Three days ago he was dead.
Three hours ago he was having an argument with Dean.
Three minutes ago Dean jerked off onto Sam’s stomach and rolled over to face the wall, unnervingly silent.
—
They didn’t talk about anything beyond their newest case for a week, and Sam found his stomach twisting into knots when he happened to catch Dean’s gaze. He wasn’t completely oblivious to the feelings that lead to them jerking off together, he just hoped that he might have done a better job keeping them at bay now that he’d gotten more than he ever thought he would.
But Sam wanted still. How couldn’t he?
It was hard to avoid another person with only 300 square feet to work with, and it got even harder when they finished the hunt and packed themselves into the Impala. Sam did all he could to keep his distance, physically and emotionally, but all pretenses went out the window when Dean stopped for gas and grub.
Sam watched him fill up the tank, anxiety coiling his gut, and eventually he got out of the car and folded his arms on the roof.
“I wanna do it again.”
He was partly convinced that giving it another go might make it all clear for him. It wasn’t like there was any coming back from having sex with your brother once, so what harm would come from a second go?
Dean tensed at his proposal and that tension thickened the air between them as Baby raced up the road to the next motel. He hadn’t bought any food at the gas station, and Sam was glad they wouldn’t be eating fluorescent nachos again. He was glad and queasy all at once as he drummed his fingers against his knee, second-guessing if he really meant to proposition Dean again.
Anxiety faded briefly when Dean left to pay for their room at the Gilded Mermaid. All of Sam’s thoughts slowed to a crawl and he wondered what he was doing. Right here, right now, less than two weeks out from dying and jerking off underneath his brother. He felt a need to pray for forgiveness, but it already felt like a mockery to ask God for anything when he’d already been brought back to life out of defiance. Out of selfish want, but a selfish want that Sam might come to appreciate when it didn’t feel like he was still stuck in limbo.
He jumped when Dean knocked on the window, pointing two doors down from where Baby had been parked. All that distinguished it from the other sun-faded doors across the front of the building was a tarnished number 6 bolted to its surface.
Once upon a time, that was Sam’s lucky number.
—
It was all different this time, after they’d done it.
Sam woke up naked and tangled in the sheets, Dean lying with his back pressed against his side, his cheek pressed against his outstretched arm. He wouldn’t have pinned Dean as a little spoon before tonight. His older brother was drooling on his skin, undoubtedly comfortable and undoubtedly pleased with what they’d done.
He ached, and it hurt while it was happening, but he felt untouchable afterwards. Sam still felt hazy as he reached his hand between his thighs to find evidence that they’d really done it—that he hadn’t just dreamt Dean fucked him. He hooked his fingers into himself and scooped until he felt he’d dug around far enough, pulling his hand back out from under the covers to investigate.
It seemed inconclusive at first—his fingers were wet, but that didn’t mean they’d done anything more than undress and get into bed together. Faint white marbling was mingled within, but he still wasn’t sure.
Again, he felt that desire for more.
He rolled onto his side and pressed his body flush with Dean’s, burying his face into the back of his head.
“Hmph?” Dean woke with a grunt.
Sam felt embarrassment turning his face pink.
“We, uh…”
“‘We’ what?”
He didn’t need verbal confirmation.
He needed verbal confirmation.
“We had sex, right?”
Dean nodded, the back of his head bumping into Sam’s bottom lip. Ow.
“Yeah,” he sounded indifferent at first before relief washed it all out, “we did. Knew I brought you back for a reason.”
Sam scowled and hit the back of his hand against Dean’s forehead, making him wince and roll over onto his stomach. When he recovered from the blow, Dean settled back onto Sam, closing his eyes.
“I don’t think I have a concussion, but if I do…y’know.”
He drifted off while Sam watched him, feeling warmth spread underneath his skin.
It felt good, no matter what the moralistic part of his brain tried to tell him.
—
Sam didn’t think it’d be so weird to look at Dean again knowing what they’d done with each other. But that didn’t stop them falling into bed together, even sucking face in the front seat when they couldn’t wait to get back to the motel.
—
When Sam was younger, he insisted on sharing a bed with Dean. He’d stand at the edge and wait until his brother finally caved and allowed him in, making no attempt to hide how irritated he was to scoot over for Sam.
The heating was busted in almost every motel they stayed at—nonexistent when money was tight and squatting was all they could manage—and Sam would appeal to Dean’s practical side to schmooze his way into bed. “You’re shivering,” “your toes’ll freeze off and we can’t go to the hospital,” “it’s just like camping,” all repeated while Dean groaned and tossed.
It felt like a true victory when Dean rucked up the covers, and he wasted no time finding the Sam-shaped nook in his brother’s side. Even today with more than a couple of inches on Dean, he still managed to find a comfortable groove against the side of his body and nest like he was going to be sleeping there all winter.
—
They were like giddy teens when they passed through Sioux Falls yet again.
Sam could tell Bobby knew something had shifted, but he wasn’t sure if he’d fully worked it out in his mind. He didn’t think anybody else’s brains would jump to something so taboo right out the gate, even though Bobby knew the Winchester boys like they were his own. While he should have been nervous, pumped the brakes when Dean got too close, he also couldn’t deny the opportunity to work through months of pent-up libido.
Sam rode Dean on the creaky fold-out couch in Bobby’s den, doing everything in his power to keep the noise to a minimum while Dean ground his fingers into Sam’s hips.
“If it’s not a shapeshifter, I don’t know what it is,” Sam said quietly as Dean thrust up into him—it didn’t feel like much of anything other than being filled, but Sam didn’t mind the lack of sensation.
“Dude, you’re killing my hard-on. How can you think like this?”
Sam glanced between them: his jeans were rucked down to his folded knees and Dean’s unzipped fly scraped against his ass. He could only hope Bobby wasn’t eavesdropping—he had no idea how to explain getting caught like this.
“Well, sometimes when I was studying, Jess would come up on the bed and pull my sweats down—”
“Dude!” Dean exclaimed in a stage whisper, his eyes bright and wild.
Sam grinned. “I thought you’d want to hear about my girlfriend eating me out.”
Dean gripped his hips tight and pulled him down, all while Sam struggled to keep himself quiet. Pain flashed in his core, but Sam also felt his body going tight—he was actually close.
“Call me jealous, but I don’t think I want to hear about other people doing you.”
Sam got a rush from those words, and he looked around carefully before leaning down to press an uncertain kiss to Dean’s lips.
They definitely needed practice.
—
“You were pre-law. Shouldn’t you be opposed to all of… this ?”
Dean gestured vaguely between them, naked bodies sticking to one another with cooled sweat. It felt no different than when he and Jess were caught in their post-coital tangle—the only change was Dean’s thicker limbs and his cock lying flaccid against the side of his groin. Sam shrugged in response.
“Should I?”
“Probably,” Dean said softly as he rested his head on Sam’s chest, “but I like that you aren’t, you sick son of a bitch.”
Sam scoffed in spite of the smile spreading across his face.
“Mom’s gonna be pissed at what you just called her, Dean.”
Dean reached one boneless arm up and smacked his palm against Sam’s cheek, pushing his face to the side affectionately.
“Makes sense you were pre-law—you’re a born snitch.”
Sam turned his head and kissed Dean’s palm, feeling the thick seam of scar tissue jutting against his lips. He smiled against the healed wound: it gave him a sick sense of pride that their bond didn’t require a sharp edge.
—
Sam still thought about praying sometimes. For forgiveness, to save face, he didn’t really know, but some half-baked religious guilt seeped up from his gut to the forefront of his brain and all he could do was feel like an amoral monster for what he’d done. Or, more accurately: for what he continued to do.
Because no matter how often he considered putting a stop to it, telling Dean just how fucked up they were for what they’d done, he still found himself playing along: wake up, get ready for the day next to Dean, spend entire day at Dean’s side, unable to stop thinking about what he and Dean did last night, go back to motel, have sex if hunting hadn’t taken it out of them, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat. Sam knew how his brother begged under his breath for praise after shooting a load inside his genetic dead-end of a vagina, and Dean knew that his brother had mixed feelings about his degradation kink.
—
Sometimes he missed when a touch wasn’t considered provocation.
Sam could lean his head on Dean’s shoulder back then and simply exist there in his orbit without feeling a hand creep across his thigh until it found purchase between his legs. Whenever the dedicated “brother” and “lover” wires became crossed in Dean’s brain, platonic affection seemed to wither and die between them.
But Sam liked when Dean took control, and he didn’t want to go back to what their relationship was like before he died.
—
Hunts didn’t always go so smoothly.
Sam was limp in the front seat with his head lolled back, breathing hard. The ceiling was spinning out above him and he could swear this was it. Dean was going to die just to give Sam an extra four months of life that hadn’t even been spent meaningfully.
Well, Dean might disagree that the nights they shared were meaningless. Sam thought he could have done a bit more than fuck his brother and consider whether or not he should angst about fucking his brother, but it was too late for all of that now. His wound was gushing, and he’d be dead before Dean could make it back to the car.
His heartbeat became a heavy drum in his chest and his eyes began to roll into the back of his head. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back to steer them out of danger? Why hadn’t Sam heard a thing since he fled to the car?
He grabbed his wound and put as much pressure as he could manage onto it, intent on waiting for Dean. It might have been a futile effort, but it was still one he’d make without a second thought.
So Sam held on as long as he could, put pressure on the large gouge in his side and hoped with the same fervor that he once used for praying that Dean would decapitate the wolf.
He wouldn’t let Dean go so soon.
—
Sam woke up in Baby’s backseat just past three am, and his groaning and stirring pulled Dean out of his trance.
“Mornin’, Sammy,” he said casually, like Sam couldn’t see his puffy eyes in the rearview mirror.
He winced at the sharp pain that was once again radiating from his side. It seemed to course through every vein, and he dropped back down, his eyes squeezing shut. Sam hurt and it sucked, but Dean was fine. At least, Dean was playing at being fine.
—
They sat on the side of the road, three hours until Dean’s deal was up. Sam couldn’t say goodbye. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t wanted to waste his brother’s last twenty-four hours on earth, and no matter how much he tried to muster up an idea, it vanished in a puff of smoke. Sam thought he’d tried everything.
Dean had already accepted it, tried to leave without Sam so he didn’t have to go through the same pain, but he refused to let Dean die alone. Trauma be damned, he needed to be with Dean till the very last second.
“There’s still time,” he pleaded in vain, “there has to be something.”
Dean shook his head, dropping his forehead into his palm. “It’s over.”
Sam refused to hear it.
“Maybe there’s some angle we just haven’t tried yet—”
“Sam!” Dean yelled at him, his roaring voice embodying their dad.
Sam wondered if maybe he’d taken over Dean’s body and was screaming at him then—if he’d been watching the entire time and only now found the loophole between life and death that’d allow him to tell Sam just how much of a monster he was. At this point, Sam couldn’t say he disagreed with that assessment, even though he couldn’t begin to fathom exactly how he’d put the cat that was his relationship with Dean back in the bag. They were both irrevocably damaged, and this was all that seemed right anymore.
Sam was never going to have this again.
“Please,” he begged through brimming tears, “please, Dean, we have to try.”
He looked ashamed in the driver’s seat. He propped his head on his fist and stared out at the black road, his brows furrowed. Sam was terrified he would say no.
Dean exhaled softly.
“I’m sorry, Sammy. We can try. We’ve tried everything, but maybe we just did something wrong.”
He turned up the radio, and Sam reached across the bench to take his hand.
“Thank you,” he said back to him as he laced their fingers together.
Dread swirled in Sam’s gut as they pulled back out onto the road, Bon Jovi blasting through the speakers, but for another few hours, he still had Dean.