Chapter Text
“Dean.”
Dean opens his eyes again to two hands resting lightly on his side, framing a throbbing line of heated pain. He looks down just in time to see Sam put his mouth against the gash, then shudders as a wash of numbing, soothing warmth sinks into him, Sam’s tongue lapping across the wound like a cat with cream. When Sam lifts his head a moment later, the skin there is whole and unmarred.
Dean shifts on the bed. “Thanks,” he says, his own eyes carefully traveling over his brother’s body.
The bruises that he noted before he went to sleep have faded back into pale skin. The cuts are healed, the burns smoothed out.
When Sam lifts his eyes to Dean’s, they’re disappointingly, but not surprisingly, gold.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Sam asks, his hands already moving over Dean’s stomach and chest.
Dean’s pulse picks up speed and he starts to sit up—he isn’t awake enough to control his body’s responses, isn’t ready to face his new level of acceptance. At a warning press from Sam’s palms, though, he sinks back against the bed without protest. He’s still naked, isn’t even under the covers, and Sam is going to notice at any moment what his inspection is doing to Dean’s libido.
Christ, what a fucking mess, Dean thinks, lifting one arm and draping it over his eyes. He waits while Sam checks out his torso before shifting lower, listening to his own heartbeat and feeling his cock fill. Sam’s hands slow as they trace down Dean’s hips, past his half-hard cock, but they don’t stop until they reach his thighs. Then they still, like a clock that’s wound down or a car out of gas.
Dean waits for his brother to say something—to send out a caress of power, to grip Dean’s cock in one oversized hand. Fuck, anything but this frozen wait.
When he can’t stand the stillness any longer, he lowers his arm and looks over at his brother where Sam is kneeling on the mattress beside him. Sam is staring, which isn’t surprising, but it doesn’t seem to be Dean’s cock that has his attention.
“What?” Dean asks, pushing up onto his elbows and looking down his body in an attempt to figure out what has caught his brother’s eye.
Sam jumps minutely, as though startled awake by the sound of Dean’s voice. His right hand twitches to life on Dean’s thigh; his thumb and forefinger trailing over Dean’s skin in a graceful, swooping line. When Dean follows the path of his brother’s fingers, he realizes that the line Sam is tracing has been etched into Dean’s body with black, enduring ink.
The reminder that the tattoo has shifted yet again comes as an electric jolt that Dean has a difficult time swallowing.
“Oh yeah,” he says after a few moments. “Surprise.”
He expects a demand to turn over—or hell, maybe just a surge of power flipping him onto his stomach. What he gets is Sam straddling his lap and bending down to capture his mouth in a hungry kiss, Sam’s hands clamped down on Dean’s shoulders while his thumbs finger the curls of black that have spread onto the sides of Dean’s throat.
Dean opens his mouth obediently, then pushes up into the kiss as Sam rolls his hips, rubbing his own full dick against Dean’s. The friction is good, but the tendrils of power sliding up the inside of Dean’s thighs are even better. Dean spreads for them, offering himself, and Sam makes a pleased noise into Dean’s mouth.
One of Sam’s huge hands is still on Dean’s shoulder; the other rests lightly on his neck. Both are touching stray curls of the tattoo with startling tenderness. Somehow, though, there’s also a third hand between Dean’s legs, cupping his balls and giving them gentle, encouraging squeezes that are making Dean’s cock leak.
God, that’s good.
Sam breaks away from the kiss, nosing Dean’s face to one side so that he can get his mouth on the new lines of the tattoo where it climbs up the side of Dean’s throat. His fingers didn’t feel too shabby there, but something about his lips on that swirl of black yanks hard and sudden on Dean’s libido and he cries out, jerking against the bed. Sam chuckles and does it again, flicking out his tongue as well this time, and Dean grabs onto the body above him with a gasp as warmth floods him. His cock is twitching restlessly now, overcome with shocks of pleasure that Dean can feel in his ass as well: low, deep throbs of need. An ache that he already knows is only getting filled one way.
Good as it feels, Dean isn’t quite sure he wants that sensation to build, and he shifts one hand up to his brother’s hair, gripping it and giving a weak tug.
Wait, he tries to say, except Sam is lapping at the lines of the tattoo in earnest now, and sucking bruises into Dean’s marked skin, and the only thing that comes out are helpless moans. Between the signals the tattoo is sending out and Sam’s rocking and the phantom caress of his balls, Dean’s cock is dripping liberally. He can smell himself on the air, actually: a heavy, salty scent that overpowers the distant, lingering odors of blood and vomit.
Then Sam bites down, sudden and sharp, and Dean’s cock pulses. It’s almost like coming, except there’s no lull to follow the surge: just more of that pleasurepleasurepleasure build.
Sam licks at the bite once and then lifts his head far enough to murmur, “If I’d known this is what it took to bring you around, I would’ve invited Lucifer up a whole lot sooner.”
Through the arousal, Dean’s stomach swoops, and when Sam starts to press his lips to the tattoo again, he jerks back hard on his brother’s hair.
“Wait,” he blurts, getting the word out just fine on this try. “What do you—what do you mean, ‘invited’?”
Sam shakes his head, tossing Dean’s hand away, and then nuzzles back in against his throat. “Well, I didn’t exactly send him a monogrammed invitation, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Somehow, Dean doesn’t find that very reassuring. Jerking his head to the side, he plants a hand against the center of his brother’s chest and pushes, forcing him back and up. A flicker of dark annoyance crosses Sam’s face and then disappears again behind a pleasant mask.
After a quick glance out the sliding doors to tell him that he’s either slept through the day and night and most of the following day (unlikely) or that he slept through the early afternoon and into the edge of dusk, Dean says, “This morning? You arranged that?”
Sam makes an assenting hum at the back of his throat and trails his fingertips along Dean’s side. “Took longer than I thought to bait him out of hiding, and I wasn’t expecting the ambush in Montana, but essentially, yes.”
Dean is rapidly losing interest in his erection.
“You were expecting Lucifer to pop by and you didn’t think to mention it to me?”
Sam frowns, fingers stilling. “You sound upset.”
“Of course I’m fucking upset!” Dean snaps, pushing Sam back again and trying to squirm out from under him. “Christ, do you even know what he wanted?”
“You,” Sam answers simply, keeping Dean where he is by virtue of sitting back and dropping his weight on Dean’s waist. “Same as everyone else.”
Dean gives up on moving away and settles for glaring up at his brother. “The same as Michael?”
Sam’s mouth twists into a sulky expression. “He can’t have you.”
“Yeah, I get that. Lucifer showed me the warding.”
Sam’s distracted again, though, running his hands slowly up Dean’s chest while humming to himself. Dean grabs his brother’s wrists, stilling him.
“What if I’d said yes, huh?” he demands. “You ever stop and think of that?”
But Sam laughs, like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
Goaded, Dean adds, “I was going to. Couple more seconds, and this meatsuit was all his.”
That shuts Sam up, all right. His hands twitch where they’re trapped against Dean’s chest in a greedy, grasping motion. His eyes narrow in consideration as he studies Dean, clearly trying to gauge the truth behind that claim.
After only a few moments, though, he gives his head a shake and says, “No. You know who you belong to.”
Even more pissed off than before by the knowledge that Sam is right, Dean thrashes against the mattress while shoving at his brother’s body. This time, Sam’s power flares in reply, heating the cuffs and jerking Dean’s hands up against the headboard like they’re magnetized.
Dean responds without thinking, lashing out with the sullen yellow power that springs obediently to the front of his mind. Sam’s head is rocked back and he twists his body to the side, one hand lifting reflexively to touch his cheek. As Dean lies against the bed, panting with his recent exertions, Sam lowers his hand again without turning back around.
Even from here, Dean can see his brother’s fingertips are red.
There’s no sign of a cut when Sam turns back around a moment later, but the thin line of red running over his cheekbone tells Dean where his hit scored easily enough. Dean would apologize, but he’s still too pissed to feel anything but victorious. He strikes out again, this time pushing at the power latching the cuffs to the headboard, and feels the bond weaken.
Then something that feels like a vice clamps down over his mind—Sam, gripping him. Stilling him. Although he remembers promising he wouldn’t fight it, Dean’s pissed enough to struggle now as Sam recollects the yellow-eyed demon’s power and pushes it securely back into its cage. When he feels the lock turn, he goes back to fighting with his body instead, twisting his hips and bucking up in an attempt to unseat his brother.
Splaying one hand on Dean’s stomach, Sam presses him down and leans forward to peer intently into his eyes.
“What’s got you so riled up?” Sam asks, sounding honestly puzzled.
“You used me!” Dean spits in answer. “You staked me out like a fucking goat in a chupacabra trap!”
“Are you upset because you think I didn’t trust you enough to tell you?” Sam asks, sounding amused. “Because I left you alone with the Devil, Dean, because I knew you could handle it. And I think, deep down, you know that.” The smile that breaks out over his face is infuriatingly smug. “No, I think what’s really pissing you off is how much you liked it. You and me, standing together again… fighting on the same side…”
It’s close enough to what Dean acknowledged in the bathroom before that he flushes even as he replies, “We’re never going to be on the same side.”
“Oh, I think we both know that’s not true,” Sam says, tracing one of the black lines coiling up the side of Dean’s neck. “Now, how about you stop sulking like a little bitch and we go back to celebrating.”
“How about you go clean up the mess your little party left on the rug?” Dean counters, turning his face to the side and avoiding Sam’s attempt to kiss him.
For a moment, there’s silence. Sam is still above him, the shaggy fringe of his hair just brushing Dean’s cheek. Then, slowly, he sits back up. When Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye, Sam’s face is expressionless, which is never a good sign.
“I’m being incredibly patient with you, Dean,” Sam says in a tight, irritated voice, “because I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, and I don’t want to rush things. But you’re seriously beginning to test my willpower.”
Dean’s almost afraid to ask, but he’s starting to feel like he’s missing something here. “What moment?”
Realization flickers in Sam’s eyes, closely followed by amusement. He smiles, slow and wide: an expression that makes Dean feel even more helpless than he already did.
A moment later, Dean starts as Sam’s power pushes up between his legs. He pushes his thighs together with a clench of alarm—pointlessly, because the touch keeps climbing anyway, forcing its way through space that doesn’t exist. Within seconds, it has slipped between the cheeks of Dean’s ass and is easing up to play meaningfully over his entrance.
It feels good—feels way better than Dean wants it to right now—and he squirms, trying to rid himself of the sensation. But he isn’t protesting out loud, and he can’t hide the way he’s reacting, his cock jerking back to life and the rise and fall of his chest growing shallow, speeding. Encouraged, Sam strengthens the caress until Dean shudders and collapses more heavily back against the bed, letting his thighs part in an instinctive attempt to allow his brother more room to work.
“This moment,” Sam purrs then, as the power narrows into a tendril and pushes in.
Dean gasps, tensing, as he feels Sam’s power enter him: a warm, soft presence that leaves Dean twisting between the opposing urges to spread farther or push the intrusion out. His heart pounds; his stomach trembles with uncertain desires and nerves and shame.
Fuck, he isn’t ready for this.
“No,” he rasps.
“Your lips say no,” Sam replies, “but your body…”
The length of power inside of Dean drags out, drawing another shudder from him, and then pushes in again. His back arches. His thighs shake.
“Your body, I think, is a little more honest than your lying mouth,” Sam finishes, shifting up and giving Dean unexpected space. A moment later, while he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Sam seems to be backing off, the cuffs cool and come loose from the headboard.
He’s free to run, relatively speaking. He’s at least free to retreat.
Sam is watching him. Waiting. Dean swallows and starts to sit up, then hesitates. The tendril of power that was moving inside of him has vanished now that Sam isn’t touching him, but Dean can still feel the sense-memory of it thrusting. Worse, he’s remembering the last time Sam fucked him: how goddamned wide he seemed to force Dean. How deep he managed to push on his hardest thrusts.
Hunger swirls through Dean’s stomach, mingling with shame and guilt. His chest cringes at the thought of doing this, of letting Sam do this.
But he drops his eyes and doesn’t move.
Sam continues to sit there, letting the moment draw out. It’s a deliberate pause, Dean senses; Sam’s way of rubbing Dean’s nose in just how inevitable this is, in the fact that he was offered a chance to fight, to run, and didn’t take it.
Dean hasn’t actually said the words, but he and Sam both know that his stillness now signals consent. The down-turned cast of his gaze and the bruised sensation in his chest are white flags of defeat.
Finally, when Dean’s skin is screaming for Sam to do something, anything, so that he doesn’t have to linger in this horrible anticipation any longer, Sam reaches out and grips Dean’s shoulder. He just holds Dean there for a moment, thumb sweeping back and forth over the unmarked skin of Dean’s chest, and then gives a slight, urging tug. Uncomprehending, Dean stays where he is and doesn’t move.
Sam’s second tug is stronger, a guiding pull that Dean realizes is encouraging him to turn over. To present himself for Sam’s enjoyment and use. One of his hands fists in the bed sheets below him on a surge of resistance, but when Sam pulls a third time, the surge fades. Dean obeys the implicit command, first turning onto his side and then rolling over onto his stomach. He’s on Sam’s side of the bed now, bloodstains inches from his face, but he doesn’t flinch away.
It’s fitting that this happens here.
Sam moves closer, following him, and takes hold of Dean’s hips. At his silent, gentle urging, Dean pushes up onto his hands and knees. There’s a surreal quality to the moment as Sam shifts up behind him, and Dean can’t quite wrap his brain around the fact that he’s here, after all this time, that he’s actually going to let Sam do this—that there’s an increasingly vocal part of him that wants Sam to do it.
When Sam touches him, hands landing lightly on the small of Dean’s back, Dean still flinches. He was expecting Sam to aim lower, expecting him to pull Dean’s cheeks wide and push in. Instead, Sam is dragging his hands up Dean’s back in a reverent, almost chaste caress.
Confused, Dean starts to hang his head and then jerks as one of Sam’s fingers brushes something that sends a bolt of pleasure through him. Sam stills briefly, a pause that Dean uses to try to recover, and then, more deliberately, brushes his fingertips over the same spot. The second bolt is stronger than the first, and Dean startles forward, one arm giving out and half dropping him on the mattress.
“Shh,” Sam soothes as he shifts one hand to grip Dean’s hip and hold him still. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“’S too much,” Dean mumbles, slowly repositioning his hand on the mattress and pushing himself up.
Then, when Sam rubs that spot again, Dean drops right back down, forehead pressed into the mattress to the left of his extended, limp arm. His body shakes uncontrollably. This time, Sam doesn’t ease up, moving his fingers restlessly back and forth until the bolts are a cresting, immense wave crashing through Dean. Dean moans, cock jerking beneath his body and dribbling precome onto the blood-spattered sheets.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Sam whispers from behind him. The pressure of his hands increases as he rubs harder.
Dean sobs with the force of the pleasure that accompanies that touch, but he’s getting more accustomed to the sensation and this time he’s aware of the secondary echo that follows the bolts—subterranean waves moving inside him and loosening knots of resistance. Doors Dean is accustomed to holding shut are opening. Windows are lifting and new points of entry are being prepared.
In the midst of his concern over Sam’s cock, Dean somehow forgot that it isn’t just his ass that’s on the table. Sam’s reminding him that he wants more now, though: the first, tentative tendrils of power are sinking into Dean’s skin, finding paths that Sam has spent years slowly opening and smoothing. Somehow, Sam’s power softens the intensity of the pleasure shooting through him. Dean’s sobs ease back into moans, and as Sam continues to croon at him, murmuring praise and finding other, equally sparking places on Dean’s back, Dean recovers enough coherence to push back up on all fours.
“That’s it,” Sam praises.
Dean registers a second hand closing on his other hip, but the spills of pleasure don’t stop. Sam is sinking into Dean through the lines of the tattoo, his power setting off all of those brilliant, too intense nodes, which Dean thinks hazily might correspond to the new blurs of color edging parts of the design. The sheer amount of power entering him is alarming, but he doesn’t even consider trying to clench up.
It takes him a while to realize that the lines Sam is following run just as deeply as the path that Castiel took when he took hold of Dean’s soul. Some of them wind even deeper, cutting through places Dean doesn’t think should have any fissures. When Castiel brushed up against the outer edge of those places, Dean burned. But Sam is rubbing himself over and through them—he’s smothering them greedily in himself—and Dean is… it’s claustrophobic, but no worse than he’s felt lying in bed at night with Sam wrapped around him.
Wrong. This is wrong.
“Don’t worry about that, Dean,” Sam says, pulling Dean’s attention outward again with a nudge of power.
Dean shakes his head, though, trying to crawl forward—to pull away so he can think about this for a second. Sam’s hands tighten on his hips.
“I said, don’t worry about it,” Sam repeats more strongly, and even as Dean starts to tense in alarm, the command takes hold.
Dean’s mind slips sideways and the sensation of having his soul invaded and filled fades pleasantly into the background. It’s the physical sensations that matter now, all of that pleasure pouring into him and saturating his body until he feels heavy with it—drunk or high or both. He can hear himself moaning softly as Sam strokes his back and Christ, that’s embarrassing, but he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut.
Finally, when his anticipation and arousal have grown just strong enough to skirt the edge of pain, Sam lifts his hands from Dean’s back. There’s no lessening of the influx, though, not now that lines have been established. Sam’s power holds them open. Sam continues to sink in, to sink deeper.
When Sam’s hands ease back into place over Dean’s ass, it sends a shudder of anticipation through Dean. He pants in air that seems clogged with power and sex and another scent that’s all Sam, that’s driving Dean fucking crazy as his brother’s fingers tease along his crease, dipping inside only shallowly and making no real attempt to reach his aching, empty core.
“Sam,” Dean gasps. His back arches as his brother’s questing fingers reach down between his legs to ghost over his balls.
“Shh,” Sam soothes. “Shh, baby.”
But Dean can’t quiet, not with Sam playing with his body like this, and finally Sam gives in and slides his hands back up to cover Dean’s ass. This time, when he eases his fingers into Dean’s crack, it’s to ease his cheeks apart.
“I’m going to make you feel so good, baby,” Sam promises in a low murmur.
The words fill Dean’s chest with warmth and he pushes back into his brother’s hands encouragingly. Damn the world, anyway. Dean wants this. He needs it. Sam’s all he has—everyone else abandoned him. Even Bobby abandoned him.
Ben, a tiny corner of his mind protests faintly, but the building sense of Sam inside of him spills into the corner, and fills it, and the voice quiets.
Dean expects to feel a finger against his hole next—of power or flesh, it doesn’t matter which—but instead Sam moves in closer and something a hell of a lot bigger than a finger nudges against him. Dean breaks out in a nervous, anxious sweat because he doesn’t remember his brother grabbing any lube and taking Sam’s cock dry and without prep wasn’t a picnic even when they were fucking nearly every day.
“Been dreaming about this,” Sam says, rocking forward with teasing, almost lazy movements. “Might have to spend the next few days making all my dreams come true.”
The bursts of pleasure from the tattoo have grown distant and unimportant in comparison to the very real sensation of Sam prodding at his rim. The head of Sam’s cock is wet, slipping off to the side whenever he pushes a little harder against Dean’s rim. Everything down there is starting to feel a bit slick, actually; Sam is leaking precome everywhere, smoothing his way, and Dean’s beginning to think that he isn’t going to need lube after all.
The deeper Sam’s mind and power sink into him, the more open and loose Dean feels—not just in his soul and mind, but down between his legs as well. His inner muscles can’t get much more relaxed—all Sam needs to do is push past the rim and he’ll have relatively smooth sailing. And fuck, Dean is aching for that, his ass pulsing hungrily in time with his heartbeat. He’s still hard, too, but that’s… that’s really immaterial right now. He has the feeling that his erection is going to take care of itself as soon as Sam starts fucking him, just like it usually used to.
Only Sam seems content to tease him until the sun goes down—which is admittedly, from the shifting quality of light in the room, going to be any moment now.
“C’mon,” Dean manages, leaning his weight on one arm so that he can reach back with the other and grip Sam’s thigh, urging him closer.
Sam makes a pleased, startled noise at Dean’s obvious eagerness and rolls his hips. Maddeningly, the action makes his cock slip away from where Dean wants it and sends it gliding low between his thighs.
“Please,” Dean groans, pushing back against his brother desperately.
Sam has been pushing for this, damn it. He’s been twisting Dean and molding him and beating him down until he’s here, he’s this, he’s low and willing.
But instead of doing what they both clearly want, Sam releases Dean’s ass and goes back to holding his hips. “Last chance, Dean,” he warns.
Dean wants to laugh. Last chance. As if there’s been any chance at all since that night in the graveyard. As though Dad didn’t rip any chance Dean might ever have had away from him when he shoved the squalling, blanket-swaddled bundle of Sammy into his arms and told him to take his brother outside as fast he could and not look back.
And Dean hasn’t, he never did, and now… Oh fuck, now.
Dean thinks of all the pain and suffering that Sam has left in his wake; of Cassie, and all those other women, all those other people Sam has tortured and killed—and his chest does flinch away. He’s disgusted by himself, shamed by what he’s doing.
He just isn’t disgusted or shamed enough to stop.
“Please,” he repeats, body burning with a flush of humiliation at having to beg. As if he hasn’t sunk low enough already.
He can hear the smile in Sam’s voice when Sam replies, “Please what?”
Dean wants to swear at him. He wants to jerk out of his brother’s hands. He wants to turn around and punch the self-satisfied smirk off his face.
But Sam’s power is already inside of him, dug down deep in his soul, and, despite the burn of humiliation, it feels like being embraced and cherished. Stray wisps of warmth keep soothing over the worst of Dean’s guilt, making it easier to do this, to close his eyes and take a single, shuddering breath.
There are words for what Dean does now, and surrender is the least of them. The kindest.
“Please,” he rasps. “Please fuck me, Sam.”
Sam rolls his hips again, cock bumping against the insides of Dean’s thighs, and then releases Dean’s right hip. His hand doesn’t come back down anywhere on Dean’s body, though, which is… what the hell is he doing back there, anyway? When Dean lowers his head further and looks down the length of his body, he sees that Sam is using the hand to realign himself, tilting his cock up and pressing it in between Dean’s cheeks.
Dean shuts his eyes with a shiver as he feels the head slip up and down and then catch tantalizingly against his rim. Sam stops there, pushing against Dean with slow, questioning assessment, and Dean feels his pucker start to slip open beneath the pressure.
It hits him in a rush that this really is it: Sam’s going to push inside him. Just a few more seconds, and Dean really isn’t going to get a do over.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move other than to curl his hands into fists around clutches of the sheets.
Sam is maintaining a low, steady pressure now, the head of his cock slowly pressing Dean’s rim in and forcing it wider one burning centimeter at a time. Dean can feel his body opening for Sam, and it’s so slick down there, so wet, and god, but he wants this. Biting his lip, he leans back into the pressure, pushing against his own body’s last lingering resistance.
The burn sharpens and his body folds, the thick head of Sam’s cock popping past his rim to nestle inside of him. Before Dean can even register the sudden girth holding his sore pucker open, Sam has tightened his hold on Dean’s hip and is drawing him backwards into his next thrust. The combined movements sink him deeper and Dean shakes as the physical sensation of being penetrated is echoed by Sam’s invasion into his mind and soul—he didn’t think Sam could work himself deeper there, but somehow his brother is managing just fine.
As slick and relaxed and willing as Dean is, it still burns as he opens up around his brother’s cock. Sam fills him with short, careful thrusts that bring him inches deeper at a time—taking Dean, owning him—and Dean is breathless with how good it feels.
Finally, after a push that leaves Dean with Sam’s balls nestled up against his ass, Sam collapses forward. His upper body covers Dean’s back, right hand hitting the bed beside Dean’s so that he can hold himself up. A moment later, his mouth is at the nape of Dean’s neck, biting and sucking deep bruises of ownership.
The scrape of his teeth over the lines of the tattoo sends bolts of sensation through Dean’s body and makes him jolt. Every tensed flinch is a reminder of how big Sam is—Dean can’t stop his inner muscles from clenching around Sam’s cock, which only serves to make him that much more aware of how deep Sam is buried, and how fucking wide he’s stretching Dean’s ass. When Sam bites down again, Dean moans. His hips buck in an involuntary motion that slides him half off Sam’s cock—the deepest parts of him feel empty at the loss, aching—but before Dean can rectify the situation, Sam slams himself home again.
Sam begins thrusting in earnest then, driving in and out of Dean’s body with frenetic, devouring energy. Dean’s rim drags against his cock on its way out. His insides clench in a desperate attempt to hold Sam inside, to keep himself filled, then spread with a welcoming rush as Sam thrusts forward again.
There are no withdrawals in Dean’s soul, though: only Sam thrusting deeper, digging for something, searching for every last shred of him. It’s a little uncomfortable, a little too full, but Dean isn’t worrying about it and his attention is mostly wrapped up in his body. He’s moving as well now, rocking forward and back in time with Sam’s movements. The slap of their bodies is echoingly loud. It sounds like breaking bones, which makes Dean think of blood and brains spattered on the ceiling and—
Dean wrenches his mind away, trying to focus past the weird, increasingly invasive sensations inside of him. Then Sam shifts or Dean shifts or they both do, and suddenly Sam is pounding against Dean’s prostate. Brilliant, white bolts of pleasure shoot through Dean’s body as he pants out staccato, breathy cries. His cock, swollen and red where it swings beneath him, jerks once and then he’s coming, riding a crest of pleasure that—
Pain. Oh, fuck, pain.
Somehow, Dean is still coming anyway—his body is too far gone to stop—but the only thing he can think about is Sam, sunk way down deep inside of Dean’s core, inside the very essence of his soul and mind. All he can feel are the blades of fire cutting into him there—Sam cutting into him—and he’s screaming, a wild sound that’s a mix of arousal and agony, while Sam’s hips keep right on pumping his cock in and out past Dean’s stretched, wet rim. The burning blades sink in, grasping what feels like a raw, heavy part of Dean, and yank. Trying to tear him apart.
Dean screams again, mind and soul wrenching in an attempt to get away. He looks for the dark, numbing oblivion that has threatened him before, he looks for refuge, but there’s nothing. Sam has pushed him past that escape, has somehow barred Dean from following that descent into madness, which means that Dean is stuck here with Sam twined through his soul like barbed wire that has come alive and is trying to rip itself free with no regard for Dean’s flesh.
But even if he can’t free his mind, he can do something about his body. And he can’t—it hurts too fucking much to stay where he is.
With a concentrated wrench of effort, Dean throws himself forward. Sam’s cock slips out of him—surprisingly, Sam’s power retreats as well, rushing back out of Dean the same way it came in. Dean scrambles for the far side of the bed with renewed desperation, not caring that he’s crawling through the middle of Sam’s bloodied sheets. He gets a hand on the edge of the mattress at the same time a hand wraps around his ankle and jerks him to a halt.
Dean falls heavily on his stomach with a grunt, is flipped over onto his back and dragged backwards. His legs are spread wide, Sam’s body creating an obstruction between them, and as Dean tries to sit up and move away, Sam pulls him closer and thrusts back in.
Dean’s thigh muscles twitch violently at the slick ease with which he’s filled—good, oh christ, that’s good—and then Sam’s power follows. It doesn’t hurt, isn’t burning, but the memory of pain is still too strong and Sam grips Dean’s arms as he starts to struggle, holding him still. Sam’s hips are still moving, regaining their previous rhythm and reclaiming that magic, perfect angle. Dean can’t help it. He gasps, writhing, and then turns his head to one side and moans.
“Good boy,” Sam says tightly, releasing one of Dean’s arms to splay a hand on his stomach.
“Ngh,” Dean manages as Sam speeds—fuck, Dean feels wet down there, and loose and warm. Sam’s cock is gliding smoothly, in and out.
When Sam’s power cuts into him again (he knew it; Dean fucking knew it) Dean sobs hoarsely and bites down on his lip.
“Just let me,” Sam pants above him. “C’mon, Dean. Just—let me in.”
Dean’s trying, he really is. Fuck, he’s trying just for the sake of ending the pain, because Sam’s cock is igniting another fire in him and he can’t—he can’t stomach the dichotomy of such intense pleasure and such wrenching agony filling him at the same time. But no matter how desperately Dean tries to make himself open and accommodating, or how viciously Sam digs into him, Dean’s mind and soul remain stubbornly intact.
Finally, with a snarl of frustration, Sam stops pulling and nestles close instead.
Dean shakes where he lies on the bed. His face is wet—tears, he thinks, and not sweat, although there’s plenty of that dripping off him as well. And Sam’s cock is still moving, taking what Sam has been pushing for ever since that night in the graveyard.
As the pain inside of Dean fades to a dull, blurry ache (sharp in the middle, though: sharp as knives), more and more it’s Sam’s cock Dean is thinking about. Moans dribble past his lips again. He moves his hips in tiny, uncoordinated jerks in an attempt to bring Sam deeper. He opens his mouth when Sam bends down to kiss him.
Dean comes a second time while Sam kisses him and strokes soothing power over the broken ache inside him—comes with a surprised gasp, and this time his orgasm isn’t interrupted by bolts of agony. Afterward, too exhausted to do anything else, he slumps limply on the mattress while Sam continues to fuck him.
The sun is fully down by the time Sam finishes, the room illuminated only by a diffuse, golden glow lighting the air around the bed. Sam comes with something like a growl, spilling deep inside of Dean and pulling out again grudgingly.
Dean has a few seconds of respite where no one and nothing is touching him and then Sam’s hands are back, rolling him over onto his right side. He tenses, trying to get his head around to see his brother, and then groans as Sam sinks into him again.
“Mine,” Sam pants, getting a hand on Dean’s mostly limp cock and jerking it insistently. “I want to hear you. Come on, Dean. Let it out.”
Dean does. It takes a few more rounds before the confusion and apprehension and humiliated shame have been completely drowned in the sensations Sam keeps pulling from him, but as he clutches at the wall by the door to the bathroom (Sam seems determined to fuck him on every surface in the suite), Dean is very, very vocal. He comes with his brother’s name on his lips—comes dry and intense—and is almost immediately rewarded with another of Sam’s orgasms. When gravity slowly pulls Sam’s cock from Dean’s too loose ass, Dean winces at the feel of semen trickling out in its wake and then collapses forward against his brother.
“Tired already?” Sam asks, nipping at Dean’s throat.
Dean can’t manage more than a weary grunt, but that appears to be enough because Sam lifts him up and carries him back to the bed. He lays Dean down on the cleaner side of the sheets and then climbs up behind him, giving a few reflexive thrusts against Dean’s ass when he pulls Dean in close. His cock doesn’t slide in, but it’s a near thing.
“Go to sleep, baby,” Sam says with a hungry kiss to the side of Dean’s throat. “You need your strength.” His hand strokes down over Dean’s bare stomach, rubbing at the dry, flaking remnants of come. “I’m not done reclaiming you yet. Not by a long shot.”
Dean shudders—two parts excitement, one part fear—but he’s worn out enough that sleep drags him down almost immediately.
He wakes an unknown length of time later with Sam’s cock already inside him, Sam rocking in and out with maddening ease. Sam’s power is inside him, Sam’s mind draped over and cradling his, and Dean cries out with a hoarse, used-up voice. A noise of pure, debauched pleasure.
He keeps waiting for Sam to try whatever he did again, but Sam never does. Sam seems content to fuck him in what seems to be a hundred different positions, until Dean’s ass is a wet, numb mess and he can feel Sam’s cock moving in him even during their infrequent breaks.
He wants to be sickened. He wants to cringe away when Sam rolls toward him yet again, hands on Dean’s hips and urging him on his stomach, pushing his legs apart.
But it feels good, it feels perfect, and Dean closes his eyes, letting his head fall forward onto his forearms as his brother slides in.