It’s not long enough, and Dean’s thinking it’s never going to be long enough. He can hear his father’s voice, can feel his breath right next to his ear, and he doesn’t understand how he could put this on him now. Now. When there’s no one but him and Sam and all this mute space and air, and this. He’s been sitting out here for hours (it’s been that long since he destroyed the trunk and he hasn’t tried to fix it yet) and it’s been dark for the last few, bright moon and pale stars making their way into an indigo sky. Sam hasn’t come back out and he can’t bring himself to go in, to try and fix him because he shouldn’t have to.
Sam’s always been his responsibility, and it’s always because he wanted it that way, loved Sam more than anyone ever and never trusted anyone but himself with Sam’s safety, and it scares the goddamn hell out of him that this could have changed, now. Sam’s face when he was standing ten feet away, breaking, was something Dean wasn’t used to- too open, too painful, too broken. Sam’s always been easier to read than Dad, but harder than most people they meet in passing, and seeing everything in Sam’s face is an indicator that he’s passed fragile, so far passed it. It scares the ever loving shit out of Dean that he knows how that feels.
He locks the back door when he comes inside. Thankfully Bobby’s gone to bed so he won’t have to look him in the face because he knows they heard the noise, knows they looked out that back window and saw him destroying the last piece of his father he worked so hard to put back together. He shuts the light off above the sink before he goes upstairs, and he goes to Sam’s room instead of his own. He stands in the doorway for a few minutes staring at Sam, who’s still awake, standing by the window at the far end of his room with his hands shoved in his pockets. It scares him that Sam might see everything in his face when he turns around, but it scares him more that he’s standing there because he feels like he has to.
“Are you done beating the shit out of things?” Sam asks quietly and doesn’t turn around. “I know I make a good verbal punching bag for you, but maybe you’d like to try the real thing.”
“Sam.” It comes out angry and he doesn’t mean it to. Sam turns around and Dean can see he’s pale, and there are bruises under his eyes because he hasn’t been sleeping well. He wants to say something, and he opens his mouth but nothing comes out, so he closes it again. He clenches and unclenches his fists, takes a step forward and then stops. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, where things go, how to put everything back together after every thing that’s happened. He doesn’t know how to fix it.
He shouldn’t do this now, and he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s tired and empty and he wants this, wants Sam. He’s angry as hell, but he needs to feel Sam, needs to feel his skin warm-alive, feel him breathing, taste his skin and his scars. He needs. He crosses the room too quickly leaving Sam slightly wide-eyed, and grabs him, pulling him body-close. He fists his hands in Sam’s shirt, just holding on- just… holding on. Sam bends slightly, until their foreheads touch, and Dean closes his eyes as Sam breathes, his breath warm across Dean’s skin. But Sam doesn’t move, waits for Dean, for this, and Dean pulls him down by the back of his neck, pressing his mouth to Sam’s with an almost painful intensity. Their teeth clack, and their noses bump together, and Dean’s pushing him backwards, trying to find the bed – even the hard floor – just to have this.
Sam whispers “Dean,” when they bump against the bed, falling in an awkward tangle of limbs and tongue. Dean bites at Sam’s mouth and he can taste blood, metallic and warm and alive on his tongue. He pins Sam down, straddling his waist, and shucks off his own shirt, and then pulling at Sam’s almost violently until it’s on the floor. He flattens himself against Sam, biting at his neck, and Sam whispering in his ear; it makes his stomach turn that all he can think about is Dad’s damp-hot breath ghosting his ear, telling him secrets he never asked to know, never wanted to know. He unbuckles Sam’s belt, and tears at his jeans until the button is undone and the fly is open. He lacks grace and a lot of other things when he shoves a hand down the front of Sam’s pants, grabbing his cock almost too roughly and stroking hard- Sam’s grunt lets him know that, yeah, he’s being a little rough. He presses his forehead to Sam’s chest and closes his eyes, stroking Sam’s dick hard, and he chokes for a minute because God help him, he hates his father for what he knows now, hates that this isn’t the same anymore.
“Sammy…” It comes out more broken than he means it to, than he wants it to, and Sam’s pulling at him, grabbing his face and crushing their mouths together, bucking into Dean’s hand. It doesn’t take long, and Sam’s coming, saying Dean’s name and almost sobbing, and then Dean’s undoing his own belt, shoving off his own jeans.
“Lift up,” he says, his voice gravelly and worn out, and Sam does and Dean pulls off his pants and boxers in one movement. “Turn over.” He helps roll Sam over, and licks his fingers clean, almost sobbing at the taste of Sam (because nothing is ever going to be the same now, Sammy), and then presses his fingers into Sam. Sam’s body jumps, and Dean knows he should take this slower but he can’t and Sam won’t tell him to.
He fucks Sam open on the mattress, Sam’s face pressed into the pillow, fucks him harder than he should, and he knows he’s hurting him and it makes him choke. Sam grunts, gasps in pain, and the only thing Dean can offer is a soothing hand at the base of his spine. Dean breathes hard and gasps when he feels his balls rising, the coiling heat in the pit of his stomach, thrusting hard and deep when he comes. Sam has his face turned to the side and Dean can see the pain.
“Don’t go,” Sam whispers, eyes closed, breathing focused Dean knows because he just tore Sam apart. He sits there balanced on his knees for a moment. He stares at Sam, feels every broken thing between them, and he can’t go. He takes a shaky breath, grabs the blanket bunched at the end of the bed and pulls it up when he lies down. Sam’s shaking when Dean pulls him in, his back flush to Dean’s chest.
Dad asked him to protect Sam. He’s always done it, always kept Sam safe because it’s always been his responsibility- Sam’s always been his. It’s him and Sam, it’s only always going to be them, now.
And all they have is death and forever.