Fic: The Terminal Point of Addiction, Supernatural, Sam/Dean, NC-17 Part 1/2 (10K)

[stripytights]

Title: 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.

It's not an obsession. He tells himself that often enough that the denial might be an obsession. But whatever he's obsessed with, it's not the idea of his brother's dick. There's inappropriate - hooking up with a widow in the cremation parlor (it was an unhappy marriage) - and then there's inappropriate. Catching his eyes sliding down on a near daily basis to check out how today's jeans made Sam's junk look is the latter. What started as an idle thought while he soaped his dick up in the shower - how would Sam shape up in the dick department of life's superstore - has devolved to the point where he can barely focus on a day-to-day basis, guilt and fear and arousal fighting an eternal war in his gut.

Now Sam's content to wander around on occasion in boxers that do nothing to showcase his assets, and why the fuck Dean is considering Sam's junk an asset is a question he'd like his brain to answer sooner rather than later. Still denial is a powerful tool, and after all, he tells himself at first, there is a certain natural curiosity - two men in a confined space and it's been since before Stanford that he'd seen Sam naked, two inches of height and several pounds of muscle away. It's natural to be curious about how he's changed, and Dean's never made a secret to himself of how much every bit of Sam impinges on his mental space, how without even knowing it Sam's hollowed out and scooped himself a niche inside Dean that nobody else can ever fill. It's a normal extension of an essentially abnormal feeling, and that's the justification that helps him sleep at nights.

Some days it's like a game only Dean is playing, sideways looks as Sam strips down, blood spattering him, but he always stops right there. He’s walked in accidentally while Sam's showering but so far shower curtains have proved a barrier. The time he tried standing next to him at a urinal hadn't gone down well - Sam so occupied in giving him pissy looks that Dean hadn't even had a chance to take a quick glance down and see if Sammy Jr had grown up as well as his counterpart, and while Sam doesn’t give a shit if Dean wanders into the bathroom of their crummy motel pitstops to take a piss while Sam brushes his teeth, he doesn’t return the favour. The problem with the game that never ends, is that Dean fucking hates those games. He didn’t do jigsaw puzzles as a kid, never got the point of the endless repeating puzzle rings and toys that every other kid went through a craze with. He likes solving problems, giving and getting concrete solutions, and frustration at not achieving his goal itches away at him.

Sam’s gotta be bigger than him, he thinks, at the oddest times - being thrown against a wall by a maddened spirit, being chatted up by the bartender at the local hole in the wall, hell, catching ten minutes in the shower, listening to Sam moving around the bedroom outside. He’s an adult - he can live with that thought, Sam’s a gigantic freak of nature, there’s no way he’s not packing some serious bang for his buck. Dean’s pretty proud himself of what’s in his pants - genetics coming up trumps, and he’s ninety percent sure that he’s secure enough that the idea of Sam’s dick being bigger than his doesn’t piss him off. It calms the queasiness in his stomach just a little if that’s what he thinks about, instead of the bigger issue of who Sam is, what’s wrong with him.

He’s absently beginning to jerk off, hand braced against the shower wall, when he considers the obvious. Winchester family genes - for all their differences, he and Sam have to be alike in some ways. He squints at his dick, cups his hand under it, and drags his fingers towards the head, squeezing upwards, watching it harden in his hand, a reflexive automatic reaction, strokes it again, long and slow like he’s dragging it out, tries to picture it an inch or two longer, maybe half an inch thicker. Wonders if Sam curves a little bit to the left, the way Dean does when he’s seriously turned on, if the hair at the base of his dick is the same dark thicket. If he tilts his head just right, gets the base of his dick out of sight, he can kind of picture what Sam’s cock would be like, and that’s when the rush of not normal hits him, pulses through him like the hard tingle of a slap across the face. He’s jerking off properly now, too impatient to be slow, but although he can feel every harsh quick twist of a hand that knows just what he wants, it’s like he’s holding Sam’s dick, and he can’t get the thought out of his head. Would Sam like it like that? Fast and hard, thumb catching at the head, palm over the top for brief milliseconds, too much pressure and just right at the same time, fast slick glide down the shaft, and then pulling back up with a twist, an endless repetitive rhythm because it works the best, the fastest, your standard utilitarian jack off. He’s pretty sure so, though maybe a bigger dick needs some modifications. Sam’s fast - he knows that much, has heard him when Sam thinks he’s asleep and the bastard’s too lazy to get out of bed and jerk off, just gets his hand round his dick under the covers, and gets to it, pumps his hips just a little, and Dean just lies there, breathing into the darkness eyes open and unthinking, and fuck he’s been blind.

He comes like that, fingers clutching helplessly at the wall, at the base of his dick, wide-eyed as the water pours into his face, at the thought of Sam like this, of the way he’d touch himself, and it blows the lid off everything that’s been seething under the surface. He stays in there, intent on drowning himself under the spray, mouth open and unresisting under the water, accomplishing nothing but drinking water he’s going to regret, like that’s the best way to deal with an incest freakout that’s been building for way too long. When Sam bangs on the door, impatient, maybe a little concerned, he gets his head back into the game. Shuts off the water, wraps a towel round his waist, and strides out, patented cocky grin plastered firmly on, hesitates before dropping the towel for once, like Sam would be able to see what Dean had been thinking, tattooed on Dean’s dick, if Sam was looking - which he wouldn’t be, because Sam might have got the bizarre psychic genes, but Dean apparently got the fucked up freaky ones.

Presented once again with a problem, the only two cast-iron solutions that occurred to Dean are the age-old buddies repress and deny. A solution that would’ve seemed a hell of a lot easier if his senses weren’t turned to maximum where Sam is concerned - enough that through the thin walls of the bathroom, even over the fall of water, he can hear the tell-tale gasp that Sam always seems to herald masturbating with, like touching his dick is a miracle each and every time. Which with a dick that size it probably is.  And if he can hear Sam, then Sam could hear him, and there’s a sharp jolt of lust that seizes Dean sickeningly at the balls, a hard throb of potential there at the thought of Sam hearing him, hearing Dean jerk off and getting hard enough to do the same himself. It’s unlikely, but it’s also hot enough that he’s sweating bullets in the cool air of the bedroom, can feel his own dick struggling futilely to rise to the occasion. He closes a hand around it, over the cloth of his boxers, breathes in deep and tries not to think about them jerking off in tandem, drywall between them, the same steady matched stroke.

By the time Sam’s done, come presumably washed down the drain along with a hard day’s work, Dean’s under the covers, hard again, on his side so he can hide it. It’s early enough to be in bed, but Sam doesn’t pass any remark - it’s been a hard day after all - just switches off the light and pads past with a mumbled g’night, and it’s not until Dean dares to move, to shift without the possibility of coming like that, that he realises Sam is naked. His dick gives an almost painful twinge at the thought, and he breathes in the musty bleached scent of the motel sheets as carefully as he can, gust of warm air almost obnoxiously loud to his ears, rolls face down, dick against the sheets, and contemplates going to sleep like that, but can’t face the thought and rolls back onto his side to take care of it. In contrast to the frenzied shower, he takes his time, slow and hard, like he’s coaxing himself to the end, fights to keep his breathing regulated, not to move too much, elbow jerking spasmodically under the sheets, and if Sam is awake there’s no way he doesn’t know what Dean’s doing. The thought hits him hard, a warm dive in his stomach, like the wind’s been knocked out of him for a second at the thought of Sam watching in the darkness, watching Dean’s face turned away from him. And after all - in for a penny, he’s already kicked repress and deny into touch, what the hell harm could there be in letting the rest of Pandora’s box out?- he thinks about Sam making that move, stretching out over the distance and touching him.

He’d known since he turned fifteen that sex where he could get it was fun and that occasionally in the roster of goodtime girls that were what passed for connections, there’d been a goodtime guy thrown into the mix. Not many, not often, too many factors warning against it, but there’d been the odd one and while he wasn’t much of a bottom, he reasoned that it might well have been the general lack of a bed. For Sam, though, for Sam and his dick, things are different or could be at any rate. He imagines the heavy weight of Sam pressing him down, pulls a deep breath of air in, spreads his thighs a little, consciously, as he strips his dick, imagines Sam working him over, first hands and mouth, knowing and sure, opening him up and fucking him, pinned like that to the bed, a butterfly on a board, broken open and displayed, and the heave in his stomach almost matches the spasmodic jerk of his dick in his hand at the thought. Sweat trickles down his spine, too warm under the covers now, and he comes like that, biting down on his hand to stifle a moan, wet and messy and all too soon disgusting. Acting on instinct, he rolls over, narrows his eyes to see if Sam is awake.

The other bed is still and quiet, but there is the tenseness of a held breath about it, and Dean would have bet his left nut that Sam is awake. Which puts a whole new angle on the situation on one hand, and frightens the fuck out of him on the other. Not caring about the noise, he reaches for the tissues and conducts a brief clean-up, and sleeps the sleep of the guilty - as restful as could be.

The next morning, Dean is up and out first, secures a coffee and a breakfast with a suitable amount of cholesterol with which to face the day - a long day of driving, sitting next to the brother he jerked off to the night before, and whose massive cock is proving a distraction, the magnitude of which is becoming uncomfortable. Far from his shower (and then bed) insanity having cleared the pipes and got it out of his system, Dean finds the opposite. Where before the question of Sam’s size, prowess in bed and general body had flitted across his mind, now it never seems to leave. Given free rein, he is pretty sure that he’s never thought about sex more. At the gas station, he thinks about Sam bending him over the hood and fucking him like that, eyes wide open as half the world stops to stare, and he is damn sure he’s never even thought about doing that before. When they stop at a diner, he neglects a pretty good burger to stare in horrified fascination at Sam’s mild enjoyment of his salad dressing, the least sexy food possible in Dean’s estimation and yet still impossible to take his eyes from.

And if he isn’t wrong, Sam is looking back, their eyes meeting for brief seconds before Dean turns away, swallows back the guilt, the heavy shame of his thoughts lingering in his gut because it isn’t bad enough that he is thinking like this, but he is starting to imagine Sam reciprocating, and that isn’t on. He keeps his eyes resolutely on his side of the car for the rest of the day after that, thrusts back every idle thought that crosses his mind, forces them back down and into the box that holds all the other things he doesn’t want to think about. He is fucked up, he can accept that, can get that somewhere along the way he’s twisted himself up into so many knots over Sam that he can’t unstraighten himself again, can’t unravel that snag. But it is just him. Of course Sam’s gigantic dick isn’t going away, though, like the elephant penis in the room that Dean doesn’t want to talk about, an unconscious taunt chipping away at every good intention he’s ever had.

Dean’s not a messy drunk - Sam on a bender can tear himself right open, but Dean’s had enough experience with strange bars and stranger people that mostly he can keep a grip on himself. So when one beer turns into three, and three beers turn into six before Sam proposes shots, he goes with the flow, keeps his hands clenched under the table and his eyes on the annoying glare of the TV over the bar, low-tuned to some sports channel. Sam’s knocking them back with intent, and he’s going to be a fucking mess by the end of this, not a mean drunk - he’s rarely that - but octopus-arms Sam who can’t keep himself to himself and that’s not what Dean needs right now. When he has to piss, he leaves Sam alone and comes back to find a girl perched on the end of the table, all flirty small-talk, hand running through her hair, legs crossed at the knee as she swings a foot. She’s cute as hell, but not Sam’s type. Sam doesn’t seem to remember that, though - his hand’s near her and he’s giving her the kind of smile that says he might want to move this somewhere else. Dean’s kinda relieved to find that though, through the infinite perverseness of the universe he might want to bang his brother that he’s not cut up about that. If the girl takes Sam home, that means Dean gets the room to himself and plenty of silence to fill up with thoughts of not fucking Sam.

The second thought is sneakier, creeps in unawares. He thinks of the girl, skirt flipped up, held up by Sam's huge capable hands, wrapping her legs around his waist, Sam getting in her smooth and deep. He can see the way her eyes would droop shut, like it felt too damn good to keep them open, head sagging forward onto Sam’s shoulder, breathless amazement on her face, wonders if Sam would be the biggest she’s ever had. Thinks about afterwards, imagines her crossing over to him, and him touching her where Sam had been, spread pink and soft, soaking wet but not from Sam’s come, because not even in Dean’s fantasy is Sam not using a condom. Fucking her like that, sugar-sweet in his arms, maybe wanting more after what Sam had done to her, how good he’d have made her feel. Occupying the same space, getting them both to the edge, and it’s a hotter thought than most of his idle ones earlier had been, because it might be achievable. Not here, not tonight, but sometime.

He’s brought back to reality by someone brushing past, and he’s hard in his jeans like some creep that gets off on lurking near the jacks and watching ESPN, and when he glances back at their booth, the girl is gone and Sam’s looking at him, eyes not quite as drunk as they should be, and of course he isn’t going to fuck her - Dean knows him better than that. Instead he downs the beer and stands, and Dean follows suit because hard or not, he’s not in the mood for fucking someone tonight. They’re about ten steps from their motel - a miracle of town-planning clearly - and even the brief hit of night air helps sober him up from the beer-fuzzed thoughts of five minutes ago. Sam’s got the key and he fumbles to get the door open, leans his head on the side as though to steady himself, though Dean knows from experience that he’s actually squinting at the door and trying to figure out how to open it. He laughs at the thought, only realizes he’s done it out loud when Sam abandons the struggle and stares at him.

It takes their combined efforts to get into the room, and once in, Sam flops onto his bed with a sigh and makes no move at all to get undressed. Dean pulls off Sam’s boots with a long-suffering sigh because Sam would bitch about it forever if he woke up with them on, but leaves the rest of it to the morning. He stands there in the gloom of the room, looks at Sam, loose and sprawled there. As though in response to Dean’s thoughts, Sam rolls over, the tops of his boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans, head pillowed on his arm, eyes half open but mostly unseeing now. “Dean,” he says, or rather slurs, the ‘n’ drawn out long, before it trails off as though he’s forgotten what he was going to say - or swallowed it back. Dean steps back like he’s been burned, fire licking up his arm, sweat springing to the back of his neck because he’s fucked, he’s so fucked that he’s never going to unfuck himself and for the first time in his life he doesn’t even know where to start fixing it. The last time he felt like this, Sam was walking out a door and John was telling him to forget about coming back, the same empty, shattering awareness that he was entirely helpless. The room spins a little and not from drink, and he fumbles in the semi dark to find his bed, solid under his hands, the only thing that is. When he sleeps, it’s like he’s been swallowed up by the dead.

Sam’s hungover and Dean’s in no mood to break the silence, no mood to do anything other than pack up the car and drive until he can’t drive anymore. When he looks across after an hour of careful focus on the road, Sam’s asleep again, hoodie wedged between his neck and the car side, his fingers sprawled on his thighs, and Dean’s not thinking about that, he tells himself, not thinking about those fingers and hands on him or on Sam.

Way back when Sam was just old enough to leave by himself when Dean hunted with his dad, they’d tracked a spirit that drove its victims to suicide by pushing them to do the worst thing they’d ever wanted to do, filling their minds with the thoughts until they did the deed or killed themselves to rid themselves of the urge. Dean mostly remembers it because his dad got touched by it right before they torched the bones, and like some awful sick dream, Dean had seen the gun in his father’s hands twitch until it pointed at his father’s own chin. He’d lived with that knowledge for a long time - maybe it had fucked him up more than he knew, that his dad had even considered it, that it had been an option somewhere along the line. This feels like that - like now he’s let the thoughts in, they’re never leaving. It’s just unlike those folks, he’s not even sure how he feels about it. Because his mouth floods with saliva at the thought of Sam unzipping his pants despite every bit of him that says no.

When he looks at Sam again, Sam’s awake and looking right at him, catches his gaze - not half drunk now or all the way there, stone-cold sober, and it’s like they’re kids again, staring contests in the backseat of the car that Sam insisted he won despite the furious blinking, the little shit. Dean doesn’t want to look away, although his fingers twitch on the wheel despite himself. There’s a stretch of road in front of them that’s as clear as he could want and he trusts in his instincts in all things. He doesn’t look away or blink, picks up whatever Sam’s throwing down. Wonders if he should do a spot-test of Sam’s psychic abilities by imagining Sam’s dick, blood-red, hard and aching in his hand. Jerking him here, using both hands because they were going to be needed, and it is funny what the mind can get used to, because although the image holds all of its thrill, the now-familiar swoop of sickness in his stomach doesn’t accompany it.

Then Sam’s leant forward and he’s kissing him. Lip on lip for no reason at all and it freaks him out so bad that Dean slams the brakes so hard, Sam almost goes through the window. Next moment, Sam’s back as though he never left, and just the feel of him makes Dean shiver down to his bones. How long has Sam been looking back? The thought is terrifying. They’re parked in the middle of the road in the ass end of nowhere and Sam’s going to town on his mouth like there’s nothing the hell wrong with it, mumbling silk-sweet words against him, terms of endearment like fucking jerk like every filter has been stripped from him as much as it has been from Dean. Dean opens his mouth to protest because this wasn’t meant to happen, shouldn’t happen, something’s obviously screwing with them, but Sam takes advantage of the opportunity and gets his tongue in like he doesn’t want to hear anything Dean has to say, and Dean gives it up as a bad job, gets his hand in Sam’s hair, clutches the back of his neck and drags him forward until he’s almost on top of Dean.

Going slow is for first dates or so he’s heard, because the closest he’s ever got to a first date is three beers before the fuck - except Cassie, but she was always the exception. He doesn’t know why he thinks of her in that second because she and Sam are nothing alike (smart, bitchy, sarcastic as hell) except that maybe what he felt when kissing her is the closest thing he’s ever felt to kissing Sam. Only what had been a spark that lit was now a fire that consumes. He didn’t know Sam could kiss like this - methodical and relentless - doesn’t give Dean a second to catch his breath or think second thoughts, and Dean doesn’t want to, because Sam’s skin is warm under his fingers and his hair is weirdly soft from the stupid shampoo he insists on. He can’t envisage stopping, breaking the press of lips against each other, sharp bump of teeth when he turns into the kiss, the mute expression of desire he could never have imagined reciprocated.

It’s just when the kiss turns properly wet and dirty, Dean’s teeth in Sam’s bottom lip tugging at the soft flesh as Sam gasps against him, almost smothers him with the nearness and closeness, that a truck rockets past, almost shakes them off the road with the force of the vibration, a squeal of tires indicating the driver’s disapproval. Sam backs off, pulls away, drags the wet slide of his tongue back into his own mouth and stares at Dean with eyes that just hit this edge of wild, like he can’t believe what they’ve done between them, can’t believe what he did, and Dean doesn’t have the words to reassure him, can only prevent an explosion of ‘what the fuck’ by gunning the car and catching up the passing truck, miles from nowhere, miles before they hit anywhere with a flat surface because fields aren’t going to cut it. And this time when he looks at Sam’s dick, sees the bulge in his jeans from what they’d done, he doesn’t look away all at once because Sam’s hand is there, resting just under the curve, like he wants to open his jeans and jerk off in their car here and now.

There’s an autopilot in Dean’s brain that’s dragged him home from every hunt even when he was shaken up or fucked up. It’s like a bit of him knows his car well enough to operate when he’s barely aware, and it kicks in right now, because he doesn’t remember a second more of that journey, just Sam’s hands and the look in his eyes - half afraid, half desperate, like he’s made some wrong step along the way and risks a precipice. Hell, he doesn’t remember the motel or the clerk at the reception desk though he must have spoken to them because it’s his hand that has the keys. It’s like he’s operating in some mirror-land where none of it means anything at all, some bizarre dream that he can’t be bothered to fill in the details of when there’s one thing looming, one thing that matters. He has condoms, Sam has lube, their fucking, it seems, is a communal Winchester effort like all their best endeavours.

Reality doesn’t return until the gap opens between them again. Like this, in the shaded dark of a motel room - bright light outside, filtering through the blinds, throwing their bodies into stark relief, the urgency dimmed by the resurgence of familiarity - what Dean wants seems impossible, the events of the highway a fever dream, a hallucination induced by the haze of the road. When he focuses, he sees Sam’s fingers open, then close as though in a silent plea. His brother, the talker of the family, the one who talks and talks and says nothing at all, holds his thoughts behind his eyes, entombed in his mouth like no-one Dean has ever known, has no words sarcastic or otherwise for this eventuality. The demands die in Dean’s mouth, the questions turned to ashes by the silence that enfolds them both, an oppressive blanket that can’t be broken.

He thinks he’ll never understand what Sam gives up in that moment he steps forward, because there’s normal, and normal is normal, normal is not rushing headlong into this. But Dean moves forward to meet him, the dead space between them swallowed by the heat ignited at their touch, and silence is safe now, silence is deniable and empty and designed to be filled by the heated sounds of their bodies, and later, later the words will come and ruin what they have built.

They’re both damp with sweat, but the hairs on the nape of Sam’s neck are fine and clean and he shudders as Dean tugs at the thickness of his hair, as their mouths meet again, less urgency, more power, the angle right now, and the noises are soft, almost covered by the rattle of the old A/C unit. Sam crowds him against a wall, and Dean shuts his eyes for a moment, envelops himself within a darkness of his own making, slides his fingers under Sam’s shirt and sinks them into the remnants of older softness at the base of the spine that have escaped the reconstruction of the Sam Dean knows like his second self. Their hips don’t align, not exactly, but they catch and slide together, coarse rasp of jeans louder than the way Sam groans a soft ahh when Dean cups his ass and drags him closer, wet huff of breath, until Dean can’t take it any longer - the lingering fear of their almost chaste touch, four layers away from eternal sin - gets his hand into Sam’s jeans, wrenches at the zip, as Sam’s hands do the same to him, push at the material until they’re naked, and Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he thinks it’ll leap out of his mouth.

Stupidly he thinks of porn when he catches a look at the half mirror on the opposite wall, looks at the sight of Sam’s socked feet clawing at the material to step out of them, the opposite side of all the websites he’s ever visited, the reversed image, himself clutching at straws, no longer apart, and the thoughts are swallowed up when Sam kneels to get Dean’s jeans down - sticky with the heat they’re unwilling to part company with his skin - rests his beloved face on Dean’s thigh, sharp prickle of stubble where the day takes its toll, and he needs it now, no waiting, no dreaming, no half-soft touch of depth sounding, waiting for danger to echo back, a ghost ship of memories barring the way. Gets his fingers in Sam’s hair again, like he can’t stop touching it, touching him, and gets him back on his feet, Sam unfolding up and up, and Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever be used to that. Like this, though, gets him his hands on Sam’s dick, and he’s been waiting longer than he knows for this, longer than he’s considered it, like some ancient understanding finally surfacing. Sam’s big, and Dean expected that, but somehow in all of his thoughts, he’d forgotten the Sam bit of Sam’s dick, how when he touches it - with a little bravado, granted, because he’s as unsure as he thinks Sam is and he’s never done this not drunk, not in haste and in fear of discovery - it’s Sam who thrusts against his hand, damp at the tip already, shaking under the skin.

He’s heavy in Dean’s hand but not so unfamiliar, and Dean wants, not just the thick length of Sam’s  dick and the heavy hang of his balls, and the dark hair at the base of his shaft, but all the rest of it, to swallow Sam up, every last bit of him and that’s weirder than wanting to bang him. Wants to dig his fingers into him and scoop him up, and his jaw almost aches with the physical need of it, a sweet clench of feeling. Sam’s looking at him, eyes shadowed in the darkness of the room, hair in tendrils across his forehead as his hips snap forward into Dean’s rough makeshift handjob, a simple brutal stroking, no finesse or grace to it, but Sam’s not complaining, mouth a little open, gleam of his teeth showing as his dick nudges Dean’s hip. Dean doesn’t know what he wants - for Sam to come like this, utterly raw and stripped, wet over Dean’s hand, another part of him gained, or down his throat like the stretch of Sam’s dick will for a moment assuage that other deeper yearning that he can’t even name. Then Sam’s leaning back, dick slipping out of Dean’s grasp, and there’s a throb of panic in his gut for one moment, until he realizes that Sam’s heading for the bed, and Dean’s so close behind him there’s probably friction burn between their bodies.

Part Two