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alexisjaneTitle - An Angel Living In The Garden Of Evil
Pairing - Sam/Dean, John/Dean, implied Benny/Dean
Rating - NC-17
Disclaimer - These are my words but all my base are belong to Kripke, Sera, Ben or whoever so don't sue me. It's just for fun. No profit is made from this.
Word count - 3392
Warnings - oh god...bottom!Dean, sibling incest, parental incest, abusive relationship, implied underage, implied abuse, very bad!John, fucked up!Sam, abused!Dean, hurt!Dean, voyeur!Sam, possessive!Sam, post-Purgatory, implied BDSM, dub-con....but the boys do really love each other, I swear.
Summary - Sam knows where Dean has been, knows what, and who he's been doing. It eats him up inside knowing that he's always had to share Dean with another man. Because Dean is his and he is Dean's.
A/N - My![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_xmas gift for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tifaching : ) I'm so nervous about this. Darling, I was so happy to get you, I really properly squeed : ) I hope you don't mind me cheating a bit...when I read your list of likes, an idea for the follow up to Gods and Monsters that I'd wanted to do for ages but didn't know how to start, popped in my brain. I hope that's okay. You don't have to have read the other fics...the last one is kinda...it's not nice....so probably best, anyway.
I really wanted to make this so good, but my brain is still all full of stupid so apologies for it being a bit disjointed and maybe not working as well as it should...if it works at all : /
All the love and snuggles to the ever wonderfulsomersault_j for holding me tight while I finished it and doing her beta thang at the last minute.
Title from Lana del Ray.
An Angel Living In The Garden Of Evil
Sam feels the rumble of the Impala through the wiry frame of the threadbare couch. He checks his watch. Dean's right on time. It's uncanny. Dean always calls to give him an ETA and he's always right on time. Part of Sam knows he could probably use the information to find out where Dean has been but the rest of him screams that he doesn't want to know. His punctuality is somehow a comfort, the relief of his brother being back in one piece, but also grates on Sam's heart, knowing that what's about to walk through the door is somehow sullied and broken and barely his brother anymore. Except he is.
Sam can feel his jaw tighten when he hears the key in the lock. He shifts on the couch but doesn't get up. Dean breezes in, hauling his duffel with him. It's over his right shoulder though and Sam hates that he understands what that means. How well he knows his brother's body to see the injuries, the pain, before Dean is even fully in the room. Dean dumps the bag on the twin bed that's not sleep-rumpled with a casual, "Hey Sammy."
Sam puts a finger in the crease between the pages he was staring at, trying to give the impression that he hadn't been waiting around for three days, trying so hard to keep the taunting images of Dean out of his head. He tries not to obsess, not to envision Dean naked, in the arms of another man but it's all too easy for his brain to go there. It's not as if he hasn't seen it with his own two eyes. But the unwritten agreement means he has to go through the motions, so he sighs out, "Hey. How was the hunt?"
The hunt. It's a lie. Sam knows it’s a lie. Dean knows, Sam knows its a lie but they still go through the charade. Make believe. Like when they were kids and all their fantasies were other kids banalities. Pretending they were regular kids with a regular family, doing regular things. It's not so different now. Dean's still better at it. "It was fine. It went fine." He even manages to look Sam in the eye this time. "I'm gonna grab a shower."
Sam just nods and watches Dean disappear into the bathroom. It takes everything he has not to follow him. He knows Dean is hurt. The cut on his lip, the bruises poking out from under his collar and cuffs, the way he winces with every movement. Sam wants to put his hands all over him, to catalogue every cut and bite and mark, wants to soothe him and kiss him and wash away every trace of the fucking animal that did this to him. And more than that, he wants to ask his brother why he's doing this to himself, why he lets Benny use him like this. But Sam knows better. He learnt a long time ago that asking questions ended badly.
Sam can't remember when he first realized that something was...off. His whole life was off. It wasn't until he was in second grade that it really hit him. He didn't fit in. At all. But there was always some kind of justification for the strangeness of his life. Yes, they moved around but that was for dad's job. Yes, he could read much better than all the other kids in his class but that's because Dean would read to him and teach him as he went. Yes, he didn't have a mom like other kids but that wasn't something they ever really talked about and besides, he had Dean. But somewhere along the line he realized that it wasn't just that his life was different, but that he was. He didn't like it but he went along, holding tight to the anchor that at least he had Dean and that was something that no-one else had.
And there was never any question in his mind that Dean was his and he was Dean's. Until there was. Until he thought to ask one morning, "Where did you go last night?" Sam couldn't understand why Dean went pale. It wasn't the first time that he'd stirred from a dream to see his father pulling back the covers on Dean's bed and leading Dean away, it had been happening as long as he could remember but it was the first time he thought to ask about it.
Dean just shrugged. "Nowhere. Dad just...he needed me." he said, the timbre of his voice matter of fact, but his fist clenched white on the spoon as his jabbed at his cocopuffs before pushing the bowl away. And Sam didn't even think, just mimicked the shrug as he always did and shoveled cereal into his mouth. Because Dean had said it was nothing and cocopuffs were his favorite, and the question of when it would be his turn to be needed faded from his mind as quickly as it had formed.
There were other times, other events that didn't make sense, noises in the night, hushed conversations that would stop when he came in the room, his father drunk on his knees almost in tears, hanging onto Dean, half sobbing out "I'm sorry" and "Please..." as Dean tried to shoo Sam into their room because it was past his bedtime. And sometimes Sam would ask but always Dean would shrug, like it was nothing and Sam would let it go despite the twist in his gut. Because their lives were filled with strange inexplicable things. And because it was Dean.
Then one night he woke up, sweat sticking his boxers to his skinny teenage legs, wondering why the hell he was even wearing them in June. His bladder was aching, so he stumbled to the Jack and Jill bathroom between the two rooms they had been staying in for the month. He didn't bother to switch the light on, just pissed, letting his head roll forward in relief, his sigh louder than the stream hitting the porcelain. He shook himself off, and turned to stumble back to bed when there was a noise from his father's room. He wasn't quite sure why he froze until the sound came again. Because it sounded like Dean. But it was wrong. Sounded like he was hurt, but...
Sam knew he should turn and go back to bed and ask Dean about it in the morning but he knew Dean would just shrug and say it was nothing like he always had. So as quietly as he could, he gingerly turned the handle of the adjoining door and prayed it didn't squeak as he cracked it open.
It didn't but he nearly did when he peered through the gap. At first his mind couldn't quite process the image and not just because of the near darkness in the room. Even by the muggy light from the streetlamp, Sam could see his naked father pressing Dean's face down onto the bed with one hairy hand, as he held Dean's ass up with the other, pistoning into him at a frantic pace, the only sounds in the room the sloppy smack of skin on skin and Dean's muffled "Fuck...harder...come on..." as he jerked his dick in the small space between him and the bed.
Sam saw stars. Bright pinpricks of light in his vision. Everything swam into one. The utter horror, the Oedipal rage, and the deep ache starting at the base of his spine all welling up to tear at his heart and throat and fill his cock so hard, so fast, he nearly doubled over. John was panting and straining, a growl growing in his throat with every "Yeah, god yeah" he punched out of Dean. Sam could smell the alcohol thick in the air and he thought he might vomit. The sickness spread through his bones when his hand snaked beneath his waistband and wrapped around his cock. He kept his eyes on his brother, unconsciously matching his strokes, feeling like he was dying inside but harder than he ever felt possible. Dean came silently but the way his body convulsed drove Sam over the edge and he gripped the door frame so hard, he imagined there would be finger marks in the wood the next morning.
He turned away immediately, stepping out of his soiled shorts, not wanting to see the rest, wishing he'd never opened the door in the first place. He wiped himself off and threw the sodden boxers in the laundry pile. He felt hollowed out, tears pricking his eyes, and cursed his curiosity as he took one last peek through the open door. Dean was lying on his back, head tilted up, John's body covering him, John's mouth on Dean's mouth, John's hands in Dean's hair and running down his body, holding him tight, cradling him. Sam wished he was dead.
Sam slept in fits, alternating between dreams swimming with color, and waking in a start as he remembered more and more things that never made sense before. Things that he'd questioned, things that Dean had dismissed, things that now took on new significance, and made horrifying, devastating sense.
The morning was the same as any other when John was hung over and sleeping in. Dean went out early for a run and fetched breakfast, rousing Sam with a slamming door when he returned. He flicked on the TV and they ate while Dean flicked between news reports, cartoons and soaps. Sam forced himself to chew, felt like doing anything else but swallowing the greasy breakfast muffin, trying so hard to act like he'd seen nothing. And failing.
"You okay, Sammy?"
Sam stared at Dean, amazed that Dean could look so calm, so normal, when the image of their father's cock sliding in and out of his ass was burnt on his retinas. He shrugged. "Yeah, I'm fine." Dean didn't look convinced but started to turn back to The Banana Splits rerun anyway. Sam wanted to leave it but felt the words bubble out of him, as he concentrated on picking a piece of bacon to pieces. "I woke up and you weren't here." He felt Dean's eyes on him and looked up. "I shouldn't have drunk all that soda. It woke me up. Where were you?"
Dean's poker face was impeccable. Sam wondered how long he had had to perfect it. "It was hot, couldn't sleep. I had to get up to cool off."
Sam didn't take his eyes off him. "Was Dad up?"
Dean swallowed and Sam saw the spark of understanding flash in his eyes. Sam knew, and now Dean knew he knew. Dean dropped his plastic fork into the tray in his lap and wiped at his mouth. He huffed out a bitter laugh and smiled sadly at Sam. "I don't know. Maybe. He was pretty drunk."
Sam nodded and dropped his head. He pushed the remains of his breakfast away. "I need to get ready for school."
He was at the bathroom door, towel hanging loosely in his hand when Dean asked, "You sure you're okay, Sammy?" There was an edge to it that sounded like "forgive me". Sam hoped that Dean could see that the shrug he gave him, the one he'd learnt from Dean, said "I thought you were mine" as much as "what else can I do?"
When he came home that night, John was gone and Dean point blank refused to tell him how he dislocated his shoulder. He saw the fear and hurt in Dean's eyes clear enough though and never asked him about it again.
Sam opens his book up when he hears the shower snap on, determined to keep up the pretence. The text looks foreign, he's not sure he's read a word of it so he closes it again and places it back on the stack next to the bed. He rubs at his eyes trying not to visualize Dean's naked body in the shower, the way his hands move when he soaps himself. Tries not to wonder if he can manage, if he's still bleeding, if things can ever go back to the way they were. Before Purgatory. Before Benny. The bottle of Jack in his duffle is calling to him. Sam answers.
When Dean had turned up at Stanford, it was every dream that Sam had ever had come true. And every nightmare. Leaving the life had been easy. Leaving Dean had felt like dying. They had never talked about what Sam had seen, what Sam knew, but somehow it had brought them together. For some reason Sam stopped resisting Dean's urge to baby him, to look after him. Sam hoarded all his teenage piss and vinegar for his father. Sam couldn't speak to John without snapping or yelling, never once capitulating unless Dean stepped in, which only happened if it was clear Sam was about to swing a punch. Somehow the fact that Sam would wake up to a bruised and black-eyed Dean, when his father never so much as raised a hand to him, devastated Sam more than a beating would have. Especially as it always happened when Sam was at school or unconscious so he knew full well the context of the rough treatment. But the boys got closer, Dean maybe to try to keep Sam from hating him, and Sam to try to reassert his childhood fantasy, that Dean was his and he was Dean's.
And after Jess, after the fire, after Sam got so drunk he could barely stand, Dean almost as wasted himself, trying to put Sam to bed, falling into each other, Sam needed that feeling again. When he woke up in the morning, squinting through the violent pain in his head, feeling confused as he untangled his naked body from his brother's, feeling the pull of the dried come crusting on his belly and chin and everywhere, suddenly remembering the horrified look on Dean's face when he'd said, "Take care of me Dean."
"I'm trying to, Sammy. Quit wriggling."
"No. No take care of me...like you used to take care of Dad."
But then Dean's features softening, stroking the side of Sam's wet cheek, like he used to do when they were boys. Sam felt overwhelmed at how much he'd missed his brother and surged forward, planting a kiss, wet with tears, on his brother’s lips, and finally Dean was his and he was Dean's.
They didn't talk about it. It just happened. Except after a while Sam realized it didn't just happen. Sam would say, would plead or whisper, "Take care of me, Dean" and Dean would lift the sheet, slide out of his bed and into Sam's, giving Sam whatever he wanted. For a long time, Sam thought it was because Dean didn't want to feel like he was taking advantage of his little brother but there was one day, Sam asked him and Dean came to him and for a second there was a look on his face, not quite disgust, not quite despair, more resignation than anything else and Sam understood that Dean could never say no to him, no matter what he asked. And actually, Sam was okay with that. Because Dean was his and he was Dean's.
But after Purgatory, things were different. Dean was different. At first Sam thought it was because of...well, Purgatory, but it only took one look at Benny to realize he was wrong about that. His dark eyes, imposing body, the hairy hand extended towards Sam horrifyingly reminiscent of another man's hand. So when the calls started, Sam knew exactly why Dean answered. Dean would make out that it was a hunter ringing him, asking for his help, and when Dean made excuses about going alone, Sam went along with it. Just like he had done before. Dean would come back bruised, battered, bitten, and Sam just knew. He'd seen that look on Dean's face before. Sam got it. He did. When it was just the two of them, Dean was in control, Sam took but only what Dean gave him. It was about comfort and need and being together. But Benny didn't ask for permission, he acted just like their...
Sam got it. Didn't mean he had to like it.
The bottle is half empty by the time Dean emerges from the bathroom. He pauses at the threshold, when he glimpses the glass dangling from Sam's fingers and the flush on Sam's cheeks. Sam likes that. The way Dean's gait stutters as he walks across the room, bare feet brushing the carpet, loose pants and baggy teeshirt covering the evidence of his trip to...wherever the hell it was that he and Benny would meet.
Sam drains the dregs in the glass and starts to pour another. Dean raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? It's barely past noon."
Sam shrugs and brings the glass to his lips. "Maybe I need it." He takes a gulp, holding Dean's gaze as he swallows. "Maybe it's not all I need." The way Dean recoils, almost imperceptible, shoots a spike of blood to Sam's groin.
Before, he had waited a few days, maybe a week before the urge to claim his brother again became too much. He hates to push him into something sexual when he's so clearly used up but right now Sam doesn't care. He's angry. So he doesn't wait, can't stand the thought of any trace of vampire hands on his brother's body. He feels that old rage boil up again, the betrayal. All he'd ever had was Dean and he needs Dean to remember that.
Dean turns away from the glower on Sam's face, making a pretence of rifling through his duffle. Sam shifts on the couch, spreading his legs so the hard line of his cock under his jeans is unmistakeable. "Dean...please." It isn't a request. Dean spins around, his eyes full of exhaustion, his body slumped in resignation. Sam knows he won't refuse him. "Dean...please...take care of me...I've missed you."
It's too soon. Sam knows it when Dean lets out a sigh as he sinks between his legs. He sees it when a tear slips down Dean's cheek as he sucks Sam's thick cock into his mouth. The noises he makes sound more like sobs than pleasure as he works Sam's orgasm out of him. Blood from the reopened split on his lip smears the vein but Sam keeps one hand gripping Dean's hair regardless. Dean belongs to him and he needs to remember it. When Sam's other hand runs down the side of Dean's neck, his fingers slipping under the collar of his teeshirt, finding the partially scabbed bitemark, Dean tries to pull away. Sam holds him even tighter, feeling a wave of nausea when he pushes his fingernails into the wound and Dean's sad whimpers become groans of pleasure. Sam comes, fucking his brother's throat and hating himself for it. His head falls back and he covers his face with his arms. He feels Dean crawl up and straddle his lap, pulling him forward to hold him. Sam presses his face to Dean's chest, holds him tightly around the waist and lets Dean rock him and whisper, "It's okay Sammy. I promise, it's okay. I'm here," into his hair as the silent sobs shake Sam's broad shoulders.
The first time Sam got drunk, really blindingly drunk, Dean had dragged him home, sat with him while he puked and puked, ready with a towel and mouthwash for when he had nothing left in his stomach. Dean had put him to bed but Sam had started to cry so hard, Dean stopped scowling and hauled the weeping kid into his lap, holding him tight and whispering, "It's okay Sammy. I won't tell Dad."
Sam never forgot the look on Dean's face when he looked up and asked, "Why doesn't he love me?" It was pure incredulity.
"Of course, he loves you, Sam."
Sam shook his head. "No. No, he doesn't. Not the way he loves you. Why doesn't he love me, Dean? What's wrong with me?"
Dean looked like he was going to throw up but he held Sam close, rocked him and whispered, "There's nothing wrong with you, Sammy. Don't worry. I'll take care of you. Always."
Pairing - Sam/Dean, John/Dean, implied Benny/Dean
Rating - NC-17
Disclaimer - These are my words but all my base are belong to Kripke, Sera, Ben or whoever so don't sue me. It's just for fun. No profit is made from this.
Word count - 3392
Warnings - oh god...bottom!Dean, sibling incest, parental incest, abusive relationship, implied underage, implied abuse, very bad!John, fucked up!Sam, abused!Dean, hurt!Dean, voyeur!Sam, possessive!Sam, post-Purgatory, implied BDSM, dub-con....but the boys do really love each other, I swear.
Summary - Sam knows where Dean has been, knows what, and who he's been doing. It eats him up inside knowing that he's always had to share Dean with another man. Because Dean is his and he is Dean's.
A/N - My
spn_j2_xmas gift for tifaching : ) I'm so nervous about this. Darling, I was so happy to get you, I really properly squeed : ) I hope you don't mind me cheating a bit...when I read your list of likes, an idea for the follow up to Gods and Monsters that I'd wanted to do for ages but didn't know how to start, popped in my brain. I hope that's okay. You don't have to have read the other fics...the last one is kinda...it's not nice....so probably best, anyway.I really wanted to make this so good, but my brain is still all full of stupid so apologies for it being a bit disjointed and maybe not working as well as it should...if it works at all : /
All the love and snuggles to the ever wonderful
somersault_j for holding me tight while I finished it and doing her beta thang at the last minute.Title from Lana del Ray.
An Angel Living In The Garden Of Evil
Sam feels the rumble of the Impala through the wiry frame of the threadbare couch. He checks his watch. Dean's right on time. It's uncanny. Dean always calls to give him an ETA and he's always right on time. Part of Sam knows he could probably use the information to find out where Dean has been but the rest of him screams that he doesn't want to know. His punctuality is somehow a comfort, the relief of his brother being back in one piece, but also grates on Sam's heart, knowing that what's about to walk through the door is somehow sullied and broken and barely his brother anymore. Except he is.
Sam can feel his jaw tighten when he hears the key in the lock. He shifts on the couch but doesn't get up. Dean breezes in, hauling his duffel with him. It's over his right shoulder though and Sam hates that he understands what that means. How well he knows his brother's body to see the injuries, the pain, before Dean is even fully in the room. Dean dumps the bag on the twin bed that's not sleep-rumpled with a casual, "Hey Sammy."
Sam puts a finger in the crease between the pages he was staring at, trying to give the impression that he hadn't been waiting around for three days, trying so hard to keep the taunting images of Dean out of his head. He tries not to obsess, not to envision Dean naked, in the arms of another man but it's all too easy for his brain to go there. It's not as if he hasn't seen it with his own two eyes. But the unwritten agreement means he has to go through the motions, so he sighs out, "Hey. How was the hunt?"
The hunt. It's a lie. Sam knows it’s a lie. Dean knows, Sam knows its a lie but they still go through the charade. Make believe. Like when they were kids and all their fantasies were other kids banalities. Pretending they were regular kids with a regular family, doing regular things. It's not so different now. Dean's still better at it. "It was fine. It went fine." He even manages to look Sam in the eye this time. "I'm gonna grab a shower."
Sam just nods and watches Dean disappear into the bathroom. It takes everything he has not to follow him. He knows Dean is hurt. The cut on his lip, the bruises poking out from under his collar and cuffs, the way he winces with every movement. Sam wants to put his hands all over him, to catalogue every cut and bite and mark, wants to soothe him and kiss him and wash away every trace of the fucking animal that did this to him. And more than that, he wants to ask his brother why he's doing this to himself, why he lets Benny use him like this. But Sam knows better. He learnt a long time ago that asking questions ended badly.
Sam can't remember when he first realized that something was...off. His whole life was off. It wasn't until he was in second grade that it really hit him. He didn't fit in. At all. But there was always some kind of justification for the strangeness of his life. Yes, they moved around but that was for dad's job. Yes, he could read much better than all the other kids in his class but that's because Dean would read to him and teach him as he went. Yes, he didn't have a mom like other kids but that wasn't something they ever really talked about and besides, he had Dean. But somewhere along the line he realized that it wasn't just that his life was different, but that he was. He didn't like it but he went along, holding tight to the anchor that at least he had Dean and that was something that no-one else had.
And there was never any question in his mind that Dean was his and he was Dean's. Until there was. Until he thought to ask one morning, "Where did you go last night?" Sam couldn't understand why Dean went pale. It wasn't the first time that he'd stirred from a dream to see his father pulling back the covers on Dean's bed and leading Dean away, it had been happening as long as he could remember but it was the first time he thought to ask about it.
Dean just shrugged. "Nowhere. Dad just...he needed me." he said, the timbre of his voice matter of fact, but his fist clenched white on the spoon as his jabbed at his cocopuffs before pushing the bowl away. And Sam didn't even think, just mimicked the shrug as he always did and shoveled cereal into his mouth. Because Dean had said it was nothing and cocopuffs were his favorite, and the question of when it would be his turn to be needed faded from his mind as quickly as it had formed.
There were other times, other events that didn't make sense, noises in the night, hushed conversations that would stop when he came in the room, his father drunk on his knees almost in tears, hanging onto Dean, half sobbing out "I'm sorry" and "Please..." as Dean tried to shoo Sam into their room because it was past his bedtime. And sometimes Sam would ask but always Dean would shrug, like it was nothing and Sam would let it go despite the twist in his gut. Because their lives were filled with strange inexplicable things. And because it was Dean.
Then one night he woke up, sweat sticking his boxers to his skinny teenage legs, wondering why the hell he was even wearing them in June. His bladder was aching, so he stumbled to the Jack and Jill bathroom between the two rooms they had been staying in for the month. He didn't bother to switch the light on, just pissed, letting his head roll forward in relief, his sigh louder than the stream hitting the porcelain. He shook himself off, and turned to stumble back to bed when there was a noise from his father's room. He wasn't quite sure why he froze until the sound came again. Because it sounded like Dean. But it was wrong. Sounded like he was hurt, but...
Sam knew he should turn and go back to bed and ask Dean about it in the morning but he knew Dean would just shrug and say it was nothing like he always had. So as quietly as he could, he gingerly turned the handle of the adjoining door and prayed it didn't squeak as he cracked it open.
It didn't but he nearly did when he peered through the gap. At first his mind couldn't quite process the image and not just because of the near darkness in the room. Even by the muggy light from the streetlamp, Sam could see his naked father pressing Dean's face down onto the bed with one hairy hand, as he held Dean's ass up with the other, pistoning into him at a frantic pace, the only sounds in the room the sloppy smack of skin on skin and Dean's muffled "Fuck...harder...come on..." as he jerked his dick in the small space between him and the bed.
Sam saw stars. Bright pinpricks of light in his vision. Everything swam into one. The utter horror, the Oedipal rage, and the deep ache starting at the base of his spine all welling up to tear at his heart and throat and fill his cock so hard, so fast, he nearly doubled over. John was panting and straining, a growl growing in his throat with every "Yeah, god yeah" he punched out of Dean. Sam could smell the alcohol thick in the air and he thought he might vomit. The sickness spread through his bones when his hand snaked beneath his waistband and wrapped around his cock. He kept his eyes on his brother, unconsciously matching his strokes, feeling like he was dying inside but harder than he ever felt possible. Dean came silently but the way his body convulsed drove Sam over the edge and he gripped the door frame so hard, he imagined there would be finger marks in the wood the next morning.
He turned away immediately, stepping out of his soiled shorts, not wanting to see the rest, wishing he'd never opened the door in the first place. He wiped himself off and threw the sodden boxers in the laundry pile. He felt hollowed out, tears pricking his eyes, and cursed his curiosity as he took one last peek through the open door. Dean was lying on his back, head tilted up, John's body covering him, John's mouth on Dean's mouth, John's hands in Dean's hair and running down his body, holding him tight, cradling him. Sam wished he was dead.
Sam slept in fits, alternating between dreams swimming with color, and waking in a start as he remembered more and more things that never made sense before. Things that he'd questioned, things that Dean had dismissed, things that now took on new significance, and made horrifying, devastating sense.
The morning was the same as any other when John was hung over and sleeping in. Dean went out early for a run and fetched breakfast, rousing Sam with a slamming door when he returned. He flicked on the TV and they ate while Dean flicked between news reports, cartoons and soaps. Sam forced himself to chew, felt like doing anything else but swallowing the greasy breakfast muffin, trying so hard to act like he'd seen nothing. And failing.
"You okay, Sammy?"
Sam stared at Dean, amazed that Dean could look so calm, so normal, when the image of their father's cock sliding in and out of his ass was burnt on his retinas. He shrugged. "Yeah, I'm fine." Dean didn't look convinced but started to turn back to The Banana Splits rerun anyway. Sam wanted to leave it but felt the words bubble out of him, as he concentrated on picking a piece of bacon to pieces. "I woke up and you weren't here." He felt Dean's eyes on him and looked up. "I shouldn't have drunk all that soda. It woke me up. Where were you?"
Dean's poker face was impeccable. Sam wondered how long he had had to perfect it. "It was hot, couldn't sleep. I had to get up to cool off."
Sam didn't take his eyes off him. "Was Dad up?"
Dean swallowed and Sam saw the spark of understanding flash in his eyes. Sam knew, and now Dean knew he knew. Dean dropped his plastic fork into the tray in his lap and wiped at his mouth. He huffed out a bitter laugh and smiled sadly at Sam. "I don't know. Maybe. He was pretty drunk."
Sam nodded and dropped his head. He pushed the remains of his breakfast away. "I need to get ready for school."
He was at the bathroom door, towel hanging loosely in his hand when Dean asked, "You sure you're okay, Sammy?" There was an edge to it that sounded like "forgive me". Sam hoped that Dean could see that the shrug he gave him, the one he'd learnt from Dean, said "I thought you were mine" as much as "what else can I do?"
When he came home that night, John was gone and Dean point blank refused to tell him how he dislocated his shoulder. He saw the fear and hurt in Dean's eyes clear enough though and never asked him about it again.
Sam opens his book up when he hears the shower snap on, determined to keep up the pretence. The text looks foreign, he's not sure he's read a word of it so he closes it again and places it back on the stack next to the bed. He rubs at his eyes trying not to visualize Dean's naked body in the shower, the way his hands move when he soaps himself. Tries not to wonder if he can manage, if he's still bleeding, if things can ever go back to the way they were. Before Purgatory. Before Benny. The bottle of Jack in his duffle is calling to him. Sam answers.
When Dean had turned up at Stanford, it was every dream that Sam had ever had come true. And every nightmare. Leaving the life had been easy. Leaving Dean had felt like dying. They had never talked about what Sam had seen, what Sam knew, but somehow it had brought them together. For some reason Sam stopped resisting Dean's urge to baby him, to look after him. Sam hoarded all his teenage piss and vinegar for his father. Sam couldn't speak to John without snapping or yelling, never once capitulating unless Dean stepped in, which only happened if it was clear Sam was about to swing a punch. Somehow the fact that Sam would wake up to a bruised and black-eyed Dean, when his father never so much as raised a hand to him, devastated Sam more than a beating would have. Especially as it always happened when Sam was at school or unconscious so he knew full well the context of the rough treatment. But the boys got closer, Dean maybe to try to keep Sam from hating him, and Sam to try to reassert his childhood fantasy, that Dean was his and he was Dean's.
And after Jess, after the fire, after Sam got so drunk he could barely stand, Dean almost as wasted himself, trying to put Sam to bed, falling into each other, Sam needed that feeling again. When he woke up in the morning, squinting through the violent pain in his head, feeling confused as he untangled his naked body from his brother's, feeling the pull of the dried come crusting on his belly and chin and everywhere, suddenly remembering the horrified look on Dean's face when he'd said, "Take care of me Dean."
"I'm trying to, Sammy. Quit wriggling."
"No. No take care of me...like you used to take care of Dad."
But then Dean's features softening, stroking the side of Sam's wet cheek, like he used to do when they were boys. Sam felt overwhelmed at how much he'd missed his brother and surged forward, planting a kiss, wet with tears, on his brother’s lips, and finally Dean was his and he was Dean's.
They didn't talk about it. It just happened. Except after a while Sam realized it didn't just happen. Sam would say, would plead or whisper, "Take care of me, Dean" and Dean would lift the sheet, slide out of his bed and into Sam's, giving Sam whatever he wanted. For a long time, Sam thought it was because Dean didn't want to feel like he was taking advantage of his little brother but there was one day, Sam asked him and Dean came to him and for a second there was a look on his face, not quite disgust, not quite despair, more resignation than anything else and Sam understood that Dean could never say no to him, no matter what he asked. And actually, Sam was okay with that. Because Dean was his and he was Dean's.
But after Purgatory, things were different. Dean was different. At first Sam thought it was because of...well, Purgatory, but it only took one look at Benny to realize he was wrong about that. His dark eyes, imposing body, the hairy hand extended towards Sam horrifyingly reminiscent of another man's hand. So when the calls started, Sam knew exactly why Dean answered. Dean would make out that it was a hunter ringing him, asking for his help, and when Dean made excuses about going alone, Sam went along with it. Just like he had done before. Dean would come back bruised, battered, bitten, and Sam just knew. He'd seen that look on Dean's face before. Sam got it. He did. When it was just the two of them, Dean was in control, Sam took but only what Dean gave him. It was about comfort and need and being together. But Benny didn't ask for permission, he acted just like their...
Sam got it. Didn't mean he had to like it.
The bottle is half empty by the time Dean emerges from the bathroom. He pauses at the threshold, when he glimpses the glass dangling from Sam's fingers and the flush on Sam's cheeks. Sam likes that. The way Dean's gait stutters as he walks across the room, bare feet brushing the carpet, loose pants and baggy teeshirt covering the evidence of his trip to...wherever the hell it was that he and Benny would meet.
Sam drains the dregs in the glass and starts to pour another. Dean raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? It's barely past noon."
Sam shrugs and brings the glass to his lips. "Maybe I need it." He takes a gulp, holding Dean's gaze as he swallows. "Maybe it's not all I need." The way Dean recoils, almost imperceptible, shoots a spike of blood to Sam's groin.
Before, he had waited a few days, maybe a week before the urge to claim his brother again became too much. He hates to push him into something sexual when he's so clearly used up but right now Sam doesn't care. He's angry. So he doesn't wait, can't stand the thought of any trace of vampire hands on his brother's body. He feels that old rage boil up again, the betrayal. All he'd ever had was Dean and he needs Dean to remember that.
Dean turns away from the glower on Sam's face, making a pretence of rifling through his duffle. Sam shifts on the couch, spreading his legs so the hard line of his cock under his jeans is unmistakeable. "Dean...please." It isn't a request. Dean spins around, his eyes full of exhaustion, his body slumped in resignation. Sam knows he won't refuse him. "Dean...please...take care of me...I've missed you."
It's too soon. Sam knows it when Dean lets out a sigh as he sinks between his legs. He sees it when a tear slips down Dean's cheek as he sucks Sam's thick cock into his mouth. The noises he makes sound more like sobs than pleasure as he works Sam's orgasm out of him. Blood from the reopened split on his lip smears the vein but Sam keeps one hand gripping Dean's hair regardless. Dean belongs to him and he needs to remember it. When Sam's other hand runs down the side of Dean's neck, his fingers slipping under the collar of his teeshirt, finding the partially scabbed bitemark, Dean tries to pull away. Sam holds him even tighter, feeling a wave of nausea when he pushes his fingernails into the wound and Dean's sad whimpers become groans of pleasure. Sam comes, fucking his brother's throat and hating himself for it. His head falls back and he covers his face with his arms. He feels Dean crawl up and straddle his lap, pulling him forward to hold him. Sam presses his face to Dean's chest, holds him tightly around the waist and lets Dean rock him and whisper, "It's okay Sammy. I promise, it's okay. I'm here," into his hair as the silent sobs shake Sam's broad shoulders.
The first time Sam got drunk, really blindingly drunk, Dean had dragged him home, sat with him while he puked and puked, ready with a towel and mouthwash for when he had nothing left in his stomach. Dean had put him to bed but Sam had started to cry so hard, Dean stopped scowling and hauled the weeping kid into his lap, holding him tight and whispering, "It's okay Sammy. I won't tell Dad."
Sam never forgot the look on Dean's face when he looked up and asked, "Why doesn't he love me?" It was pure incredulity.
"Of course, he loves you, Sam."
Sam shook his head. "No. No, he doesn't. Not the way he loves you. Why doesn't he love me, Dean? What's wrong with me?"
Dean looked like he was going to throw up but he held Sam close, rocked him and whispered, "There's nothing wrong with you, Sammy. Don't worry. I'll take care of you. Always."
