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The motel room smelled like stale cigarettes and old carpet, the kind of place they’d crashed at hundreds of times before. Sam slammed the door behind him harder than necessary, the cheap wood rattling in its frame. His jaw was tight, eyes burning with that familiar mix of fury and fear he couldn’t seem to shake lately.
He looked at his brother, Dean, sprawled on one of the beds with his boots still on, flipping through channels on the TV without a care in the world. A half-empty beer sat on the nightstand next to a greasy burger wrapper—classic Dean deflection tactic number one- act like nothing’s wrong until the world burns down around him.
“Dean,” Sam said, voice low, with a hint of anger.
Dean didn’t even look up. “Yeah, Sammy?”
Sam crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the remote, and clicked the TV off. The sudden silence felt heavier than the noise had.
“We need to talk about this.”
Dean finally glanced at him, one eyebrow cocked, that infuriating half-smirk pulling at his mouth. “About what? The case? ‘Cause I’m thinking the ghost in Tulsa is-”
“About the deal,” Sam cut in, stepping closer until he was looming over the bed. “Your deal. The one where you sold your soul and you’ve got less than a year left. That one.”
Dean’s smirk didn’t falter. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, but his eyes stayed light, playful even. “Jesus, Sam. We’ve been over this. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re both fine. Why don’t you go get us some more beer and we can—”
“No.” Sam’s hand shot out, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he could stand. His grip was tight, fingers digging in just enough to make it clear he wasn’t letting go this time. “No more beer. Stop joking around, you’re not running off to some bar or picking up some random girl just to avoid this. You’re going to talk to me. Right now.”
Dean looked down at Sam’s hand on his wrist, then back up at his brother’s face. Something flickered behind his green eyes, quick and almost too fast to catch, but he covered it with a low chuckle.
“Damn, Sammy. When did you get so handsy?” He twisted his wrist lightly, not really trying to break free, just testing. “You wanna talk? Fine. Talk. But I already told you. I made the deal, it’s done, and I’m not sorry. You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Sam’s breath hitched, frustration boiling over into something sharper, hotter. He leaned in closer, voice dropping. “You think this is funny? You think I can just sit here and watch you count down the days like it’s nothing? Like you’re not my brother?”
Dean’s smirk softened into something almost gentle, but his words stayed deflecting, “Hey, I’m everyone’s brother. World’s biggest pain in the ass, remember? Come on, man. Lighten up. We’ve got time. Let’s just-”
Sam’s grip tightened. He was breathing heavier now, chest rising and falling, the air between them thick with everything Dean refused to say. Dean’s eyes darkened for just a fraction of a second as Sam’s fingers dug harder into his wrist. He didn’t pull away. Instead, a slow, lazy smile spread across his face, the kind that usually meant trouble.
“Easy there, tiger,” Dean murmured, voice dropping low. “You’re gripping me like you’re afraid I’m gonna disappear right now.”
Before Sam could snap back, Dean moved. He twisted smoothly, using Sam’s own hold against him to reverse their positions. In one fluid motion he had Sam’s wrist instead, tugging him forward and down onto the bed. Sam landed on his back with a surprised grunt, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.
“Dean! what the hell—?” Sam started, trying to push himself up, but Dean was already there, knees bracketing Sam’s hips, one hand planted firmly on Sam’s chest to keep him pinned.
“Shh. Just… stop talking for a second, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was softer now, almost coaxing, but the deflection was still thick in every word. “You wanna hold me so bad? Fine. But let’s do it right.”
Sam’s hands came up automatically, shoving at Dean’s shoulders. “Get off me. We’re not doing this right now. We’re talking about the deal—”
“Yeah, yeah, the deal. I heard you.” Dean leaned down, lips brushing the shell of Sam’s ear as he spoke. “But you’re shaking, man. You’re pissed and you’re scared and you’re gripping me like I’m the only thing keeping you together. So, maybe… maybe you need this more than you need to yell at me tonight.”
Sam bucked underneath him, trying to throw Dean off, but Dean just shifted his weight, pressing their chests together, grounding him.
The fight in Sam’s body slowly ebbed. Sam hadn’t given up, no, he didn’t even want to, but the familiar heat of Dean’s body against his was doing things it always did, it made his anger twist into something hungrier.
“Dean…” It came out half-warning, half-plea.
“That’s it,” Dean whispered, already working open the buttons of Sam’s flannel with practiced fingers. “Just let me. You can be mad at me later.”
Sam’s hands fisted in Dean’s shirt for a moment, like he was still debating shoving him away. But then his grip loosened. His breath hitched as Dean peeled the flannel off his shoulders, then tugged the t-shirt underneath up and over his head, exposing warm skin and the long lines of Sam’s torso.
Dean’s mouth followed his hands, kissing down the center of Sam’s chest while his fingers worked Sam’s belt buckle open with embarrassing ease.
Sam’s hips twitched involuntarily when Dean’s hand slipped inside his jeans, palming him through his boxers. “Fuck… we shouldn’t-”
“We’ve got the lube in the duffel, right where we left it last time,” Dean said against his skin, voice rough and teasing. “Don’t pretend we’re not prepared for this shit, Sammy. We’re way past pretending.”
Sam groaned, half in frustration, half in surrender. His head fell back against the pillow as Dean shoved his jeans and boxers down his long legs in one go, leaving him bare under the bedside lamp light. Dean sat back on his heels for a second, his eyes raking over him with that same hungry look, like Sam was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Goddamn, you’re beautiful when you’re angry,” Dean muttered, already reaching for the small bottle they kept tucked in the side pocket of the duffel. Sam’s hand shot out and caught Dean’s wrist again, just to hold on, not wanting to fight him anymore.
His voice was rough when he opened his mouth, “This doesn’t fix anything, Dean. This doesn’t make the clock stop.”
Dean leaned down, pressing a slow, deep kiss to Sam’s mouth, swallowing whatever else he was going to say.
“I know,” he whispered against Sam’s lips when he pulled back, eyes gleaming with a stubborn refusal to face it head on. “But it feels good, doesn’t it?”
Dean popped open the cap on the lube, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers while his other hand stroked lazily up and down Sam’s thigh, keeping him spread open on the bed. Sam lay there, chest still heaving, trying to hold onto the anger even as his body betrayed him.
“Relax, Sammy,” Dean murmured, voice low and rough. He shifted lower between Sam’s legs, one knee pushing Sam’s thigh wider. “You’re wound so tight you’re gonna snap.”
Sam’s jaw clenched. He stayed mostly still, just like Dean knew he would once the fight started bleeding out of him. His long legs were tense, muscles twitching under Dean’s touch, but he didn’t shove him away again. Didn’t close his legs or roll over. Just lay there, breathing through his nose, eyebrows still furrowed deep in that stubborn, furious expression that made Dean’s chest ache in the worst way.
Dean circled one slick finger around Sam’s entrance, teasing for a second before pressing in slow and careful. Sam’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move much—just a tiny shift of his hips, almost involuntary. His hands stayed fisted in the sheets beside him, knuckles white.
“Fuck,” Sam muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to will himself not to feel it.
Dean watched his face the whole time, mesmerized. Those thick eyebrows were still scrunched tight in anger, the line between them sharp and deep, like Sam was still mentally yelling at him about the deal, about the clock ticking down, about everything Dean refused to talk about.
But every time Dean crooked his finger just right, brushing that spot inside him, the scowl would falter for a split second, eyebrows twitching, smoothing out before snapping back into place like Sam was fighting it with everything he had.
Dean added a second finger, performing a scissoring motion gently, stretching him open with practiced patience. He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Sam’s thigh, then another higher up, close enough that Sam could feel his breath ghosting over his cock.
“Look at you,” Dean whispered, voice thick with heat and something softer he’d never admit to. “Still mad as hell at me, huh? Those pretty eyebrows all scrunched up like you wanna punch me... but they keep slipping every time I do this-” He curled his fingers again, deliberate and slow.
Sam’s breath stuttered. His eyebrows twitched hard, the anger cracking for a longer beat this time, mouth falling open on a quiet, reluctant sound. But he stayed mostly still, only the slightest rock of his hips betraying how much he needed it.
“Dean…” Sam’s voice was strained, half-warning, half-begging, but he didn’t tell him to stop.
Dean smirked against his skin, twisting his fingers deeper, loving the way Sam’s scowl would fracture and then re-form, like a war happening right there on his face. The anger was still there, raw and real, but underneath it the pleasure was winning, bit by bit.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean breathed, pressing a third finger in carefully, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. “Stay mad if you want, Sammy. I like you like this. All pissed off and tight around my fingers, but still letting me take care of you.”
Sam scowled at him again, like he was about to argue again, but another slow thrust of Dean’s fingers made them falter hard, his whole expression cracking open just enough for Dean to see the raw want underneath.
Sam’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his eyebrows still locked in that tight, furious scrunch even as his hole clenched greedily around Dean's fingers. The anger was still there, simmering hot under his skin, but it was starting to curdle into something bitter.
He knew exactly what Dean was doing. To him, it wasn’t comfort. or even a real distraction anymore. It was his favorite fucking escape hatch—shutting Sam up with his hands and his mouth and his cock until the hard conversation dissolved into sweat and cum and silence. Sam could feel it in every careful thrust of Dean’s fingers, in the way Dean watched his face like he was cataloguing every crack in the anger instead of actually listening.
Sam’s voice came out rough and edged with frustration. “Dean… just fuck me already.”
Dean’s fingers stilled inside him. He tilted his head, green eyes gleaming with amusement. “Yeah? Is that what you want, Sammy? You done yelling at me?”
Sam’s jaw clenched, and he rolled his eyes with a sigh. “I’m not done. But you’re not gonna hear me out anyway, are you? You’re just gonna keep deflecting until I can’t think straight. So fine. Fuck me. Just get it over with.”
A grin spread across Dean’s face. He pulled his fingers out carefully, wiping them on the cheap motel sheets beneath him before lubing up his cock with more of the lubricant. “Bossy little shit tonight, huh?”
He lined up and thrusted in slow with one long, steady slide until he was buried to the hilt. Sam’s breath punched out of him, back arching slightly off the bed, but he still tried to keep mostly still, clinging to that last thread of control. Dean groaned low in his throat at the tight heat, hips twitching once before he forced himself to stay put, letting Sam adjust.
“There we go,” Dean murmured with a teasing tone he used when he wanted to crawl inside Sam’s head. “Look at you. My big, smart little brother. Always with the big brain, always trying to save me, always thinking ten steps ahead about deals and hell and clocks ticking.”
He rolled his hips once, deep and deliberate, grinding against that spot that made Sam’s thighs tremble, “but none of that matters right now, does it?”
Dean’s hand slid up Sam’s chest, fingers splaying over his throat. He didn’t squeeze hard at first. It just rested there, warm and heavy, a promise. Sam’s eyes widened, eyebrows still furrowed in that stubborn anger even as his cock twitched hard against his stomach.
“Dean-” Sam started, but Dean tightened his grip, thumb pressing just under Sam’s jaw, cutting off the words into a choked sound.
“Shhh. No more big words, Sammy. You dont need to lecture me about my soul or my deal or how I’m gonna leave you all alone.” Dean started thrusting properly now, with slow and heavy rolls of his hips that dragged against that sensitive spot inside his brother, “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that? You've alqays got your nose buried in those thick books, trying to find a way out for me. But look at you now…”
He squeezed a little harder, watching Sam’s face flush. Sam’s hands came up weakly, pushing at Dean’s wrist, trying to shove him off, but there was no real strength behind it. His long fingers just trembled against Dean’s forearm as his mouth fell open on a broken whine.
Dean leaned down closer, lips brushing Sam’s ear while he kept that steady, punishing rhythm. “That’s it. Can’t even form a full sentence anymore, can you? My genius little brother reduced to a drooling mess with just my hand around his throat and my cock in his ass. Pathetic, huh?”
Sam’s eyebrows twitched hard, still trying to hold onto the anger, but his eyes were glazing over. A thin trail of spit escaped the corner of his mouth as another weak, needy whine slipped out. He pushed at Dean’s chest again, his attmpt feeble and uncoordinated like his brain was still fighting but his body had already surrendered.
Dean chuckled, tightening his grip just enough to make Sam’s vision blur again. “Yeah, listen to those pretty little sounds you’re making. Your just whining now. Not more ‘we need to talk about the deal, Dean.’ You're just my dumb little baby letting his big brother take care of everything.”
Dean’s hips snapped harder, the wet slap on skin on skin filling the room as he thrust into Sam deeper, hand staying on his throat. His brother’s cock leaked steadily onto his own stomach, his hips twitching up to meet every thrust even while his hands kept up their weak, useless shoving against Dean’s shoulders and wrist.
“Fuck… look at that face,” Dean groaned, eyes fixed on the way Sam’s eyebrows kept scrunching and faltering, “Still trying to be mad at me even while you’re drooling over yourself.”
After a few more thrusts, Dean came in Sam with a guttural moan, spilling into him messily. Sam followed right after, his cock pulsing across his own stomach in thick stripes while broken whimpers spilled from his slack mouth. His eyes were glassy, tears already gathering at the corners from the overwhelming stretch and the way Dean’s hand had stayed wrapped around his throat even then.
For a long moment, the only sound in the motel room was their ragged breathing. Dean stayed buried inside him, forehead pressed to Sam’s sweaty shoulder, both of them trembling through the aftershocks. Sam was boneless beneath him, chest heaving, mind still fuzzy and slow from being fucked so thoroughly. Dean finally pulled out carefully, before collapsing half on top of Sam, one arm slung heavy across his waist. He pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along Sam’s collarbone, murmuring sweet nothings against his skin. “Good boy… fuck, Sammy, you take me so well every time.”
Sam stayed quiet at first, floating in that soft, hazy headspace where nothing felt quite real. His body was sweaty and warm, the anger momentarily burned out. But as the high faded and his breathing evened out, reality crept back in like cold water seeping under a door.
His eyebrows slowly scrunched up again. The tears that had been threatening finally spilled over, hot and silent at first, then with a shaky hitch of breath.
“Dean…” Sam’s voice cracked, raw from the earlier whining and the tight grip on his throat. He tried to push Dean off him, but it was weak, half-hearted, his hands just pressing against Dean’s chest without any real force. “I hate this. I hate that you’re just… doing this to shut me up. Every time.”
Dean shifted their positions so Sam was tucked against his side, one arm wrapped firmly around Sam’s broad shoulders, pulling him in close. He didn’t let Sam pull away. Instead, he pressed Sam’s face into the crook of his neck, fingers carding gently through the messy strands of Sam’s hair.
“Hey, hey… c’mere,” Dean murmured, voice low and rough but trying for that easy, reassuring tone he always used when things got too heavy. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Sam’s shoulders shook with a quiet sob, the tears coming faster now, soaking into Dean’s skin. His voice was muffled against Dean’s neck, thick with exhaustion and grief. “I wish you wouldn’t die. God, Dean… I wish you’d just… stop acting like it’s nothing. Like you’re not leaving me here alone in less than a year. I can’t— I can’t do this without you.”
Dean’s arms tightened around him, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles up and down Sam’s bare back. He could feel the way Sam’s body trembled against his, the way his little brother was falling apart in his arms, and it twisted something sharp and painful in his chest. But he still couldn’t go there. Not yet, at least.
“Shh, Sammy. Don’t do that. Don’t cry over me like I’m already gone.” Dean pressed a kiss to the top of Sam’s head, then another to his temple, holding him tighter, like he could physically keep the world from taking him away. “I’m right here, aren’t I? Warm, breathing, and I just fucked you stupid. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”
Sam let out a wet, frustrated sound, his fist weakly thumping once against Dean’s chest before his fingers curled into the fabric of Dean’s shirt instead, clinging. “But you will. You will go. And you won’t even talk about it. You just… deflect and fuck me and act like everything’s fine.”
Dean exhaled slowly, still not pulling back, still not letting Sam go. His hand kept stroking through Sam’s hair, gentle and steady, the way he used to when Sam was little and had nightmares. “Look… I know you’re scared. I get it. But panicking isn’t gonna change anything. We’ve still got time. We’ll figure it out when we have to, okay? Right now, just… let me hold you. You’re shaking, man. Breathe.”
Dean’s arms locked around Sam’s back, one hand cupping the back of his head, pressing him close enough that Sam could hear the steady rhythm of Dean’s heart beating against his ear.
“You’re not alone tonight,” Dean whispered against Sam’s hair, voice soft but still dodging the real weight of it all. “I’ve got you. I always got you, Sammy. Just… stay here with me for a while. Stop thinking about the time we have left or deals or any of that shit right now.”
Sam’s crying quieted into shaky, hiccupping breaths, his body slowly melting into Dean’s embrace even as the anger and grief still simmered underneath. He didn’t argue again. He just let Dean hold him and let the familiar warmth and scent of his brother wrap around him like a shield against the inevitable, even if both of them knew if was temporary.