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use your illusion.      five reunions sam and dean winchester never had.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. NC-17. Warnings for incest, language, smut, some angst, some schmoop. Some spoilers for "The Benders", but, thanks to the format, generally AU. There's a line in here for [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure; she knows which one. The last bit is all for [livejournal.com profile] frappygoddess. ♥ Title from Guns N' Roses. And no, there will be no a Use Your Illusion II for the sake of completion. Really.



Sometimes, Dean panics because he's looked or touched too long. He remembers a hand heavy on Sam's shoulder but too far up, so that if only he moved his fingers just so, he could touch his brother's throat and move to the back of Sam's neck, pull him down and step in, look up. Sometimes he remembers, obsesses, and he worries that Sammy will notice and know, and if he does, he'll leave. Sam can't leave again; he just can't.

Sometimes, Sam wakes up at five in the morning and watches his brother sleep. He watches the rise and fall of Dean's chest, the curve of his back when he rolls over in a dream. He bites his lip and tries to remember how far back this goes, when it started, but it feels like always. Sometimes, he'll slip out of bed and jerk off in the shower and come whispering Dean's name, but when Dean wakes up there's coffee on the nightstand and Sam's checking his e-mail or reading the paper, his hair still damp and drying in a million different directions.

Sometimes, one of them almost steps closer or almost lets himself touch. Sometimes, they share a bed and lie back-to-back. Sometimes they dream, but there's sometimes and then there's never.

They never meet like this. It never happens like this.


[1]


He makes a weekly habit of calling his brother. Sam never picks up the phone, and Dean always leaves a message. He updates Sam on the hunting, how he is, how dad is. He acts like they're still talking, and he wonders if it pisses Sam off—maybe hopes that it does, because anger would at least be better than the fucking silence.

Sometimes, he'll mention where he's going once he's done telling where he's been, and he always finishes off with a casual Talk to you later, man or Call me back, Sammy, whenever you get a chance—like Sam's absence is due only to a pile of schoolwork and not the fact that he doesn't want shit to do with Dean anymore.

In the winter of 2004, there's a string of murders in a tiny town near the California-Nevada border, and Dad sends Dean alone so that he can follow up on more smoke and mirrors three hundred miles east.

Dean drives in on the morning of December twenty-first. He buys a cup of coffee, two local newspapers, and finds the only really cheap hotel he can, but the bored-looking kid behind the desk tells him that somebody just got their last room, not five minutes ago. "Sorry, man," he says, and he doesn't look particularly sorry at all. He turns back to the game of solitaire laid out on the desk and says, "Merry Christmas," but really means "Fuck off." Dean mutters something about check your goddamn Vacancy sign, then, and turns his back.

Outside, he turns the corner and heads back to his car, and he's only about five feet away before he looks up from the ground and sees him. The first thing he says is, "You're gonna scratch the paint, asshole," and Sam, sitting on the hood of the car like he knows Dean hates, laughs at him: a sound better than any Christmas carol.

He slides off and when his feet hit the ground, Dean suddenly feels teeny tiny, because damned if Sam hasn't grown another four inches at least since he saw him last, the big, gangly freak.

Dean says, "Good to see you, little brother," aiming for casual, like this was A Plan, and missing by a mile. It comes out hurt, stubborn, betrayed, and desperate, and he's not sure how that many fucking emotions can work their way into one sentence, but he knows now that they can.

Sam knows, too. His smile cracks at Dean's words. His mouth opens once or twice like he's going to say something, apologize or return the sentiment, but instead he grabs Dean's collar and kisses him, his tongue in Dean's mouth and his hand at the base of Dean's neck.

"Fuck," rasps Dean when they finally pull apart, and Sam says, "Yeah."

He seems unwilling to let go, though, his hand fisted in Dean's jacket, even as he says, "C'mon. Inside."

"I couldn't get a room, they said—" He cuts himself off when Sam's hand disappears and he hears the little clink of metal. His brother holds up the key, and he smiles.

"Got their last one. C'mon."

"Fuck," says Dean again, laughing this time, and he follows Sam through the parking lot and to their door.

He only has a glimpse of the room itself once the door clicks shut before Sam turns on his heel and pushes Dean's back against the wood. The handle digs cold metal hard into his back, but Sam's mouth is wet and warm against Dean's.

"Get this off," he says, picking at Dean's clothes, and Dean nods slowly, but he doesn't react until Sam steps back to give him room and pull off his own shirt. Even then, his first instinct is to grab his brother and not let him get more than six inches away.

"Sammy."

Sam smiles at him and reaches for Dean's belt. "Come on." He tugs on the leather once, and then unbuckles it. He pulls it loose from Dean's jeans with a soft swish like a whisper, and it somehow shocks Dean to full consciousness. He comes alive, then, getting out of the rest of his clothes in a matter of seconds, grabbing at Sam's jeans and underwear until they're both naked and they tumble awkwardly onto the bed.

Dean's tried picturing this a hundred different times, a hundred different ways, since Sam left, usually lying alone in a room with one hand on his dick and his brother's face and body in his mind's eye, free hand fisted in the bed sheets, tearing at the cloth. He never believed Sam would actually come to him, never pictured the place or the conditions. But he always knew the first time would be like this, fast and hard and more pain than pleasure on both sides, groping hands and not enough time, the coppery taste of blood on their tongues when Sam bites at his brother's lip too hard and breaks the skin as he comes.

After, they lie in a mass of tangle limbs, skin sticky with sweat and drying come, and Sam settles his hand on the inside of Dean's thigh. When he moves, he leaves a sweaty handprint against the skin.

"How long can you stay?" asks Dean, even though he doesn't want to hear the answer. He wants to say, It's not enough, even before Sam opens his mouth, because it's not. But he bites his tongue, threads his fingers in his brother's hair, and he lets Sam tell him.

"I've got class the second week of January." Sam closes his eyes. His voice drops, softer when he asks, "When do you have to meet Dad?"

"Whenever. You know we're not really Christmas people."

Sam scoffs quietly. "You haven't got orders, soldier?"

Dean's jaw pops softly but his voice is hard and colder when he mutters, "Leave it, Sam."

Sam sighs. He says, "Okay. Fine. Okay," and he lets his hand drift slowly from Dean's thigh back to his cock, already half-hard again. He grins and says, "Then we've got a few weeks, huh?"

"Yeah," breathes Dean, and drops his head back into the pillow. "Yeah, c'mon, baby, there. Ah, ah, god, Sammy, please..."

Sam laughs a little and puts his lips to Dean's ear to say, "Couple of weeks. Think I can stretch this out that long?"


[2]


Dean still plays solitaire with real cards. Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes and says, "You're wasting your time, man," and he drags and clicks and the electronic cards bounce all over the screen, joyous that he's won.

Dean's not sure when half the point became to annoy Sam, because he does get annoyed. He'll stand behind Dean's chair while he shuffles, a string of little pops and then the ruffle of paper and plastic, and he watches when Dean lays the cards out on the table, one after another, hands quick and practiced.

He plays too slowly for his brother is the thing. Sam likes seeing things done right, and he likes seeing them done quickly, and if Dean takes just too long considering a card, he'll start talking. He points out, This could go here, move this there; for God's sake, get that four outta the way, you've already got the three up—

They used to play cards as a family, more of a training for whenever they'd need money than a Winchester game night, but at the time, they'd take what they would get. John used to deal and watch their hands, talk about how their movements need to be fluid and easy, you've gotta make it look like you don't give a damn, son. Dean remembers his father telling him once that there are few things more annoying than someone standing over your shoulder when you're playing a game on your own, acting as if they've got some stake in it. Dean's not sure John ever passed that along to Sammy.

So Sam gets annoyed when Dean goes too slow, but it's not like Dean's got all the patience in the world, either. He gets pissed if he doesn't come up with all four aces the first time he goes through the draw pile. He gets weary moving the cards in piles from one space to another to line them up, because they always get messy, and he doesn't tell Sam, because his brother will only smirk and say, I told you so, waving one hand at the computer.

Dean registers the cold draft on his back before the open door, and he doesn't bother to turn yet, head bent over the game on the table in front of him. The cards stir a little at his fingertips. The two of clubs had better show up soon or so help him—

There are footsteps behind him across the floor, tired and slow, but Sam doesn't sound like he's lost a leg or anything, so that's something.

"Hey," he says from right behind Dean, and Dean feels his brother's hand heavy on his shoulder. Sam's thumb moves to stroke the line of Dean's throat, and he swallows.

"Hey, man. How'd it go?"

Sam sighs. "Bitch of a job. But it's done. Here—move these to that pile, and you can get to the card underneath." He reaches to point, to do it for Dean, and Dean locks his fingers around Sam's wrist.

"You hurt?" he asks and doesn't turn around, but he can feel Sam shakes his head.

"Just a few scrapes. It's fine; I got it done myself. Don't worry."

Dean nods. He pushes his chair back and stands up, a jolt of pain shooting through his bad leg in protest. He turns to face Sam, and his brother looks tired as all hell, shadows under his eyes and his face pale and thin, and Dean wonders if Sam remembered to eat anything this time.

"You gotta stop this, man," he says, and Sam raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

"The long hunting trips. Gets damn boring hanging around alone for weeks at a time."

Sam laughs softly. "You never were the stay-at-home type. Or the home type. But the job comes first, remember?" He kisses the corner of Dean's mouth. "Remember?"

"Yeah, I know." Sam takes a step closer, pulling Dean into a tight embrace that Dean wouldn't have stood for ten years ago. Now, he hooks his arm over Sam's shoulder and closes his eyes, focuses on his brother's steady heartbeat. He can feel it against his own chest. "This is gonna get you killed, Sammy."

Sam pointedly doesn't answer, letting his hand stray under Dean's shirt, his fingers cold against the small of Dean's back. "Shh," he says. "Not now." He curls a finger into the waistband of Dean's jeans and underwear. "Come on. Let's go to bed."

"I dunno, man, I've got a pretty heated game of cards going here. If you're tired, you can—"

Sam laughs and shoves Dean gently toward the door. "Shut up," he says and a moment later, they're tumbling through the door to the bedroom and only the bed, and Dean's on his back, Sam leaning over him. And maybe, he thinks grinning up at his brother, if all of Sam's hunting trips end with a reunion like this, then maybe he won't complain quite so much.


[3]


Five days before Sam's nineteenth birthday, Dean goes west and Dad goes south and they don't talk about it. Then again, they're not a real chatty family by nature. The Winchesters believe that what goes for wine goes for angst: you gotta bottle it up and shove somewhere in the dark for a good long while, let it mellow and get better with age. Turns to vinegar eventually, right, and then you can just chuck the bottle without ever popping the cork, and it works. It's a good system, for them.

As a general rule, they care more for beer and whiskey than wine.

On the day, Dean rides into Palo Alto at dusk, and he doesn't even bother finding a room. He buys a case of beer and finds Sam's dorm room. The window's dark, and he lets himself in. Sam really should take better care with his security; a simple lock-pick and his stuff's forfeit.

Except he looks around the room, and there's not that much stuff to steal. The room's pretty bare, and Sammy never struck him as a minimalist, but it's true that he didn't have that much to begin with. There's one bed and a desk, a poster for some band Dean's never heard of hanging on the wall. There's a Stanford sweatshirt thrown over the back of Sam's chair.

He figures he's got a few hours to kill here. Sammy's sociable enough, good at talking to people if he wants, and he's probably got someone to spend the day with. Dean tries not to think on that too hard. Instead, he digs out a bottle of holy water and a sheet of paper out of the Food Lion bag with the beer, and he copies protection symbols onto the walls then watches the water drip and dry. He hides a few charms around the room, and when he opens the bottom drawer of the nightstand, he finds a cardboard box pushed to the back, with two hunting blades and a loaded 9 mm inside.

The doorknob turns just shy of eleven thirty. Dean sits motionless on the bed and waits to be acknowledged. Sam walks right in without turning on a light. He tosses his wallet and keys onto the desk, and then flips on the desk lamp.

The room isn't big enough that it can take more than a second and a half for Sam to notice that he's not alone. It takes him less than that, and he doesn't yell or jump, but Dean sees him tense up.

"Dean," he says like it's a curse or impossible to pronounce. He shakes his head a little, like he's trying to clear it. "What are you doing here?" he asks, and Dean spreads his hands, miming confusion and innocence.

"I can't wish my little brother a happy birthday? What kind of family do you think this is, Sammyboy?"

"The hell," growls Sam. "I don't need this."

Dean gestures to the beer. "But I wanted to celebrate, man. You've only got another year of being a whiny little bitch of a teenager left. 'Sides, what kind of birthday is it if you don't at least get drunk? Or laid?" He pushes off the bed and the springs creak, and he can take less than three steps to cross the room, and then he's standing in front of Sam, too close. Close enough that he can feel the warmth of his brother's skin through their clothes, can hear the unsteady in-out, in-out of Sam's breathing. C'mon, he wants to say, let me. Please, Sam, let me just—

He doesn't. Instead, he drops a hand to the front of Sam's jeans, a little pressure just there, and watches Sam's eyes; they flutter shut as his mouth opens. "Dean." Maybe it's a warning, or maybe it's consent. Dean doesn't care. He undoes the button and zipper and pulls Sam's pants halfway down his thighs. Sam moans softly, and he's already hard. He moves to pull his shirt over his head, and that's enough of an agreement for Dean. He rushes Sam's back into the wall and drops down to his knees before his brother can change his mind.

"Oh, god," Sam groans, and Dean hears a soft thump as his head drops back against the plaster. He doesn't move for a moment, just stays there, breathing hot over his brother's dick and taking in the scent, Sam and sex and too long, too long. "Dean," Sam says, voice cracked and dry, desperation like he's been stranded in the desert for days, and he's finally found water. "Dean, please."

It's Sammy's birthday, after all, and Dean's missed this for too many months and too many miles to take it slow. He opens his mouth and bends his head, and above him, Sam makes this embarrassing, whimpering sound in his throat and he drops his hand to Dean's head, tugging at his hair. "Please," he says again, and Dean does something with his tongue that leaves Sam shaking and gasping, his left hand balanced on the wall behind him, holding him up, because his brother is going to kill him, just like this, and it's a long way down if he falls when it happens.

And too soon, all too soon, he's trying to pull Dean back by the hair, biting out some kind of a warning, losing hold and sight of everything and himself when he comes crashing over the edge. When he opens his eyes, Dean is inching his way up Sam's body, his hand settling low on Sam's back where sweat trickled down his spine and gathered on his skin.

"Jesus," Dean says, mouthing over Sam's shoulder and throat with red-swollen lips. "You're fucking gorgeous like this, you know that? Just." He kisses Sam, salt on his tongue, and he curls his fingers into Sam's side. He's still hard against Sam's thigh; Sam can feel it through Dean's jeans. His fingers itch to reach, map out skin and take this to the bed, at least do it properly, and maybe not let Dean go for two weeks or more, tie him up in the fucking closet if he has to, if that's what it'll take to keep them together.

He jerks his head to the side instead, turns away from his brother's mouth, eyes shut, and he says, "You should go, Dean."

Dean's hands still immediately, and he eases back and away, eyeing Sam closely. Sam can feel the argument and the fight building under Dean's skin, buzzing like some energy hidden just out of sight.

"Yeah," he spits out instead, taking another step back. Dean doesn't remember feeling more used ever before, and Sam won't look at him; he keeps his eyes carefully turned away, like his brother's a whore, bought and paid for, who just isn't moving quick enough, hasn't left yet, even though their business is done.

Sam knows it, realizes it. He rights his clothes with shaky fingers and Dean moves slowly, pauses every half step and doesn't move for a beat or two, because maybe, just maybe, Sam will change his mind. Maybe Dean will reach for the door and Sam will come too close up behind him and press a kiss to the back of Dean's neck and say, No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, stay. Stay.

He reaches the door, turns the knob, and the space behind him stays empty.


[4]


Dean never calls their home number, only Sam's cell, and more often than not he waits for his brother to make the first move: for Sam's name on the caller ID and Sam's voice at the other end saying, Jess is going to visit her parents for a week or There's this medical conference in Seattle, and

He waits for that, and then he says things like, Well, I'm on your coast anyway, or I'm on a job, but I can be there in a day or so, if there's time.

And whenever it happens, Sam says, Yeah. Yeah, there's time. Come when you can.

The house Sam and Jessica have is almost ridiculously huge for the two of them, and it makes Dean feel ridiculously small. There's hardwood everywhere, cold and easy to scratch, don't drag your feet like that, man, Jesus.

Sam takes time off work and he tears off Dean's clothes in the kitchen, fucks him in the guest room. They've spent days like that before, and sometimes Dean hands his brother a cigarette and they open the window but keep the shades shut in case any of the neighbors peek.

"Where is she now?" asks Dean on the second day, a cold indifference to his voice that only comes out when he's talking about Jess, and Sam knows it's jealousy and anger and maybe something else, but it's part their routine that he pretends never to hear it.

"New York. Her brother's graduation is tomorrow."

"What, Columbia?"

"Smart family. He's set for Harvard law next year." Sam sighs smoke and lifts up on one elbow to study Dean's body. "I don't know this one," he says, touching his hand to a scar across Dean's ribs.

"A few weeks after the last time. I pissed off this fuzzy bitch of a thing in New Mexico."

Sam smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He clears his throat before saying, "What else is there?"

"Nothing big. It's not important, Sam." But Sam doesn't move his hand away. He's tracing the edges of the scar, smoothing over the silvery-pink. Dean settles back into the pillow, sighs. "There's—here." He lifts up, rolls onto his stomach and Sam studies the zigzag of scar tissue low on his shoulder blade.

There's nothing too serious. A few scratches, scrapes. The faded line of a cut across the inside of his arm, and a still-red scratch down his side. Sam stops each time he encounters something new, runs his hands over every wound, and traces them all with his fingers and tongue, like he can make them go away just with this. Just like this.

Dean licks his lips and says, "When's the next time she leaves?"

Sam flinches like Dean hit him. "She hasn't got anything planned. I've got this thing in Philadelphia in a few months if you can—"

"Aw, man, Pennsylvania?"

"Yeah, in November. It's a week long. I can probably stay two."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "And you think she won't figure it out? Man, you're no the only person in your marriage who graduated Stanford. She can't be that stupid."

Sam's grip tightens reflexively on Dean's arm, nails digging crescent moons into his skin. "Don't talk about her. I don't want to—"

Dean laughs mirthlessly. "You can cheat on her with your own brother, but you won't hear a word against her? You're putting up a serious fight for that husband of the year award, aren't you, Sammy?" He pauses then says, quietly, "You always call first."

Sam bows his head and closes his eyes. "Dean, please. Don't. I, I can't—"

"Can't what? You can fuck me and fuck her and keep it locked away somewhere, but you can't stand to hear it out loud?"

Sam doesn't look at him, concentrating on breathing steady and not letting it get to him. Dean always does this, and Sam's not sure why, but he knows why he lets him: because he deserves this, somehow. Because Jess loves him, and he can't give himself over to her completely, not the way he should. Because his brother will always own more of him than he can spare, and there's nothing anyone can do about that, can't even pick a damn side and stay there. In a way, he supposes, this is penance and his price to pay. "What are you trying to prove?"

Dean makes a noncommittal sound in his throat and he pushes Sam off him and into the mattress, his hand splayed across Sam's stomach, the metal of his ring cold against Sam's skin. He moves, kisses down Sam's torso and pauses, breath hot on his belly, and Sam curses and twists above him. "I already proved it," he says, and Sam's moan when Dean takes him in his mouth only sounds like confession.

At night, Jess calls, cheery-tired over the phone lines, and she'll tell stories about her day and laugh and ask Sam how he's doing. Dean goes to the kitchen and bangs pots and pans and plates under the pretense of making grilled cheese and he'll only stop when he hears Sam say, No, no, it's nothing—just the TV's too loud is all, a grim sort of satisfaction when his brother tilts his head around the corner to glare at him like Knock it the fuck off, Dean.

When he hangs up, Sam drags Dean under the spray of the steam shower and pushes him into the cold tiles, fucks him slippery-wet against the wall then slides to his knees with the water falling hard onto his shoulders and coaxes Dean around, his hands on his brother's hips and his mouth warm and pleading in a way that neither of them understands.

Sam holds Dean loosely in his palm, a barely-there grip, but his hand on Dean's hipbone is solid and strong, keeping him still.

He moves his hand on Dean's cock slowly, too slowly, and flicks his fingers over the ridge and licks over the head. He tongues the slit gently, not hard or fast enough to be anything but a tease.

Above him, Dean curses and begs and finally, all it takes is one hard suck on the head and Sam's fingers reaching to tug gently at his brother's balls: Dean comes with his fingers twisted in Sam's hair, groaning, "Sam, Sammy, oh, Jesus, fuck." Sam swallows what he can, then spits down the drain.

For a week after Dean leaves, Sam won't be able to get his brother's taste out of the back of his throat.


[5]


"I am never fucking coming back to Minnesota," Dean declares, slamming the door shut behind himself. Sam's eyes flick around the room the way he's been trained to look: locate the exits, find the entrances, note the blind spots. There's a bathroom and a desk and a dresser, like any motel. Like every motel. There's one king-sized bed against one wall and a Dean-shaped dent in the pillow, like his brother let himself rest for twenty minutes on top of the covers before heading out again.

Dean pulls off his jacket and hisses lightly: pain. "Never coming back. Ever."

Sam stops midway through pulling off his clothes and turns his head. Dean's face is strained and he's biting his lip. He's moving slowly, trying to take his shirt off without disturbing his shoulder. Sam's eyes go wide.

"Shit," he chokes, crossing the room. "Fuck, stop moving. What the hell did those bastards do to you?"

Dean's usual answers. It's nothing, it's fine, don't worry, stop—but his skin is too hot and his hands on Sam's chest, trying to ease him away, are cold. Sam covers Dean's hand with his own and squeezes tight, grinds his fingers and bones together until Dean jerks away.

"Come on," Sam says. "I've got a first aid kit in my bag."

He cleans the burn as best he can, covers it in fresh bandages, but Dean curses and shakes and sweat gathers on his skin by the time Sam's finished. Sam pressed a dry kiss to Dean's forehead, his throat, the dressing on his shoulder and murmurs words like It's okay it's over it's done now we're okay we're alive I'm here.

He turned the lights of the second he was done, and Dean knows it's because he'll only let Sam say the words in the dark. "Sammy," he says, reaches a hand up to grip Sam's shoulder, and Sam shifts onto the bed.

He bends down, kisses Dean, and asks him, "Does it hurt? The burn?"

Dean closes his eyes. "No. Not now." His fingers clench at the nape of Sam's neck and then relax a second later, and he tries to breathe slow and even. "It doesn't. I'm okay."

Sam doesn't believe him, but then, he doesn't have to. His fingers whisper over Dean's chest and stomach, at the waist of his underwear and then underneath. He pulls the waistband back and down, soft tugs and licks at Dean's jaw and mouth to match.

Outside, there's a steady, calm rain falling sideways against the window glass. Their only background noise.

Dean turns his head to the side and says, "I swear to God, you ever get lost or taken like that again, I'll. I'll." He falters and swallows hard when Sam cups him and sits back on his knees to free his other hand. He tugs down Dean's boxers and says Dean's name over and over like he's asking for permission. It all sounds like a question, and Dean answers him saying, Yes. Yes, yes, don't even ask. Please. Yes.

"Dean," Sam says with one hand around his brother's dick and the finger of the other probing gently at his rim. "Can I—?" he starts, and Dean nods once.

"Yeah, Sammy. Just. Yeah, whatever you want."

Sam's pushing slick into him before Dean has time to even think about it, but then his brother stops. Dean's shut-tight eyes open and he means to ask, What? Why did you—when Sam slides slowly back, almost out, and then he moves forward again. Too slowly, too steady.

"Sam," he says, and it sounds like more of a whine than he intended.

Sam nips at his brother's mouth and jaw and says, "No. Like this. Slow. Please, Dean, I want it—"

And Dean nods, because he could never say no. "Yeah. Okay. Slow. Yes." Dean's hand settles sweat-damp on his thigh, and he moves his fingers to his cock, but Sam grabs his wrist and jerks his hand away before Dean can get a good grip. Freakish big hands, and he can hold both of Dean's wrists tight and above his brother's head with one. Sam's hips move again, a slow in-out slip-slide, and Dean groans softly.

"Like this," Sam says again, kisses Dean's collarbone and the edge of the bandage. Slow, maybe gentle, but rough at once. Stubble burns on their skin and the mark of Sam's teeth and nails digging into Dean's skin, Dean's blood in Sam's mouth where he nearly bites through his lip when he comes from just this, just the slide of Sam in him and here and the relief beating in time to his heartbeat, alive alive still alive. He moans and arches up off the mattress and comes with Sam's mouth opening to his and Sam's forehead against his, comes without touching his dick at all.

When it's over, their skins grow clammy and cold and the bedcovers are damp and uncomfortable. Sam thinks about getting a shower and he thinks about getting up, thinks maybe there's another set of sheets in the closet. Dean's palm is warm against the small of his back, sliding over his side and to the bone of his hip. "No," he says, like he knew, like he could tell. Sleepy-soft, he says, "Stay."

Sam does.
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