Archive of Our Own ^beta

Title: Dark Destiny

Author: jdax

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Sam shook his head. His gaze, now distant, glazed - over, dropped to the pendant hanging around Dean’s neck, the one Sam had given him years ago when they still had the illusion of choice about each other. “You don’t know what I’m willing to do for you, Dean, how far I’m willing to go.”

A/N: This fic was inspired by a SPN graphic titled The Throes by Ponderosa121. You can see the inspiration piece and a variety of other work on her website, Destiny Interrupted.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really.

***

Sam had changed.

First, he was thinner. The kid had always been lean, but Dean could see where the soft, resilient flesh of his youth had been carved into the hard, bitter lines and planes of a man exposed, a man who had lived among the ruins of his world and whose life had been corrupted into a haunting hunger for the dead.

And except for that startling moment of recognition at the apartment door, when a long-missed look of boyhood wonder passed over Sam’s face as his eyes settled on his lost brother, he was silent.

Distant.

Angry.

Not so different, Dean realized, from their father.

Bobby and the girl had left, but the boys hadn’t noticed when, just suddenly found themselves alone in a dark, seedy apartment, rife with stains and smells neither of them wanted to consider too closely – ancient evidence of all the sorrows and misfortunes that had befallen others before them.

“Dean.” That was all Sam could manage at first, but it was enough. Dean didn’t want to hear himself say what they were both thinking, what Bobby had wondered aloud on the drive up here, what he himself had been struggling with from the moment he clawed his way out of his own grave: he didn’t know why or how he was here, didn’t know who raised him or for what purpose.

All he knew was that he was a Winchester. What he’d been given would most certainly be taken away.

He knew it, and judging from the guarded appeal he saw flash in his brother’s eyes, Sam knew it, too.

Sam studied Dean for a long time, pushed away from the rickety old table he’d been leaning against, circled slowly to the door, stopped, then locked it, the metallic click of the button signaling something irrevocable, Dean thought, as he shrugged out of his jacket. Still, Sam’s hand rested on the knob for a moment, an invitation – the only one he’d offer – for Dean to turn away from what was taking shape between them. Dean pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor, stepping over it to reach for Sam as his brother’s mouth tightened at the first sight of what Dean’s resurrection had cost him.

Dean gasped, so surprised was he by the gentleness with which Sam traced the red, angry, raised flesh on his shoulder. “There’s no pain,” he said.

Sam’s hand stilled as he met his brother’s eyes. He frowned, peering at Dean grimly. “The hell there isn’t.”

Dean watched, fascinated, as Sam studied the ridges, following them intently with the pads of his fingers, deciphering them, maybe, for clues to their maker. “I came for you, Dean,” he said, fixing his older brother with a hard look as he slipped a hand behind his head. “I bargained like hell, but no one would deal.”

“Sam, don’t-”

“I should’ve been the one. I should’ve saved you.”

“It’s okay, man.”

Sam shook his head. His gaze, now distant, glazed-over, dropped to the pendant hanging around Dean’s neck, the one Sam gave him years ago when they still had the illusion of choice about each other. “You don’t know what I’m willing to do for you, Dean, how far I’m willing to go.”

Dean gave a small, tired smile. Yes I do.

“I was gonna take your place,” he continued. “No deals. Just a simple trade.”

“Quit it, Sam.” Dean was relieved that strategy hadn’t worked but was also surprised the other team hadn’t jumped at the chance to literally burn their former golden boy in effigy. Gripping Sam’s shoulders, Dean added soothingly, “I’m here now.” Sam’s eyes narrowed, darkened as his fingers dug into Dean’s flesh. “I can’t lose you again. I won’t.”

Dean hesitated, gently pressed his mouth to Sam’s cheek, wet now with the tears he was still fighting back. There was nothing Dean could think to answer with that wouldn’t be a lie.

“I won’t,” Sam repeated, whispering the words against his brother’s neck, his ear, and now his lips. Dean slipped his hands under his brother’s shirt, skimmed over his belly, felt the taut flesh tremble under his fingers as he moaned into his brother’s open mouth. Sam pulled away, yanked his shirt over his head, then pressed a hand to Dean’s chest, pushing him slowly until they reached the bed then fell together on the darkly stained mattress, tangling in a writhing, aching reunion. Soon, they were baring themselves to each other, whispering dark, shameful confessions against hot, sweat-slick skin. Sam lay on his back, legs spread, recounting his fevered fantasies of Dean, alive, whole, naked, on his knees exactly this way. Dean couldn’t suppress the moan that rose up in his throat, around his brother’s cock, as he sucked. He pictured Sam, lying on this very mattress in the black as he arched into his own hand, crying his brother’s name into the night. The image quickly lost whatever appeal it started with, though, maybe because Dean suddenly realized he hadn’t been the only one who’d spent the last four months facing torture in the dark.

***

Dean was sitting in Sam’s lap, heels digging into the mattress just behind his brother’s hips, feeling the rise and fall of the younger man’s chest against his own as Sam’s cock swelled inside him. He closed his eyes.

Sam leaned forward, biting down gently into the mysterious labyrinth of scars on Dean’s arm, tracing a wet path with his tongue. Dean shifted, relaxed around the hard flesh that filled him, rocked back and forth gently, sinking lower.

Sam grunted as Dean pulsed tightly around him. Sam gave a slow, shallow thrust, then another. Dean’s mouth opened. He wanted to say something like, “again” or “harder,” but what came out was one, long, low, primordial groan that actually winded him a little. He leaned back, pressed his hands into the mattress behind him to get more leverage.

“Look at me,” Sam said. Through no fault of his own, Dean was slow to respond. Sam thrust up inside him once, harder this time. Dean’s mouth dropped open again. “Christ!”

“Look at me.” It wasn’t a request anymore, if it had ever been. Sam’s voice had grown somber, dropped down into the tone he usually reserved for things he was about to cast out or kill. “I want to see you, Dean. I want you to see me, to know I’m the one who’s making you feel this way.”

Dean ignored any unfortunate similarities Sam’s words might have shared with other things that had been whispered to him in dark places.

A smile threatened the corners of Sam’s mouth as he moved slowly inside Dean, stilled, moved again, stilled, countering each of Dean’s thrusts as the oldest Winchester did everything he could to get his brother to fuck him. Dean sat straight up, pressing his knees into the mattress, riding Sam. Dean gritted his teeth, threw his head back, pressed his fingers into Sam’s shoulders as he ground down onto his brother’s hot, throbbing cock. “God,” Dean moaned. “So…fucking…good.” Sam held his hips, let him move freely. He licked his lips, clearly enjoying the view. Dean was too close to climaxing to care when he finally realized Sam had stopped moving altogether, was just sitting there, holding Dean, quietly watching him fuck himself. Something about that sent Dean over the edge without either one of them ever touching his cock.

The aftershocks of Dean’s orgasm – small, involuntary spasms of pleasure that caused him to pulse against Sam’s cock for long moments – finally cracked the young man’s resolve. A pained look crossed his face and when Dean caught his breath again, he whispered, “What’re you waiting for? Fuck me already, will ya?”

Sam nodded, watching Dean’s face intently. Dean gritted his teeth again, too aware now. They moved together slowly and Sam reached up, tracing his brother’s tattoo gently, thoughtfully, as if to say, “What good did that do us? Bastards still won.” Then, Sam slipped his hands down to Dean’s hips, pressed his lips against Dean’s neck, claiming the pendant in his mouth like a prize, baring his teeth, showing his brother the symbol of their only real possible victory: each other. They held on and Dean indulged in the persuasive fiction that this moment was making up for everything.

Sam thrust deeply inside, then let the pendant drop as he pressed his open mouth hungrily against his brother’s. Dean could taste metal and the shape of his own name against his tongue as Sam cried out a strangled noise that didn’t sound entirely like pleasure.

After, they sat there in the dark for a long time, neither moving nor speaking. The room grew cold. Finally, Sam slipped a hand behind Dean’s head as he slowly lowered him to the mattress, then pulled out. They stretched out on the bed together, shoulder to shoulder, pretending to sleep. When Dean had actually almost dropped off, he heard Sam say, “I don’t know if I can make it again without you.”

Dean lay there awhile, wondering if there was anything he could say that would be reassuring. He didn’t think so. “You know, the fact that I could check out any time doesn’t make me special, Sam. It could happen to anyone.”

The silence that followed was so long, Dean had to turn his head to make sure Sam was really there, that this was real. He touched his brother’s shoulder, then went back to staring at the ceiling.

“It’s not dying I’m afraid of,” Sam finally said. “It’s living alone.”

***

Sometime the next morning, early, when the light was still cold and grey, Sam was fucking Dean against that rickety old table, was balls-deep inside him as the tabletop creaked in protest beneath their sweaty, naked flesh, when there came a knock at the door.

Eric Clapton was singing about Bad Love on the radio. When the knock came again, followed by Bobby’s voice calling their names, Dean looked over his shoulder, but Sam was already reaching for the radio, turning it up with one hand as he stroked his brother’s cock with the other. Dean spared a thought for Bobby, wondered what they were going to tell him later, then Sam was pressed against his back, whispering filthy things in his ear, getting him hard, getting him off. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, burned this into his memory for the road, for the long, dark nights he knew were coming for him again. Worse, he feared he was taking Sam with him now, and when Sam came right on the cusp of that thought, Dean had the sick feeling that had been his brother’s plan all along.

***