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[personal profile] elohvee
and you'll no longer burn.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. R. Warning for season 2 spoilers, incest, language, and angst. Set somewhere before the end of episode 2x02. 826 words. Posted because Kate liked it, and because I love her. Title from the Dire Straits.

     Someday you'll return to your valleys and your farms
     And you'll no longer burn to be brothers in arms

After dad, it's like Stanford all over again. It's like the fall back from Stanford all over again. They snap and it's like they can't do it. Like they can't be brothers with him gone, really gone, and so they're not.

Dean takes on the road like it's a challenge, and he finds them six jobs in five states, all in the same month. In Nogales, in a motel as close to the border station as you can get, they crumple and collapse under the weight of the heat and the dust, and in Arizona, they sleep for two days.

On the third night, Dean leaves the room without a word and comes back bruised and beaten. He spits blood into the bathroom sink and Sam nearly breaks Dean's wrist grabbing at his brother's hand, almost has to break his ankle to get Dean to sit down long enough for Sam to examine the torn skin across his knuckles.

You stupid bastard, he says. You stupid, stupid bastard, and he says it over and over again like a mantra, and the last time, he's cut off by Dean's punch, sluggish and clumsy, but he doesn't move stop it. He hears the slap of it against his skin, a smack and not a crack, and they're trading blows, falling over the covers and onto the floor, scrambling like children.

It's not sparring and it's not struggling. It's nothing nearly as coordinated as a fight.

But it lasts forever. It lasts until they're both sweating and panting and there's that sour, metal, battery-acid taste in the backs of their throats. It's wonderful.

They hit and bruise and bite off curses back and forth, but when he splits Sam's lip, Dean freezes, one hand spread across his chest, holding him down. He says his brother's name like it's profane, like it's a prayer, and he leans down, kisses Sam like he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember it ever like this.

Sam tastes like the dentist's, like metal and toothpaste and blood. He moans and tries to throw Dean off, leans his head as far back as he can to say, No. No, Dean, stop.

Dean relaxes the hand holding his brother to the floor. He sits and lets Sam sit up, too, and he whispers: he says, Yes. Make it yes. I want—I need—

He almost asked for this at Bobby's once, right after. He moved to Sam's bed in the middle of the night and let his hand rest on the waistband of Sam's boxers, hooked his thumb under the elastic, but Sam curled away from his brother, into himself, and Dean couldn't do anything but hold on.

Please, Sammy. I need—

You don't.

But he slips two fingers in Dean's belt and tugs it off anyway. He says, You don't need this. You never did.

His hands are cold and his voice is colder and he says, You don't even want it. But he pushes Dean's underwear out of the way, wraps his fingers around his brother's cock and says, It never mattered. You never cared about any of that.

Fuck, Dean hisses: Fuck.

Kneeling on the floor of the room, bracing himself against his brother's shoulder, leaning his forehead against Sam's, he shakes and groans.

Sam just keeps talking, keeps whispering things like, You only ever did this because I wanted, remember? You didn't even—shit, you never did anything for yourself. Did you ever even care? Fucking self-sacrificing bastard.

Sam keeps talking and his hand keeps moving. The callous on his index finger drags across Dean's dick and his bitten down nails scrape over the underside and wetly over the head, and Dean hasn't even got the presence of mind to bite Sam's tongue for him and shut him up. Just shut him the fuck up.

Instead, he says, Please. Fuck, Sammy, I—

Sam tightens his hand and bites at Dean's shoulder, leaves the imprint of his teeth by Dean's throat. He growls, You don't need it. You don't need anything.

Dean's head falls forward onto Sam's shoulder, his forehead sweaty and his hair damp, like his breath hot on his brother's skin. Sam pulls his hand away and wipes it on Dean's thigh, across the denim, and jerks away at the same time he shoves Dean back.

He tightens his jaw and grinds his teeth and says, Fuck it. I don't need this just because dad's gone.

Seven point three seconds later, the door slams behind them and Dean sags against the carpet, his body as uncoordinated as the fighting and the sex. He puts out a hand to catch himself, then gives up halfway to the floor.

Ten point six seconds later, the draft crosses the room and tangos up and down his sweating spine, raises goosebumps on his skin.

Outside, the car starts, and it's like when dad was here, before California. Sam's leaving, and it's almost like they're brothers again.
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