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stripytightsTitle: The Terminal Point of Addiction
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Length: 10,000 words
A/N: Written for this awesome prompt at spn_masquerade. Title nicked (as usual) from Auden. Set in early seasons.
Summary: It freaks the fuck out of Dean but there’s no going back from what he’s realized. It’s something he can’t fix - it’s an obsession.
Like this, on top of Sam, is more intimate than anything they’ve done before, pressed from head to toe close enough together that there’s no air between them. He feels like he’s drowning in the closeness, suffocating in the intensity that’s between them, a smothering that he welcomes, inhales, almost rolls in, can’t believe Sam can bear this for as much as a second, every moment stripping away the concealment that Dean’s built for a quarter of a century, letting the deep undertow of his selfishness be revealed, the dangerous current that he’s never let utterly rule him and now doesn’t think that he can stop. Can’t believe that Sam’s arching up towards him, not fleeing away at what can only be a half-revelation to him and a terrifying one at that - Sam may be in this along with him, but Dean doesn’t kid himself that his own feelings are even further from normal than a little bit of incestuous frottage. He tries to catch Sam’s eyes but they’re closed, and that increases the sense of falling, of distance opening where no distance should be, as though he’s here under false pretences. Then Sam’s eyes snap open, as though that fine twinge of subconscious awareness of his, tuned so often to the bleak disaster of humanity, has zeroed in on this room in the middle of nowhere, the monster in Dean.
Whatever Sam’s feeling, it isn’t fear - there’s a fierceness to his gaze, the sort of raw honesty that put Dean and their father to shame for years, a life lived in grey half-truths, tearing apart in the face of Sam’s uncompromising candour. There’s something as deep and dark in Sam’s eyes as anything that curls its way up from Dean’s most hidden mental recesses.
In its own way it mirrors the burning Dean feels in his gut, as though Sam’s being consumed from the inside right along with him. This is madness shared and doubled, folded in on itself in the hot friction of their bodies, the slide of their damp limbs, the brutal catching of skin against skin, a desperate grind as though in this moment they’ve forgotten anything but the basics of feral touch. He wonders dimly what flipped the switch, how long Sam has been on this road before him - whether he’s been travelling it longer - and that makes his stomach desperately jerk, sends him crashing closer against Sam at that idea, that he might be walking in Sam’s footsteps in this matter. He’s so close to coming, just from this - like he’s sixteen and humping with Emilie Davis under the picture of the Virgin Mary turned to face the wall in her bedroom - that he’s caught up in the feel, the inevitable rushing closer of orgasm, building sticky and heavy in his balls, in the base of his belly, and when Sam stills under him it almost doesn’t register for a second.
Then with the ease of long practice Sam rolls them over, settles himself on top and Dean’s pretty happy with that, blanketed under the hot heaviness of Sam’s unruly body, every breath a reward, and a little bit more of him twists free and displays itself, like a sunburn peeling, tissue-thin layers exposing the tender underbelly of soft skin laid open to the gaze. He thinks Sam gets that, when Sam bends and presses soft kisses sharpened with the blunt promise of teeth, no marks left on his skin, but branded indelibly underneath. However long they live, and omens don’t exactly point to a long and prosperous life, Dean will have these signs in his flesh, the soft uncertain dip of Sam’s mouth to collarbone, to neck, down his belly. When Sam lifts his head, uncertainty mixed with what Dean recognises now as desire, hot and liquid, and asks, asks what he wants, the catalogue is endless.
He could get Sam’s mouth around his dick, that smart curve of lip, look down and see the broad swell of Sam’s shoulders, the strong curve of his neck, nothing vulnerable about him, or have Sam’s big hands bringing him off like he imagined, mirror images repeating into infinity, or he could listen to the reptilian instinct that’s served him well in most parts of his life - the part of him that curls tenderly around his softer parts, that ducks and rolls and knows almost preternaturally where the next blow will come from, the thin edge of awareness that is the borders of his instinctive self.
The part of him that wants to devour and absorb, to leech everything from this encounter - as an animal stores fat against the future, he wants to bulwark for the time when common-sense whispers to him that this will be withdrawn. In for a penny, in for a pound, he lays his cards on the table, an all-time high stake, and plays with honesty, tells Sam what he wants - no words because they’d choke him. Wants the fulfilment of everything he’s imagined, slow and hot and heavy, pounding into him, as Sam’s kisses marked his skin, he wants to cling for long moments, take this from Sam and hold it in himself. Curls his fingers around the forgotten lube, the lonely condom and Sam is barely breathing, eyes huge in the gloom. There is an odd kind of force in Sam, a self-possession Dean envies - when Sam touches, he does it with assertion, a gentle insistence that positions his will as inevitable, and it is a failing that Dean has always felt in himself to match that will with more than stubbornness. He wonders why Sam follows him sometimes, when firsthand he’s seen the strength Sam can exert in pursuit of his goals. Realizes now in the way Sam touches him that Sam follows him because he wants to, that his feet were set on this path by external forces but he’s chosen to follow it, and it soothes something in him that he hadn’t known had needed it. Perhaps some part of him believes, this time if no other, that he’s earned it honestly, earned Sam’s loyalty by not trying to enforce it the way their father would have. Those thoughts scatter like leaves, though, as Sam plucks the lube from his hand, and Dean turns over, as much to hide his eyes as to make this easier.
He wants it, like he’s wanted little else of his own, the blunt force of Sam shattering him apart, in part because he dares to hope that he’ll be there to help put them back together. It’s all he’s thought about over the last few days - the tender ache of Sam, big all over as the promise had always been - and he lets an involuntary shiver rocket down his spine, calls it the cold, though sweat gleams on his skin, because for all his occasional good-time guys, he’s never done this before, laid himself bare and open, back to his partner, as vulnerable and alone as a human could be, defenceless tract of body exposed. Only when the bulk of Sam settles over him, as hair sweeps his neck as Sam kisses his shoulder soft and brief, like he’s forgotten who and what they are, he knows that for a lie - he’s not unprotected, not while Sam is here.
Sam’s fingers are slow and relentless, a long drawn-out breath of time between touches, until the tension sinks from Dean’s back, absorbed by the bed, and still he continues - fingers wet with lube now - to press and stroke over Dean’s hole, a glide that frustrates and teases until finally finally he sinks in, and Dean resists the urge to bite the pillow, holds his breath for long counts, squirms against the intrusion - it’s not exactly painful - being thrown against a wall by a vengeful spirit beats it hands down on that front, but it’s strangely intimate, more than he thought it would be. When he moves there’s a sensation that could be pleasure if he thought about it right, or at least the promise of it, and Sam responds to that, as in tune with him now as on a hunt, a tandem effort, and Dean fists his fingers into the slippery bedspread and tries not to think about it too much. His dick is just about half-hard now, mildly interested in proceedings, no more, and he ruts down a little, tightens on Sam’s fingers, and Sam grunts, exerts his considerable strength to turn Dean back over. Like a turtle pried out of its shell, Dean blinks in shock for no more than a moment before Sam throws being careful out of the window and doesn’t bother to retrieve it, burrows his fingers back in, and Dean seizes around them, open-mouthed as it finally gets to him - not so much Sam’s fingers, which are still chasing that distant low sigh of pleasure, as the feel of it, laid bare and open, and Sam shows no hesitation in scrunching down to mouth at his dick, slow and curious over the head, and painfully inexperienced, which shouldn’t make Dean’s balls tighten with pleasure, but does.
Sam finally gets somewhere with his fingers, gets them just right even, a convulsion of feeling that Dean can’t precisely call pleasure but that interacts with the way Sam’s sucking his cock to tighten the vise in his stomach, a relentless throb of an urgent orgasm crowding its way up out of him, and he doesn’t remember biting down on his hand, but he is, sharp dent of his teeth fending off the feeling for the moment. Sam knows he’s got it right, has got three fingers in Dean now, spreading him open and wide around Sam, preparation for the main event, Dean thinks dazedly, walking the thin line between feelings. He’s not felt anything like this, it’s as unique as Sam is, hardly related to the casual fun of what Dean’s used to calling sex, like he’s being skinned under anaesthetic, every inch a slow burn of sensation. He wants this, wants it more than he can articulate, is ashamed of wanting it so much, a chaser of knowledge that he’s the only one who’s had this, this here from Sam. Is the only one who can give it to him. Sam finally pulls off, one last long suck at as much of Dean’s dick as he can fit in his mouth, chasing it for a brief second before he folds Dean up, and packages himself up with the condom and a slick of lube. Dean notices that Sam’s shaking, fine tremors running down his arms, and hauls him back down until Sam’s between his legs, rutting up against him, mouth against Dean’s, sharing air, a lightheaded dizzying breath, and Dean’s not sure who wants it more, can feel the relentlessness of his heartbeat thudding out a shared rhythm of need.
He’s not prepared for the hard burn of Sam’s dick, the extended push like a slowly advancing western front, breathes in deep, techniques long learned for minimizing pain coming to the fore now. Sam recognizes the patterns, knows them in himself, Dean knows this, and with agility he didn’t know he possessed, he kicks Sam in the small of the back, a wordless insistence. Sam takes the hint and continues on, until he is inside Dean as far as he can get. Dean speared open and voiceless, body slippery from the sweat of exertion, knows that he’s probably freaking Sam out like this but needs that moment of recovery. Sam holds him open like this, splits him wide and defenseless, inside out like he’s always been, and the exposure terrifies him, excites him. He drags a rough hand through Sam’s hair for one brief second, a brotherly gesture out of place in this moment, drops his arms back nervelessly and wills Sam to fuck him.
Sam gets with the programme and does just that, Dean curled around him, bent apart like this so Sam can take him properly. It’s better than Sam’s fingers, better than Dean had imagined, something about the utter relentlessness of the fuck hitting deep and hard, and he’s barely touched his own dick but it’s hard and aching, waiting for something more. Sam’s hands are at odds with Sam’s hips, the brutal thrusts that have Dean lifting his hips for more - untaught rhythm jerry-engineered in - mitigated by the carefulness of his touch, and it’s like nothing else Dean’s felt, the resolution of that touch, the promise behind it. Sam gets his hand around Dean’s dick, jerks him off clumsily until Dean gets his hand in there with him, regulates it, until he’s getting fucked and jerked off with near perfect timing, a building pressure that comes from within and without, and he can barely take it, filled with too much, eyes glued to Sam, the flushed glassy appreciation matched with the tenderness that he can’t hide and that gets Dean there in the end, hips mindlessly convulsing, Sam’s hand coaxing him through it. Sam takes that as his cue to finish, clearly, hips speeding up, hand clutching mindlessly still at Dean, before he shakes, then stills, and an inviolate peace spreads through the room.
Sam fusses with the condom and then with the ease of long practice briefly interrupted (by years upon years) he slumps next to Dean, who trains his eyes on the ceiling, evaluates the burning of his body, and contemplates facing Sam and perhaps seeing regret.
It’s Sam who touches him, a palm along his shoulder, an unbearably gentle touch where there hasn’t been gentleness in too long, when it has never been called for, and Dean bucks it off, bruised and battered, as well fucked as he wanted to be, empty as clear glass within, and he’s jittery as hell with a body that wants to sleep and a mind that can’t stop racing. When he finally looks, Sam’s waiting, and now that’s he looking for it, Dean sees it in Sam, the same fear of a sudden sense-coming, and this he knows. Stretches out and returns the touch, brushes the hair out of his eyes, a touch that walks the line they’ve both long since stepped over. Sam watches him steadily and Dean wants to touch some more. He’s always been a tactile lover, and even though he can count on one hand the different people he’s spent a night that extended to the morning with, he thinks he might be willing to break a new hand open for Sam. Closes the gap between them, bodies parallel, inches apart, lines following each other, laces his fingers around Sam’s arm and sleeps like that, broken open, then closed.
When he wakes up, he regrets being a lazy bastard and not dragging himself to a shower before he slept - though the world is still light outside and it can only have been a couple of hours. He never did sleep well during the day. Sam’s still asleep, head on the pillow, lashes on his cheek, and Dean still wants him. He’s not surprised it wasn’t some passing craze though perhaps he had hoped. The sight of him yields the same short-breathed urge now as before he knew what Sam’s dick looked like, felt like in his hands, in his ass, and his weary body heeds the call to arms. Dean’s too tired to take heed, stumbles into the shower, takes full advantage of the hot water to scrub himself down, over the invisible marks Sam left, clean and fresh until even he feels clean. He bumps into Sam in the doorway, left the water running knowing that Sam would wake up in time, almost sidesteps him out of habit before checking himself, because like Han Solo, Sam had kissed first and he can’t get away with that forever. So he tugs him down an inch or two - and isn’t that a novelty - kisses him square, gets the taste of sour sleep in his mouth just to see the look he’ll get as he throws himself off any semblance of plausible deniability, before he then ducks out of the room.
He hears Sam showering fast and hard, and lurks outside the door in boxers, wincing occasionally as he hits new limits in his stride. When Sam slips out, clean and fresh and much sweeter-smelling Dean tackles him onto the bed, and Sam, recognizing the game perhaps or responding automatically, fights him back, solidly, no pulling punches, and they don’t stop until someone knocks on the door and asks them to keep it down. Dean’s amused that their fighting is louder than their sex, but he can’t stay amused for long when he has Sam naked under him, cock already hardening, the proximity tempting beyond endurance as though that hadn’t been the entire reason in the first place, another new, slippery way to avoid the words that would end this, playing endless circular games. They kiss, more practiced now, knowing the way they touch and meet, Sam kissing slow and deep, coaxing Dean into his own mouth like necking was where this would end, the final result of a line of cheap dates or a lifetime knowing each other. I love you, Dean wants to say and chokes it back, because neither of them are dying at this moment in time, there's too much desperation, and those words are overlaid with a patina of family that desperately, hypocritically in this moment he doesn’t want to raise.
He notices it almost by accident as he rubs against Sam again, too fresh to resist, all of it too new to be taken in, that Sam’s pretty hung even for his height - thick as well, and Dean can’t quite believe that he’d got that monster in the first time round. He’s not as long as Dean, though, and Dean can’t fight back the laugh. Pornstar jokes aside, he’d known he was big - there wasn’t a man who didn’t have that generally sussed, but he’d never thought he’d be bigger than Sam in that department. Looks up from his impromptu dick survey to share the joke, sees the look in Sam’s eyes - abstract arousal in its purest form, and the laughter chokes in his throat, heat flooding through him.
He wonders if it’s his dick or the contrast of them both that’s got Sam’s engine going, decides he doesn’t care because he’s sore, he aches like a bitch but he still wants to make Sam scream, wants to give him every single fucking thing he’s ever wanted, before the inevitable end. And as he matched Sam, kiss for kiss, he’s not going to be outdone on the blowjob front, gives his best impression of Harvey-from-that-place-in-Wisconsin, who’d given the best head Dean had ever had - nobody could accuse him of half-measures. It doesn’t matter this close exactly how big Sam’s dick is, it’s too big to fit down Dean’s throat and while he might give it the old college try another time, he’s not risking it today. Gets his mouth round as much of it as he can while Sam’s hips convulsively jerk upwards until Dean pins him down with all his strength, puts his mouth to work until Sam is yanking at his hair, uncontrolled and wild, and Dean doesn’t stop, sucks Sam’s balls into his mouth for long moments until the urgency is past, and Sam is moaning with frustration, his previous silence and quiet sounds discarded now.
Dean wants to drive him mad slowly, take him apart with hands and mouth until he crumbles like Dean does at Sam’s touch, wants even more to do it this second. To tear Sam open, until every minute particle of him has Dean marked on it, the way Dean sometimes thinks Sam is inside him, and people would have a field-day if they could see inside his head, because fucking Sam is about three inches away from swallowing him up and never letting go.
Sam’s trembling underneath him now, fingers threaded through the little hair he can grasp like that’s going to change anything at all, the warm smell of him faded by the shower, diluted by the soap, and Dean wants it back. It’s on instinct that he gets Sam on his front, and does something that he’ll never admit to Sam that he’s only seen in porn. It never seemed appealing before - too risky with a one night stand, too close, too dirty even with anyone else - for a guy who spends a substantial portion of his life rolling in mud, blood and guts, Dean acknowledges he can be a little fastidious at times. But Sam’s here, and he’s Sam. Dean will do anything for him, breaking down this barrier is hardly the worst. If in some bit of him he knows that Sam’ll never have done this before either, that whatever else he’s given away, it’s not this, well - he already knew he was a selfish bastard. Whatever the reasons, the way Sam sounds when Dean gets his tongue into him is reason enough to continue. It’s a low choke, an animal grunt of someone driven to the brink, unable to articulate anything more. Sam’s on that edge; Sam, who’s had a smart answer for everything his whole entire life, can't say anything more.
It's not exactly rocket science - nothing he hasn’t done before albeit with different anatomy - a simple methodology of tongue and mouth, of alternate gentleness and force, but the way Sam responds drives Dean mad. He’s utterly responsive to the touch, rubs back into it, like he can't help himself - like Dean's shredded his self control. When he curls his tongue a little against the tightness of Sam holding himself together, Dean can feel the force of the tremor that runs down Sam's spine, and if this is his reward, he'll do it forever. And Sam's spit-slick under him now, easing up and opening just a very little, almost imperceptible to anyone but Dean, he's sure, but it gets him in the gut at the thought, joins every other thing that Sam does that gets him hot. When he comes up for air, Dean’s face is as wet from spit as though he’s been going down on a girl and Sam is screwing his own fist, a quick irregular stroke as though he’s not even sure whether he wants to come or not. The first finger slides in so easily that Dean has to grip his own dick at the thought of Sam's body opening up around him in exactly the same way, and in his haste he tips too much lube over the rest of his hand. Sam doesn't notice or care, sinks his head down onto his hands when Dean gets two of his fingers in, fucks him like that for a minute, regular and steady.
Sam’s mumbling now, half-caught words that make Dean join his tongue back to his fingers, because Sam went kind of nuts under Dean’s mouth, starts to lick through the heavy artificialness of the lube, sticky and synthetic in his mouth, coating his tongue and teeth until he almost feels glossy with it - but it works because Sam’s words have petered out, folded in on themselves and vanished, and Dean wants - right now - nothing more than to fuck him, and Sam seems onboard with that, shameless sprawl of his body inviting it, no false secret shame to what he wants. Getting the condom on is a work of art in itself, and Dean can’t resist slipping his fingers back in for a second, shaping Sam around them in preparation, almost fails the first time - slips off the lube and the spit, and it takes a firm hand and solid breathing to get Sam open enough to take him, thick head of Dean’s dick wedging him apart where he’s most sensitive and Dean can see the tense muscles of his arms, the arch of his neck as his head dips down again.
If getting fucked by Sam was a revelation - to be torn apart and filled up, and know that he could love it, would beg for it if it was Sam that was giving it - fucking Sam is coming home to familiarity skewered with strangeness. This, every inch of him knows, knows he can get Sam to come like this, get them both there just as soon as he wants to. Can read the line of Sam’s back, the wet tangles of his hair, screw him just right - enough to prompt the ahhh that Sam lets fall. He knows without saying that Sam wants it hard and fast, sets himself to the rhythm he remembers Sam fucking into him, a metronome of consistency like another link stretched between them. His thighs ache with the effort they haven’t yet forgotten from earlier but he can’t stop now, can hear the slick wet slap of Sam’s hand on his own dick - no longer tentative, more as though he’s racing to catch up, positions reversed for the moment - Dean’s always felt as though he falls behind when Sam speeds up.
He loses all control when he comes, fast and hard, and Sam shakes apart underneath him, slumped now as Dean finishes him off, fucks him still, half-hard, slow and deep as he can manage, until Sam comes, squeezes tight around his dick, and this time he conceals nothing when they’re done, discards the condom, and fits himself, thigh against thigh, belly against back on top of Sam, close enough to hear his ragged breath, feels the hitch of his self possession returning. Sam can take it. He’s always been able to take it, always been the strongest of them. He can bear Dean for these moments, hold him together for it - and Dean can trust that he will. He’s there still from force of will when Sam turns, frees his lungs a little and brings him close, offers again what Dean’s been too scared to take, too scared to see in all this time, and perhaps part of him begins to believe that this won’t fade or finish when they leave this room.
They lie there in the shadows they've always lived their life in and it's appropriate, Dean thinks but doesn't say. Watches the tender swallow of Sam's throat, the unbelievable impossibleness of what they've done made manifest, and finally, sleeps.
