For a while he just laid there, staring at the pocked ceiling, arms at his sides, and just waited. It had been a while since they’d stayed anywhere that had cabins; since before the demon wore their father’s face, before the accident, since before they stood together and burned Dad’s body in some nameless off-road field near Bobby’s place. It took him a little bit to get used to the wood smell again, the smell of pine, and it took him a little longer and a lot of cold to actually get the fireplace going. The smell of wood smoke seemed to be stuck in everything - the walls and floor, in the carpets and pillowcases, and it wasn’t something he was particularly fond of since Stanford, and even less fond of since their father’s funeral pyre.
At first he closed himself in the bathroom, breathed in the sharp scent of Pinsol, and the smell of too much bleach in the white, white tub. Even the toilet bowl smelled like woods until he emptied his stomach in it, his stomach muscles clenching painfully as his eyes watered and his nose and throat burned. He hadn’t even had anything to drink, but his mind was like a movie projector, so he didn’t need to be drunk to hurl up his insides. He’d killed someone, possessed or not, and he’d almost raped Jo – someone who had trusted him once, someone he was sure would never look him in the face again – and possession wasn’t an excuse. He’d shot Dean; he’d tried to kill Dean.
His knuckles turned white gripping the rim of the toilet bowl while he vomited violently.
He showered for at least an hour, the water so hot his skin was red and raw, and the burn from the hot poker Bobby had used hurt so badly he almost puked again. He stood under the spray and almost wished it could drown the pictures burned into his mind, drown the sounds that would play over and over again, drown the memories that didn’t really belong to him. He stood until the water had become so cold his teeth chattered and his lips were tinged blue. When he stepped out the bathroom was warm, and he could hear the fire crackling and popping through the partially opened door. He wrapped a scratchy white towel around his waist and stared at his face in the mirror. You did things. He stared at himself like he was seeing for the first time. You’re one of the monsters now.
He vomited more violently than the first time, towel falling underfoot, until he was lying naked on the bathroom floor shaking and gasping.
When he caught his breath again he got dressed in warm hoodie that smelled like Dean and loose, worn sweat pants. The shaking never stopped. And somewhere between staring a hole in the ceiling and counting the dark spots on the wall he dozed off. He startled awake almost at the sound of jingling metal and wood creaking. His heart thudded so hard he could feel it in his throat, making it hard to breathe or swallow. They’ll find you. They’ll kill you for what you did. He was more relieved than he knew how to say or express when he saw Dean folding his jeans over one of the wicker chairs, bathed in the strange orange glow from the lamp he’d left on since Dean left earlier. Dean pulled his tee-shirt over his head and laid it with the mud-stained jeans.
He finally saw Sam looking at him. “You ok?” He asked, standing still by the chair, and for a moment Sam thought, he’s afraid, afraid of me, of what I’ll become. He realized that he still couldn’t speak, that he was shaking again and Dean must’ve noticed it, too, because suddenly he was sitting at the edge of the bed, his bare thigh against Sam’s sweats. “Hey,” Dean said softly.
Lately, since they left Bobby’s, since Sam was exorcised, he’d felt stretched too thin, exposed, like he was going to fly apart any second and the only thing he had to ground him was Dean. He stared at Dean and swallowed hard, hands spasming in the ugly pine colored coverlet, and then Dean’s hands came up to frame his face, thumb brushing gently just under Sam’s eye. “Hey,” he said softly again, holding Sam’s head in his hands until Sam was finally seeing him. “You with me?”
Sam nodded and closed his eyes, leaning into Dean’s touch, turning his head to kiss the palm of Dean’s hand, and Dean threaded the opposite hand through Sam’s hair, making Sam’s skin flare with goosebumps. “Where were you?” Sam finally asked quietly, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Dean’s.
“Making sure we were safe,” he said, and Sam could feel the air from Dean’s mouth against his own lips. Sam breathed deep, and Dean smelled like outdoors, like leaves and dirt, like sweat and something only Dean. He’d been out there all that time just making sure no one followed; no one knew where they were. He’d been out there protecting Sam just like he’d always done – just like, Sam knew, he’d always do. When Dean breathed Sam could smell whiskey, but he didn’t smell the distinct scent of a bar.
“You drank?” Sam asked softly, his lips barely brushing Dean’s.
“Only what I had in the car. Didn’t go to the bar. Don’t want anyone knowing where we are.” Because they’ll kill you. Dean didn’t say it, but Sam heard it anyway. It hit him as suddenly as it ever does at times, but that moment, all he wanted was Dean; Dean there with him, naked and real next to him, in him.
“I need you,” he whispered against Dean’s lips, eyes closed, and he knew Dean didn’t take that just at surface value. Sam needed Dean more than he ever needed anything – ever. More than he’d never needed Dad and more than he’d ever needed Jessica.
“’M right here,” he mumbled, opening his mouth against Sam’s pressing in, and Sam could taste the alcohol on Dean’s tongue. Dean’s hands slipped away from his face, down his sides and under the sweatshirt, warm and callused against Sam’s skin and Sam shivered. Feeling Dean’s hands on his skin made him moan into Dean’s mouth, made him surge forward and kiss Dean like he was dying, until Dean had to break away for breath. He leaned his forehead against Sam’s again, and whispered “right here, Sammy. Always right here.”
He lifted his arms and let Dean pull the sweatshirt over his head, sending his hair every which way, falling in front of his eyes. Sam arched up against Dean when he settled above him, a leg between Sam’s, his dick hard and pressing against Sam’s hip. Dean’s tongue was wet and warm against his neck, his collarbone, and his hands brushed against Sam’s stomach, making the muscles flutter, until he slipped his fingers into the waistband of Sam’s sweats and boxers.
“Lift up,” Dean mumbled against his skin, and Sam did, watching Dean pull his pants and underwear down all at once, pull them off over his feet, and drop them on the floor at the foot of the bed. He watched Dean step out of his boxer-briefs, drop them on the floor, too, and climb back up on the bed. He nudged Sam’s legs apart a little further, bending to nip gently at his thigh, and Sam gasped quietly.
“Dean…” he said softly, arms limp at his sides. Dean looked up at him, kissed his hip and mumbled something that sounded like hold on, and moved off the bed. He closed his eyes and listened to Dean digging around in a duffel, searching for the lubricant buried under dirty clothes and shaving kits; closed his eyes and let his hand stray over his stomach, lazily over his cock, running his thumb over the head, spreading the thick burst of pre-come from thinking about Dean inside him.
The bed dipped at the foot when Dean kneeled on it again, and Sam opened his eyes, watched Dean watch him, and then watched Dean uncap the small bottle and coat his fingers. Dean pushed Sam’s leg up, bent at the knee, foot planted down on the bed, and slid a finger inside carefully. Sam jumped a little, arched, and Dean placed a hand on his thigh. “Easy,” he said softly.
Four weeks. It had been four weeks and then some since they’d been able to feel each other this close, since Sam woke up in that hotel room covered in someone else’s blood. He remembered when he was awake, remembered when those few blessed seconds came that he was lucid, that his first thought was Dean, and the last was I’m sorry. This time, when he opened his eyes, the bullet wound in Dean’s shoulder was clearly visible, and he started shaking again in earnest, and it had nothing to do with the two fingers working him open.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said in a choked whisper, reaching to brush his fingers over the wound. Dean winced and shook his head.
“Don’t,” he said. “Not your fault.”
And then that burning, aching, bone-deep need was there again. He needed Dean so close that he wouldn’t be able to tell where they ended or began. “Please,” Sam whispered, “need you so bad, Dean.”
“No,” and he looked at Dean, eyes wide and guileless. “Just… please, just fuck me,” he whispered, voice broken. For a moment, Dean just looked at him, and he didn’t think Dean was going to do it, and for that moment he thought it’d hurt less if someone reached in his chest and ripped his heart out while it was still beating, but then Dean was slicking his cock and Sam was breathing out in relief.
Dean’s hands were at his hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles while he pushed in and time felt like it was stopping. Sam had forgotten how much four weeks can make a difference, how much four weeks could make this hurt more than it used to. Dean pushed in all the way, and Sam’s breath caught, and just for a moment he couldn’t breathe or move; his cock was only half hard.
“Sam…” Dean started to say, and Sam could feel him start to pull out, but he wrapped his skinny legs around Dean’s waist, holding him there. He felt his own muscles flutter and Dean’s hips stuttered just a little. “Sammy… I don’t want-“
“It’s okay,” Sam said softly. I want it to hurt. “Dean, please…”
Dean kissed him then, open-mouthed and soft like he’d never been before. Sam would have asked what was wrong, but Dean was thrusting then, and Sam thought he was dying. Suddenly, it was like being fucked for the first time all over again. The stretch and burn was almost unbearable, making his back arch in an attempt to ease the pain, making his breath stop because he felt so full there wasn’t room to breathe. He could hear Dean back then all over again shh, Sammy. Shh, baby, it’s okay, just breathe. And all over again it was like being torn apart from the inside.
“Dean…” he whimpered, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he wasn’t going to ask him to stop. He wanted this to hurt; he wanted it to hurt so bad he couldn’t move. “Harder.” He whispered, almost unable to catch his breath.
“God Sam,” Dean groaned into his neck. Then he was wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist and lifting, sliding onto his knees under Sam, until Sam was propped against the wall. It was an odd angle; not a bad one, but new for Sam, and painful because it’d been so long with too little prep. “God,” Dean whined again, breathless and sweating, forehead pressed into the crook of Sam’s neck. He was fucking Sam so hard, harder than Sam ever remembered, so hard that Sam’s cock wasn’t even stiff anymore and he was glad Dean couldn’t see his face. He knew his face was twisted in pain, and he couldn’t catch his breath, and it felt so good all at once. Dean’s arms around his waist, hugging him so close their chests and stomachs were pressed together, and the hard slap of skin seemed absurdly loud in the empty room. “Sammy…” Dean whispered against his skin, and that made all the blood in Sam’s body flood to his dick. It twitched between them, filling with blood.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered against Dean’s skin, fingers tracing over the bullet wound. “Dean, I’m so sorry.” He felt Dean’s hand slide up his back, into his hair, and he gasped when Dean pulled hard. He sucked at Sam’s neck, pulling a bruise to the surface, and then moved to Sam’s mouth.
They kissed desperately, like they were starving for each other, like they’d never have this again. It made something sharp twist in Sam’s chest; if he became something evil, if he became what he spent his whole life wishing he never knew, then they wouldn’t have this – not ever again. He’d save Dean the trouble of having to kill him, because he’d put a bullet in his own head. He stopped thinking when Dean’s hand wrapped around his cock.
“Oh god,” he moaned. “Oh god, Dean…”
The angle became too awkward, and they fell against the headboard, scraping Sam’s back against the wood and his head connecting solidly enough he saw little bright spots behind his eyes, but it was so good.
Sam heard it, and he knew Dean meant for him to hear it. They’d never talk about it again, or even bring it up, but it meant something for them – It was everything.
Dean bit down on Sam’s lip when he came, and Sam could feel each pulse inside him, each warm splash, and it felt better than anything ever had. And then Dean was fisting his dick hard and fast, whispering encouragement in his ear until he arched and cried out, legs tightening in a death grip around Dean, until he came sobbing, in long, hard spurts – over Dean’s hand, on his own belly and on Dean’s.
He shook as Dean eased them down on the bed, feeling hazy as Dean pulled the sheets over them, and they slept tangled, Sam with his head tucked under Dean’s chin and his feet hanging off the end of the bed. Sam laid awake until Dean had fallen asleep, pressing his mouth over Dean’s heart and just being still, because in the morning they’d be running again.