Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5604040.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-01 Words: 5179
****** A Soft-Porn Version of the Ending of the World ******
by oddishly
Summary
     Sam's got a new job at a library.
This morning Sam spent nearly an hour before school looking for an iron.
Dean knows for a fact that Sam's never used an iron before and fuck knows that
he hasn't either, but today is Sam's first day working at the local library.
Apparently that's the kind of job that calls for you to ruin two good shirts by
burning holes through the pocket, which is pretty far from the normal Sam
usually aspires to, but eh. Their other job is ghostbusting. Dean can’t judge.
The library is right across from Sam's school and Dean finishes work at 4,
halfway through Sam's shift. Dean's not going to stick around. Just wants to
make sure Sam's doing the job right and not too busy drowning in happiness in
the Greek mythology shelves. Although that would also be okay. Dean isn't going
to tell Sam that, doesn't want to encourage him.
He finds Sam sitting cross-legged on the floor of the section of the library
given over to French architecture. Dean didn't realise there was enough to be
said about French architecture to dedicate this much of a local library to it.
Sam's got enough opinions on the subject that he needs fourteen giant hardback
books and what looks like most of the academic journals published in his
lifetime piled up around him on the floor. Sam's so weird.
"Think you're supposed to be shelving them," Dean says. He leans against a
pillar and grins when Sam jumps and lets go of the journal he's got his nose
in. Dean nods at the books, all of them marked in at least two spots with
scraps of paper. "Not rolling in them."
"I'm just looking," mutters Sam, but he ducks his head to give a guilty look at
the librarian sitting at the desk, who’s deep into a Harry Potter book. "It's
not busy or anything."

"Looks like I bring your total library users up to one," Dean agrees. There's a
bunch of kids a few rows over but they don't count. They're probably only here
for dirty books anyway, he thinks, then catches himself at it and shakes his
head. Sex books are the only reason you should step foot in a library, if
you're not a Winchester.
He nudges one of the piles of books sideways with his foot and sinks down to
take its place. "Anything interesting?”
“Not really. There was a murder-suicide here in the 1870s and there’s an entire
shelf dedicated to it by the entrance.”
“Yeah? Something we should look into?”
“The most recent article about it is thirty years old,” says Sam. “Last alleged
ghost sighting was in the 1920s. But knock yourself out.”
Dean shrugs it off. “Anything actually useful?”

Sam flips the journal open again. "I guess. Dad probably knows all this stuff
already."
"Doesn't matter. Two heads are better than one."
"Three heads," says Sam. "You read, I've seen you."
Dean punches his arm. "How dare you."
"I can kick you out, you know."
"You can try," says Dean, and picks up something with Renaissance in the title
so he can hold it to his chest. "Kick me out and I'm taking this with me."
"See," says Sam. He grins and presses his knee into Dean's thigh a little.
"Reading."
Dean snorts and presses back.
"Anyway," Sam continues. "Girls like guys who read."
"One sensitive type in the family is enough, dude," says Dean. He watches as
Sam pushes himself to his feet, gathering the books in his arms and peering at
the spines.
Dean sticks his head out into the aisle to check if anyone else with a latent
interest in churches in Toulouse is about to stumble over them. Then he looks
back at Sam. "You know what we should be doing."
Sam wiggles two of his books between the stacks. He frowns at the next one. "I
finish at 7," he says without looking over. "I’m not ditching, we can hang out
later."
Dean sighs. Sam's so oblivious it hurts. "That kind of defeats the object."
Sam looks at him. Then he blushes. His cheeks are exactly the same colour as
the sweater vest hiding the burn holes in shirt number three. "Oh," he says.
"Mmm," Dean replies. He flicks his gaze between the shelves and checks the
aisle once more for good measure. "Wanna make out, Sammy?"
It’s not clear yet how far this is going to go, partly because nothing’s really
happened yet. Dean’s not sure where one aborted kiss in the dark falls on the
happening/not happening scale, other than how Sam’s gotten even easier to
tease.
But Sam's a librarian now. Dean has to talk about making out with him on
principle.
Sam still hasn't said anything. Speech isn't necessary but he hasn't jumped
Dean either, so instead they're both hovering awkwardly in front of each other.
It's not a bad kind of awkward. Sam's just gone all shy and for some reason
Dean can't bring himself to maul him while he's looking like that.
Dean clears his throat. "Or," he says, "we could save that for when they've
given you your uniform."
Sam blinks. "My what?"
"Your uniform. Librarian attire."
Sam's still looking confused. Dean shakes his head. "Tight shirt," he says, and
finally Sam catches on. "Heels. One of those – pencil skirt things with a slit
going right the way up. Glasses."
He gives Sam an expectant look, and a yelp when Sam shoves him out into the
aisle. "Ass," Sam says, still blushing but pinker.
"That's not a no," says Dean.
Sam leans down to collect the rest of the journals up off the floor. "This is,"
he tells Dean firmly.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Dean starts on dinner when he gets home, and shoves the vacuum cleaner around
the living room and then his and Sam’s room to distract himself. He lets the
vacuum cleaner chew up the carpet for a minute in the middle of the room before
realising what he’s doing and switching it off, then falls down on Sam's bed,
sheets rumpled and smelling like Sam's girly fruit shampoo.
Dad's been preoccupied the past couple days, leaving the house before his sons
wake up and not coming back much before midnight. Dean doesn't think he's going
to remember that today was Sam's first day at work. He digs around in his jeans
for something to write a reminder on and finds a crumpled receipt for five
pounds of rock salt and a socket wrench. He turns his head into the pillow and
takes a deep breath in.
Dean thinks, sometimes, when Sam leans in close and jostles Dean's shoulder,
that he should ask Sam to stop, and they should go back to being whatever they
were before. He knows that wouldn’t really work, though. No matter how sharp
the curses and self-recriminations on his tongue when he wraps his hand around
his cock in the shower, head wrapped up in the thought of the curls at the nape
of Sam's neck and the shape of his ears and the muscles slowly becoming defined
in his thighs, how long he could keep Dean at the edge with his long fingers in
his ass.
Dean lets go of the scrap of paper and pushes his jeans down. His eyes flutter
shut as he reaches for his cock to bring himself off, thoughts stuck on Sam in
women’s clothes, and groans picturing Sam tugging his skirt up and pulling Dean
onto his dick.
He finds a Kleenex under Sam’s pillow and uses it to wipe his hand off, then
pushes off the bed and scribbles Sam’s first day! on the back of the receipt.
He goes to their dad’s room to slide the note underneath the door, then to the
kitchen to poke at the stew, then back out to the car, even though there’s
still an hour left of Sam’s shift. Sometimes it's just nice to be in the same
place as him.
Dean makes a face at himself in the rearview as he pulls away. He’s going to
keep that thought to himself.
 
 
 
 
 
 
He’s air-guitaring his way through Journey’s Greatest Hits to keep warm and
trying to work out how many storeys a library really needs when he first
notices the kind of crashing you don’t expect from inside a library.
Dean sits up straighter and turns the music down, squinting at the windows.
Sam’s probably wandered into the dictionaries with his nose stuck in a book and
sent them flying, Dean thinks, and smirks at the thought of Sam blushing.
The lights abruptly go out on all five storeys. Dean stops smiling. He reaches
behind him for the shotgun loaded up with salt rounds. When he looks back, the
glass of the floor-to-ceiling window on the fourth floor shatters and the
librarian from earlier appears in the empty frame, blood streaming through her
clothes. She’s floating six inches above the bottom of the frame, begging
something Dean can’t see to let her go, when Dean hears Sam shouting over her.
“Let her go--you can k-kill me--”
Dean’s vision goes black. He gets out of the car with the shotgun in hand, then
stops in horror as the woman is dropped screaming to the sidewalk four storeys
below.
“SAM!” he yells, and runs past her body and up to the library entrance to find
the door locked. He yanks at the handle, staring through the glass at the
roomful of fallen bookshelves.
The librarian’s body is seeping blood into the cracks in the sidewalk.
“Motherfucking--Sammy!” he hollers, mind full of images of Sam’s body broken
like the librarian’s, twisted on the sidewalk and riddled with bloody wounds.
He runs back to the car and grabs the baseball bat from the backseat, tripping
on the steps on his way back. He picks the bat up again and swings at the glass
until it smashes, then hurdles through the bookshelves and up the stairs
yelling Sam’s name.
As he’s reaching the fourth storey up, he hears another crash against the wall
on the other side of him. “Dean, I’m here!” shouts Sam, agonisingly close. Dean
realises, belatedly, that the thing crashing into the wall was probably Sam
himself. “There’s two of them, two spirits!”
Dean staggers in relief. “I’m here!” he shouts, pointlessly, and pushes through
the swinging doors with the shotgun raised. “Get the fuck away from my
brother!”
The room is devoid of books, apparently used as a storeroom for office
furniture and empty book carts. Sam is standing behind the door, a carton of
table salt in hand. Approaching him is the spirit of a boy no older than Dean,
tears streaming down his face and a wicked looking knife raised to the level of
Sam’s throat. The left side of his head is grotesquely distorted by a bullet
wound.
Dean fires and the spirit vanishes.
Sam dashes forward.
“Are you hurt,” Dean demands, pulling Sam to him and running his free hand over
him. “Did he get you, what happened--there are two of them? Is it--?”
“The murder-suicide pact,” Sam confirms. He lays a circle of salt around him
and Dean hastily. “I think it turned into a murder, singular. I read some of
the articles and that boy’s body was found here but the other’s wasn’t--there
was too much blood for one person, everyone thought the other boy--”
“Wait--boy? Two guys in a suicide pact?”
“Yes,” says Sam impatiently, “they were brothers. Everyone thought the other
one had lost too much blood to survive but they never found his body. But what
if he did survive, and the other one--the one who you just shot--stayed to
finish it? What if--behind you!”
Dean whirls around and fires. The boy with the mutilated face, much too close
for comfort, vanishes again. Dean turns back to Sam. “Why’s he here now,
though? Didn’t you say the last sighting was nearly a century ago?”
Sam looks uncomfortable. “Uh. Yes, but--”
Dean’s going to kill him.
“I just came up here,” Sam says quickly. “I just wanted to see. I didn’t think
they’d actually be here.”
“They?”
On cue, the other spirit appears. This one is younger, barely 14, maybe less,
limping and clutching a gun that’s too big for him. Dean looks him up and down;
he’s been stabbed but too low to kill him outright. He’s wearing an anguished
expression that would twist Dean’s gut if the spirit wasn’t trying to kill Sam.
Or, Christ--he shoots twice and it vanishes; no more salt in the gun now--
trying to kill him.
“How do we waste them?” he asks, holding onto Sam to make sure he doesn’t do
anything stupid like offer himself up to die again. “Their mom happen to donate
a lock of both their hair to the library?”
“Not that I know of,” says Sam. He throws a handful of salt into the air and
one of the spirit brothers disappears into the ether, still looking tragic.
Forgive Dean if he doesn’t feel sympathetic. “But maybe it says more in the
books, you could go--”
“Don’t fucking finish that sentence, I’m not going anywhere,” snaps Dean. “Is
there a cemetery near here? Or a, um, a--”
Sam yanks him sideways. The older brother plods through the space Dean recently
occupied and straight through an empty book cart, but doesn’t seem surprised at
Dean’s absence. There’s something weird about them and Dean can’t work it out.
He pulls Sam closer as the younger brother drifts past. “I don’t get it,” he
says. “They’re, I dunno, do they even know we’re here?”
“Think so,” says Sam, dragging them both back again and tossing more salt out,
followed by a book that doesn’t do anything to keep them away. “But they’re
distracted.”
Dean would give anything for their dad to appear. He holds Sam in, noting the
rise and fall of his chest against his own and trying to laugh at himself for
noticing.
“They’re following each other,” says Sam suddenly. His breath is hot on Dean’s
neck. “I mean, obviously they are, but watch, it’s like they’re trying to find
each other.”
Dean watches as instructed, keeping a close eye in case one of them decides
it’s time to kill him or Sam again. Sam’s right, though. One of them walks past
first and the other will follow, drifting through a bookshelf as the other
vanishes into the night air and reappears on top of a desk on the other side of
the room.
“Okay,” Dean breathes. “Good catch, kiddo. What do we do? They’re still trying
to kill us.”
“Yeah, but I think it’s because they’re confused,” says Sam. “We’re brothers
too, and we’re close to their age. Like, minus a hundred and fifty. They’re
probably just getting lost.”
“This room’s smaller than our bedroom. Lost, really?” Dean thinks. “Okay, you
wait here, I’ll--”
“No, you wait here” says Sam, and slips out from under Dean’s arm. Dean growls
and grabs for him but Sam’s too quick; he darts into the middle of the room
where it’s empty and throws the salt carton back to Dean.
The two spirits materialise almost immediately, one facing and one behind Sam,
both too close to get between either one of them and Sam.
“Get back here,” Dean orders, but it comes out like a moan.
Sam turns to look at him, eyes dark. “Trust me,” he mouths. Dean’s never
fucking trusting him ever again. He watches as the two spirits advance on Sam,
thinking about how he’s going to tell their dad that he let Sam die, that it
was all for nothing and Sam is dead by two dead brothers because of Dean.
The brother spirits are getting closer and closer. Dean doesn’t know what to
do. He doesn’t have any rounds left and Sam’s too far away to pull back behind
the salt line. He can only put himself in front of one spirit at a time and
Dean can’t decide which is more dangerous.
The brothers are each wearing crazed expressions, distorting and fragmenting
the closer they get to Sam. The older brother raises the knife as the younger
lifts his shaking gun arm.
“No,” says Dean.
Sam turns to smile at him. Dean’s heart stops.
Sam ducks and drops. The younger brother fires his gun as the older stabs up.
He hits the same point in his brother’s chest as the first time he tried to
kill him, but this time the knife is angled up and through the heart instead of
wobbling off to the side, an unquestionably killing blow as the second bullet
smashes his skull. The older boy lets go of the knife to wrap his arms around
his brother.
Dean doesn’t care, so angry he can’t focus. “Sammy,” he says, crossing the salt
line without a moment’s thought and dragging Sam back until he thinks they’re
both inside. “You fucker. You little piece of shit.”
“Yeah,” says Sam, and smiles up at him like he thinks this is funny.
They watch as the two spirit brothers spin and vanish together into
nothingness, wrapped up close and dead and gone.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Not like Sam's ever been good at following orders, not even when it's Dean
giving them, but it'd be fucking fantastic if he'd do as told just once, just
to be perverse. Seeing as Sam evidently gives zero fucks what Dean's going to
do once his brother's sulked his way backwards into a bullet or maybe the kind
of spirit that doesn't like being fallen through, Dean's pretty sure that's the
only reason Sam's ever going to pay attention.
"Outside," Dean snarls, and tosses Sam through the door to the hallway. Sam
stumbles down the stairs but he doesn't fall because Dean's never letting Sam
out of his reach again, not ever. He hauls Sam upright with a vice grip on his
upper arm and decides that he might as well keep hold to stop Sam from hurling
himself out the window or something. They're still three storeys up, it's
exactly the kind of thing Dean would expect Sam to do. He spends half an
instant checking out the room on the third floor, the enormous desk in the
corner and the empty water cooler and three dead plants but no spirits and no
floating daggers or shotguns, then jerks Sam around to face him. "What the fuck
was that back there?"
Sam opens his mouth to reply but actually, no, Dean doesn't want to hear it.
"Shut up, I don't even care. You little shit, what the hell were you thinking,
what the fuck were you thinking?" He tightens his fingers on Sam's arm, tighter
still when Sam makes a pained noise in his throat. "You think this hurts? You
wait 'til I tell Dad, he's gonna beat your ass blue."
"I told you the other spirit came back! What were we supposed to do, let them
kill both of us? Like hell, Dean!"
"You were supposed to do what I told you to do and stay where you were!" Dean
shouts. He shakes Sam's arm as hard as he can without ripping it off then lets
go. "Not jump around throwing fucking books at them and offering yourself up as
a sacrifice! Christ!"
"I wasn't going to stand and watch them cut you open –"
"You were, because I told you to," Dean says. "Just once in your life, Sam, you
couldn't fucking listen. Way better to piss off Romeo and Juliet the second,
what a hero."
Sam flinches. He's got two lines cutting across his face like bloody train
tracks from where the first spirit decided to take a swipe at him and god knows
how much of his skin is still intact under his clothes. There are little slices
across every inch of material he's wearing, for all Dean knows the second
spirit got good and happy flaying skin off Sam while Dean was still busy with
Journey’s Greatest Hits. Sam probably asked him to slice him up like that.
"Couldn't leave you to do it on your own," Sam says. "What if –"

Dean cuts him off, grabbing his arm again and pulling him close. He uses his
other hand to start yanking buttons open on Sam's mutilated shirt. "Shut up,
what if nothing. Your job is to not get hurt, that's your one job and you
forgot it. "
"But – "
"Shut up." Dean rips the shirt off and runs his hands up and around Sam's arms.
There are three fine lines circling his right forearm and a scrape that runs
all the way up and under his t-shirt on the left, bright nicks all across his
neck. The underside of both his upper arms look like they've had the skin
grated off, and he's holding the right one kinda funny.
Dean digs his fingers under the t-shirt and jerks it up to bunch under Sam's
arms, not bothering to get it higher before flatting his palms on Sam's chest
and feeling for anything that shouldn't be there. He catalogues Sam's jolt as
Dean pushes his palm into the lowest rib on his right side, the wide crosshatch
cuts on the opposite hip, the tidy seep of blood that starts right above his
solar plexus.
Sam's standing like he can't decide whether to try and help Dean or just let
himself be moved. Dean pushes his arms up and shoves the t-shirt over his head,
dropping it to the floor and examining him for any more breaks or bruises. Any
second, Sam's going to start trying to talk his way into an explanation of what
the fuck he was thinking, and Dean wants to check how broken Sam already is
before needing to inflict twice the damage all over again just to shut him up.
"He didn't – "
Dean shakes him viciously enough that Sam's head flops on his shoulders. "What
did I just tell you," he says, and clenches his fingers tighter on Sam's arms
to stop himself from giving Sam a real injury. "Shut up."
He continues mapping out Sam's skin: bruised tender and unforgiving at his
right hip, a week-old scrape curving along the line of his jeans that's split
open and welling into the denim. Dean ducks back and down to stare narrow-eyed
at the scrape, thumbs rubbing the bruises out of Sam's hips without a care for
the little noises Sam is making in his throat. Sam should have thought of all
the things Dean was going to do to him before inviting something unhinged and
malevolent to throw him like a rag doll across the room and into the wall.
"Dean," says Sam, body held tight under Dean's hands like that's going to
disguise the way he's shaking. Dean ducks back and down, sliding his hands over
Sam's torso, counting the breaks in his skin.
"Now your back," Dean says shortly once he's done, but doesn't wait for Sam to
disobey that order as well. He digs his thumbs into the clean skin at the edge
of the bruises and turns him around. There's nothing to see but the marks left
behind by another angry spirit last week, but the scabs have broken open, just
as they've been coming open most nights on Sam's bed sheets. Dean wets his
thumb and draws a line under one of the cuts, and doesn't gentle his touch when
Sam flinches. "Hold still."
Sam's only a suicidal idiot 99% of the time, so he keeps his mouth shut and his
movement to a barely perceptible sway as Dean scrapes over the gravel all stuck
in the deepest cuts. Dean frowns as it hits the floor. They're in a library.
There isn't any gravel anywhere for Sam to get thrown at.
If Dean finds out Sam left the building then went back inside to find out more
about these spirits without telling him, Sam's going to get a two-second
headstart out of here before Dean breaks his goddamn spine.
Dean drops to his knees behind him. "Brace."
"They didn't –"
"You think I'm going to trust anything that comes out of your mouth right now?"
Dean snaps, and yanks Sam's filthy jeans down. Sam catches a groan in his
throat and throws his palms flat against the wall, now he listens, and Dean
drops to his knees and feels his way down his legs. His skin's going the colour
of plums with the flood of broken capillaries beneath it, but there aren't any
breaks, nothing that's going to stop Sam running at the next malicious spirit
that shows up. Dean rubs at the skin, torn between the desire to warm him in
the cold December air and breaking every one of his bones so he can keep an eye
on him.
“Dean,” tries Sam again. “I’m sorry, I thought--I knew it would work. I didn’t
want you to be hurt.”
“Well you shouldn’t,” says Dean. He runs his hands all the way up Sam’s legs,
feeling for anything wrong in one, then the other, and realises that the fucker
is hard. His breath catches.
“Sorry,” whispers Sam. “Ignore it, it’ll go away.”
Dean flounders. He’s thought about getting his hands on Sam for longer than he
cares to remember.
“Dean,” says Sam again.
Dean twists Sam around. “This getting you off?” he demands. “Really, Sammy? You
like it when I have to come in and save you?”
Sam gapes at him. His boxers are tented. “No,” he manages at last. “I--”
“What,” says Dean.
“I wanted to--um,” says Sam. His face is bright red but he drags Dean to his
feet and pushes his back to the wall, leaning close up against him. His dick
presses a line against Dean’s thigh. “I like it when I think about--about
fucking you, and when you like it, too.”
“What do you mean?” says Dean. He’s so fucking pissed at Sam. “You’ve never
fucked me. How do you know if I’d like it?”
Dean knows he’d like it.
“I know,” says Sam. He thrusts up against Dean, very slightly. “You’d love it.”
Dean’s breath hitches.
Sam swallows. “And,” he says, “you’d want me to do you again straight after.”
Dean focuses on how angry he is at Sam for running upstairs to the brother
spirits who wanted to kill him and each other. “Do me,” he says instead. “Like-
-”
“Like fuck you,” says Sam. He rubs his dick against Dean’s thigh, holding onto
his arms with tight fingers. “I’d want to fuck you like this against this wall,
then I’d want to do it again.”
“On the wall?”
“Maybe,” says Sam. “Or on that desk. I might lie down on it and have you get on
top of me. I do enough work in school to work for you.”
He blushes. Dean moans and grabs for Sam’s hand to put it on his dick. “Do it,
please,” he says. “Please fuck me, Sammy.”
He feels Sam’s heartbeat pick up. It’s getting later and colder in the library,
no one around but the dead librarian outside. Dean wants Sam to fuck him more
than he’s ever wanted anything.
“Okay,” says Sam, and pulls his boxers down and off. His dick is huge, bigger
than Dean thinks is fair for a 16 year old who’s never had sex before, and
Sam’s about to get that inside him. He stares, taking a long breath while he
thinks about what got him here.
Sam blinks at him. “You sure?” he says, his shirt hanging stupidly over his
cock.
Dean takes his underwear off. It’s cold as balls and this is sort of funny
because it’s his little brother. But it’s Sam. Dean wants his dick inside him
right now.
Sam comes back closer and rubs his fingers around Dean’s dick and inside his
asshole. He’s got lube from somewhere, cocky little shit probably carries it in
his jeans pocket, and it’s weird feeling Sam’s fingers there. Dean holds his
gaze.
“Like that, don’t you,” mutters Sam. He’s not even blushing as he dips his
fingers deeper. “Feeling me there.”
“Yeah,” says Dean. “Now use your dick.”
“All right,” says Sam, and takes his fingers out immediately to line up the
head of his cock against Dean’s asshole. He pushes inside a little way and
says, “Like this?”
“Yeah,” says Dean again. Sam’s dick is inside him. “More.”
Sam pushes his dick inside further. Dean is being held against the wall with
Sam’s body weight and his own hand over Dean’s shoulder against the wall and
his cock, pushing it inside Dean like it’s all he knows. He’s breathing so
heavily Dean can’t tell whose breathing is whose, but he knows he likes the
sound of it when Sam stops and pulls out and back in again.
“S’good,” he says.
Sam tuts, sexy and unsexy as fuck. He pulls out and back in again. “Shut up,”
he says. “I don’t care. You like my dick, Dean?”
“Yeah,” says Dean, forgetting himself. “I mean--”
“Good,” says Sam. “How much?” He drives in, dropping one hand to Dean’s dick
and tugging as he fucks in.
“I love your dick,” says Dean. Sam goes on, approving. “I love it. You’re
fucking me so good. Sammy. Christ. Keep going.”
Sam hammers in. He’s got both of Dean’s wrists in one hand above his head, now,
the other hand stripping Dean’s cock, holding him up against the wall by
fucking him hot and heavy. Dean thinks about what would happen if he pulled
away right now, what Sam would do to him, and shivers. He holds Sam tighter.
“What,” Sam gasps, shoving his dick up in Dean’s ass. “You--god, Dean. You
thinking about going somewhere?”
“Fuck, no,” says Dean. “Keep fucking me. Keep--yeah, god, fuck, keep doing
that.” Sam’s hand is quick on Dean’s cock, jerking him like he’s got somewhere
to be instead of just fucking Dean, over and again, driving up inside him as
Dean’s balls tighten and he gasps and comes over Sam’s hand, better than he
even thought, even with Sam.
“Yes,” hisses Sam, dropping Dean’s dick abruptly and shoving into him so hard
until he comes, too, deep inside Dean’s asshole. Dean tips his head against
Sam’s neck as Sam is coming, breathing hot and trying to whisper English words
instead of gibberish while Sam keeps fucking in.
It’s incredible.
“Sam,” says Dean against him. “Hey, Sammy?”
“Yeah,” says Sam.
“You ever offer yourself up for someone else again, I’ll kill you myself.
Okay?”
“Sure,” says Sam. He pulls his dick out of Dean’s hole, lips curving up, and
puts his hand to Dean’s own cock but doesn’t say anything.
“What?” says Dean. It’s getting cold, now, the night properly here and his
clothes still off. “Sorry about your job.”
“Huh? Oh.” Sam looks around. Everything’s a mess here too. Dean wonders what
happened here. “I don’t care,” he says. “Better things to do.”
He holds Dean’s gaze. Dean smiles.
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