Word Count: 8000+
Warnings: Spanking, wincest (mild BDSM), teensy bit of John-bashing, sorry *g*
Summary: Sam and Dean have a history they buried five years ago. But after their run-in with Gordon, Sam feels a need to revive it.
Spoilers: To be safe, all episodes up to S2E10 ‘Hunted’
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing from Supernatural. This is just shameless borrowing of the fictional characters for non-monetary fun, with the promise that they will be returned no more broken than they were to begin with.
Author Notes: Written for lostandalone22in the slashfest Round V challenge. Stands alone somewhat like a missing scene from ‘Hunted’. Be prepared for POVs switching back and forth, and flashbacks within flashbacks hehe.
Original Prompt: – “Sam/Dean. Dean punishes Sam for thinking it was okay to run off in ‘Hunted’. I'm looking for a BDSM one here.” Muchos gracias to roseganymedeand voicelesssongfor the terrific beta! *hugs*
They’re approaching Terre Haute when Dean says it, at last.
“Dude, you ever take off like that again…”
Sam smirks, can’t help it really.
“What? You’d kill me?”
Dean doesn’t respond, doesn’t need to. He just looks sideways at Sam, barely a passing glare, but it is enough. And it is cold, mind-numbingly cold… teeming with all the terrible rage and fear and helplessness of the last few hours.
Hell, forget last few hours. Try ever since Dad died.
// He said I might have to kill you Sammy… //
Sam chuckles, but nervously. Not so sure he should have given into the temptation of being the smartass for a change, not now, of all times. Not like this. Winces, tries another short, soft laugh to brush the tension away.
“Alright, I know, it’s not funny.”
“Damn right it’s not!”
Dean erupts, almost without intent. And then he can’t reel it back.
“You’re going through some serious shit - I get it, alright, I get it. But don’t you forget I’m going through it too, with you.”
// You think I wanted this? Huh? I wish to God he’d never opened his mouth! Then I wouldn’t have to walk around with this screaming in my head all day. //
Sam tries to get a word in, something about denial, or ‘it’s not you the demon’s coming for’ or ‘I’ve always been the freakin’ black sheep in this family and this just fucking proves it’ or something. But hell, if he can’t convince himself, how could he possibly convince Dean? God knows this is freaking his protective big brother out a lot more than it’s scaring him. Changes his mind and just shuts up as Dean carries on scolding Sam like he was ten.
“And I don’t care if you think I’m holding you back. You’re stayin’ right here by my side Sammy, ‘cause if you don’t…”
Anger flares up in both the brothers equally, and Sam doesn’t really know how not to respond to a challenge like that.
“What? What happens if I don’t, huh? I’m getting really tired of these empty threats of yours, Dean, so if you got something to say to me? Just say it.”
Dean glares at him, and all Sam can see is pure, unadulterated fury. Or maybe that’s all he can focus on right now because it’s too damn hard to acknowledge the whirlwind of emotions gathering in Dean’s eyes.
Dean’s voice is low, a razor sharp hiss… a desperate rasp of breath barely masquerading as sound.
He knows Sam Winchester stopped responding to orders and commands years ago. But between the two boys, there once used to be more… more that once bound Sam to his brother… grounded him, controlled him like nothing else could. More than field orders and brotherly bullying and foolhardy machismo.
And this is what Dean now invokes into his eyes and his voice… if only as a threat… but it’s what he knows will have an impact on Sam like nothing else can.
Sam sees it, recognizes it from their shared past… and he shuts up. Shocked, intimidated, not doubting for a second that Dean would do it.
He swallows, his eyes locked with Dean’s and the older man smiles, full of age-old pain and sadness.
“You don’t wanna go back there, Sammy. You don’t.”
Dean turns to concentrate on the road, leaving Sam in a quivering mess of memories and scrambled thoughts. Emotions that he’d suppressed for so long he’d forgotten they ever existed… emotions that were like barely healed wounds… now scraped and reopened with the cruel bluntness of Dean’s words.
Sam forgets the wet stinging in the small of his back, tries to rest against his seat only to jump and gasp in pain. Bites his lip and looks away, out of his window. It is nothing of course, compared to the agony he feels inside. And try as he might, this time, there is no running away from it.
// Dude, you ever take off like that again… //
Sam is seventeen the very last time it happens.
They tumble into the motel room one after another, happy to escape the pouring rain and the cops on their tail. Atlanta’s Carlos Museum housed a number of famous Egyptian artifacts, including mummies. The Winchesters recently discovered that the latest addition to the mummy collection was not as dead as one would ordinarily prefer.
Basic salt and burn 101, so John lets them handle this one on their own and goes after a pack of werewolves in Alabama. Except it doesn’t turn out to be basic salt and burn after all because of two things – the high security at the museum, and the fact that the angry spirit is onto them from the moment they break into the premises.
In the end though, the job’s done, successfully, and Sam’s totally kicked. It was his night, his very own adventure because for once he wasn’t just the trusty, skinny geek sidekick. Hell no, tonight he was the hero. And now he can’t stop reliving it, can’t stop talking about it.
“Oh, man!” He laughs out loud. “You should’ve seen the second guard’s face.”
Dean wishes he could see the humor in Sam’s words, he really does, hoping it would distract him from the uncontrollable shaking of his fingers. Instead it’s just making it worse.
He pulls out a towel from behind the bathroom door and throws it at Sam, who catches it just before it can hit him in the face. It shuts him up, and Dean turns away, relieved.
Dean sighs, and the moment he turns toward Sam, the towel flies back at him, landing squarely on top of his head. Sam laughs again, louder this time, as Dean battles with the towel for a whole two seconds. Pissed, he flings it back with even greater force, but Sam is ready for it and this time when he laughs, Dean can’t help but join in.
He reaches out and Sam comes to him willingly, letting Dean entwine his strong arms around him and capture Sam’s lips with his own. If Dean is holding him a little too tight and a whole lot more desperately than usual, Sam doesn’t comment on it. Simply lets his big brother devour his mouth like a man utterly starved. They stand in the middle of the small motel room, kissing for ages. Relishing the aftertaste of the hunt… with all its thrilling and scary parts, the adrenaline rush of victory and the consolation of no broken bones and no blood… just salt and sweat and gunpowder and everything that’s Sam and Dean, together.
Sam is the first to break it off, gasping for air as Dean holds him by the sides of his face, brushes the long unruly hair back from his eyes.
“Dude, you ever take off like that again…”
Sam smirks, breathing harder than before. Yes he’d taken off, leading the vengeful spirit away from where Dean was busy cutting open the glass cage that housed the mummified body. And Dean hadn’t known where he was for twelve minutes.
// Sam!! Don’t fucking fuck with me, Sammy, c’mon! Answer me… please… //
They’d been the longest twelve minutes of his whole damn life.
“What?” There is a challenge and a half in Sam’s teenaged eyes.
But Dean turns away, starts to unbutton his wet shirt in an attempt to calm the emotions raging once again. Sam just keeps prodding.
“You have that look in your eyes, Dean, like you really really wanna…”
Sam leaves the sentence incomplete, knows Dean is by this time struggling to not grin, and he’s right. He goes toward Dean who continues to keep his face averted. Sam chuckles then, and does what he must. Suddenly embraces him from behind, slipping his arms under Dean’s armpits and splaying his gigantic paws flat over Dean’s pectorals. Strokes, just the way he knows gets Dean worked up, every damn time.
“C’mon Dean. Why don’t you share with the class, what you wanna do, huh?”
He hears Dean’s breath catch in his throat, and smiles. Puts on a fake voice, pouting, filled with pretend-penitence.
“I didn’t listen to you. And you’re second in command!”
Sam gasps loudly as he says it, once again mocking the system their father’s put in place. Dean struggles to shrug him off, but the attempt is extremely half-hearted. All he wants is to lose himself in Sammy’s large hands that feel so fucking great, roaming all over Dean’s torso like he was exploring virgin territory (and to that - hah, yeah right. )
“I’m third in command, of course; so what if there’s no one left to command?”
It’s an old, recurring joke in the family, and the boys just have to snigger. Sam’s deft fingers unbutton the rest of Dean’s shirt and sweep down the length of hot, naked skin until Dean gives in to a groan. Leans back against the younger boy who is already an inch taller, and Sam nuzzles into the side of Dean’s face. Teasing him.
“I was bad, Dean. So… Very… Bad. What do you wanna do about it, huh?”
He slips his hands downwards, stroking the muscled abs before dipping lower, following a thin barely-there line of dark blonde hair into Dean’s zipper. Dean sighs again. Opens his eyes, steps out of reach and turns around to face his little brother. Sam sees something dangerous, something enchanting… something fearful… glinting in his sea green eyes. Stands mesmerized in the impassive perfection that is Dean… in the sinful promise of what is about to follow, and his heart skips a beat. Or more.
He wonders if it’s too late now to change his mind.
“What ought to be done Sammy, that’s what.”
Sam forgets again. Goes to lean back against the seat and pulls back with a start once again. God that hurts.
On the upside, the sting does pull his tired thoughts away from flashing back to the past he so wishes they didn’t - but when did his autonomously active brain ever listen to him anyway?
Hazards a quick sideways glance only to see that Dean is still as stoic and silent as he was forty minutes ago. He notices how Dean keeps biting his lip though, like when he’s struggling to keep it from trembling in sheer rage. Rage so harsh and so overwhelming, it’s about to manifest itself physically in tears. But God knows Dean will never allow that.
And yet, it’s not just rage… no. It’s also fear. Fear of failure. Fear of making a fatal, irreversible mistake.
Fear of losing his brother.
Sam looks away, mostly because it’s too painful to look at Dean any more. His big brother is not supposed to do fear, damn it! But fact is, he’s seen that… that thing on Dean’s face and in Dean’s eyes before. Many, many times before.
// I've been thinking about this. I think we should lay low, you know. At least for awhile. It’d be safer. Then that way I could make sure… //
But Goddamnit, he is scared too! Sam always confides in Dean about how he feels, what he’s going through. But ever since he left for Stanford, the brothers had drifted apart. They weren’t as close and as honest with each other as they once were. And they weren’t… together like the way they once were, either. After Jessica, it’s just been one crazy-ass ride after another and they never really had the time to sit back and… and…
// I can’t lose you, Sammy. //
// I ain’t going nowhere. I promise… //
Sam brushes the tears aside, and turns his head way out the window to make sure Dean doesn’t see him being such a fucking wimp. He sometimes thinks that in another life, his brother could have been one hell of an actor. Dean is so freakin’ good at pretending like they’d never… like that thing they once had… it just never existed.
Well, good thing Sam learnt from the very best.
He is leaving his sixth message on Ava’s phone when they pull into a posh looking motel. Dean kills the engine, opens his door, flooding the dark insides of the car with a dull, yellow light.
“I’ll get us a room. Stay here.”
Stay here. It’s a casual command, one he’s given a hundred times before, except there is nothing casual about it this time. Sam is supposed to stay put if he knows what’s best for him.
They park beside their room, and instead of stalking off with his bag like Dean usually does when something Sam does has ticked him off (and this is a big one), he waits patiently as Sam takes his time pulling his duffel out.
Sam doesn’t react, mutely walks up to the door with Dean following right behind. Dean then steps ahead, unlocks and pushes open the door and waits for Sam to go in first. And all this supervision crap should really be annoying the hell out of him… except, it’s not. Sam feels strangely numb but for the throb in his back that’s getting worse with every minute.
He claims the bathroom first, not that Dean objects. Knows there are cuts and bruises to be cleaned and sterilized, which Sam had better get to and fast. A fleeting desire to be able to do it for Sam crosses Dean’s mind but he clamps it down just as quickly. Touching Sam… in any way, intimate or otherwise… was basically asking for trouble. Like opening a five year old can of worms sort of trouble which they surely didn’t need, and especially not tonight. Tonight, there was simply way too much baggage to bear and bury in the back of their minds before they could get on with their lives.
Sam locks the bathroom door from inside, shrugs off his jacket and shirt, then undershirt and finally his jeans. Stands in his plaid boxers and stares at himself in the blurry mirror. He used to be so skinny, so awkward and clumsy in his gangly new limbs and yet… curled up in his brother’s arms he’d feel so… so small and safe and so…
// Damn. Why are you so beautiful? //
// I’m not. You just see me that way ‘cause…… Kiss me? //
“What ought to be done Sammy, that’s what.”
Dean reaches out for Sam then, but before his hands can close around the boy’s developing biceps, Sam squeals (literally) and takes off in the other direction.
“Damn, such a girl, Sammy!”
It’s a small room, not enough space for a chase but as Sam ducks and dodges out of reach, it becomes exciting enough. It’s a genuine chase after all, one Dean has to work very hard on because Winchesters do not play for leisure. And they don’t go easy on each other either (well, except Dean does, on Sammy, but he’ll never admit it out loud.) The laughter rings back and forth in the small room in the middle of the night, and if they had any neighbors they’d be kicking the boys’ door in by now.
At last, Dean manages a grasp that’s too strong for Sam to break out of. He grabs the boy around his waist from behind and pulls him toward the nearest queen-sized bed that just happens to be Sam’s (the neater one). They fall onto it together and wrestle for dominion until Sam is flat on his back and Dean is straddling him, holding Sam’s lower torso captive between his thighs, and pinning the slender (almost delicate but again Dean is not going to say that out loud since he’d like to keep his own not-delicate wrists unbroken, thank you very much) wrists to the bed by the sides of his head.
“You’re lucky to have a big brother like me, Sammy.”
Sam struggles, grunting in protest when his little mutiny gets squashed and he lands flat on his back again.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“’cause I do what it takes to make sure you have a strong moral fiber.”
“Dean, do you even know what that means?”
Dean just laughs, and is about to respond like the smartass he can be when Sam rises and abruptly closes his soft lips over Dean’s. A sudden silence falls over the room as they kiss. Dean resists at first, then when he can’t anymore, lets his tongue delve deeper and deeper into the hidden crevices of Sam’s mouth, teasing, caressing the silken walls until he can feel Sam harden and swell beneath him.
But then Sam pulls away, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Deaaaaannnn!”
Dean rolls his eyes and replies with an equally whiny “Saaaaammmm!”
“Just so you know, this position ain’t the best recommended for the moral reckoning you have in mind.”
Dean’s eyes glaze over, ever amazed at how his little brother could provoke the very devil with his words, so innocently delivered and yet so subtextually dirty.
He gets off of a giggling Sam and takes a seat resting against the headboard. Doesn’t let go of Sam’s collar though, knowing Sam could drag this out forever if he was allowed to. Tugs forcefully until Sam is lying across his lap and then arranges him to his liking. Sam’s head hangs over the side of the bed unlike their usual way, with his long legs off the bed but his head and neck always supported, and so Sam whines again.
“Wrong side up.”
“No no, this is perfect. Just the right side up.” Dean teases him by patting and rubbing his behind from over his jeans. Then suddenly lets loose a sound wallop. The slap echoes in the small room and Sam is taken aback because he wasn’t expecting one so damn soon.
“Shh… time to shut up now and take your punishment like a man, Sammy.”
Something in Dean’s voice… Sam should have been paying more attention. Instead he just closes his eyes and moans when Dean rubs some more, then smacks him a couple more times, one on each buttock. Sam bites his lip, astounded at how hard Dean must be hitting for it to hurt already, and over the denim covering no less. All thoughts and doubts evaporate though, when Dean twists a hand around Sam’s waist and undoes his jeans.
“You shouldn’t have left my side, Sammy.”
Course Sam still isn’t listening. He’s too busy getting restless because Dean is taking too damn long dragging the jeans and boxers off of him. He squirms a little.
“I saved your ass, doofus. You should be thanking me.”
Which was kinda true, but that’s not why he says it. He says it because he knows it will make Dean madder.
Dean yanks the rest of Sam’s clothes off in a furious tug, throws them across the room. The sight of his baby brother’s pale white bottom with a couple of pink splotches on each cheek is almost enough to distract him… well, almost. He rests his mildly tingling hand on the high crest and caresses ever so softly, and Sam mewls. Arches up, pushing his butt straight into that hand, shamelessly asking for more.
“You think this is a game, boy, don’t you?”
Sam cranes his neck back at him and flashes that smirk of his. The smirk Dean saw on his face just before he’d taken off in the other direction to lead the spirit away. The memory brings back all the terror and panic of the moment when he couldn’t hear Sam’s running footsteps anymore and he didn’t know where he was… if he was even alive. Dean had driven a foot through the glass case instead of working carefully to cut it open because he couldn’t wait, hence alerting security. And all the fucking while he’d kept on screaming.
// Sam!! Don’t fucking fuck with me Sammy c’mon! Answer me… please… //
And then he’d salted and burnt the fucking ten thousand year old corpse, thrust the back of his shotgun in a guard’s face, breaking his nose, and taken off after Sam.
“I’m sorry to blindside you like this, Sam, but this ain’t what you think.”
And Dean starts spanking the boy in earnest. He can feel Sam’s growing erection digging into his thigh, so he pauses for a bit. Sam, who’d almost lost himself to that faraway zone inside his head, is pulled back to reality and he cranes his neck upwards to see what Dean is doing. The older brother arranges him again so that his erection now hangs between Dean’s thighs, and Sam groans, aware he’s just been robbed of a lot of delicious friction.
He whimpers when Dean pauses, fondles his butt cheeks lovingly.
Another smack follows and Sam jumps, moans. Dean sets up a strong rhythm, and usually by this time, he’s wussed out and switching to gentle soothing and apologizing (which is ridiculous ‘cause Sam loves being spanked), but Sam realizes this isn’t usual at all. His erection reaches its maximum rock hard potential, and now all he wants to do is start shooting and never ever stop.
Sam groans, really really loud this time. “Deaaaannn!”
“This is the real deal, Sammy.”
He doesn’t understand. Sure, so Sam acts like a brat and Dean acts like he’s mad… that’s the game they play, but come on! Isn’t Dean taking it a bit too seriously? He’s hitting him way too hard.
“Shit! Dean, ease up a little man.”
In response, Dean just smacks him a couple more hard ones.
“What the fuck? C’mon!!”
Now Sam is writhing and trying to get away. He puts a hand back on the edge of the bed for leverage to lift himself off Dean’s lap, but Dean anticipates the move, grabs his hand and holds it at the small of his back. Sam tries to get his other hand to stop the whacks, but then Dean crosses both his wrists together and holds him down more solidly than before.
“I couldn’t find you. Do you realize what that did to me?”
“Dean c’mon. It wasn’t the first time I’ve…”
And Sam realizes, though not in time, that it was absolutely the worst thing he could have said right now. Dean responds with a particularly strong smack that leaves a clear pink handprint right across his sit spot.
“Damn right, Sammy Winchester!”
“I understand you were trying to help. But you were supposed to stay right next to me where I can keep you safe. That’s the standing order unless I tell you otherwise. Ain’t it?”
Sam plays dumb at that, not happy with the question at all and especially since all he can think of saying is “Orders are lame.” He waits until another loud smack lands across his butt.
“Ugh! Stop please, Dean!”
“Answer the damn question!”
// You disobeyed an order. You put your life on the line without plausible reason, and what is the rule about that, Sammy? //
// Sam? Sammy? //
“Sam!” The door is thumped violently three more times before Sam is jolted back into the present.
“Ye-yeah… almost done.”
He’s been standing in the shower for about half an hour. The now lukewarm water has washed away the blood and sweat and grime, leaving his skin all red and wrinkly. Sam turns around to let the torrent hit his mid-back directly in hopes to quell the inferno there. But it only makes it worse, and a whimper escapes before he is able to bite it down, and he turns away from the water again.
Another ten minutes later when all the hot water is definitely gone (and Dean is not going to be happy about that), he wraps a flimsy towel round his waist and steps out of the bathroom. Dean is sitting on the couch going through something in Dad’s journal, one elbow propped up on the couch’s ragged arm, his legs stretched out and crossed on the coffee table in front. He’s taken off his jacket and boots, and the purple bruise on the side of his jaw is somehow more prominent despite the dim light of the motel room. A large pizza lies untouched, next to a six-pack on the table with one bottle missing. The said bottle, now empty, lies on the ground beside the couch.
Sam shies away from eye contact, turns to his duffel for a fresh set of clothes.
“I ordered pizza.”
Sam’s not hungry. “Okay.”
A moment of silence follows.
“Want a beer?”
Sam just shakes his head.
He stills, looks up from the bag at the blank beige wall straight ahead and bites his lip but doesn’t turn. Dean stands up instead, and walks toward the center of the room, next to one of the beds.
Sam swallows, manages to look at him hesitantly. “Why?”
Dean sighs, steps in closer to where Sam stands, reaches around to the shaving kit in Sam’s bag and as the younger man frowns (and damn near trembles because Dean is close, so fucking close…) he pulls out a small pair of tweezers and holds it up for Sam to see.
“What are you…?”
“You got a splinter in your back. It’s fucking ginormous, you moron. Come on.”
He gestures with a tilt of his neck, and Sam is left with no choice but to discard the clothes he is clutching to himself, and follow Dean toward the bed.
“Uhh…” Dean scratches his head once, working out in his mind how to do this. “Lie down.”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to…”
“Will you please for once do what I ask without arguing to hell and back about it?”
Dean is still pissed, and Sam is reminded of the coldness he’d seen in his eyes earlier. He swallows, and without another word, stretches out on the bed, head turned away from his brother. With one hand he holds the ends of the towel round his waist together, and the other somehow lands right next to his mouth. Knows he’s going to need it there.
“How did this thing get up here?”
Sam thinks about it, then shrugs. Maybe his shirt rode up when Gordon threw him into that rotting door and he’d crashed to the floor taking it down with him. He’d landed in the midst of all the broken pieces when it shattered underneath him.
Dean sits down next to him, and with both hands, warm, no… hot… with furnace hot hands, he starts to palpate the skin around the splinter. It’s a pretty big piece of wood, about four centimeters in length and maybe half a centimeter in width, embedded in the subcutaneous soft tissue just next to Sam’s spine, a little above the small of his back. The surrounding area is an angry red with all the engorged blood, first signs of inflammation, and no wonder it’s aching like a bitch.
“That sonofabitch had better stay put in the can if he knows what’s best for him.”
Sam smiles, softly, hides it behind his fist. Hisses a little at Dean’s touch despite the fact that he’s being really gentle. Besides, lying prone like this… face down and naked before Dean, it’s drudging up memories that Sam will forever dread, almost as much as he will forever cherish them.
“’kay, hold on.”
Using the tweezers, Dean grips the end of the splinter sticking out of the broken skin and carefully starts pulling it out. Sam flinches, hard.
“Shhh… almost there, Sammy…”
Sam stills, that voice, so soft and soothing… like he’s talking to a six year old, or maybe even a sixteen year old. Sam trembles, struggles to focus on something else besides the image that’s cropped up in his mind out of nowhere… an image of Sam and Dean fucking in the back of the Impala. Sam clenches his eyes shut, then exhales gratefully as Dean finally pulls the thing out and quickly presses the wound down with a cold compress. It’s bleeding but not profusely; a Winchester could live with that.
Dean then rises to get rid of the offensive little piece of wood, remarking off the cuff, “I know what you’re thinking.”
Sam takes his fist out of his mouth. “What.”
Dean smirks. “What’s your immunity status to tetanus?”
Sam’s face stays a stony blank, un-reactive.
// Damn it, Sam! This whole thing is spinning out of control. Alright, you're… you're immune to some weirdo demon virus? And I don’t even know what the hell anymore… //
Dean scoffs audibly as he comes back with an antiseptic.
“I know. We’ll get you a shot first thing tomorrow morning.”
“No. That’s… that’s not what I was thinking.”
Dean looks at Sam’s head, the wet tangled mess of brown hair is all he can see, but the sadness, he can hear. He comes back to the bed and puts a hand on the trembling shoulder.
“What is it, Sammy?”
Sam turns to him then, his face shuttered and unreadable.
“You should do what you oughtta do, big brother.”
Dean frowns, his voice barely more than a whisper because the déjà vu is just about starting to settle in.
“I didn’t listen to you. And you’re… you’re second in command.”
Manages an eerily cheerful smirk, somewhat nostalgic. “I’m third in command of course, so what if, there’s… there’s no one left to command?”
Yes. Dean remembers. God how he remembers.
“You disobeyed a direct order. What you did was completely unnecessary, and you know that. You put your life on the line without good reason, and what is the rule about that, Sammy?”
Sam bites his lip, clenches his eyes shut tight, acutely aware this wasn’t foreplay anymore. Hell, far from it. When no response reaches Dean’s ears, he starts hitting again. Sam’s butt is now a darkening shade of crimson, and in the battle of wills that ensues, the pain just won’t let Sam stay quiet, and soon he is pleading out loud. The first sting of tears at the corner of his eyes causes him to panic.
“Okay, okay! Dean, enough.”
Dean does pause, rubs the burning cheeks softly for a few seconds, catching his own breath and listening to the rapid thudding of Sam’s heart, his ragged breathing. The tension in his little brother’s frame is still very much palpable, and Dean realizes he needs to carry on. This time without a methodical rhythm, not letting Sam know where the next slap would land, throwing him off his complacency pretty damn fast.
Sam groans and whimpers and pleads and struggles to get away. Dean captures his flailing legs between his own, so Sam is completely immobilized, and keeps going. Until he hears the very first sob.
“Dean, it hurts, p-please…”
Sam is crying now. Allows the tears of genuine regret to fall down his face and gives voice to his misery at last. Dean stops, but Sam can’t stop sobbing. Realizes this is the hardest Dean has ever hit him any which way, and he can’t possibly escape the implication… Dean must have been totally freaked. And everybody knows Dean doesn’t handle freaked out very well, like at all.
“I’m s-sorry D-Dean, I…I should have l-listened…”
Dean’s voice is soft, and a little shaky itself. “I can’t keep you safe if I don’t know where you are, Sammy.”
And that’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? Sam winces his eyes shut, how he could possibly forget?
They have nothing else but this, no one else but each other. John Winchester is willing to throw his boys into a new life-threatening danger every week. And hell, Dean is willing to go through with it, no questions asked. But not Sam. The only reason Sam is in this… is Dean. Dean needs to believe that he has a greater, nobler purpose to his abnormal life than just assisting John Winchester in his obsessive quest for revenge. And that purpose is to take care of Sam, keep him safe. Hell, it’s the only thing that’s kept Dean going all these years.
Sam knows this… he’s known it ever since he was a little kid buckling under the weight of his very first shotgun… with dad shouting at him to stand up straight and stop bawling like a baby, and Dean right behind him, one firm hand supporting his little back, whispering hushed encouragements in his ear.
// It’s okay, Sammy, I got you. I got you. //
Damnit, how could he have forgotten?
“I… I’m so sorry Dean…”
And he still can’t stop crying. There isn’t much dignity left at the end of any (serious) spanking that his brother or father deliver, but the least he can do is take it like a man and stop freakin’ blabbering when they stop. But the tears just won’t cooperate. Never do.
Dean lets go of his hands and legs, grips him gently by his sides and turns him around until he is lying face up across Dean’s lap. Sam whimpers in pain when his scorched butt comes in contact with Dean’s thighs. Dean shifts him sideways so the contact is minimized and holds his baby brother to himself. Buries his face in Sam’s soft hair and tries to blink back his own tears.
“I’m sorry too, Sammy, I’m sorry too.”
// Sorry I lost you. Sorry you thought you had to put yourself in danger to help me out. Sorry I can’t handle being so goddamned worried about you. Sorry you’re hurting. Sorry you were in the mood for love, and I gave you nothing but pain. //
Sam buries himself in Dean’s chest as much as he can, curling up, trying to make himself as small as he once used to be. They sit like that for a long time, Dean rocking his brother, stroking his back and flanks to soothe his tears away. Soon Sam stops sniveling and quiets, content to just lie in the circle of Dean’s arms and do nothing.
Dean sighs deeply, probably emerging from his own thoughts of foreboding and relief, and presses his lips to the top of Sam’s head.
Sam squints open his eyes, and exhales in resignation.
“Yeah why not. Since you’ve killed, salted and burned the mood anyway.”
Then surprises Dean with a quick flash of dimples and a shy smile, and Dean can’t help but chuckle back.
“That can be fixed if you want.”
Sends a hand snaking downward to fondle Sam’s genitals teasingly, who immediately starts getting hard. Sam moans against his will, his legs falling open to welcome the intrusion as Dean’s hand tickles his perineum then moves further downward. Sam raises his head up to bring his mouth close to Dean’s, and they kiss. His hands make fists in Dean’s shirt, pulling him closer, if that were even possible. Dean obliges, because hey, when has Dean ever denied his little brother anything?
“Damn. Why are you so beautiful?”
“I’m not. You just see me that way ‘cause…… Kiss me?”
‘Cause you love me. But Sam doesn’t say that. They never ever say that. Instead they just kiss.
But Sam is right, the mood doesn't return until the next morning. Both brothers are just too somber for sex – Dean still fretting with thoughts of what almost happened, and Sam humbled by the fear he sees in his big brother’s eyes.
“I can’t lose you, Sammy.”
“I ain’t going nowhere. I promise…”
It was the last time they were together. The next day when John returned, he and Sam had a huge fight about something or the other (not important anymore because hey, the man is dead) that almost came to physical blows, and Dean intervened as always, but in the end he sided with dad… of course.
And that was it. That’s all it ever took. Sam accepted the full scholarship to Stanford three months later.
Sam looks up into Dean’s eyes… watches the confusion give way to painful remembrance of the way they once were.
“Please Dean… please…”
// I need it. You need it. You need to know I’m yours, still yours to protect and take care of. And I need… I need to feel safe, like I haven’t felt in five years. //
Dean realizes his own hand on Sam’s shoulder has started to shake and quickly he draws it back. Frowns, feels his heart jumping up and lodging itself in his freaking throat.
“Sammy, do you even know what you’re asking for?”
In response, Sam pulls the towel away from himself, dropping it to the floor. He raises himself propped up by his elbows and slides over to where Dean is seated. Looks into his eyes one last time, with undisguised desperation… a plea so strong and so frantic, it scares the hell out of Dean.
“Sam…” he whispers. Take it back, he wants to scream, take it back now.
Instead, Sam almost effortlessly drapes himself across Dean’s lap, his head hanging off the side of the bed once more. He is a couple of inches taller than the last time, but it’s all in his legs and anyway, it doesn’t fucking matter.
His voice is so small, and Dean can feel Sam’s trembling seeping through his own thighs and climbing up into his own limbs. Maybe it’s the beer, he thinks, that is making him give into Sam’s madness so damn easily. A madness that’s been missing from his life for five long years… Dean takes a deep shaky breath, and steels his heart.
The first fall of a hard, calloused hand is more shocking than hurting. Sam’s eyes blink open, and his brain clambers to process a resulting sensation but comes up with… nothing. At least not yet.
The second one takes its time in coming but it’s harder, surer, like Dean has finally found the will and conviction to go through with it. The third one makes Sam yelp.
Dean lightly rests his palm flat across the smarting butt, and Sam bites back a desperate mewl, resisting the urge to push himself up into the fleeting touch. How he’s missed his brother, and even now he's so near, and yet so out of reach…
“It’s been a while, Sammy…”
Sam quivers worried Dean was going to change his mind.
“I promised I’d never leave, and then I went back on it. Twice. Dean, you shouldn’t…”
“I know. You don’t have to say stuff just to get me mad, Sammy. I’m not doing this for me.”
Sam winces, embarrassed he is so freaking transparent. He doesn’t know what else to say, and Dean doesn’t explain himself either. He just raises his hand again.
The next several blows are strong and rhythmic, falling alternately on one cheek then the other at nearly equidistant time intervals. Sam winces with every smack (‘cause looks like Dean also got bigger and stronger, and harsher), struggles to hold himself in place but is eventually forced to give in to the pain. Starts to writhe this way and that, perhaps to let the spanks land on an area that isn’t serviced already.
“I begged you… asked you to give me some time. Just a little bit of time, to fucking think…”
Sam’s breath catches in his throat, the first tears start to drip down his flushed face.
“You lied to me, Sammy. And I’m thinking maybe you don’t trust me anymore?”
“Ah! You know that’s not true.”
“Yeah, how do I know that? You ditched me, didn’t ya?”
The pained accusation in his big brother’s voice breaks him. He lets go of a sob bubbling up his throat. And all he can do is hang his head lower in wordless acquiescence.
“You know I can’t keep you safe if…”
“If you d-don’t know where I… am, I know… I’m so-sorry…”
And he really is sorry. Running away from Dean always led to bad things – he got Jessica killed the last time he left. And this time he almost got them both butchered at the hands of that psycho hunter.
Dean tips him further forward so Sam’s head hangs closer to the floor and he can make out the lint in the dusty old carpet even through his tears-filled eyes. The spanks now fall directly on the skin that joins his buttocks to his slender thighs and it hurts like hell. Sam cries out in sheer agony, unable to stop his squirming despite his best efforts because damn it hurts!
It takes him several more hard blows to finally submit to his brother’s will, and Sam goes limp completely. A couple more minutes then Dean halts, switches to rubbing the crimson red area for the next few seconds. Waits until Sam’s sobs subside eventually, then Dean releases the deep breath he’s been holding himself.
“Why am I doing this, Sammy?”
Amid hiccups and the welcome reprieve from the burning pain, Sam whimpers and tries to get his tongue back under control.
“Be-because… I left… left you and…”
“No.” Dean sighs again.
Grabs Sam by his sides and pulls all of him back onto the bed. Sam groans almost in resistance when Dean flips him over and holds him like a toddler against his chest. His scorched butt contacts the bed cover when he finally gets his endless legs to curl up into his stomach, and he hisses, but really, the boy is so much bigger and heavier that Dean can do nothing but ignore it. He hugs him close though, brushing wild strands of damp hair away from his face, wipes at the tears running down the exquisite cheekbones.
Sam struggles to match Dean’s soulful green gaze with his, as his hands burrow into the faded blue flannel shirt. Prefers to fiddle with the buttons when Dean puts a finger under his chin and makes him look up. In Sam’s eyes he sees a glowing spark of intense longing that Dean’s possibly never seen before.
“Honestly Sam, why are we doing this?”
Dean barely nods. Starts when he feels Sam’s hand tightly gripping his own, moving it downwards and placing it on Sam’s flaccid member. Dean gasps, he’d been pointedly avoiding looking (let alone touching) anywhere in the vicinity of Sam’s lower torso and now this… this is making his heart thunder louder than ever, pumping all the blood in his body downward to his groin.
Sam molds Dean’s pliant fingers around his shaft, lets Dean be the one responsible for his rapid and brazen arousal. Dean might as well have touched a livewire, a string of hot-cold shivers run down his spine until he curses through his clenched teeth and grips Sam’s cock into a fist with all his might. Sam gasps audibly, surrendering to all the different sensations at the hands of his big brother and… God. There are no words to describe how much he’s missed this.
“I’ve missed you, Dean.”
He undulates, rubbing his sore ass back and forth against the bed, reviving the ache down there while at the same time moving his shaft in and out of Dean’s fist. Sam wants to close his eyes and lose himself in the sensual blend of pleasure with pain, but he needs to keep looking Dean in the eye. He needs to know his brother is still with him.
Dean remembers the day Sam turned sixteen. When the clock struck midnight, he had gotten out of his bed and crept up to Sam’s like he did every year. And he’d jumped right on top of his little (actually, not so little by then, just awfully skinny) brother, howling, scaring the big Jesus out of him.
“Happy Birthday, Samuel Francis!”
And Sam, despite being painfully pinned under the weight of the other boy, had flashed that thousand-watt smile of his, lighting up the dark night. And when Dean asked him what he wanted for his birthday, Sam had grabbed him by his ears, and pressed his mouth to Dean’s.
“You, Dean Joseph. I want YOU.”
So Dean kisses Sam, lips crashing into each other almost painfully as he descends the same time that Sam rises towards him. They hold onto each other like they haven’t in years… five goddamn years.
It’s not pretty, fact it’s violent… and messy and painful and angry, teeth biting and saliva dripping and Sam’s worried Dean might actually pull out a chunk of hair from the back of his head. The groans and the whimpers blend into each other and it’s hard to tell who’s winning, because that’s what it is… a battle. A race to decide who gives in first, who fucking apologizes first… the one who walked out, or the one who let him.
They stretch out on the bed and roll over until somehow a still naked Sam is lying on top of the completely clothed Dean. And when Sam finally realizes the anomaly, his hands start clawing at the fabrics to rip them off Dean’s body. Dean snorts and rolls them over again until he’s on top. Then shrugs out of his shirt and tee shirt while Sam goes to work on his belt. Takes him a second to realize Sam’s hands are shaking, and haven’t managed to make a dent with his belt, like at all.
“Sam? Sammy?… hey…”
Sam’s breathing grows shallow as he struggles with the metal buckle, the feel of leather in his hands triggering another poignant memory. Dean had used this belt on him once… just that once, and Dean didn’t wanna do it, but Sam had practically blackmailed him into doing it. Now that he thinks about it, everything Dean’s ever done, every decision he’s ever taken has been, in one way or another, influenced by Sam.
“Sam? What is it?”
Dean shifts to Sam’s side on the bed and presses his face against Sam’s, holding him tightly to himself. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong, but if Sam doesn’t want to go through with it, that’s perfectly fine by him.
“I always knew you’d come for me.”
Dean frowns. “What?”
Sam smiles, sheepish and sad all at once. “I… I just need you to be sure this is what you really want, Dean. I mean, you said it yourself, this job, this life… your heart’s not in it anymore.”
“What’s that got to do with you blowing me off, genius?”
“Everything, Dean! Don’t you see? I am the fucking job!”
Sam swallows hard but carries on, “And someday you’re gonna have to… Dean, dad wanted you to…”
“Screw dad! Okay, just… screw him!”
Sam is shocked. No matter what happens, no matter how pissed Dean’s been at John, he’s never ever shown such disrespect for their father. And definitely not in front of Sam.
“I let that man come between us once. I’m not letting him do it again.”
And he means it. Not a day has passed since that fight five years ago, that Dean didn’t wish he could take back his words… words that had torn all three of them apart, and eventually became the very reason Sam left for college. He didn’t care anymore who was wrong and who was right. All Dean knows is that he needs Sam. He needs Sam in his life, in his arms, in his bed every single night because nothing else is worth living for anymore.
He holds Sam’s face in both his hands, looks into the limpid eyes… eyes that haven’t been dry all night and god how Dean hates that.
“You’re everything I want, Sammy. All those years that you were discovering one new kink after another?” That makes Sam smile through his tears. “You said you wanted me to own you, remember?”
Sam blushes a little at that, but his nod is quick and sure.
“Damn it Sam, don’t you see? You’re the one who owns me. You always have.”
It’s the closest Dean’s ever come to a chick-flick moment, course the chicks would have to be like Goths or something.
Sam’s slanting eyes go wide. “You mean that?”
Dean wants to shake him. “Hell yeah.”
The last knot of tension between the brothers seems to melt away with Dean’s words. Sam sighs, and an accidental caress reminds him of another pressing matter at hand that absolutely must be discussed.
He swallows, pulls a smirk out of nowhere. “Prove it.”
And Dean smirks right back. “How?”
Dean cannot oblige fast enough, because hey, when has Dean ever denied his little brother anything?
Pulls a condom out of his jeans, and gets Sam’s sissy moisturizer out of his shaving kit to prepare him carefully. Sam is so freakin’ tight, and no matter how rough Sam might like it himself, Dean is in no mood to cause him any more pain tonight. Sam spreads himself open to let Dean push first two fingers, then three, into his anus, pistoning and scissoring inside of him until he starts to lose his mind and begs for Dean to get on with it already. Sam hooks his right leg over Dean’s shoulder as Dean rolls on the rubber and then slobbers his shaft with more lubricant.
“Come on come on come on Dean!”
“Yeah yeah, bossy bitch…”
Dean presses into him at last, sinking into the too tight, too hot depths of Sam inch after inch until he’s buried to the hilt, his balls resting on Sam’s still red ass. He pinches a butt cheek and Sam mewls, throws his head back against the headboard. With one hand Dean strokes his hard cock and with another he rubs and fondles the especially red sores on Sam’s butt. At the same time he keeps up the steady pounding into his brother’s demanding ass, hitting the prostate with deathly precision and regularity.
Sam digs his nails into Dean’s shoulders and simply surrenders to the myriad sensations. The incessant throbbing of his splinter wound only acts as a further stimulant… it’s like Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or weep and the confused signals just keep making him harder and hornier. The force of Dean’s thrust inside him practically lifts him clear off the bed then drops him back down on to it and he loves it… loves riding the wave of intense sexual ecstasy with Dean, and no one but Dean.
For the few short minutes that follow, the bed creaks and the room echoes with sounds of pleasure and sensory overload, until the boys finally let go. Dean shoots his release inside Sam and soon after pulls and tugs Sam’s erection until he comes in Dean’s hand. Dean barely manages to extricate himself and get rid of the condom, then collapses right on top of Sam. The younger man is too far gone himself to complain.
“Wow… that was…”
No words are exchanged for a while after that. Both wonder in private how they ever managed to live without the other for all these years. Sam turns to his side, facing Dean and burrows his head under the older man’s chin. He presses soft feather kisses to the sweating neck and chest until Dean laughs and whines about the tickling. He wraps his arms tight around Sam, silently vowing never to let go.
// I can’t lose you, Sammy. //
// I ain’t going nowhere. I promise. //
Sam yawns and stretches a bit, half asleep already. “So, where to next then?”
Dean licks his lips. “One word: Amsterdam.”
**** END ****
(ETA: Because I'm such a feedback slut and love to read comments posted anyfuckwhere, link to this story posted in slashfest: HERE)
A/N: So basically, the rest of the conversation they have in the car can be inserted after this point. *g* So um, please let me know what you think?