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Fate is funny.
By definition, she is the ‘development of events beyond a person’s control; regarded as determined by a supernatural power’—what is and what will always be. She is the precursor to all of the world’s problems; it’s herald and harbinger; it’s hangman; headman; judge, jury, and executioner—she is the driving force of all that is good; all that is bad; as well as the knowing of those fundamentals and the inability to refute them. Call her Cassandra, woman of prophecy; for despite her dictation, she is forever fought against; relentlessly rejected and distastefully disbelieved; she runs circles around those that challenge her and is the sole witness to their crash and burn.
You’d get a kick out of it, too.
Of course, there are perpetrators alongside her—enablers, if you will; people who bow down before her carefully webbed design, who participate in it; who help aid it along. But if Fate is fate, this preordained notion of events, already decided and somehow simultaneously being carried out, then the people involved in those events, their making and making good of those events, did they really have any say, in any of those events at all?
If their choices were already decided for them, before birth and before death, were any of their choices their choices at all?
(Were anyone's?)
They’ve talked about this before.
Free-will and fate (Fate) and God and death (Death).
Their runs towards and their struggles against.
It didn’t just begin when they were born.
As with anyone else who had ever walked the earth before—save maybe, Adam and Eve—it is only through the millions of others’ actions that they came to be. It was only through their mother meeting their father that they were created; but those circumstances could only be carried out if that same logic applied to them, too; with their mothers and their fathers, too; and then their parents even further up the line.
(But there's only so much you get from your parents.
Like, sure, Sam has his mother’s hair, but Dean wears her face. Sam lives in her skin. They’ve both their father’s anger, but Dean got his rage; not to mention, his skill. Sam’s got his journal, and Dean’s got his car—but they are only so much of all the people that came before them; they can only hold on so long to the things they left behind. Whatever’s wrong with Sam came from neither of them and whatever’s right with Dean came from both of them—but this was just how it was meant to be.)
And this repeats, but with every other person on earth, on all the other earth’s too, and truly, truly, there is not a single person on this planet that wasn’t meant to be here—at their place, at their time, with all their features and all their deformities; with all of their blessings and all of their sins—and how miraculous is that: that all the particles of space and time lined themselves up so nicely they formed a Dean, did it again so uniformly four years later that they gave him his very own Sam. They didn't even need to take a rib to do it, despite the fact that that’s where Dean most often keeps him; they just created the world’s embodiment of heaven through melding atoms and infinitely transforming energy, and used a determined John Winchester and an eager Mary Campbell to see their product through.
But if anything had changed, anyone, would they still be?
Sam and Dean, I mean, would they still be?
Would they have gone through all the things they had barely managed to get through? Become the people necessary to be able to get through them?
Would they be the way that they are? Would they have been the way that they were?
Yeah. They’ve talked about this before.
But what they could’ve had is different from what they do, and what they have is this: Dean is Sam’s older brother.
Sam is Dean’s younger.
(Sometimes, Dean likes to fantasize about the possibility of a reversed order. Don’t ask why. Just know; maybe picture it, for only then will you really understand; the opportunity of a younger Dean feeds both the modularity of good sex and the time and effort he would put into building it, as well as the torturous pleasures he’d wring out of an older Sam once he had those patterns down. And oh, the ruin upon the world both those things would bring.
Except, well, he never lets Sam think the same thing.
Dean holds him tight if he so much as entertains the idea, shuts him up if he even tries. Again, don't ask. Instead, imagine; Little Sam sprouting off about Big Sam, how he'd let his brother in, his hole so tight; he’d let Dean take everything he wants and more. He'd let his baby brother find home (another home) inside him, and he'd nurture him; use the same body that would have held him to shield him—and then let reality come crashing back down to you, because that is not how Dean wants him.
That has never, ever, been how Dean wants him.
It isn’t Sam’s job to take care of Dean.
It is Dean's job to take care of Sam.
And ok. It’s not like Sam’s loving imagining being the big brother anyway. He doesn’t want to be. He’s already bigger than he should be, taller than Dean, and when he was buff-er, miraculously wider than him too, already, that killed him.
Sam’s a big dude.
Sometimes he just wants to feel little.
But if he were bigger—in age, not in size—then he wouldn’t be Sam then, would he? Technically? It’d be like, a mirrored version of him, who grew up with enough food for the both of them, and subsequently, wouldn’t have had the chance to shoot up like a bean sprout, what with Dean’s lack of sacrifice. It’d be like, growing up without his brother at all. The thought is… impossible? Incomprehensible and incomparable—wrong?
Not to mention that Dean wouldn’t be Dean then, either, would he. This time it is not a question. Because if Sam were his older brother, he would’ve made sure Dean grew up loved. He would have reached into Dean and fixed all the things that could’ve been wrong with him, though he knows those things don’t exist, and he would have made sure nothing in the world would have been able to touch him. Basically, he’d be like Dean.
And thus, he would not be Sam.
Those factors would have an impact. They would change everything about them, the world around them, the people too, and a Dean different from this one—Sam’s Dean—isn’t actually his; and as sick as that is, therefore; is not a Dean that he wants. While every Dean is assigned a Sam, and vice versa, that is just the way the world works: it is the natural order of things. Sam knows Dean would take him any way he could get him, but this is the only way he wants him— obsessed and taking care of him.
You can call him a sicko.
He’s been that way since he was born.)
There is a reason Dean was born first. There is a reason Sam was born second.
Other than birth order, that one thing truly designed by fate, he’s just better at it—being a big brother. He’s got the track record to prove it, too. After all, Dean is the person who got Sam up for school early in the morning, walked him, then later, drove him to class. Dean is the person who made him breakfast those same mornings, the one who made sure there was breakfast to make those mornings too—at least until Sam learned enough by watching to take up the mantle, to do it himself. Dean is the person who picked Sam up when school was over, walked him home, then later, drove him there, too. When school was his life, at 13, 14, 15, 161718; Dean was too.
It is only a coincidence that Dean was also the one who picked him up from Stanford, too.
(No, it is not.)
Here is another thing that can be attributed to his big brother—Dean is the person from whom Sam learned to fight. Who wrapped his bandages, sewed in his stitches, pressed in his concussions and made sure they were medicated. When Sam gets sick, it is Dean who is there.
When Sam gets scared, it is Dean who is there.
When Sam gets sad, or happy, or mad—when Sam gets dead, it is Dean who is there.
He is always, always there.
Anything and everything that plagued Sam was, and will forever be, blown away by Big Brother fists.
(Dean’s a tease though; and those same hands he uses to obliterate Sam’s enemies, he also uses to take him apart. Dean digs into the deepest parts of his baby brother’s body, he caresses and excavates there—he leaves no stone unturned. He is–)
He is truly watchful, Sam’s older brother.
Remind Sam to never dig a grave ever again. The job never gets any easier—any cleaner, and this one was just—no.
He hears Dean laugh when he slams the Impala’s side door; but Sam finds nothing, nothing, funny about the situation at all. In fact, he’s somewhat appalled. If Dean’s lack of anger towards his baby brother’s mishandling of his Baby is anything to go by, then things are further fucked than he originally thought. And as a result of that, Sam has reached the highest resolution: everyone should just be cremated—everyone! It would save them the trips and the hunts and the almost getting hurt and the almost—always—losing each other.
All he wants to do is rest.
He just wants to look over his brother, his big brother Dean, make sure that neither of them are on the road to dying, make sure they won’t even come close, and rest.
But the image of Dean hovering in midair is seared fresh into his mind, and Sam feels the muscles in his face clench. The fear is practically engraved there, chiseled into his eyebrows and mouth with the way they furrow, curl up and down respectively, and he’s trapped, there; in that house, helpless as Dean dangles; unable to speak; unable to scream; unable to move. He is a statue, condemned to witness the end of his brother as he knows him, frozen.
Dean’s hand on his shoulder takes him out of it.
Sam blinks.
(It is only because Dean is next to him right now that he does not have a bigger reaction.)
His brother’s hum is a questioning sound. When their eyes meet, Sam swims in them, for he can see the reverie there. He’s sure he’s mirroring that devotion; it’s not hard to marvel at just how deep Dean’s eyes go: they are bright as the stars when he is filled with mirth and as dark as the moon when he is consumed by everything but—and when he’s looking at Sam, you can tell, it’s like he’s seeing the fucking sun—like he’s got heaven before him, and is content where he’s at, yet, somehow, is still eager to explore every corner.
He always looks at Sam like that.
(Was almost taken from him, tonight.)
Dean’s looking at him like he knows exactly where Sam aches; like he knows exactly what to do to fix it, and all he’s doing is waiting for the chance to do so.
But the weight of his watch makes Sam tear his gaze away.
Tears bristle in his eyes and he can hear his brother’s sharp breath in, but he can’t let them fall—he won’t let them fall; instead, he fiddles with the room key whilst trying to ignore the cooing shushing of Dean’s voice, turning the fob over and over because even though the water makes it so he can hardly see a thing, he is determined—this is not how he wanted the aftermath to go.
He just wants to rest.
But the door is jammed.
And that is perfect.
That is exactly what he needs right now.
He doesn’t imagine the click of his tongue. It escapes involuntarily from him; he hadn’t meant to let it out, but it’s out anyway, and there’s nothing he can do about it now. Sam rests his head against the door, just slumps into it right there, because if something else goes wrong, he really might bawl; but he just needs to breathe. He knows that. He can feel that. He knows he should feel that. So, inside his head is a mantra, a song playing speedily on repeat: everything will be okay, and Dean is here and they’re okay and they’re going to be fine and no one is bleeding out and everything is fine, they’re going to be okay. Dean’s going to be okay—he just has to breathe.
Somehow, it’s only making everything worse.
He sniffles, presses further into the hand that’s rubbing circles into his back. Shoves it off because, matter-of-fact, he is angry. How dare Dean, how dare he be so stupid, how dare he jump in front of Sam and push Sam out of the way and get himself hurt in the process? Doesn’t he know his brother can take care of himself? That that’s the very kind of stupid they grew up being torn into for, were forced to memorize against—imagine if Sam had done the same thing.
He wouldn’t even he standing here, he bets.
Dean would have killed him if the ghost hadn’t.
But of course, Dean considers every hunt that Sam doesn’t get hurt on a successful one.
And of course, this same standard does not apply to himself.
Well, fuck that.
Sam grunts; he grabs the handle and angles his body; turns away from Dean. He’s a bit too bitter to look at him while he tries to sort this out, despite the bile that rises at the small, hurtful grunt echoing from behind him; he jams his body into the frame.
It doesn't budge. Because of course it doesn’t.
He squishes his entire side against the wood with a rickety bang so fast he thinks he can see the sting, over his head and behind his eyes when he pulls away—if you can guess, again, it doesn’t work.
His body doesn’t go tumbling through the threshold or crashing onto the floor, and in hindsight, he admits, either of those things happening would probably have been more embarrassing than simply being unable to open this god-forsaken door. It’s not his fault, though. Nothing ever works for him when Dean’s watching. It’s like this door’s one purpose is to humiliate him, like it's an additional soldier in a world that just wants Sam to get it wrong, give it to Dean, and wait for him to get it right.
(Sometimes, Sam just feels this… need to prove himself.)
Sam is stubborn, though. It’s one of the only things he’s got going for him, other than his brains, and his height, which, you would think, are great points; but when you’ve got a brother like Dean, are merely a drop in a damn-near empty bucket next to his.
(The world gave everything they gave to Sam to Dean—except well, his very own Dean. Trust, that if the world had been kind enough to do so, Sam’s brother would’ve been unstoppable.)
So yes, Sam is stubborn; and yes, sometimes he overindulges in that same self-driving obstinacy, which means that, yes, he is going to try a third time! He’s gotten himself ready, actually; even prepares himself mentally for the absolute wreck his shoulder is going to be for the next week—stupid fucking door—, but Dean’s hands rip him away, dragging his shoulder and spinning him around, locking on him just as tight as his incredulous gaze. “Sam.”
The firm way he says his name betrays the disbelief in his eyes. Maybe it's the tears still shining in Sam’s own that make it so. Dean roves all over his face, caressing by look alone, breathes, “Let me take care of it.”
(“Okay.”)
He pushes Sam back, makes the dramatic move of checking their surroundings again. He can’t even assign Sam the task of watching his back because somehow that’d upset the balance of the universe; and when he’s done, he lines his body up against the wood. Dean steps back—Sam watches the way he puts all his weight onto his left foot—shoves his entire body forward, and goes slamming into the door.
It opens. Because of course it does.
Dean goes tumbling in, his feet crossing before he manages to stand upright again; Sam can see every ounce of ache in him.
He can see the way he hides it, too.
See? Do you see what he means?
Dean’s just taking care of him.
He is always, always, taking care of him.
Sam wants to take Dean apart against the wall. He wants to shove him there; hover over him, there; ‘til Dean finally gets the message—Sam can take care of himself. He can take care of Dean, too. He’d delete his brother’s composure with the tantalizing tempo of his tongue, work him mawkishly vulnerable ‘til he’s professing everything he thinks Sam doesn’t already know—and that is all Sam wants.
Right now, that is all he wants.
Sam is usually a man of his word.
Dean’s shoulders go crashing where Sam’s got them pinned—where he’s letting Sam have them pinned; and he is still loose, still happy despite what almost happened today, as if that moment right there wouldn’t have been the end to Sam as the world knows him, as if this entire thing isn’t a huge goddamn deal.
It just isn’t fucking fair.
Dean smirks up at him, ignorantly blissful.
Through the lump in his throat, Sam snarls his way into a kiss.
Their mouths tangle; their tongues dance. Sam sinks into the crackly flesh of Dean’s lips, licks in, and drowns in the way they become pillowly soft, wet. Fire catches in his belly as Dean lets him; his fingers are in Sam’s hair, pulling—pushing him down, but Sam needs this; he can’t stop. Burning aside, he doesn’t really want to stop, either. He can take care of Dean, too—he just– Dean just has to let him prove it to him.
Sam’s trying his damndest right now.
“Stop,” Dean breathes. Sam ignores him.
He pushes one leg in between his older brother’s, intertwines Dean’s left with his right, and grinds down the minute that left leg comes up. Sam presses his entire front in, downright drowning Dean in all of Sam’s essence, and works his hips up, down, in a circle on Dean’s knee, right in front of his hips, ‘til he can feel a certain growing hardness. “Baby,” is a groan, “stop.” But Sam is kissing. He is all of the universe's kisses congealed into one person—who was he before he had lips?—until Dean rests a warm hand, an alive hand, on his cheek, thumb twining along his jaw. His mouth moves slow: and it is a blatant refusal to get caught in Sam's wind.
He pushes Sam gently away.
“I'm okay, Sam,” he says, slow; quiet. “I’m okay.”
To say Sam whimpers is an understatement. The noise that comes out of him is a watery gurgle; a baby whine. He swears he has better control over his emotions than this, just—tonight; tonight is not a night he wants to repeat for a long time.
Dean’s hand messes over his face, thumb swiping underneath his eyes. Sam watches the way his gaze darkens, taking in Sam’s mouth; just as well as he acknowledges the birth of a glint in them, when Dean drags that digit down over his lips. He even observes with scrutiny, his big brother’s shiver when Sam takes his thumb in; and rides out a shudder of his own as Dean bites his lips, murmuring a low, drawn-out, “Fuck.”
Sam lets him play with his tongue. He lets Dean push his finger against the wet flesh; endorses the game with the way his brows furrow and cheeks flush. He just sucks on it, for a minute; holding it in place with his teeth before suckling at the tip. He lets Dean wade his thumb over his lips, resists the urge to bite down the moment Dean presses in; coating pretty pink in Baby Brother Spit before he tugs at the plump bottom. It bounces, when Dean releases it.
Drives him crazy.
All of a sudden, he’s a burst of sound.
“Suck me off, come on.” There are fingers in his hair and on his shoulder, no more near his mouth, and a, “Come on, baby, get that mouth on me,” in his ear as hands pull him—push him down. Sam feels his face explode. His heart thunders, and that fire in his belly blooms into a fully fledged flame—he kisses down the entire length of Dean’s body; peppering worry and worship into what he hopes beneath those clothes is not bruised skin, but he knows better, honestly; he knows better, and it could be so much worse.
He’s so glad it’s not so much worse.
He uses his hands to undo Dean's belt and his teeth to roll down the zipper. Never mind that it seems like his entire body shakes. Dean grunts, tangles a hand in his hair, and this is exactly where Sam wants to be: on his knees.
Paying some sort of homage with big brother idolatry.
He kitten licks the tip. Suckles the head. He swallows down the pleasure extension flesh, and grins around it, when the fingers in his hair tighten. Sam works his lips up and down around it, Dean’s dick; and feels the heat in his mouth as it transfers into his brain, making it so that this moment is all that matters, this here and now. He swallows, as saliva gathers, and it's hard, but through his messy swallowing he can hear Dean cursing, mouthing off stuff about Sam being so fucking good—he looks up, only to find that Dean is blushing. He wears lust better than anyone Sam has ever seen; one eye open, the other droopy as Sam gives his all beneath him. Dean’s breathy grunts fill the room, and eventually his hips start whining, moving in little jolts as Sam continues to suck.
Little Brother shivers. Moans. Uses his hand to grab the one Dean has resting in his hair, and intertwines it with his own. Dean brings it up to his mouth, kisses it, laying love on each knuckle and finger; before grabbing both sides of Sam's head, and fucking in.
Sam sits back on his heels, lets Big Brother’s weight situate him on the floor—he has to prepare himself; this is only something they’ve done once or twice before, though he can’t think of a more meaningful moment than now. Dean gets his legs on both sides of Sam's head; and he cages him in. Sam’s sitting back on his haunches, but when Dean lowers him, his upper body is practically suspended in air—it’s as if he is a tool for Dean to use. He is just a hole; just a mouth; and like a good little mouth, he takes it; gurgling and gagging as his big brother punches the back of his throat with the powerful ram of his dick. Sam scrambles, legs seeking to get out from under him and kick, but his mind knows better, knows Dean will do this better if Sam is good—he’ll let Sam take care of him; but only if Sam is good. Sam tickles his hips, traces the sides of them with his fingers to let Big Brother know he can take it and gasps when the appendage is released from his mouth.
Dean peels his shirt off; Sam looks up at him from the floor. He focuses mostly on catching injuries; feels a pang in his heart even when he can’t hang onto any.
Lucky, he thinks. They just got lucky.
But Sam’s big brother drops to his knees, pulls Sam up to his, tugs his shirt off and makes no move towards his jeans, and hey—they’re matching now, shirtless, dirty-jeaned degenerates. It’s difficult to care about something like that—their degeneracy, when it’s just the two of them, and everything is in motion. Their whole lives, really, have just been the two of them—when Dean kisses through the taste of his own dick and what surely has to be a blissed out look on Sam’s face. Actually, it’s even harder when he smiles as Sam’s hair sticks up freakishly.
“Love you, baby,” he says through laughter. His eyes are alight with horny joy, “fucking love you.”
Sam whines. He shudders and blushes, gasps brokenly whilst Dean wrangles him outta his briefs. He throws his head back; slams his eyes closed. Dean jerks him a couple times fast, twisting, before stepping right up so that his chest is against Sam's, and grabbing their dicks, simultaneously, his little brother’s a tad more violently, he slots them directly against each other, stroking them both.
Sam feels the top of his brother's dick against his; in fact, he sees it clear as day in his mind. He has never needed to imagine Dean’s length or girth or power, thank God, he has always had access to it, but when Dean gets like this, when Dean chooses to override any and every one of Sam’s senses, replace them with impressions of him, alone, Sam can still see it—see him, even when he doesn’t want to see anything anymore.
He hears Dean chuckle; and Sam knows that laugh. Like he said, he can see it in his mind’s eye, and because of that, he knows it’s not a good one.
He pauses; allows himself the chance to re-welcome reality: Dean's grip on him feels so fucking nice, rough and warm with the calluses that line his fingers and the blood that flows underneath them, but Sam will not let it stay there any longer if what he’s thinking will come true, comes true. If what he’s thinking will happen, happens. Sam brings his head back down and, through lidded eyes and sweaty bangs, grimaces.
Catches his brother smiling sillily.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Sammy?”
“Shut up.”
“I didn't even say anything!”
Which, fine. But Sam knows his brother—wait for it.
Just… wait for it.
“Can't a guy wanna keep his little brother little?”
“Dean!”
(It’s a bit embarrassing, but he’s smaller than Dean. You know… down there. He’s proportionate! He’s proportionate, he swears, but Dean’s got a monster in between his legs, big, and floppy, and surprisingly, tasty— er, well, it tastes like Dean, and to Sam, that’s good.
Sam likes holding onto it when it’s soft, feeling the meaty muscle garner weight in his hand, and he likes sucking it off, cradling it as it scraps along the walls in his mouth; and he especially loves it when it’s inside of him, finds that that miraculous and rare fulfilled feeling spreads only to the rest of his body when Dean is locked completely inside—no, he does not have a thing.
Maybe.
He might have a thing.
Anyway, Dean’s got a big dick. Sam does too! But even if Sam's dick is big, Dean's dick is kinda bigger, and boy, does he give him shit about it.)
“Come on, Sam. Lemme make you and the little guy feel good.”
“He's not– I’m not– It's not little.”
He can’t help the blush on his cheeks.
Dean hums, shrugs, “Littler compared to me.”
“That’s not a word.”
“Ok, well, now you shut up.”
Sam clicks his tongue, glares. Dean starts stoking him again, just him, before sitting back on his heels. He holds Sam's hips, keeps him in place as he mouths off, “Raised you, baby, I watched you grow up. Then you went away and got big, but stayed little where it counts.”
“Fucking love this dick,” he says, and a blob of pre-come blurts from Sam’s slit, wrung from him almost involuntary; it coats him wet and slimy, “it’s so useless.”
“You know why I love you, Sammy?” Dean kisses, bites on a pebbled nipple. He takes the nub and rolls it besides his tongue, works to say the words in between Sam’s stuttered gasps and rising moans, “You're such a fucking girl.”
Big Brother sprinkles kisses on Little Brother chest. Smiles when he looks back up at him. He is mischief incarnate; with twinkling eyes and a Cheshire smile mouth, and Sam really might be a girl, because he loves him too. “Yeah,” Dean kisses his chin, “that’s the kinda face I like to see.”
Sam bites his lip.
“On the bed.” Dean orders. “Right here.”
In front of the two beds in their motel room, there's a TV. It’s laid out front and center so that when you first walk in, you’re greeted with a nice, new, state-of-the-art, black, reflective display screen. It’s a scam; a tactic; an attempt to get you to turn it on and woo at the colors, before coolly dragging you into the most expensive one-time movie watch of your life. Dean had marveled at it, the night they booked the room; and Sam had studied his distorted image. Saved him from his new-tech-influenced fate. Now though, who will save him, for it’s his own warped likeness staring back at him.
Sam can see the outline of their bodies, the colors less saturated but still there. When he sits on top his brother, nestles—he hopes, sexily—into his lap, he can see the way—and where, they blend. The blue of their jeans looks damn near black; meanwhile, the peach and tan of their skin shine with a hint of luster—while they each have their own distinct silhouettes, they also look like one person.
With Dean, sometimes, that is all he feels like he is.
One body; two heads; four hands and four feet. Twenty fingers and twenty toes and sixty-four teeth.
Dean grabs hold of Sam’s thighs; and he opens them. The vee of his legs means everything is on display, his denim-covered scrotum and his hard, leaking cock. You can't really see it in the TV, not unless you focus on it; and for some reason, that makes it all hotter than it should be. The obscurity—the mystery of what can be done and has been done has the fire in his belly tingling its way all throughout Sam's spine; has him telling himself not to come, don’t come, because you don’t wanna miss this, you don’t wanna mess this up too. You want to take care of him too. Dean rips the jeans from his legs, shucking them off in one fell swoop. He throws Sam’s shoes and pants in a pile in the corner—and when Sam squints his eyes, focuses on the TV when it’s all said and done, his hole winks back.
“Dean.”
His brother’s voice is a whisper, a soothing song, “It’s okay, Baby Brother, I got you.” He nods towards the screen. “Watch.”
He brings his fingers up to Sam’s mouth, digits that disappear in front of Sam’s head in the television’s empty reflection, and Sam doesn't need words to get the memo. He laces up his brother’s hand with saliva, spit, drool; tonguing, allowing for Big Brother fingers to drill in and out of his mouth, then pushes back on his brother's chest, reddening as he almost spills from his lap. He lets Dean work his hand down and around his ass; shivers, when the wet skin brushes feather light alongside his hole.
Squishing in one finger, index, Sam watches his tiny pucker make way to swallow. He watches as it sinks in, lifts up out, and get pushed in partner with Dean’s middle. He groans; and floats his head up to the ceiling, lets it fall down onto his brother’s shoulder. When the third finger joins, Dean’s right ring, his body is alight, fully in flames and destined to take everything with him—how could he not, when Dean pumps inside him, swirls those three magic fucking fingers, feeling him up.
Dean brushes over his prostate, growls huskily when Sam yelps this out-of-oxygen moan. Presses closed mouth, open-heart kisses all over his temple, the side of his eye, “Ready?”
(He has been, since the day he was born.)
“Mhm.”
The lube is in his hand, out of his hand, and poured onto Dean’s dick in a fraction of a second. He didn’t even get the chance to click it open, instead he’s again a victim, the one person Dean always pushes down and against. Sam saddles himself up, aligning his hole with his big brother's dick. He sets his hands on his thighs, hovering over the older man’s lap, and watches, painfully, how the big shadow of himself causes his brother’s own to fizzle out.
He doesn't want that. He doesn’t want that—he wants Dean back.
The TV almost perfectly captures the way Dean’s dick sinks; the way Sam’s hole swallows.
Sam shivers; feeling so full. He’s so full of his big brother, and just like that, oh God—he’s so little.
Raising his hips up, and then down, moaning with the feeling, the stretch burn—Sam can barely process the way his dick remains upright, how sloppily it leaks precome. He’s a fucking faucet, just dripping all over; and as he rocks his hips further, little figure eights, he simply tries to get his brother in deeper.
Dean moans from behind him.
Sam can only see spiky hair trying to poke over his shoulder—trying to watch.
Dean grabs him by his hips; follows Sam’s licentious swivelling, engulfed in the warm, wet heat of him; he thrusts. Brings his baby brother up and down; bouncing on his cock—so fast and so fierce, a clapping is developed, and Sam wants to crawl out of his skin. The drag of Big Brother Dick is so good, he wants to crawl out of his skin. Into Dean’s so that he might live there forever, feel this fucking fantastic way forever. Dean strikes his prostrate, and Sam mewls, keens, collapses; he feels body fucking melt.
“Up,” Dean says. Taps him once, twice, lightly, when his dick slinks slimily out. “Wanna fuck you right.”
Dean lays him flat on the bed—his bed, closest to the door—with his ass hanging off the edge.
Sam has to turn his head to watch the TV.
Again, he watches as Dean’s dick disappears inside him. He keeps his eyes on the way Big Brother Big Dick sinks in, and then closes them, once he feels that great big nudge inside. He relishes the conjoining of their bodies, how marvelously Dean splits him open, stretches him out; the way it’s so monumentally groundbreaking every time he enters, that all Sam can do for at least a minute is sit there, quiver, and shake.
Breathe, and realize the truth.
That this is as close to Sam as Dean is ever gonna get; as close as the limits of Sam’s body will let him.
Dean gets a hand on the back of Sam’s neck. His grip is firm. Strong. All Big Brother, car-driver, breakfast-maker, picker-upper—fixer-upper; enemy-defeater. He pushes in, rocks his hips forward, then back, slowly testing, searching—always searching Sam, inside him, outside him too—and when he finds it, the pleasure spot that means he can take care of his Sam in the swiftest, yet most soul-shattering way possible—you best believe he gets to work.
He shoots forward, invading Sam’s body with a rough, rhythmic in and out. Twists his hips and gives his baby brother all he’s got. He digs there, inside, excavates inside, trying to tear every part of Sam that was unbeknownst to him up from the ground with his dick, not at all thrown off by the desperate wailing induced by his actions.
Because while Sam is getting swallowed into the mattress, shoved there via the intense plunging of Dean’s dick, as well as the domineering grip of his hand, he fucking loves it. He loves it—loves him, so much. Dean, who treats him so well, so right—his big brother. His Big Brother.
“Dean—” he says, but the bed pillows around him, muffling his cries. “Dean,” and if Sam can move his hips just right, “Dean,” he’s sure he can fuck up into the edge. “Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean!”
“Nuh-uh Sammy,” comes Big Brother Voice behind him, above him. In him. In him. “Don’t need it.”
But he does. He does.
“I need it,” he’s gasping. Moaning. “I need it—need it, need it, oh fuck, need it!”
(He squints his eyes.
Dean’s in the air.
Quickly, he closes them.)
“You don’t know–" thrusting, "what you–" fucking, "need.”
A punctured lung; a goddamn orgasm.
His Big Brother.
“I give you what you need.”
“Please,” he’s begging. “Please!”
Dean pulls out. Fucking asshole; he pulls out, leaves Sam writhing, wanton and whining, waiting. “No,” Sam moans; it's baby-like. “No, fuck me. Fuck me–e.”
Dean flips him over.
Off his stomach and on his back, Sam sees him. Forget the fucking TV-mirror, this is Dean right in front of him, his Big Brother right in front of him. And with one look into his eyes, Sam can tell this is just as much for Dean as it is for him. This reassurance that Dean is alive is also reassurance that Sam is too.
Dean, who is alive. Who loves him.
He’s looking at Dean who loves him.
He’s never seen anyone but.
In front of him is his Big Brother; the boy who’s always gonna take care of him, who was born to do so; who promised it to him years ago in front of a burning house and is promising it to him again right now. “Let big brother take care of you, Sammy, come on.”
His legs go over on Dean’s shoulders; though it’s only made possible by the tight grip on his hips. When Dean sinks into the hilt, it’s as if they had been thrown into a frenzy. Sam’s nails rake soon-to-be blood marks into Big Brother Back, and Dean’s hips punch, thrust, punish Baby Brother hole. In and out, and in and out, and in and out, again—perfect fucking rhythm. Dean wheezes as he does it, growling in Baby Brother ear, “Always gonna take care of you. Sammy. Always. Gonna give you what you need, baby.”
Dean holds tight to him, pressing Sammy-baby’s body down underneath him, “need my cock, yeah? Fuck, f-uck—need it up the ass?”
“‘T’s okay, sweetheart. Nothing wrong with needing it. You’re so fucking tight. So good around me. But that pretty pink dick– don’t need it, do you? Got you a pussy instead. Best fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”
Slamming. He’s slamming.
Sam thinks he’s goddamn dying.
“Love you, Sammy. Love you.”
Dean says it like it’s nothing as he continues pounding, but like it’s everything too. And it hurts so much, hurts so much because it just feels so fucking good—and how can anyone have ever been made to feel this much? This is torture. Dean is torturing him; and Sam loves him. He loves him. He loves him too.
And Sam knows that face. Knows exactly what to say to this shut-eye, wide-mouthed, pleasure-filled version of Dean to get him off.
Because—yeah, he can take care of Dean, too.
“Love you, Dean.” A high-keen. “Love you– too, love you so fucking much– God, love you so much,” Dean comes, milks into Sam and grinds his pelvis against his in a way that he knows he’s gonna bruise, but Sam can’t stop, he throws his ass back against the sporadic stutter of Big Brother’s hips, shouts and screams, “fuck me– Fuck me, Dean, oh! Dean! Dean, fuckkk– me–”
When Sam orgasms, he shudders, and it's a full-body quake. His back is arched to high heaven, he’s got his legs up to God, and though an activity like this should’ve landed both him and his older brother an one way, express ticket to Hell, it is through the wondrous creation that is the human body that Sam shoots off like a fucking faucet; like someone took a hammer to him and knocked him out clean. Dean grunts as Sam’s hips shake in broken movements over his dick—but makes no moves to stop him, only pants his way through Sam’s neck and into overstimulation.
Sam groans; a deep, yet high-pitched sound when Dean pulls out. He pushes his brother off and away, lets his large body untangle from its sex-bred position and his limbs fall in great big heaps beneath him.
After a moment, Dean shuffles into the space between his legs.
He lines his cock up on top of Sam’s, flaps it up and down with the hold of one hand, the way he would on someone’s pussy. On their clit. The way he does sometimes when he carts Sam off so far into the lands of coital bliss, his baby brother can’t find the words to protest against the heavy, tapping pressure on his hole.
He smirks when the length of him pushes past Sam’s own.
Grins, actually, before he fucking laughs.
“Still little where it counts, huh? My baby brother.” He moves in for a kiss; is lucky Sam grants it.
"Baby Brother” is a title he bestows, Sam knows. Says I love you and I'm gonna take care of you in one.
Dean's face is fond, and Sam wants to smack his smile clean off—only, Dean disconnects, disappears from the room, and he better stay gone, fucking asshole, downright jerk— until Sam hears the sound of water from the bathroom; the sound of a rag being rung wet–dry.
And Sam huffs, but this is why it works.
Why Sam was born second; why Dean was born first.
(He’ll find the time to be mad about his size later.)
(Don’t think he forgot about the hunt.)