Blood

Blood drips from Dean's fingertips onto the scuffed linoleum, splatters out into star shapes. There's a trail of them, from the open door of their motel room, to the table in the small kitchenette. Dean collapses into a chair and lets his injured arm drop down at his side. The blood stops blooming into flowers and starts pooling. "That was awesome," he huffs, breathless laughter, and grins at Sam in the open bathroom door.

"It was stupid." Sam crosses the room, dumping the first aid kit, towels, and a bowl of water on the table. It rocks under the weight on uneven legs. "You could have been killed, Dean. You were already hurt. You should have left it to me." The scene replays in Sam's mind; Dean crashing through a window, the squirt of blood as he tugged a long shard of glass from his arm before diving back into the fight.

"And let you have all the fun? Hell no." Dean's a little pale, but not from fear.

Sam knows the difference between Dean hiding his worry behind a brave front, and simple joy in the fight. Dean's hiding nothing. His pallor is blood loss, most of it left behind in the condemned office block where they tracked the werewolf, fought it, and killed it. There's a dead man in the trunk of the Impala, Dean's silver knife still lodged in his heart. Sam makes a mental note to retrieve it before they dispose of the body after he's patched Dean up.

Dean was laughing when he drove the blade home, like the werewolf's lethal jaws didn't phase him at all. Blood spilled from his injured left arm as he held the monster by the throat, surging as Dean's muscle worked harder every time the creature lunged. Dean's eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth as he forced the blade through muscle and bone.

Dean's shirt is soaked with blood. Sam cuts the sleeve off his arm, because it's ruined anyway, and lets the pieces fall to the floor in a soggy pile. "You scare me, sometimes," he whispers, and keeps his eyes on his work as he cleans away blood and dirt from the tear that runs down the inside of Dean's upper arm.

He can almost hear Dean smiling, can certainly feel it as Dean's chest puffs up. The movement opens the wound again, and blood spills over Sam's fingers, soaking through the cloth in his hand. "Are you trying to pass out?" He presses his free hand, palm flat, to Dean's bare chest, forcing him back in the chair. "Relax and let me do this."

Dean's quiet and still after that, and Sam can work without further interruptions. He's closing off the final stitch when Dean speaks again.

"Remember the first one I killed?"

Of course Sam remembers. It's not something he'll ever forget. It wasn't Dean's first werewolf, and it wasn't even Sam's first hunt, but it was the first time he saw the violence and the deadly force that his brother was capable of. The first time he realized that Dean was utterly ruthless, and terrifyingly lethal. "Yeah." He can't keep the heat from his voice, keeps his eyes down and drops his head to bite off the thread as he finishes. "How could I forget?"

Dad was gone, had left them in a motel while he chased leads halfway across the country. Dean was seventeen, and when bodies started turning up with their hearts removed, Sam couldn't stop him hunting the werewolf responsible.

All he could do was insist that he go with, so Dean wouldn't be alone. He was thirteen, and he watched in terrified awe as Dean stood his ground while the werewolf bore down on him, and put a silver bullet in its heart a second before he would have got his throat ripped out.

"Yeah," Sam repeats, his voice with a little more heat and a shake to it. He looks up, locking eyes with Dean for a split second as he reaches for a bandage to cover Dean's wound. All of the breath rushes out of him when he sees Dean's pupils suddenly expand, like he's remembering more than just the hunt as well.

There's more to Sam's memory of that hunt. More like tonight, the aftermath of the fight, and Dean didn't get cut then, but he was bruised all over, his ribs, his back, across his cheek. He stripped down to his waist that night as Sam looked him over to make sure nothing was cut or bitten or scratched, to make sure nothing was broken. At thirteen Sam was a mass of uncontrollable hormones, couldn't get the look of fierce intent on Dean's face or the shift of the muscles in his forearm when he pulled the trigger out of his head, couldn't understand why seeing his brother kill something for the first time made him hard, made him ache.

He was scared, because Dean came inches from dying, and if the bullet hadn't found it's target, or if Dean had been a split second late in pulling the trigger, Dean would have been bleeding out on the ground. But there was a kind of thrill to it as well, the way Dean roared as he raised the gun and fired, tendons standing out on his neck, eyes flashing with deadly intent. And as a teenage Sam dragged his thumb across the bruise blooming over his brothers cheek, he succumbed to impulse and kissed him.

Sam covers the wound, stitched and stained yellow with iodine, wraps the bandage and fastens it before he looks up again. "That was the first time I knew what you were capable of," he says. "How easy it was for you to kill, how good you were at it."

Dean's pupils are still blown wide open, and he lifts his chin in a challenge. "And it scared you. I scared you."

"Kind of." Sam blinks and drops his eyes, can't bear to watch his own reflection in Dean's eyes. "But, also..." He trails off, never any intent to complete the thought, because Dean knows, he remembers. For the first time, Sam knows he remembers.

Back then, seventeen year old Dean pushed Sam away, eyes wide with shock, put his hand on Sam's chest and shoved. "No, Sam," he said. "What the hell—? Jesus. Just go to sleep."

Sam remembered. He was reminded of it every time he saw that look in his brother's eyes, every time he saw Dean revel in the death of a monster at his own hand. Even the curl of his lip as he dropped a match into an open grave brought back the first time Sam watched Dean kill, and the effect it had on himself.

But he never tried to kiss Dean again. The careful detachment, the way Dean stiffened and looked away as Sam stitched him up or bandaged a wound kept that urge firmly in check.

Until now.

"Also?"

Sam looks up sharply, searching Dean's face, because this is different. That first time, there was pride, elation in Dean's face. A new experience, the conquering of the beast. A thing he'd done on his own, found his own way, his own rhythm. Thirteen year old Sam reacted to that instinctively, but never again. There wasn't the chance, because Dean was never so open after that.

But now, Dean's completely exposed, like he's stripped away all the walls. His eyes dart around the room, but always return to Sam with a detachment that's feigned. It’s a ruse Sam easily sees past. His skin is pale from blood loss, freckles visible in a stark contrast, but there's a pink flush across his cheeks.

Sam lets his eyes drop, slowly tracking down Dean's bare torso, where blood still stains one side of his body. He pushes himself to his feet, grabs the bowl of pink water and the washcloth, and heads for the bathroom. "You should clean that off," he says.

Dean follows, standing in the bathroom doorway as Sam pours the contents of the bowl down the sink. "You were thirteen."

"Haven't been thirteen for a long time." Sam squeezes blood out of the washcloth, rinses it under the tap, then puts the plug in and starts to fill the sink with warm water.

"I know." Dean's reflection in the mirror leans in the doorway, eyes drifting off somewhere around the ceiling. It's a little awkward, stark contrast to his surety during the fight. "I had to think about it some."

Sam doesn't reply, just steps to one side of the counter, making a space for Dean to fill. He squeezes moisture from the washcloth so it doesn't drip, but leaves it on the edge of the sink. Dean could take it from him and clean up himself, same thing he usually does, or he could stand and wait for Sam to do it. The question, the possibility, hangs in the air between them as Dean takes two slow, agonizing steps across the room.

Dean doesn't reach for the washcloth. He backs up to the counter, puts his hands on the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening as he grips it tight.

Sam starts at Dean's collarbone, wiping away the tiny flecks of blood that have already dried, makes his way down over Dean's nipple. It hardens as the rough fabric slides over skin, but the water is warm, and the air isn't cold. It's just a tiny smudge of blood, but Sam lingers, fascinated, unable to tear his eyes away from the hard peak.

Dean's muscles quiver as Sam finally works his way down Dean's side, rinsing the cloth several times to clean away the worst of it. Water drips into the waistband of Dean's jeans, but they're soaked through anyway, red with Dean's own blood.

Sam drops the washcloth into the sink when all of Dean's exposed skin is clean again. They're close, only inches between them, and Sam can feel Dean's warm breath, rapid, shallow puffs of air, on his throat. He puts his fingers lightly on the damp, stiff denim at the side of Dean's jeans, drags them slowly around to the front. "You're gonna have to get these off," he breathes, suddenly aware of his own laboured breath. His fingers play at the button, not tugging, just...there, and he wills himself to meet Dean's eyes.

They're wide and staring, pupils almost eclipsing the iris. Quickly, Dean looks away and swallows hard. His jaw works, but he could be grinding his teeth for all Sam knows because he doesn't say a word.

He's different from all the other times. He hasn't stiffened up or pulled away, and all he does when Sam tucks his fingers behind the button is suck in a harsh breath and bite down on his lower lip.

Sam's heart hammers in his chest as he slips the button free. Dean lets out a breath like he's been holding it forever, and he shivers. His head's turned away, and the tendons in his neck are straining, like he's fighting the urge to look up, or maybe trying to get away. Sam figures it's the former, when, as he slides his fingers further, behind the zipper, he feels the tip of Dean's erection straining against damp, sticky fabric.

Dean jerks and shudders and swallows a grunt. He breathes harder, faster, his body on the edge of movement, like something quick and almost violent, humming like he's about to explode.

Sam can relate.

He pulls back, then, half a step, jerking the front of Dean's jeans so the zipper slides down. "Off," he says, and his voice is too rough, too raw. He clears his throat, reaches again for the washcloth, rinses blood out under the tap.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Dean's head snap around, and the movement, though lacking detail, indicates frustration. Maybe even accusation. Sam lifts his eyes, glances at Dean in the mirror, and almost rolls his eyes when Dean immediately turns away again.

Sam crossed the line when he put his fingers into Dean's pants. He took it past the point where they each could deny that their relationship, their feelings for each other went beyond brotherhood. He doesn't know whether he's giving Dean a chance to back out now before it goes further, or if he needs this time to collect himself, to remember how to breathe, to let his heart settle back down into a regular beat before it explodes. This is something he's kept inside for more than a decade, pushed to the back of his mind, only letting it out when he was alone in the dark. Believing, as he did at thirteen, that it was something Dean would never want.

But Sam can read Dean like a book, and something has changed.

With the washcloth warm and wet in his hand, Sam turns again to Dean. Dean's staring back, breathing slow and even now, but it's all for show. He's gone calm, cold and hard like he's staring down another werewolf. It sends a rush of heat through Sam, a wave of desire and want and need that burns his skin and makes him ache. He crowds in on Dean, drops the washcloth on the edge of the sink and grabs at the top of Dean's open jeans. "I want them off," he rasps, the words tumbling from his lips, uncontrolled, rough and raw. "Off." He shoves them down, over Dean's ass, so they bunch around Dean's thighs.

Dean lets him do it, stares up, and his eyes are wide and fierce, flashing with a kind of fire Sam's only ever seen before when something is about to die. He's shaking, though, chest rising and falling as he sucks in air through his nose like he's already gone several rounds. "We gonna do this?" he asks, and his voice is rough and raw and broken. "Huh, Sammy? Come on."

Sam's nostrils flare and he can't keep the sneer from curling his lip. It figures that this won't be much different from when they fight. He takes another half step closer, so his chest presses against Dean's, and he looks down into Dean's eyes, watching as Dean licks his lips, plump and full and red.

Dean's cock is still hard, and it presses against Sam's thigh through damp underwear. Damp with blood as well as precome, and that thought, as it occurs to Sam, stops him even as his mouth is a hair’s breadth away from Dean's lips.

He slowly, never taking his eyes from Dean's, sinks to his knees.

Dean's mouth drops open, and Sam smirks. Eyes still on Dean's, he tugs at his jeans. They're sticky where they're wet with Dean's blood, but he gets them down and off his feet. Dean's thigh is smeared with red, flaking in places where it's started to dry. The washcloth is cold in Sam's hand when he reaches for it, and he savours the way Dean's muscle quivers as he slides it over Dean's skin.

"Not done yet," he breathes, as he rises again to his feet, almost sliding up Dean's body, keeping a bare inch or so between them as he does. He reaches past Dean to turn on the tap, and their bodies brush together. Sam's cock presses against Dean's as he leans forward, and he can't help grinding against him.

Dean moans and shivers and closes his eyes. They're still closed when Sam drops to the floor again and tucks his fingers into the elastic waist of Dean's boxers. They're soaked through at the hip with drying blood, and there's enough of Dean's blood in his clothes that Sam glances back up at Dean in wonder that he's still conscious, let alone capable of an erection. But while his skin is still pale, it's not deathly so, and they stopped the bleeding long ago.

Sam tugs Dean's boxers a little way down over his hips. This is the line. They can tell themselves that Sam's cleaning Dean up, taking care of him, but he knows—they both know—that Dean could handle this fine on his own, and once Dean's shorts come off there's no going back.

There's a lump stuck in Sam's throat, like his lungs have solidified, and crawled up there to block his breathing. He swallows hard, but can't shift it. Sam's wanted this since he was a kid, but he's aware it'll change things, and quite likely not for the better. As it is they walk a line between sibling rivalry and all out war half the time. This could be the thing that breaks them.

"Dean." Sam's voice is weak and broken, and he can't stop it. He's scared, goosebumps on his arms, his heart in his throat, his lungs tight kind of scared. "Dean."

Dean's eyes, already closed, squeeze tighter. His knuckles as his hands wrap around the edge of the basin whiten, and he slowly shakes his head, a movement that's almost imperceptible. "No, Sammy," he breathes, rasps, rough and raw. "Whatever you're about to say. Don't."

The words die in Sam's throat, and his lips part on a sigh. That's as close as Dean's going to get to admitting he wants this, and he wants it bad enough to let it get this far in the first place. Dean's walls are still up, but there's a chink there large enough that Sam can see inside. His eyes are still on Dean's face when he starts to drag Dean's boxers down, low enough to expose the slick head of Dean's cock, and maybe the air cools the moisture there, because Dean sucks in a quick breath.

Sam's eyes flick down in time to see a bead of precome well up in the slit and slide down. His mouth waters and the impulse to lean forward and lick it up is overwhelming.

He doesn't. Instead he drags Dean's boxers the rest of the way off, and Dean's eyes are still closed as he lifts each foot in turn so Sam can cast them aside.

With the boxers gone, Dean's cock, heavy, full, bobs in front of him. Another bead of liquid falls, hits the floor. Dean's head rolls on his neck, falls forward, as though he wants to look down, but his eyes are still screwed tightly shut. "Sammy," he breathes, barely shifting the air as he speaks. "Sam."

Sam wants to take Dean into his throat, wants to choke on his brother, but he thinks back, to when he was just a kid and surrendered to the impulse to kiss Dean after watching him kill for the first time. Sam knows that whatever drives these feelings is messed up, knows that it's messed up to want his brother this way, but their lives aren't exactly normal. Never have been.

But Sam wants that kiss. Wants it the way he wanted it then, wants to not be pushed away.

So when he leans in, it's not to take Dean's cock into his mouth, it's to press his forehead to Dean's quivering thigh, still stained with flaking blood. He breathes, slow and deep, then he pushes himself to his feet.

As though Dean can feel him, Dean's closed eyes follow him as he rises, then, finally, they open. Dean's heavy-lidded, and his pupils are blown wide. He looks drunk, even as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth and drags his teeth across it.

His lip turns white, then red as blood floods back into it, and he drags his tongue across it. Slow, leaving it slick and shiny. It’s an obvious invitation, one Dean can’t give him in words, so Sam leans in.

They both moan when their lips touch, a sound of desperate relief at being given something they've both been denied for far too long. All the tension in Dean's body flows away like water, and he crowds in even closer, until they're joined from chest to knee. Dean's hips jerk, his cock trapped between them, rubs his naked flesh against Sam's clothes. As if they planned it, each of them tips their head to the side and deepens the kiss, Sam licking into Dean's mouth as it opens, as Dean seems to surrender.

Something breaks, like floodgates opening. Their movements, until now careful and measured, turn sudden, almost violent, as Dean's hands go to Sam's belt and Sam grabs hold of Dean's arms and pulls him away from the counter, pushes him toward the open door, toward the bed.

"Off. Off," Dean gasps, tugging at Sam's clothes as they get closer to the bed. Threads break and buttons hit the floor and roll away to hidden corners. The sound of Sam's zipper coming down disappears beneath Dean's footfalls as he stumbles backward. Sam almost trips in his haste to get out of his jeans, and he leaves them where they fall, steps out of them and climbs up onto the bed to cover Dean's body with his own as he crawls backward.

They each gasp into the other's mouth as Sam drags his cock the length of Dean's.

They're both so slick with precome that it's an easy slide. Sam's cock is aching, throbbing against Dean's, and he feels like he's been on the edge for years, ready to come, needing, but denied. He pulls back, rocks against Dean again, breaks their kiss to stare down into Dean's eyes. "Years," he says, and rolls his hips again, revelling in the way Dean's eyes roll back into his head. "Wanted it for years, since—"

Dean surges up, cuts Sam off with a hard, biting kiss. "Shut up and—" He chokes and groans with the next roll of Sam's hips. "Yeah." Another thrust. "Fuck, yeah." He collapses back down onto the mattress, puts his hands back to grip each side of the pillow beneath his head. "Just— Don't— Fucking— Stop."

"Should'a said something," Sam hisses, as sparks zing up his spine and his balls tingle dangerously.

Dean jerks his head to one side and hisses through his teeth. "Could'a tried again."

"You shot me down." Sam's thrusts go jerky, erratic. "Come, Dean. Dammit."

Liquid fire spreads through his body, starts at the base of his spine, shoots out to his fingertips and his toes. His cock jerks and spills as Sam goes rigid.

Dean lets out a soft whimper, every time Sam's dick contracts, like he's marking time as spurts of fluid hit his belly and spill over his cock. Then he shudders, and there's as answering twitch against Sam's dick, and more fluid heat joins the mess between their bellies.

Then they're both gasping for breath, Dean's knuckles still white as he grips the pillow beneath his head like it's a lifeline, and the muscles in his arms shake and quiver with tiny aftershocks.

Sam rolls off of him, takes Dean’s injured arm by the wrist, coaxing him to release his grip. "You've torn a stitch. You're bleeding."

Deans throat rasps as he turns his head to look. "It's fine." Turns back again, like he can't risk meeting Sam's eyes. "You don't have to redo it."

"Dean."

"We're not doing this, Sammy." Dean rolls to the edge of the bed. He bends to pick up a discarded shirt to clean himself with. "The talking thing? Unless you wanna get into why you get like this whenever you watch me kill something."

"I don't know," Sam says, truthfully.

"I got a few ideas," Dean says, and then he gets up, and disappears into the bathroom.

Chapter 2 ↑

It's like before. It's so easy for Sam to go back to pretending that, like the kiss when he was thirteen, it never happened. He's got to, because otherwise Dean doesn’t meet his eyes, he avoids him.

He's used to it. Practised, even. He's spent half his life pretending that kiss didn't happen, he can do this.

He's spent half his life swallowing his tongue whenever Dean put a bullet or a blade into a shapeshifter or a skinwalker or a werewolf, but he never knew what Dean felt like beneath him, never heard the sounds he made when he was coming. He can pretend, but he can't get that out of his head, and he lies awake, hard and aching after every hunt.

"What'cha got?"

Sam starts, lost in his own thoughts. "Huh?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "A job, Sammy. You're supposed to be finding us a job."

"Oh, right." Sam shakes his head to clear it, and looks back down at the computer screen. There's a few tabs open, news stories from around the country. "Looks like a haunting not far from here. Another one in Nevada. And vampires on the Olympic Peninsula. Guess they like the lack of sunshine. Figure we can call Bobby, see if he can get someone closer on it."

Dean pulls himself out of the creaking motel chair, and he heads for the bed, drags the weapons bag out from under it. "We'll take the vampires. Pack your shit, Sam."

Sam doesn't move, just gapes at him. "You want to drive to Washington?"

"Yeah." He grabs his duffle and his keys, looks pointedly at Sam still sitting at the table in front of the computer. "I'll wait in the car."

There's been a lot of hauntings recently. Maybe it's something about the moon, like the full moon for werewolves. Maybe ghosts are more active during the waxing moon. Sam thinks they might have noticed that before now, in all their years of hunting, in all the lore that's come before them. Might be worth looking into, though. Keeping track, seeing if there's a pattern.

There's a small part of him that wonders if maybe that's why Dean picked the vampires. Sam's a little fed up with salt and burn, too, but it's safer. There's still a part of him that likes the smirk that settles on Dean's face as he watches bones burn just a little too much, but it's easier to ignore than when he's spilling the blood of something corporeal in a rush of brutal violence.

He's sick. Seriously sick. Maybe they both are, and Dean's the only one with any kind of control.

Sam tries not to think about when Dean's control lapsed.

It's careless of Dean to pick the vampire hunt now. It's too soon, and Dean should know that. Probably expects Sam to check himself, but Sam doesn't know if he can. There's no way Dean's coming out of this hunt any way other than covered in blood, and it'll be the same thing all over again or Sam will make a fool of himself and Dean will be disgusted.

As he should be. Sam's got to be sick. Broken. Wouldn't be the first time.

They stop for the night in Missoula. The night manager at the motel tries to give them a queen bed, but Dean rolls his eyes and says 'two singles, my brother hogs the blankets'.

It's almost worth it for the look of confusion on the guys face, but Sam can't even crack a fake smile. They haven't shared a bed for sleep since they were children, but the memory of rusted bedsprings beneath their frantic bodies is stark and still at the forefront of his mind.

There's a bar across the street. Sam watches as Dean fakes drunk and hustles a couple of locals out of a few hundred bucks. He drinks enough that they're gonna need that cash, can barely stand when Dean drags him out of there and steers him back across the road to the motel.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean demands, his hands still fisted in the back of Sam's jacket as he pushes him down onto the bed. "We're hitting the road early, and you're getting wasted? What the fuck, Sam?"

Sam doesn't bother kicking off his boots or getting beneath the sheets. He rolls over and mutters into the pillow that smells dry and musty. "Got a monopoly on getting shitfaced, Dean? Screw you. Why the hell we gotta drive half across the country? Vampires? Screw the vampires. You're an idiot."

Dean's quiet, but he's still standing over the bed. Sam can feel him watching. "Thought you liked seeing me stick it to monsters." More silence, stretched out and heavy. "Or you'd rather I was sticking it to you, Sammy? Is that your problem?"

Fury boils in Sam's belly, and he rolls back, lifts his head. Anger is sobering, and his eyes focus on Dean's face as he leers down at Sam defiantly. Now he's talking? Now he's referring to whatever happened between them? His mouth works as he tries to find words, but they don't come. His lips twist into a sneer, and when Dean flinches, Sam moves.

Up off the bed, propelling himself with an instinct borne from years spent engaging the dangers that lurk in the dark, towards his brother.

Sam grabs Dean's wrists as his arms come up to defend himself, pushes him, with his weight and height advantage, back against the wall. "You know," he spits. "You know what it does. You asked for this with your fucking vampire hunt."

Then he kisses his brother.

Kisses him hard, bites at his lips, till Dean hisses and Sam tastes copper. He shoves back as Dean tries to push him off. "No," he growls, as Dean tries to twist away, pushes him to face the wall and grinds, his cock hard in his jeans, against Dean's ass. "You asked for this."

Dean struggles and grunts, and then, inexplicably, begins to laugh. "Finally grown some balls, Sammy? Finally getting off your ass? I take it all back. You should get drunk every night."

Sam pulls back, releases his grip in shock. "What?"

"Don't chicken out now, little brother. We were finally getting somewhere." Dean tongues his split lip, twists a hand into the front of Sam's shirt, pulls him back in. "Just take it, Sammy. You want it, take it. Or do I gotta bleed first? You that messed up?"

"No," Sam grunts, because he wants Dean all the time, but he's pretty broken, pretty twisted. Wants to do things to Dean he shouldn't. Still, there's something about the feeling of Dean fighting him, of Dean struggling in his arms, that made Sam harder than anything else. But, "you want this," he realizes, like he did weeks ago, but then questioned after Dean's refusal to address what happened between them.

"A-plus, kiddo. But I'm done analyzing. We gonna do this, or you gonna chicken out?"

"We're doing this," Sam says, because he's drunk, and he's taking it when Dean offers, even though he knows Dean's going to be hard and cold again tomorrow. So he puts a hand on the back of Dean's neck, and it's easier knowing what to expect, that Dean's going to pretend it didn't happen, so Sam licks carefully over Dean's lip, cleans the slowly seeping blood, moans when Dean arches into him, like he wants this, really wants this.

Dean's cock is a hot, hard, thick pressure against Sam's hip, and Sam grinds against him, humping him into the wall. Kicks Dean's feet apart, to get between his thighs. Running on instinct, letting the alcohol dull his brain function, he lifts Dean off the ground.

There's a moment when Sam can feel Dean's alarm, feels him stiffen, like this is off script, before he goes with it, swings his legs up and wraps them around Sam's hips. "Gonna fuck me?" he grunts, as Sam slams him against the wall. "Gonna screw me up against the wall, Sammy?"

Sam wants to. Wants to shut his brother up as he fucks him hard, wants to make him squeal as he stuffs him full of cock, wants to bend him over the table and pin him and fuck his brains out.

Sam grabs Dean by the back of his head and shoves his tongue into Dean's mouth. He kisses him, hard and rough. Then he steps back and drops Dean onto the floor. "Strip," he says.

Dean does, not slow, not to tease, but as he tears at his own shirt buttons and shoves his jeans down his thighs, he's got a smirk on his face like he knows what this does to Sam, like he knows he's got this power over him.

Sam reacts by grabbing Dean hard as soon as he's naked and shoving him face-first against the wall. He wants to punish him, for being so cold these past weeks, for pretending it didn't happen. With one hand he wraps long fingers around both of Dean's wrists, pins them above his head. With the other he yanks at his own belt, at the fly of his pants.

When he gets his cock out, when he slides it along the crack of Dean's ass, he feels Dean stiffen again, can read the alarm in his brother's body language. He can't hold Dean like this, not if Dean wanted out. Sam's taller, heavier, but Dean could twist out on his own if he wanted to.

Dean doesn't move. Doesn't twist out of Sam's grip, doesn't run. But he's very still, muscles coiled beneath the skin, on the edge of movement. "Forgotten something?" he says, voice pitched a little higher than it should be. "Sammy?"

Sam doesn't reply. Pushes his cock into the apex of Dean's thighs, slides in under his balls on precome and sweat, bends his knees and leans against Dean's body. Sam's breath dampens Dean's cheek as he huffs and groans and thrusts between his brother's slippery thighs.

Dean's right arm starts to twitch, and he's moaning like he's desperate, but Sam doesn't want to let him free, doesn't want to relinquish his hold. "Wait," Sam grunts, so close, held tight between Dean's thighs but not inside his body. "Fucking wait I'm almost—"

"Gonna come on me?" Dean groans and his hips twitch and he flexes his thighs, tightening the muscles, pressing them together. "Come on me, Sammy. Come on, I'm dying here, you're killing me."

Sam's balls draw up and sparks explode at the base of his spine. He comes, hard, groaning, pulling back so he paints the inside of Dean's thighs, splatters the backs of Dean's legs, drops his head to watch it drip in streaks and catch in the hair on Dean's calves.

He releases Dean's hands, pulls Dean's hips out away from the wall, then slides his hand between Dean's thighs to feel the mess he left behind. "Spread your legs," he says, voice shaking as aftershocks grip him. "Get yourself off."

Feels Dean's fingertips as he scoops some of Sam's come from between his thighs, uses it as he starts to stroke. Sam slides his hand up the crack of Dean's ass, the squeaky slick of his own come still on his fingers, circles Dean's hole as it twitches.

"Do it," Dean grunts, his elbow jerking at his hip. Spreads himself a little wider. "Do it, Sammy."

Sam pushes his middle finger into his brother's body and groans, because Dean's so fucking tight. Dean whimpers and tightens further. "Should've fucked you, wanted to," Sam mutters against Dean's cheek. He pushes a second finger deep into his brother's body and savours the whine that follows Dean's grunt. "You want me to fuck you."

Dean just moans, arm jerking wildly as he strips his cock.

"Say it," Sam spits. "The truth, Dean."

"I want you to fuck me." Dean's voice is halting and strained.

"What about tomorrow?"

Dean's strokes falter. "What?"

Sam slides his fingers out of Dean's body, circles the rim before pushing back in, slow, searching. "Gonna pretend this didn't happen?"

"Fuck you, Sam." Dean's voice goes gravelly, almost a growl. He tries to push away from the wall, but Sam shoves him back with his free hand between Dean's shoulder blades. Holds him there as he probes Dean's insides, searching.

He's rewarded when Dean writhes on him and cries out, does the same thing again, and again. "Will you still want this in the morning? Tomorrow? Next week?"

"Yes, fuck you, Sam, yes— Please, just—" His hand returns to his cock, starts to stroke, frantic, desperate. "Please, Sammy—"

Sam does it again, rolls his fingertips over that spot inside Dean, over and over, and Dean cries out, stiffens, body clamping down on Sam's fingers almost painfully. "So tight, Dean, fuck. Wish it was my cock in you right now, Jesus."

Dean shudders and spasms, and his come splatters the wall, and the floor, until the only sound is his harsh, rasping breath. He squirms and moans when Sam withdraws his fingers, and he almost crumples, knees going out from under him, but Sam catches him, holds him up, turns him around.

Dean turns his head away, but Sam grabs him by the chin, forcing him to face front, ignoring the fact that Dean won't meet his eyes. He kisses him hard, keeps kissing him until Dean kisses him back.

Chapter 3 ↑

Sam wakes with a hangover, his head pounding, his stomach churning.

Dean's already in the shower, the sound of the water hitting tile like something ominous.

Sam looks over at Dean's bed, and it hasn't been slept in. He has a vague, uncomfortable memory of pulling Dean into his own, of getting naked so he could feel Dean's skin against him. Of tangling their limbs together beneath the covers.

He remembers why he didn't want to let go of his brother, afraid he'd wake up and it would all have gone back to how it was before.

The water shuts off. The door opens and a cloud of steam pours out. Dean appears, a thin motel towel wrapped around his waist.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," he says, but he doesn't look at Sam as he walks across the room. "Gonna have to move it if we wanna make Seattle by lunchtime."

Sam tastes acid, and he's not convinced it's the hangover.

Dean yanks a pair of boxers on under the towel, half-turns and freezes when his eyes fall on Sam's face. His towel, loosened, falls to the floor. "What?"

Sam's stomach twists at the look on Dean's face, confusion that's almost genuine, because when it comes to repressing, Dean deserves an Oscar. "Last night," he croaks, and the words stick in his throat and he can't continue.

Dean does this half-shrug thing and shakes his head. "You got wasted."

"We had sex," Sam says, and his throat hurts, like he's been screaming.

Sam's gotta give Dean credit, he doesn't miss a beat. Shrugs with one shoulder like it means nothing, and turns to pull clean clothes out of his duffle. "Yeah, so?" There's a tightness in his shoulders, though, and maybe Sam's the only one who'll ever recognize that for what it is. "Gonna buy me flowers, Sammy? Take me on a picnic? I'm not your goddamn boyfriend. We don't need to get all movie of the week about it." He pulls on his clothes and bends to tie his bootlaces. "Now get the fuck out of bed. We got a job to do."

They've had more awkward drives, but not lately. Sam runs through everything in his head, trying to think of something to say that won't have Dean clamming up on him or shooting him down, but there's nothing. Dean keeps up a steady stream of chatter that means nothing and seems only to avoid the inevitable awkward silence.

He's talking like nothing happened, but all Sam can hear is I'm not your goddamn boyfriend.

He doesn't know what they are anymore. Sam had his fingers inside his brother last night. Wanted to fuck him. If it happens again, he will. What does that make them?

"—spoiling for a fight, know what I mean, Sammy?"

Sam wasn't listening, but there's a silence that Dean might have filled before, and he can feel Dean's eyes on him, the expectant pause. He turns his head, and Dean's eyes flick back to the road. "Huh?"

Dean makes a tut sound and rolls his eyes. "Vampires? The job? It's been months since we've seen anything I could hit. I'm looking forward to it. Aren't you?" He turns his head again, meets Sam's gaze for just a second. "Come on, Sam. Blood? Danger? That's the sort of thing that turns you on, doesn't it? I'd've thought you'd be gagging for it, especially after last night."

He doesn't turn back to look at Sam that time, just keeps his eyes carefully on the road stretching out in front of them.

Sam scowls. "Are you actually referring to the fact that we had sex last night?"

Dean's lips twitch into a smirk. "If you can call it that. Hell, that was just fooling around. Blowing off steam." Now he looks, eyes lingering dangerously as he bites his lower lip. "Wasn't it?"

Sam tears his eyes away, turns to the window and the trees rushing past beside them. "Whatever."

Dean snorts. "Yeah. Say, how 'bout we go for the double this time, huh? You really do hog the covers, and my back's killing me after squishing in like sardines last night."

Sam's face burns. "What are you doing?"

Dean's expression is all innocence. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Talking 'bout this shit? We're huntin' vampires, Sammy. Heads are gonna roll, and you know how messy that gets. Blood everywhere— Hey! What if I let one bite me? That'd turn you on, right?"

"Dean!" Sam's horrified, but there's no way he'll be able to deny it. He's already hard, suddenly rock-fucking-hard and he can't hide it. He squirms in his seat, and that's the mistake, because Dean looks down at his lap.

"Yeah." The car slows, and gravel rumbles under the tires. "Yeah, that does it for you, don't it, Sammy?" He pulls the car over, shuts the engine off.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Dean smirks and unbuckles his seatbelt. "What do you think?" He reaches for Sam.

Sam should push him away, stop him as Dean rubs one hand over the bulge in Sam's jeans, as the other tugs at the button, but he can't. Doesn't know where to put his hands, and when Dean gets his cock out and wraps a hand around it, a shock goes through him. He jerks his head back and grabs onto the back of the seat and his hips twitch up. "Oh, god," he says, and he looks into his brother's eyes as Dean jerks him off.

Dean licks his lips, and Sam thinks he's gonna kiss him, bites his own, but then Dean drops his head and—holy fuck—sucks Sam's dick right into his mouth.

"Jesus Christ, Dean." Sam can't help the involuntary jerk of his hips, and it never ever occurred to him that Dean might be the first one of them to suck the other off. Never in a million years. It's clumsy and sloppy and messy and with all the blowjobs Dean's likely had over the years Sam would have thought he'd pick up a few pointers, but it's probably the most amateur blowjob Sam's had in his life. He doesn't care because Dean's lips are wrapped around his cock, his mouth is warm and wet and what he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm.

He soon finds a rhythm, an easy, comfortable slide of his lips up and down Sam's shaft. He tucks his tongue beneath the underside of the head on the outstroke, makes Sam gasp and grab at his hair to hold him there, right there.

He wonders if coming in his brothers mouth is too far over the line, decides it's not, because last night Sam had his fingers up Dean's ass and was talking about fucking him. Last night Dean's thighs were slicked with Sam's come and Dean didn't complain, and if he didn't want Sam's come in his mouth he wouldn't have put Sam's dick in there.

The only warning Sam gives him is a muttered curse and the fingers he has clenched at the back of Dean's head tightening, and he should be allowing him to move if he doesn't want this, but Sam can't help it.

He holds Dean close, holds his head, holds him so he can't pull back. Sam cries out as he comes down his brother's throat.

Dean splutters and chokes, but he doesn't fight. Sam feels him swallow, but more spills.

When Sam stops coming, and Dean pulls away, there's come slicking his chin. Sam half expects him to smirk, half expects him to throw a punch, but he does neither.

Instead, he stares, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Wipes his hand on his jeans.

Then he starts the car, pulls off the side of the road like nothing happened.

Vampires spill out of the cabin they find deep in the woods, and Dean dives in. Bodies fall behind him as his battle cry drifts through the darkness, until that's the only way Sam knows where he is.

Sam wishes it was daylight, so he could see, so he could watch. So the bright red of spilled blood would show against the trunks of the trees, against the verdant undergrowth.

He shifts his focus as a vampire grabs him by the arm. He swings a machete, severing the vampires hand. He swings again, and the vampire hits the ground in two pieces.

Silence falls when the last head hits the ferns and rolls to a stop on the forest floor.

Dean comes toward him. Through the trees, stepping over roots, covered in blood.

There’s a look of intensity on his face that causes Sam's control, up till now hanging by a thread, to simply break.

He shoves Dean against the nearest tree, fingers in his hair, pulling his head back.

Dean turns his face away. "Wait," he says. "We're covered in vamp blood."

Sam backs off. It's one of the most difficult things he's ever had to do.

"You know I'm on board," Dean says.

It's the last thing Sam expects to hear. "Do I?"

Dean grabs Sam's hand, pulls it to his crotch. He's hard, cock straining against his jeans.

Sam moves before he thinks, and Dean hits the tree again. "You get off on killing things. Who's more fucked up?"

Dean shoves him away this time. "Least I still got a brain cell in my head. We gotta get clean."

The blood is on their hands, their faces. They can close their eyes, shut their mouths when they hear a blade swing, but so much as a kiss will spread it.

Sam slams the door of their room behind him as Dean dumps his gear, heading for the shower.

Sam strips. His clothes fall in a sodden, bloody pile, and he climbs into the shower with Dean.

Vampire blood isn't something they want to ingest, not something they want inside them. Sam scrubs his skin with soap, adds to the froth of pink bubbles as they swirl down the drain.

He washes Dean's back when he's handed the soap, gets every trace of it off his skin, even spreading his hands over Dean's ass, fingers down Dean's crack, under his balls.

"Pretty sure I'm clean," Dean says, as Sam lingers.

"Shut up," Sam says, and sinks to his knees.

"Oh, fuck." Dean presses his palms to the tiled wall, spreads his feet apart.

Sam wanted to fuck Dean in the forest, surrounded by bodies and ankle deep in blood. Wanted to throw him down amongst the severed heads and vampire corpses and force himself inside, and maybe he wanted to punish Dean, for taking such pleasure in every swing of his blade, or maybe he just wanted to show Dean how messed up he really was, that it made him want his brother when he got like that.

He spreads Dean's ass with his hands, pressing his face between Dean's cheeks, and pointing his tongue to stab at Dean's hole. Gets a thumb in there, pushes it deep and savours the grunts and moans that rattle Dean's entire body.

"Do it, Sammy," Dean moans. "Just fucking do it."

Sam presses two fingers to Dean's hole, pushes inside, nothing but soap and spit and the water raining down on them to ease the way and it's quickly running cold.

Sam licks around his fingers, pulls them out, sticks his tongue up his brother's ass, fucking into him, over and over.

The shower head spurts, and ice cold water falls on them. Dean shrieks, and slips, and they both end up in a pile on the cubicle floor.

Dean's the first one out, leaving Sam to turn off the water.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Dean's waiting for him. There's a towel wrapped around his waist, but his hair is still dripping. He hands Sam a bottle. "No more fucking around, Sammy."

He drops the towel, climbs on hands and knees onto the bed. He drops down onto his shoulders, closes his eyes.

Sam stares at the bottle of lube in his hand.

Sam's got three fingers in his brother.

Dean's cheek is pressed to the mattress, and his eyes are still shut tight, but he started swearing at two fingers, and begging at three.

"Just fuck me," Dean whines.

Sam frees his hand, wipes it on the sheet. He turns Dean onto his back.

"Inside me," Dean says, spreads his legs, wraps them around Sam's hips, pulls him close. "Please."

He's different. There's no fight, no defiance.

Sam lines himself up, the head of his cock at Dean's hole, already slick and open. "You really want this?" he asks. "This is a line, Dean, maybe we shouldn't—"

Dean surges up, kisses Sam hard. "We crossed the line miles back," he says. "Please, Sammy."

Sam holds his brother's hips, pushes against him. Dean cries out as he sinks inside. Sam groans, shudders, because Dean's so tight, so fucking tight.

Dean breathes hard, clings to Sam's shoulders, like he's holding on for dear life.

When he's inside, Sam wraps his arm around Dean's waist, pulls Dean into his lap. Dean wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders, holds on tight.

Dean's eyes are open now. Glinting green in the moonlight that streams through the crack in the motel curtains.

"You're inside me," Dean breathes. "So deep." His eyes are watering. "You're fucking huge."

Sam rolls his hips, moves inside his brother. Dean groans, his whole body vibrating. "You feel good," Sam says. "So fucking good."

"Come in me," Dean whimpers.

It's so different. From last night, from today. Even from just those few hours ago, when together they dealt a bloody death to over a dozen vampires and then, covered in blood, eyefucked each other all the way to the motel.

Sam shifts, holds Dean close, rolls his hips. "What about tomorrow," he breathes. "Will we forget about this?" Moves again, so Dean writhes and twists in his arms.

Dean shakes his head, even as he digs in with his feet, rises, just a little, sinks back down. Does it again. "We won't forget. We'll never forget." Rises again, throws his head back in a moan as he slides back down Sam's dick. "But we're brothers," he says, using his hands to push the hair off of Sam's face so he can look into his eyes. "Nothing changes that, Sammy. It's more important than ever. We're brothers."

Is that what Dean meant when he said, "I'm not your boyfriend"? That's a relationship that can be dissolved.

Family. Blood. Brothers. You can't change that.

They come together, Sam's hand on Dean's cock, Dean's ass clamping down hard on Sam's dick, milking him until he's wrung out and gasping and it's too much, and Dean's face is wet, and they're both sweaty and sticky and covered in come.

Sam wakes in the morning to sunlight streaming through the break in the curtains, and to a warm body curled behind him.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Dean whispers. "Aren't you glad we got the queen?"

No one's in danger of falling out of bed, so yeah, Sam's pleased. "What time is it?"

"We missed checkout," Dean says. "Wanna spend the day in bed?"

Sam rolls over. "You want that?"

Dean shrugs. "We got nowhere to be." He pulls a face as his stomach rumbles. "Except I need breakfast." He swings himself out of bed. "Shower, breakfast, then we spend the day in bed." The sheet slides away from his naked body as he heads for the bathroom. He walks awkwardly, like he's sore. "And you can do that thing again."

"What thing?"

Dean turns back before he slips into the bathroom, lifts his eyebrows, widens his eyes. "You know the thing." He closes the door behind him.

Sam rolls onto his back and stares up at the stained motel ceiling. It feels different. It is different.

Still, it doesn’t change what they are to each other. Nothing can change the fact that they’re brothers. That they’re blood.

fin