"Fuck, Sam. Watch your teeth." Dean wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, but he's smiling, his lips pink and kiss-swollen.
Sam grabs him by the shirt, manhandles him through Dean's bedroom door and kicks it closed behind him, shutting the dog out.
"I think you drew blood this time." Dean examines his fingertips. He flicks his eyes up, looks at Sam through his lashes, and it's goddamn intentional.
"Can I fuck you?" Sam says. He's gotta ask, always asks, always gets that same eye roll in response.
"I dunno, Sammy," Dean says, a mischievous glint in his eye as he starts to back away. "Can you?"
Sam accepts the challenge. He's faster than Dean, stronger than Dean, but Dean's still just a little bit more maneuverable, and as Sam gets a handful of shirt, Dean twists away.
Threads pop as flannel is wrenched from his grasp, and then there's a bed between them, and Dean's smirking.
"Gonna have to work harder than that," he says. "I dunno. Maybe you don't really want it, and that's cool. I got my skin mags, my laptop. I don't need—"
Sam moves while Dean's monologuing. A knee on the bed and his extra reach and Dean's face-first on the mattress, and Sam climbs over, gets Dean's arms behind him.
He can hold them with one hand.
"What you gonna do, Sammy?"
Sam rolls Dean onto his back, kisses him again. Harder than before. It's like a hunger, the way he wants his brother is like something twisted and depraved. But it's always been like that.
They've gotten used to it.
Dean whimpers. It might be pain, Sam always uses his teeth, biting at Dean's lips, tugging on them like he wants to devour his brother, take him inside to be part of him forever.
He knows Dean feels the same way.
"I'm gonna fuck you," Sam says, clumsily opening Dean's shirt down the front. He licks at Dean's mouth, and he tastes copper, and maybe he has drawn blood this time. The thought thrills him. "I wanna be inside you."
"Yeah, please." Dean's past games now, as needy as Sam. "Come on, Sammy. Come on."
Sam tugs hard at Dean's shirt, and it tears as it comes open. Something hits the bed and bounces off, skitters across the floor. Sam pulls the shirt down off Dean's shoulders, arms still in the sleeves, and it's a feeble restraint, but it keeps Dean there all the same.
He shoves Dean onto his back. Strips his lower body.
He drags Dean onto his lap. Dean's arms are still pinned behind him.
They both groan as Dean sinks down. Sam loves it like this. He can thrust up into Dean's body, warm and soft. Dean can ride him, slow at first, savouring the feeling, and then, as he starts to hit the right spots and lose control, hard and fast until they both come in a sticky mess.
It's different this time. Sam twists his hand in the flannel at Dean's back, secures Dean's arms trapped in the sleeves so he can't just wriggle them off. "Ride me," he instructs.
"You're the one with the reins," Dean gasps, breathless.
Sam twists the fabric around his own hand, tighter. "Then," he says. "Giddy up."
"Oh fuck," Dean says, writhing and shivering, "Fuck, Sammy."
Sam pulls Dean's wrists up the center of Dean's back, guiding him, urging him into a rhythm. "That's it," Sam says. "Come on. I've got you."
Dean's beautiful as he finds that rhythm. Riding Sam so perfectly, gazing down at him with pupils blown black and a swollen pink mouth, lips parted as he gasps and pants for air.
Sam knows immediately when Dean hits the spot. He throws his head back and grinds himself into Sam's cock and his body shudders, and he leans back, trusting unconsciously that Sam will hold him, will never let him fall.
"That's it," Sam says. "Come for me, Dean." Grinds his hips up, trying to go deeper into his brothers body, cos goddammit, he wants to be there all the time. Close, closer than anyone has ever been to anyone else, that's what they both need. "Fuck, fuck, Dean." His voice has gone harsh and scratchy, his throat feels like its closing up. "Dean, Dean, oh my god."
They come together in a sticky, sweaty mess. Slowly and carefully, Sam unwinds the shirt from Dean's arms and drops it to the floor beside the bed.
They fall asleep, limbs tangled together, filthy and sated.
Sam's out of clean shirts. He's out of dirty ones, too. There's a pile in the laundry room that he can't face, not yet. Not when it's a struggle just to eat with no one across from him at the table, and sometimes it seems that the only thing keeping him going is the dog, who still needs to be fed and watered and walked lest he piss in the library again.
Sam burned Dean's body a week ago.
They always borrowed each others clothes. If Sam was cold, he'd grab the hoody Dean left hanging over a chair, and if he couldn't find his favorite shirt, it would invariably turn up tossed into a corner of Dean's room.
He goes in there.
It seems impossible that he's not just out, gone for a drive, or for beer, or on a hunt. Dean's room is a stark contrast to Sam's, in that Dean's room looks lived in, and it's the kind of contradiction that makes Sam's knees buckle.
He sits down hard on the bed.
He forgets what he's in here for, until he looks down and sees the shirt, twisted into a spiral of red and black flannel and kicked halfway under the bed.
Sam picks it up. Tears flow as he remembers, just two days before Dean died in that barn, the last time he had his hands on this shirt.
He brings it to his face, and he inhales.
It's not the first time. There are clothes in the laundry pile he sobbed into for hours until there was nothing left of Dean on them.
This shirt is different. They'd changed the sheets on Dean's bed, they'd been washed already. There was nothing left of them there. It's all here in this shirt.
Sam unravels the twisted sleeves, and he pulls the shirt on. This is probably the furthest thing from healthy, but he doesn't care.
Since when have Winchesters cared about what's emotionally healthy?
As he's buttoning the shirt, he stops short. There's a button missing. He closes his eyes and he can hear it, threads breaking, seams popping, something small and hard hitting the floor and bouncing, rolling away to some unseen corner.
Sam slides down off Dean's bed, and he crawls on hands and knees.
He finds the button beneath the dresser, among dust bunnies and a single sock. He pulls it out, sits on his knees on the floor as he dusts it off.
He keeps the button in his wallet. It's a tiny physical reminder of what they had, and of what they shared for the last time just two days before Sam lost his brother, lost his everything, forever.