Word Count: 3K
Summary: Sam’s feeling down after the loss of the hunters in the bunker. Dean thinks he might be able to help.
Tags: bottom!Sam, Coda for 14.15 PEACE OF MIND, angst and grief with a fluffy ending
A/N: Title from Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”. Now with art by the wonderful swan_song21!
“Did you fuck her?”
Dean won’t stop asking. He can’t get past the notion that Sam had a wife. That Sam was happy without Dean.
“What do you think?” Sam rolls his eyes. “She was my wife.”
“Was she hot?”
“In a kind of Doris Day way, I guess...” Sam shakes his head. He’s trying to concentrate, trying to focus on the latest news reports, looking for a case. They’re in the kitchen because Sam can’t stand the library any more, can’t stand being reminded of the hunters he got killed.
“Doris Day, huh?” Dean leans against the counter, sips his beer. “Doris Day in ‘Calamity Jane’? Or Doris Day in ‘The Man Who Knew Too Much’?”
Sam frowns. “You’ve seen ‘Calamity Jane’?”
“‘Course I have. Wild Bill Hickok, man. Sheriff, marshall, gunslinger, died in a gunfight after a poker game gone bad. Of course I have!”
Sam shakes his head. “You’re such a nerd.”
“Takes one to know one. Besides. The Wild West isn’t nerdy. It’s cool.”
Sam sighs and closes his laptop. He can sense when Dean needs to talk. They’ve been going around and around about Sam’s fantasy adventure in Arkansas for days, and Sam knows this only ends one way.
“Look.” He turns on the stool, stares up at Dean with as much sincerity as he can muster. “It wasn’t real, okay? I was happy, sure, but only because I forgot who I was. I forgot you.”
“Guess I’m pretty forgettable, all things considered.” Dean tips his beer back, shows Sam his throat as he sips.
“You know you’re not.” Sam pushes himself to his feet, takes a couple of steps across the room so he’s right in front of Dean, so Dean can’t turn away. “You’re my brother. You’ll always be the most important person in my life. No fantasy Stepford wife in a fantasy suburban fairy tale life can change that.”
He reaches for the beer bottle and Dean lets him take it, lets Sam set the beer down on the counter behind him.
“I was grieving,” Sam says softly. “Still am. I’ll never stop feeling responsible for what happened to those hunters. I was susceptible to that psychic psycho because I wanted to forget.”
“I know.” Dean keeps his eyes down, and Sam can feel how badly he wants to joke about this but doesn’t, for Sam’s sake. Sam loves him for that.
“Doesn’t mean I wanted to forget you,” Sam says. “Doesn’t mean I wanted to forget us.”
Dean nods, glancing up at Sam through his long eyelashes so that Sam catches the pain and doubt in his brother’s green eyes.
Dean’s feeling sad for Sam, for Sam’s guilt. He’s wishing there was some way he could shoulder Sam’s burden for him. Sam knows this, because that’s the way Dean is.
He’d never really blame Sam for those hunters’ deaths, even if it was Sam’s pleas that prevented Dean from going through with his plan to trap himself and Michael in a box in the ocean. Dean would never blame Sam for letting Michael out. That’s on Dean.
Sam knows Dean feels guilty for yelling at Sam when he realized Michael had escaped. Dean lashed out because he was horrified in the moment. Dean felt he’d failed to contain Michael, just as sure as Sam feels it’s his fault those hunters are dead.
The fact that it could have been worse, that Michael could have destroyed the entire universe if Jack hadn’t stepped in, isn’t lost on either brother. But it doesn’t make it easier, either. As usual, there’s plenty of blame to go around, and both Winchesters are feeling their share of guilt over the deaths Michael caused.
Not to mention whatever’s going on with Jack.
“Hey, let’s call it a night, what do you say?” Dean raises his eyes, looks up at Sam with that helpless, vulnerable expression that makes Sam hornier than a tom cat. Sam shakes his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam agrees, grinning despite himself. “What did you have in mind?”
“I think you know, big guy,” Dean smirks, leaning back on the counter, thrusting out his chest provocatively. “I’ll bet my nipples are more sensitive that hers.”
His over shirt falls open, revealing the tight white t-shirt underneath, and sure enough. Dean’s nipples are showing through the material, tight and pert as can be.
“Oh my god, really?” Sam rolls his eyes, but can’t help reaching for Dean’s pecs, filling his hands with warm, firm, cotton-covered chest muscles. He lets his thumbs rub over Dean’s hard nips and Dean arches up into Sam’s touch, letting out an exaggerated moan of pleasure that’s positively pornographic.
“Oh, that’s it, baby,” Dean gasps. “You do that thing you do. That’s right.”
Sam huffs out an amused, half-aroused breath as Dean tips his head back, exposing his throat as he spreads his legs. He thrusts his hips and writhes under Sam’s hands.
It’s erotic and silly at the same time, and Sam can’t help hardening in his jeans. Dean’s an exhibitionist. He gets away with it because he’s genuinely sexy, of course. Ordinarily Sam wouldn’t buy the act, would laugh off Dean’s half-joking display.
But then it occurs to him that Dean is doing this for Sam as much as for himself. Dean’s jealous of Cindy the Fake Wife and it makes him insecure, sure. But Dean’s also making a genuine offer here. He’s trying to take Sam’s mind off his own feelings of failure in the only way he knows how.
Well, maybe not the only way. They’re hunters, after all. When they need to distract themselves from how miserable their lives are, they usually go out and kill something.
But sex is good, too. Sex helps sometimes. And sex with Dean is always distracting, no doubt about that.
“You’re hot when you’re jealous and needy,” Sam growls, shoving a thigh up between Dean’s legs.
“Not jealous,” Dean pants. He grinds down on Sam’s thigh, pulls up his shirt so Sam can get his hands on bare skin.
“The hell you aren’t.” Sam kneads the warm skin, drops his head and sucks a pert nipple into his mouth, tugging on it a little with his teeth.
Dean cries out and thrusts up into Sam’s mouth, tangling his hands deep into Sam’s hair, holding his head as Sam latches on. It’s primal and they both know it. Dean nurtured Sam as a baby, raised him, was as much of a mother to him as a brother. There’s always something deeply satisfying for both of them when they do this, when Dean offers up his body for Sam to take and do with as he pleases. It’s a physical manifestation of their bond, of the years lived together as children, forging this tightly coiled union that transcends normal family relationships.
Sam moves on to Dean’s other nipple, suckles and laps at it before abusing it with his teeth. Dean’s gonna have a trail of chest hickeys later, but he asked for it. Dean’s bare, hairless chest just begs to be devoured and he knows it. Sam shoves his hand down over Dean’s jean-clad erection, debates whether to go down on him right here on the kitchen floor.
Which is when they’re interrupted, of course.
They jump apart, none too gracefully, and Dean pulls his t-shirt down, crosses his arms over his chest as Sam runs a hand through his tangled hair.
Jack stands in the doorway, the look on his face more curious than shocked, but Sam feels guilty anyway.
“Hey,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat. “Hey, Jack. What are you doing up so late?”
“I don’t sleep much.” Jack shrugs. “So sometimes I come down here for something to eat.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sam clears his throat again. “We were just going to bed. Uh — Going to our bedrooms. Separately.”
He glances at Dean for confirmation and Dean actually pouts for a moment before nodding, resigned.
“That’s right,” Dean says. “Bed-time.” He reaches out for Sam, but instead of taking his hand he slaps his arm manfully. “Sam here needs his beauty rest.”
“Shut up,” Sam grouses, and Dean winks at Jack.
Jack blinks obliviously and Dean shakes his head. “Never mind. Hey, don’t eat the entire kitchen, okay? Leave something for the grown-ups. Bacon, for example. Don’t eat all the bacon.”
“I don’t eat bacon unless you make it,” Jack announces proudly. “I usually just eat cereal. The colorful, sweet kind.”
“Rots your teeth,” Dean notes, nodding approvingly. “Good boy.”
“Dean!” Sam frowns. “Don’t tell him that! Jack, those cereals aren’t good for you. They’re full of chemicals and sugar. They’re not healthy.”
“They were good enough for you, when we were kids,” Dean notes, grabbing his beer off the counter and heading toward the door.
Sam grabs his laptop and follows his brother, wagging his finger at Jack. “Also, sugar keeps you awake.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jack says, nodding solemnly. He steps aside as the Winchesters pass him, smiles when Sam clasps his shoulder.
“Well, that was close,” Dean mutters as they head down the corridor towards Dean’s room. “You think he noticed?”
“You think he’s traumatized for life because he saw his dads acting like loving parents?” Sam counters. “Pretty sure he already knows, Dean.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Well, that’s healthy, I guess.”
“You do realize there’s nothing normal about the way he’s growing up, right?” Sam reminds him. “I mean, he lives in a hole in the ground with two grown men who kill things for a living and an angel who’s older than the Earth.”
“Normal enough for the most powerful being in the universe.” Dean shrugs.
When they reach Dean’s bedroom, Sam fully intends to keep going to his own room, but Dean’s not having it. He grabs Sam’s bicep, looks up at Sam with an expression that Sam knows too well. It’s his “I’m the big brother here, and I’m going to take care of you because I know what’s best” look, and Sam’s too tired too resist.
Besides, he really is horny after that little interlude in the kitchen, just as Dean knew he would be, the jerk.
So Sam lets himself be tugged inside Dean’s room, lets the door close behind them. He lets Dean take his laptop and set it down on the table. He mirrors Dean as his brother removes his shirts, pulls off his boots and socks, drops his jeans so all he’s wearing is his boxers.
Dean stops Sam before he unbuckles his belt and does it for him.
“So, cardigan and glasses, huh?” he smirks as he slides Sam’s jeans down over his hips. Sam’s gone commando again, of course. Laundry is just about the last thing on his mind lately.
“Think maybe you’d put your hair up in a bun for me, Sam?” Dean reaches up, runs his hands through Sam’s hair and pulls it back, gathering it at the nape of Sam’s neck.
Sam blushes. Dean has a thing for librarians and college professors that’s almost as old as he is.
“You’re an idiot,” Sam huffs as he rolls his eyes.
“Maybe Sammy the hot librarian needs to show me what an idiot I am,” Dean smirks, pushing up against Sam on his tiptoes to reach his mouth, pulling his head down till Sam gets with the program and goes with it. He slides his hands down the smooth skin of Dean’s back to his hips, kissing his plush mouth hungrily. When Sam scoops Dean up, lifting him off his feet, Dean wraps his legs around Sam’s waist and holds on, letting Sam carry him backwards to the bed and drop him on his back, none too gently.
Sam steps back for a moment, admires Dean’s flushed chest and cheeks, his sparkling, half-lidded eyes, the way his freckles darken against his pale skin when he’s turned on the way he is when Sam manhandles him.
Only Sam gets this. Dean’s like this only for Sam, lets himself be wanton and vulnerable like this only for the brother he loves and trusts more than his own life. Sam’s the one Dean gives everything to, the one Dean has done everything for since Sam was a baby.
Sam could do anything to Dean when he’s like this. He could take everything and Dean would let him, would beg for it. It’s a privilege Sam hopes he never abuses, having this much power over another person. It pushes all of Sam’s buttons when Dean just gives himself up like this, and Dean knows it.
“God, you don’t know what you do to me,” Sam growls as he climbs onto the bed, kneels between Dean’s spread legs. He takes Dean’s wrists in his hands, pushes his arms up over his head, holds them there as he leans down to capture Dean’s swollen lips with his own.
“Better than some Stepford blonde?” Dean pulls away as he thrusts up and writhes under Sam’s body.
Sam drags his mouth over Dean’s soft cheek to his ear. “Always,” Sam mutters, pulling Dean’s fleshy earlobe into his mouth, suckling it as he grinds his dick against Dean’s.
“What do you want, Sammy? Huh? Wanna come like this? Wanna come all over your big brother? Wanna mark me up?”
Sam’s got his teeth in the delicate skin under Dean’s ear, suckling a bruise there that’ll last a while, but it’s not enough and they both know it.
“Want you inside me,” Sam whispers. “Need it.”
And just like that, Sam’s floodgates open. Sam lets his brother’s wrists go, wraps his arms around Dean and buries his face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and Dean gets it. Dean always understands.
Dean wraps his arms and legs around his brother and flips them almost effortlessly, murmuring softly in his warm, deep voice.
“Okay, little brother, I’ve got you. Okay now.”
Only Dean can make Sam feel loved and protected like this. Only Dean is big enough and strong enough to make Sam feel like a little boy again. Whenever Sam’s feeling lost and defeated, Dean’s his rock, his solace. Nothing else can reach him when he’s sad and miserable. Nobody else can hold him down and fill him up like Dean can.
Sam whines as Dean shoves his briefs off, pulls Sam’s legs up, spreads him wide, and reaches for lube. Sam’s eyes squeeze shut against the emotional overload, holding back bitterness and sorrow and the pain of loss and failure as Dean opens him up, murmuring his reassurances before pushing inside, making Sam gasp. The burn feels good. Feels pure. Sam relishes the pain/pleasure as Dean bottoms out, punching all the air momentarily out of Sam’s lungs.
“Okay? Hey now. Hey, hey, look at me. Sam?”
“Yeah.” Sam takes a breath, opens his eyes so Dean can see he’s all right. Tears leak out of the corners so he shuts them again, nodding. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m okay. It’s good.”
“Of course it is,” Dean soothes, giving the words that little smirking tone of self-satisfaction that makes Sam huff out a laugh. “Gonna take care of you, just like always.” Dean wipes the tears from the corners of Sam’s eyes, leans down and kisses them off his cheeks.
Damn it. Dean punches all the right/wrong buttons every time, the bastard. If Sam wasn’t already falling apart he’d be ashamed of letting Dean see him this way. He’s not fine. He’s not okay. That’s pretty damned obvious.
But right now, in Dean’s arms, with Dean inside him and all over and around him, Sam can almost forget. Everything almost feels normal, or as normal as things ever get in their fucked-up lives.
And when Dean hits his prostate, making little sparks sizzle up his spine, Sam grabs his dick to keep from coming too soon, desperate to suspend the oblivion of pure sensation for as long as possible.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Dean encourages as he thrusts, hitting Sam’s prostate again and again, making Sam gasp and god-knows-what-else. He’s too far gone to care. “Anytime now, Sammy. You just say when.”
The sick thing is, Dean’s the boss in the bedroom as much as he is or has been in the rest of their lives, so it feels right to follow his orders. It feels good to do what he suggests and just give it all up in a toe-curling orgasm that goes on and on until Sam’s whited out and left the planet.
When he floats back to semi-consciousness it’s much later. Dean’s cleaned him up and curled up behind him to sleep with the blankets pulled up over them both. He’s spooning Sam like he did when they were much younger, when Sam was much smaller. Sam’s relaxed and content like he can’t remember feeling in a good while, his mind resting in a place without guilt, or regret, or anxiety.
It’s temporary. He knows that without even thinking about it. And he’d never in a million years confess to Dean that he fucked the sorrow out of him, however momentarily. Dean would never let him live that down. His brother’s insufferable enough when it comes to his sexual prowess, and if Sam ever admitted he’s forgotten the Stepford wife’s name he’ll never hear the end of that, either.
Sam’s just grateful for a short reprieve from all the sadness in his life, however he can get it. Funny how Dean always knows how to make that happen. Sam’ll never say that, either, although he’s pretty sure Dean already knows.
Sam feels Dean’s lips on his back, at the top of his spine, pressing warm kisses against his skin. He shifts back, grinding his ass against Dean’s soft dick, wiggling until he can feel it stiffen before he relaxes and lets himself breathe deeply and rhythmically, feigning sleep.
Sam smiles. Dean’s not the only one who knows how to give his brother what he needs.
Not by a long shot.