob.
Dean gives up on trying to warn Sam and pushes him all the way down on his cock. Sam goes, his fingers digging into Dean’s skin, his tongue moving along Dean in quick, rapid laps.
Sam’s entire mouth thrums with anticipation, and Dean doesn’t make him wait long, erupting all over it, thick come shooting down Sam’s throat, streaking his tongue, the roof of his mouth, the inside of his cheeks.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says weakly, as Sam gulps down everything. “Sammy, Jesus.”
Sam slides off Dean’s cock, thorough and unhurried. He knows what he looks like, used and ruined and totally Dean’s.
It’s a good look on him. Dean sure loves it.
Sam doesn’t know how many times like this they have left, doesn’t know how to keep his face from falling. Dean notices, of course, he notices, his hands resting on Sam’s cheeks, pulling a little to try and mold Sam’s mouth into a smile.
If that’s what Dean wants, then Sam’ll give it to him.
He stretches his lips into a grin, a bit self-satisfied, a bit soul-crushed.
“There you go,” Dean says as he brushes his fingers over Sam’s dimples and drops his hands.
Elbows digging into sides, knees knocking, they manage to get their clothes back on, minus Sam’s come-soaked shirt. After a bit of shuffling and silent negotiations, they end up with Dean sitting by the window and Sam lying on the seat with his head in Dean’s lap.
They don’t speak for a few minutes, drifting together in the cooling air of the car. The night is lifting around them, and Sam can see the lines of Dean’s face in the nascent light. He knows them by heart, and yet he’s fascinated by them every time he sees his brother.
Dean’s perfection. He’s Sam’s perfection.
There’s no way he can die.
Sam reaches up and grabs the amulet on Dean’s chest.
Dean speaks before he can.
“Don’t,” he asks, his mouth bowing downward.
“I’ll save you,” Sam says stubbornly. “Or I’ll die with you.”
Dean strokes Sam’s forehead.
“That’d be missing the whole point,” he points out, half-tender, half-reproachful.
Sam squeezes the amulet and tugs on it, making Dean lean over him.
“I’ll hit a dog,” Sam says, resolved, and Dean’s face turns puzzled. “Rob some grannies. Go on a killing spree.”
Dean eyes him warily, and Sam wonders what he sees. If he sees that Sam’s not kidding, that Sam loves him so much, he’s ready to be as reckless as Dean is.
“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, but he already knows.
“So I’ll go to Hell,” Sam says, and Dean looks up, bites his lip. “And I’ll find you there.”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, presses his lips into a thin line. It takes him a moment to look back at Sam, and when he does, it’s not a happy look.
“Sam.” It’s three paragraphs of pleading wrapped up in one word.
“It’s my afterlife,” Sam counters. “My choice.”
Dean puts his hand on Sam’s chest, right over his heart, like he needs proof that Sam’s still alive.
“Guess I’ll just have to kick your ass outta there,” Dean says, attempting something like a smile and failing.
Sam scoffs.
“I’d like to see you try.”
He tugs on the amulet until Dean’s hunched over him, close enough for Sam to lift his head and catch him in an awkwardly angled kiss. There’s no heat behind it, just a desperate prayer to stretch this moment for a little longer.
This, the two of them, snuggled up in the Impala, the world waking up around them—this would be a great moment to die, but an even greater moment to live.
Sam hopes Dean thinks so, too. He needs Dean to think so.
His neck gets tired eventually, and he lets the amulet go, settling back into Dean’s lap, while Dean straightens up and puts his hand on Sam’s head, petting his hair.
“I would, you know,” Sam says, finding Dean’s eyes, making out the green in the soft light. Dean looks confused again. “Learn to bake,” Sam clarifies. “If we had an oven.”
He tells Dean about that absurdly domestic image still lingering in his mind, frilly apron and all. Dean says nothing, his face unreadable, until Sam starts worrying he’s ruined everything.
“Dean, forget I—”
“I’d like that, Sammy,” Dean interrupts him, his hand warm on Sam’s head. Something wet falls onto Sam’s cheek. “I’d really, really like that.”
Dean’s fingers dig into Sam’s shirt where his hand’s still resting over Sam’s heart. Sam covers it with his.
They hold onto each other and watch each other’s faces become clearer as the sun rises, its rays filtering through the trees.