Last part just for you dear.
It's unavoidable in the end. Sad of course, but...so many inevitable things are, simply because they are inescapable.
The man they've been watching , who can apparently summon and control spirits, accidently summons something way above his pay grade, something angry and violent that flings Sam clear across the basement and into a wall. By the time he's scrambled to his feet, Dean's already seized a spike of broken wood, and stabbed the guy through the heart.
He dies right in front of them, choking on blood and oaths, all the magic in him, stolen through the designs he'd tattooed on himself, the talismans sewn under his skin, dying with him.
The spirit, a formless energy which carries the stench of black blood and burnt herbs, dissipates with a wail, sucking half the air from the room as it goes. Dean drops to his knees, choking, and Sam runs towards him, grabbing him around the waist and supporting his weight.
Dean tries to push him away, but he's still weakened, and he sags further, until his legs slip out from under him, sending them both to the floor, Dean in a slump, Sam crouching with his arms still around his brother. He holds Dean tighter when he starts to struggle, clumsy with weakness, vicious with desperation. Sam brings his mouth close to Dean's ear, feeling his hair tickle his nose.
"Dean, you didn't do anything to me." He takes a shallow breath. "Nothing I didn't want."
Dean turns his face away, still as tense as a steel cable.
"Please, just talk to me." Sam begs.
But it's too late, and the moment of weakness is gone, Dean pulls away abruptly, shaking Sam off and getting to his feet. He storms towards the steps, but only makes it halfway over the cement floor, before Sam grabs his shoulder and spins him into a concrete pillar.
"The hell are you..." Dean struggles, but Sam has leverage thanks to his height, and he holds Dean against the pillar. It's a close run thing, their strength being almost equal.
"We're not going anywhere. Until you talk to me." Sam says, voice so low and determined as to almost be a growl.
"Let. It. Go." Dean snarls.
"You didn't do anything!" Sam almost shouts.
"Yes I did!"
"Dean..." Sam presses closer, bring their bodies into full contact, chest to chest, hip to hip, until Sam's nose brushes the side of Dean's. "I get it, you don't want to hear this...but, that night? I wanted you."
Dean struggles against him, growing a little wilder with each passing micro-second.
"I wanted you, to touch me." Sam continues.
Dean tries to knee him in the crotch, but Sam avoids him.
"And I wanted you to fuck me."
Dean practically loses it at that, thrashing between Sam and the pillar. "Shut up! Shut the hell up." He hisses.
"I know you wanted me too...you told me all that stuff...and, we're the same, Dean...and I still want you."
Sam slides his arm up, using the forearm to pin Dean's shoulder, while his hand cups the side of Dean's face, his thumb touching his lip. When Dean looks at him, his eyes are almost black with pupil, a feral mistrust etched into them. Sam feels like there's a knife in his gut, and he knows that feeling well, and it twists each time he feels another brush of heat from Dean's body.
"I still, want you." Sam whispers, and he's drunk on the feeling of Dean so close, pressed between him and the pillar. He leans closer, and Dean tries to move away, but comes up against the unyielding concrete.
"Sam...don't..." His breathing is rough, scented with beer.
"Just..." Sam moves forwards a little. "Tell me if you feel it..."
Sam kisses Dean, and he's never had a kiss that meant this much, that stood for this much, before. He presses his body into Dean's resistant one and feels the same sting of desire that he'd felt weeks ago, under Dean's weight. He kisses him as deeply as he can, and when he pulls back a little, he finds that Dean's eyes are stubbornly open, his lips bitten red and slightly damp.
"Enough." Dean mutters. "Sam, let me go."
"Tell me you didn't feel it, that night we..." Sam shakes his head, holding Dean still more firmly. "You can't touch someone like that, and not mean it."
"I was drunk." Dean snipes.
"You were gentle Dean." Sam says pointedly. "Practically tender."
Dean kicks at his shin, trying desperately to get away.
"And I know you feel guilty, because I was tied up...but I was sober, and I wanted it. If you didn't, I'm sorry...but I think you did, that you do...and that it's scaring the shit out of you...but I'm scared too, and I need you, ok? I just need you to be you – and help me out here. Because I don't know what to do."
Dean meets his eyes then, and sighs. "I shouldn't have done it."
Sam growls in frustration and pushes up against him again. "Does it feel like I don't want it?"
Dean glares at him. "You're not thinking straight, neither of us are...it's the end of the freaking world Sam, again. You can't make decisions like this right now."
"Because I hallucinate, because I see Lucifer?" Sam searches his brother's face. "You think...you think I'm some kind of...head case that needs protecting."
"I've always, protected you. That's not going to change." Dean promises. "I'm not going to make you..."
"You're not forcing me to do anything." Sam says, and, just as Dean opens his mouth to argue, he kisses him again.
This time it's almost violent, their mouths clashing as Dean tries to pull away, and Sam tries desperately to keep him close. He plants one hand firmly in the join between Dean's throat and his cheek, the other pushes up under his shirt, feeling Dean flinch from him, or maybe just the coldness of his fingers.
Eventually, just for need of air, Sam pulls back, kissing Dean's cheek, the side of his nose, his throat, even as Dean turns his face to one side. Sam rests his forehead in the hollow of his brother's shoulder, hold on him going limp, his hands resting on Dean's bare waist, under his shirt.
"I'm sorry." He murmurs, moving away from Dean reluctantly. "If you don't want me, I'm sorry..."
He looks down, and finds Dean's hands on his, holding them in place.
"If you're just do this for me..." Sam mutters.
"I'm not." Dean looks up at him. "Just...fuck, just get back on me."
Sam pushes up against him again, hardly letting the words leave Dean's mouth first. His brother's body curves up to meet his, a moan half stifled between their mouths. Sam gets his arms around Dean, reaching down to shamelessly clasp at Dean's ass, although surprisingly, Dean just presses up against him further, legs opening just enough for Sam to fit between them, his own hands sliding under Sam's shirt, feeling the taught muscles of his stomach shift under his touch. Dean opens his mouth a little wider, and Sam takes full advantage, until the sounds of wet, deep kisses rebound off of the bare concrete around them. Dean's mouth produces the most obscene sounds Sam has ever heard, his throat letting out deep, hungry noises, like he'll never get enough of how Sam tastes.
It should matter that there's a dead man ten feet away, the Dean has blood on his hands, and that Sam is trying desperately not to hear the voice of Lucifer, catcalling from somewhere on the other side of the basement, but it doesn't. All the little detractions from this fierce pleasure only serve to make them fight harder to maintain it.
When Sam slips his hands down the back of Dean's jeans, inside his underwear, Dean just groans and slides a hand down to cup the front of Sam's jeans. He pulls his mouth away from Sam's long enough to mutter, "fuck", his voice scratchy and wrecked, before Sam captures his lips again, sliding their tongues together, fucking Dean's mouth slowly, reaching down with his fingers to brush over his brother's cleft.
The effect is startling, because, Sam was honestly expecting Dean to react with shock, maybe recovering some sense of moral outrage – but instead, Dean presses back into his touch, one leg rising, almost wrapping around Sam's waist to give him more access, his head tipping back against the column, throat working overtime.
Sam isn't even thinking when he does it, it's just...instinct. He pulls his hands out of Dean's pants, shoves his palms under Dean's thighs and lifts. Dean makes a sound of surprise as Sam hefts him upwards, but he clenches strong thighs around Sam's waist, arms going behind him to grab at the pillar that he has his back against.
Sam uses one hand to yank Dean's t-shirt up, licking up his exposed chest.
"Fuck." Dean sighs, hips hitching forwards, rubbing their crotches together in a rush of denim on denim. "Feels so good Sammy."
They pause, and their eyes meet. There's a weird kick in Sam's gut, hearing his name, that stupid little pet name coming out of Dean's mouth, now of all times. He reaches up with one hand, leaving Dean's leg to dangle unsupported, and grabs the collar of the t-shirt, ripping it open in one swipe.
"Sam." He says, firmly, then dips his head to bite at Dean's nipple.
Dean's hand fists in his hair, a moan his only reply, Sam grabs his thigh again, and they dry hump in earnest, Dean thrashing against the concrete, arching up against Sam's weight, Sam pushing against him, mouth biting and sucking at Dean's chest until his brother starts to shake, and beg.
He drops him with no warning, letting go of his legs, watching Dean's stumble as his feet hit the concrete. He grabs his waist, turns him, pushes him forwards and yanks down his jeans, his underwear, leaving Dean to grab the pillar for leverage. It's only as Sam is sticking his hand between Dean's legs, cradling his sac, squeezing, rolling it in his palm. That he asks, "You ok?"
Dean's legs are shaking, his fingers white on the concrete. He doesn't answer, just reaches around, grabs Sam's other hand blindly and brings it down to feel his cock, where it hangs, heavy and blood filled, between his legs. Sam rubs his own erection, still held in his jeans, against Dean's ass.
Dean kicks his feet out of his jeans, losing a boot in the process. Sam kicks at the inside of Dean's feet, widening his stance.
"You sure about this?" He pants.
Dean braces himself against the pillar. "Fuck me already."
Sam touches his back. "I mean it Dean...don't do this for me."
Dean lets his head hang forwards.
"Sam?" He mutters, and it's gruff, almost too soft to hear. "Please just...just touch me, ok? I wanna feel you."
Sam slides his arms around his brother's stomach, kissing the small strip of flesh exposed by the intact back of his shirt. Dean hums softly at the back of his throat.
Sam reaches down and gently probes between his cheeks, smoothing with his fingers, touching the nervously puckered flesh.
"I don't have anything." Sam mutters.
"Not my first time." Dean replies, archly.
Sam spits on his fingers, no way to do it delicately, and reaches down again, one finger reaching in. Dean hisses, but stands still and lets it happen, trying to control his internal muscles. All the while Sam strokes his side, his stomach, pushes his shirt back up and kisses his spine.
"Aww, I feel special." Dean quips, but it falls short of a joke, and after that he stays quiet, only hissing or grunting as Sam goes deeper, adding a second finger. After a few minutes, Sam moves up to three, swirling them around the hot, dry walls that clamp down on him. Dean's whole body jumps, and he leans a little further forward, resting his head on his arm.
"Did it hurt?"
"No." Dean grouses. Then, after a few seconds. "Do that again."
Dean widens his legs, leans back a little, and Sam repeats the little twitch of his finger.
"Ugh...thats good." Dean's body is looser now, almost inviting, his voice drowsy. Sam twitches his finger a few more times, until Dean is thrusting back onto it, then he pulls his fingers free, and undoes his jeans.
Dean stiffens again at the sound of Sam's belt coming undone.
Sam settles one hand on Dean's shoulder, the other on his hip. "Tell me, if I hurt you."
"Well, I'm not going to keep quiet." Dean's voice breaks a little, and Sam winces.
"You don't have to do this."
Dean tips his head, kisses the fingers on his shoulder. "Do it."
Sam puts a hand on himself, lining up with the surprisingly pink little pucker in front of him. There's give on both sides, and he's kind of caught in the sight of Dean opening a little, his own foreskin sliding back as it's pushed by the tight little ring of muscle. He moves forwards, and the first bit of give is excruciatingly good, a hot swallow around him. Dean's groan is every bit as rewarding. Sam edges in a little more, and Dean hisses, clenching involuntarily.
"Don't stop." Dean grunts.
"Won't." Sam promises. "Can't."
He pushes, and Dean opens with a tight little whine, trembling in a way that he really wishes he could stop, because it's not exactly manly.
"All in." Dean pants. "Fuck."
Sam pushes forwards again, this time managing to bottom out, another inch inside.
"You gotta be kidding me." Dean says, and there's a hint of a grin in his words, a mouthful of sneaky smartass. His head rolls back on his shoulders, and Sam nips at his neck. "Feels so fucking good. So big Sam."
"Good." Sam mutters, biting a little harder than usual at Dean's pulse, reassured when no reprimand comes. "Hold on."
Dean braces himself against the pillar obediently, and Sam wraps an arm around the top of Dean's chest, giving himself something to grip as his pulls out and slams back in.
Dean quickly goes limp in his grip, still hard, still moaning fit to bust, but compliant to every bite, every deep, stretching thrust of Sam inside of him, every jerk of Sam's fingers in his short hair. He rolls his hip back and mutters, words that Sam can't really catch over his own racing heart, his own laboured breaths, but he gets the occasional, more, fuck, Sam, big, harder...
Dean drops a loose arm down and, bracing one arm against the wall, leaning forward despite Sam's death grip on him, he jerks himself messily, shaking legs kicked out wide on the concrete, slamming his body back into each of Sam's thrusts. Sam moves with him, sinuously, its rough, and fast and hard – but somehow it's also as smooth as a practiced move – like they know this, the way their bodies work together.
And he realises that they do.
He's never seen Dean like this before though, panting, whining, desperate to come, but clinging to the sex itself, the closeness, throwing himself into it, like he was born to be spread out like this, taken rough and deep and dirty in an abandoned basement.
Sam yanks his brother's hair, pulling his head back so he can whisper in his eye.
"Tell me you've never done this before."
"Tell me." Sam changes his angle by accident, and Dean grows as he spears hard against just the right spot. "Tell me you never had someone fuck you like this before."
Dean pants and shivers, and for a long, long moment, Sam thinks he's not going to say anything. He has no idea why it matters, why he needs to hear it. No idea why, here of all places, he's thinking of all the nights Dean was out late, since they were kids. All the times he looked guilty the next morning. Sam doesn't know why he's thinking of the wad of tan fabric at the bottom of Dean's bag. But it sticks a needle into his heart, and he needs this, he needs Dean to say...
"No one." Dean gasps, and Sam catches a glimpse of his face, damp with sweat, lips swollen, hair pulled into rough peaks. "No one's fucked me like this before."
Sam wraps his arm around Dean's sweat slick stomach, and pounds him until he jerks, clenching and writhing as Sam holds him down on his dick, letting the little contractions throw him over the edge.
He bends over Dean's back, breathing hard, dripping sweat, and Dean lets him, limp hands still resting on the pillar, his whole body trembling.
Sam reluctantly slides himself out of Dean, stands up, lazily pulling up his pants and fastening them. Dean stands shakily, as wrecked as a virgin caught in a car after prom. He winces as he straightens up, his ripped shirt hanging off him, exposing the hickeys and red rings of teeth marks that Sam left on his chest. He bends his knees, fumbles to get his bare foot back into his jeans, fingers having trouble as he pulls them up. In the end Sam fastens them for him. Dean leans his head against his shoulder.
"What'd we do?" He asks, speech slurred by exhaustion. "Sam, what..."
Sam puts his arms around him.
"It's ok...it's gonna be ok, and...we're going to be just us Dean. Like always."
Dean squeezes him back, and they move away from the pillar, from the smell of sex and blood and death – towards the splintery wooden steps.
Later, watching Sam sleep in their hotel room, Dean drains the last of his beer and wonders if this was always going to happen. If this was how it always had to end. Him and Sam, and nothing else between them – not Bobby, not Ruby, not Cas...not even the thin wall that kept family, family – and not something else, something darker and harder to explain, infinitely more subtle and painful – but burning with a fiercer light.
It's unavoidable in the end. Sad of course, but...so many inevitable things are, simply because they are inescapable.