Work Text:
Title: Mad World
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine.
Spoilers: Asylum
Word Count: 1386
Summary: They didn’t speak much anymore. Which suited both Winchesters just fine.
They didn’t speak much anymore. Which suited both Winchesters just fine. They didn’t have much to say, let alone to each other. Whenever they were in the Impala, the silence was covered by the music.
They didn’t have a new destination yet, so for now, they were staying in a hotel room. Every once in awhile, one of the two would go on the computer, see if there was anything strange. And sometimes there was, but neither of them thought it important enough. They weren’t in the mood to be together, let alone fight together.
One day, only a week after Sam shot Dean, Dean had left the bathroom, and Sam was waiting outside the door. They ran into each other- hard.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered, rubbing his arm. “Trying to kill me?”
Sam’s eyes shot up from the floor. He knew Dean hadn’t meant it literally, but the subject had become very touchy between the two. “You should’ve moved.”
Dean raised and eyebrow, and in turn, his voice. “I should’ve moved? You shouldn’t have been right outside the door! You couldn’t have waited?”
Sam made a move to push by Dean to go take his shower, but Dean stopped him, one hand firmly on his shoulder. “Move, Dean. Before I move you myself.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t fazed. He stood his ground, unafraid of the little brother who wasn’t so little anymore. “Do you hate me?”
Sam sighed impatiently, his eyes moving around the room to finally fall back on Dean. “What?”
“Do you hate me?” Dean asked louder. “Do you hate me?” That time it was a scream, and it accompanied a shove.
Everything Sam had ever felt for Dean came flooding back. Every moment of their lives together, wrapped up in a nice little box of memories in his mind. Their childhood, their teenage years, the day Sam left. Everything led to one little word:
“Yes.”
Dean stood frozen. His eyes widened at first, but he soon gained his composure back. Or at least, he faked his composure back. “What?”
“Everything I said in the asylum was true. I hate how you’re his lapdog. I hate when he says ‘jump’ you say ‘how high?’. I hate that you’re wasting your life. I hate that the day I left you didn’t see me off. I hate that you came back into my life. I hate you.” With no warning, Sam swung and felt the satisfying crack as his fist met Dean’s cheek.
Dean stumbled back, palm cupping his cheek. He watched Sam, as he himself brought his fist back and swung, hitting Sam in the nose. Except it didn’t crack, and it didn’t bleed. Dean never could hurt his brother. Good to know Sam feels the same, Dean thought to himself, sarcastically.
Sam caught his breath before grabbing Dean’s shoulders and slamming him against the wall. The fight was over before it had ever begun.
“I hate you,” Sam gritted through his teeth. “And I hate myself for it.” Tears were filling up his eyes as he leaned forward, brushing his lips slightly against Dean’s. He pulled back quickly, realizing what he had done.
Dean raised his eyes to meet Sam’s, bottom lip quivering. For the first time in his life, Dean was scared to death of something other than that of which his father had trained - no, forced- them to hunt. He brought one arm up, to graze his fingers across the hard bones of Sam’s cheek. “Sam.”
Not Sammy, not now. The man before him wasn’t as Sam had so eloquently put it, “a chubby 12-year-old.” And he hadn’t been Sammy for the longest time now, Dean had always just refused to believe it.
Sam leaned into the touch, his grip on Dean’s shoulder loosening, but his hands still remained. He turned his head and kissed the palm, then cupped Dean’s cheeks and lowered his mouth, lips meeting roughly. Their breath mingled with their moans until they became almost as one. Sam’s tongue moved through Dean’s mouth like a jet; running it along his teeth, battling his tongue, tracing the roof. Like he was searching for something.
Searching for the moment it all went wrong, searching for the moment they crossed the line. The moment they began hating each other as brothers and loving each other as men. All moments, whatever they were, were gone, behind them now, with all the focus on the kiss, which was sending blood downward, rapidly filling their cocks.
Sam brought his knee between Dean’s legs and let him rub against it as he finally dropped the bruising grip on his shoulders and brought his long fingers to the hem of the worn t-shirt. Sam grasped the shirt and pulled it upwards as quickly as he could, breaking the kiss to get it all the way off. He panted, his breath mixing with Dean’s, and he pulled off his own shirt. “Everything off, get on the bed.”
Dean froze, the message taking a little longer than usual to get his to brain. He nodded once as he was already trying to work the button from the faded jeans. He popped it out, and then slid the zipper down. He slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers and slid them down with his jeans. By the time he looked back up, Sam was already waiting for him on the bed, having shed his clothes a lot quicker.
“Come on, Dean. Now.”
Dean was shivering in fear as he settled on the bed. Sam was kneeling, stroking his leaking cock. He pushed Dean down into a laying position. “Jesus Sam, you’re beautiful.”
Sam ignored Dean’s comment and continued stroking his member, spreading the pre-cum as much as he could. “This’ll hurt.” What surprised Dean was how much it sounded like a promise, and less than a statement. Sam stuck his finger in his mouth, quickly coating it with saliva before he nudged Dean’s legs open. He found the puckered entrance, and didn’t say anything as he shoved it in up to the knuckle.
“Ah!” Dean groaned in pain above him, now breathing hard, trying to calm down. “Jesus Sam, come on.”
Sam worked his finger in and out, slightly loosening Dean before sliding another finger in alongside.
Dean kept the groan in this time, but it still hurt. He tried to focus on something else until Sam’s fingers pressed upward and hit something inside him. “Sam!” Dean bucked his hips upward, and began grinding his hips down on the fingers, wanting Sam to touch that spot again.
Sam pulled his fingers out, and spread the pre-cum a bit more. He didn’t have lube just laying around, he never once believed he’d actually need it. He positioned himself at Dean’s entrance, and took a deep breath. “Dean.”
As Sam thrust forward, Dean moaned loudly, spreading his legs even further. It hurt like a bitch, but at least it was something. He could stand the pain, as long as for the moment, he had Sam. Wrapping his legs around Sam’s waist, bringing him in closer, he leaned up and pressed his warm lips to the matching ones of his brother.
Sam was pounding into Dean now, each time the gasp of pain from Dean turned into one of pleasure when Sam hit his prostate. He worked his hand between the rub of their bodies together and grasped Dean in his hand. As he stroked hard and quickly, Dean began arching off the bed, further and further, until the feeling of white-hot spread from the base of his spine through his entire body. With the cry of his brother’s name, Dean came, his fingers white-knuckled on the sheets.
When he finally got his mind back, and drifted back to reality, Dean realized that somewhere along the line, Sam had come himself and was now panting above him, holding himself up on his forearms. “Lay down, Sam.”
Sam obeyed, and let himself drop, laying half on Dean’s chest. “What did we do?”
“I really hope I don’t have to explain it to you, Sam.”
“I can’t say sorry anymore, can I?” Sam looked up, eyes refilling with the unshed tears of his earlier outburst.
“You don’t have to anymore, Sam,” Dean assured him. “I hate myself a little too.”