The Long and Winding Road (amypond45) wrote,
The Long and Winding Road

MASTERPOST: Do It Again - [Sam/Dean, NC-17]

Title: Do It Again
Artist: stargazingchola
Author: amypond45
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Warnings: Sibling incest, first time, post-Season 14 AU
Summary: After the events at the end of Season 14, Sam and Dean go on the road to clean up Chuck’s mess. Re-killing the things they went after all those years ago brings back memories and reminds Dean that he’s always had trouble repressing his most problematic feelings, especially where his brother’s concerned. Reliving those early days on the road makes it harder than ever.

A/N: Endless thanks to stargazingchola, one of our fandom’s most talented artists! I have had the privilege of working with her several times now, and it never stops being a fabulous experience. Thanks also to the super-awesome mods of this year’s wincest_reverse fanworks challenge, and to my excellent beta, jdl71. You rock! The story title is a Steely Dan song.


Fic Links: READ IT ON A03 or below the cut


Dean loves Sam’s hands.

More than that, Dean loves Sam’s hands on him

He’s pretty sure he’s always felt that way, but for some reason he’s just now noticing it.

Now that it’s the end of the world. Again.

Chuck brought all the monsters back to life. Everything they ever killed is back again, plus all the souls in Hell starting with the ones in the graveyard where Chuck killed Jack. Luckily, the re-ensouled corpses weren’t particularly smart, or organized, so putting them down again wasn’t as hard as Dean was afraid it might be. They were just people, after all. Or, had been people, once. Not exactly fighters. Souls soft from spending years in Hell being tortured, bodies clumsy from decomposing in the ground. Once Castiel and the Winchesters put down a score of them, the rest just wandered off. Of course, they had to hunt them all down, send all their souls back to Hell, and it took most of the night, and there was no question of putting all those bodies back into their resting places, so they just built a giant bonfire in the middle of the cemetery and burned them all.

Sometime that night, Cas healed Sam’s gunshot wound. Then he took Jack’s body and disappeared.

Sam and Dean had their suspicions about where the angel had gone, but they didn’t try to get him back. He was angry with them for siding against Jack. Now he would need time away to mourn their fallen son, and the Winchesters would give him that. They’d mourn Jack, too, but in their own time. And now was not the time to wallow in grief.

They had work to do.


“I think it’s a pattern,” Sam announces as they’re getting ready for bed a few weeks later.

They’ve been on the road for two months since the night all Hell broke loose (again, but Dean tries not to think about that). Tonight they’re staying at the Windy Pines Motel, just outside St. Louis, after putting down the shapeshifter there.


Dean looks up from cleaning his gun and tries not to stare as Sam’s hands fly across his laptop’s keyboard.

“Yeah? What kind of pattern, genius?” he asks, keeping his voice carefully gruff so Sam doesn’t notice.

“All those things we killed have come back, right?” Sam rubs his shoulder absently, like he still feels the gunshot wound he gave himself when he shot Chuck. Putting down all the re-ensouled corpses that night in the graveyard had been physically painful for Sam. Dean wishes he could take away that pain, wishes he could’ve taken that bullet for Sam.

“Yeah,” Dean growls. “Round two. Re-do. Same monsters, same places, all back good as new. Different victims, though.”

“Right, because it’s fifteen years later,” Sam nods.

“And the ones that were just plain old vengeful spirits have stayed dead.”

“Because we burned their corpses, yeah,” Sam nods. “Nothing left to bind their spirits.”

Dean thinks for a minute. “Lucas Barr and his mother...” There hadn’t been a corpse in that case. Dean still thinks about that kid every once in a while.

“They’re fine,” Sam says. “Not living in Manitoc anymore, but that’s no surprise.”

“For sure.”

Dean’s enjoying this cross-country monster-killing spree way more than he should, probably. He’s grateful just to be in the car with Sam every day, to be sleeping in the same room with him again. It feels like old times, not to mention the fact that they’re busy doing what they do best.

It should be discouraging, re-killing all the things they ganked years ago, but it really isn’t. It’s easier than going after new monsters. They know what to expect. They’ve already done the research.

And it’s not like the things have been around all those years, killing people and wreaking havoc. The Winchesters really did put them down the first time. They’re just back, that’s all. Putting them all down again is easy.

It’s almost fun.

They’re taking the bastards down one at a time, just as they did the first time. They’ve already dealt with the Woman in White in California (not Constance Welch this time), the Wendigo in Colorado, the haunted mirror in Ohio and the plane-crashing demon in Pennsylvania.

Dean’s particularly proud of that last one; since they knew what they were looking for, they didn’t even need to get on the plane. Took out the demon in the men’s room before the flight. Heh.

“The poltergeist in our old house is back,” Sam notes.

“Jenny and her kids...”

“Have moved, yeah.” Sam nods. “The kids are probably grown up by now.”

“Ouch, don’t remind me,” Dean growls. Hitting forty this year was weird. He doesn’t feel any older, but when he looks in the mirror he can definitely see the changes. He’s a little stiffer in the mornings and his left knee bothers him off and on.

“The shapeshifter in Milwaukee’s back, too,” Sam says.

“Wait, the one at the bank?”

“Yeah.” Sam shakes his head. “Ron Reznick died for nothing.”

“I always hated that.”

“Me, too.” Sam nods grimly.

“So we head to Lawrence in the morning, then drive up to Milwaukee?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agrees.

Dean watches Sam’s hands move for another minute, fighting down the little tingle of arousal as he thinks about how they feel on his body.

When Sam looks up and frowns at him, Dean puts his gun down and heads into the bathroom for a shower.

“Awesome,” Dean mutters as he closes the bathroom door.


He thinks this may have started when Sam carried him home after the fight with the gorgon three months ago.

In fact, Dean’s sure of it. The gorgon really did a number on him, smashing his head against the wall until he blacked out for hours. He was vaguely aware of Sam bending over him, of Sam’s hands all over him, Sam’s voice full of panic as he called Dean’s name. Dean tried to respond, but it was like being deep underwater. He couldn’t swim to the surface to show Sam he was okay. He was using every ounce of energy to keep the door closed, to keep Michael inside.

He was dimly aware of riding in the car, feeling the comforting rumble under him as Sam drove too fast back to the bunker. He can vaguely remember Sam and Cas half-carrying, half-dragging him into the infirmary. Sam’s hands on him were soothing, comforting.

When Michael escaped, Dean lashed out at Sam out of fear and his own sense of failure. He’ll always regret that.

At the time, he couldn’t face the fact that Sam’s hands had turned him on as much as comforted him. But now, especially after they’ve been on the road for a couple of months, he knows that’s when it started.

Now that he’s conscious of it, he realizes that Sam’s hands have always turned him on. It’s part of their bond, the erotic energy that sizzles under the surface between them. Sam must feel it, too. They both take it for granted. It’s part of who they are, part of what makes them good at what they do.

But this is new, this obsession with Sam’s hands. Dean can’t stop thinking about them, can’t stop staring at them, and definitely can’t stop wanting them on him as often as he can get them.

He knows he’s been a little reckless lately. It’s not like he’s trying to get injured, but when he does and Sam helps him up or fusses over his injuries it just feels so good. So sue him for throwing himself into danger a little too readily.

When the disaster demon in Pennsylvania tossed him around a little before they ganked it, Sam just gathered him up afterwards like a rag doll and half-carried him back to the car, and that was just fine with Dean.

His back’s been bothering him ever since Chuck threw him into a gravestone two months ago, and when Sam offers to give him a back rub, how can Dean refuse?

Wanting Sam’s hands on him is the dirty little secret that allowed Dean to bait Bloody Mary in Ohio, although Sam thinks it’s his guilt over Jack’s death because he doesn’t know about Dean’s obsession with his hands.

Dean intends to keep it that way. It’s not a big deal, anyway. Dean can enjoy Sam’s little touches without having to admit how much he craves them, can’t he? Of course he can. He’s hidden much worse over his forty years of life plus forty years in Hell. He’s kept dirtier secrets.

Besides, all he really wants is Sam to touch him. It’s not like he wants anything sexual. That’s gross. He doesn’t need Sam to touch his dick, for God’s sake.

In the shower, Dean jerks off to visions of busty Asian beauties, just like always. He doesn’t think about Sam’s big hands, sliding up his bare chest, pinching his nipples, caressing his shoulders and back, cupping his wet, bare ass. He doesn’t imagine how well his ass would fit in those big, strong hands. He doesn’t think about how those hands would feel spreading his butt cheeks, long fingers probing in between, touching his hole...

Dean comes so hard he slips, has to slam a hand against the wet wall of the shower to stop himself from crashing to the floor. He bites his tongue to stop the shout that almost erupts from his throat. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then almost jumps out of his skin when Sam pounds on the door.

“You alright in there?”

“Yeah,” Dean chokes out, watching the evidence of his recent activity swirl away down the drain. “I’m fine.”

No way Sam knows what he was thinking about. No way he gets to make Dean feel guilty about this.

“Can’t a man have a little privacy in his own shower?” he calls with as much indignation as he can muster, just in case Sam’s still listening on the other side of the door.

Dean can almost see Sam’s rolled eyes, can almost hear his huff of annoyance as he slaps a hand on the door.

“Don’t use all the hot water!” Sam calls, and Dean breathes a relieved sigh.

In bed later, in the dark room, listening to Sam’s soft snores, Dean definitely doesn’t imagine Sam’s big, capable hands cradling his head. He doesn’t think about Sam’s long thumb outlining his cheekbone, sliding over his lower lip, pushing into his mouth...

Somehow, Dean manages to fall asleep without jerking off again, but it’s not easy.


In Lawrence, Dean does his best to ignore the crushing sense of grief and failure he feels when the Impala rounds the corner onto the street where their old house still stands.

The neighborhood has been revitalized over the past fifteen years. There are families out in the yards and parks, the smell of barbecue in the air. The University of Kansas has purchased the old Winchester home for off-campus housing. It’s been remodeled and is currently unoccupied, since it’s summer and the students have gone home. The poltergeist has been terrorizing the University grounds crew who have been trying to clean and repaint the house for occupancy in the fall. Nobody died, but there have been a couple of serious injuries.

“You think a few herb bags planted in the walls is gonna get rid of this thing?” Sam asks as the Impala rolls to a stop at the curb in front of the house.

Dean shrugs. “Worked last time, didn’t it?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Last time, Mom’s spirit helped us.”

Dean sets his jaw grimly. This is not something he wants to think about. “Well, she’s not here this time, is she? We’ll just have to do it ourselves.”

They don’t mention Missouri Moseley. They’ve used her herb bags to purify a dozen houses since the night she taught them how to make them. They spent the morning collecting the ingredients and making the bags, and now that the workmen have left for the day, it’s showtime.

Despite the fact that Mary’s ghost is no longer protecting them, they get the job done. Sam gets tossed around a little and Dean gets a nasty shoulder wound from a flying handsaw, but they both feel the wave of energy as the poltergeist is finally banished.

“You should let me look at that,” Sam says, gesturing at Dean’s blood-soaked shoulder.

“Maybe later,” Dean growls, holding the wounded arm against his side as he drives one-handed. He wants to get far away from this place with all its memories and reminders of the Winchesters’ personal losses. He can barely stand the waves of grief that wash over him here.

They head north to Milwaukee in the dark until Dean starts to pass out from blood loss and exhaustion, and Sam insists they stop for the night. While Sam checks them into the Misty River Motel, just outside Des Moines, Dean dozes in the car.

“Let’s get this off,” Sam orders when they’re safely inside their room.

Dean fights the urge to argue as Sam cuts off the blood-soaked jacket and shirt. When Sam whistles softly once he gets a good look at the damage, Dean takes a deep breath and braces himself.

“This is gonna need stitches, Dean,” Sam says.

“Then I’m gonna need whiskey.”

Sam’s mouth tightens into a disapproving line, but he gets the whiskey out of Dean’s duffel and hands it to him.

“Probably ought to go to the hospital,” Sam says. “This is kind of deep.”

“I trust you, Sammy.” Dean takes a long swig of the whiskey.

Sam takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

He makes Dean sit on the desk chair before gathering his first aid supplies. Dean swallows a couple of antibiotics with more whiskey, then hands the bottle to Sam so he can clean the wound.

Sam’s hands are gentle and warm on his skin, and Dean lets himself get lost in Sam’s touch. He tells himself Sam’s hands are better than any local anesthetic. Sam’s touch makes his skin tingle, taking his mind off his pain as Sam cleans and sutures his wound. Between the whiskey and his post-adrenaline exhaustion, Dean gets a buzz on that almost counteracts the discomfort of being sewn up like a rag doll. His mind can’t stop reminding him that Sam’s standing so close he can feel his body heat. When Dean sneaks a glance, Sam’s focused expression sends a stab of lust straight to his dick. He can feel himself blushing and he hopes Sam doesn’t look down at Dean’s lap to see the obvious effect he’s having.

“Sit still, Dean!” Sam orders, which is how Dean knows he’s squirming. “You really don’t need another scar.”

If it keeps you touching me, scar me up, baby, Dean thinks but doesn’t say it, of course.

You sit still,” he grumbles instead. “Scar, my ass.” It sounds like “scar my ass,” which makes Dean snort.

Sam’s nimble fingers stop tugging on his skin.

“Are you drunk?” he demands.

“What? No! Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re lucky that thing didn’t take your arm off,” he mutters as the needle pierces Dean’s skin again.

Dean shifts just enough to ease the erection in his jeans and Sam places a steadying hand on his back. “Come on, Dean. Just a couple more stitches...”

Dean can’t even take a shower to relieve the ache in his groin afterwards. Sam won’t let him for fear he’ll get his new bandages wet.

“Just sleep now,” Sam tells him. “You can take a sponge bath in the morning when you’re sober.”

Dean whimpers as he curls up on his bed, back to Sam and heel of his hand pressed against his dick. Sam probably thinks it’s the pain that makes him squirm and utter embarrassing hurt noises, which he confirms when Dean feels Sam pull up the blanket over him. He could swear Sam’s hand presses against his head for a moment, but it happens so fast he barely feels it, wishes Sam would keep touching him.

Dean is so fucked.


They take a couple of days off to let Dean’s shoulder heal, and it’s a kind of torture Dean never knew he needed. Despite the murder and mayhem overwhelming the country now that all the monsters are back, most Americans are still going about their lives as usual, doing the things they usually do.

“The 2019 Good-Guys Summer Nationals,” Dean repeats when Sam suggests they spend a day or two at the Iowa State Fairgrounds before heading on to Milwaukee. “Really.”

“Why not?” Sam says. “It’s cheap, there’s plenty to do and see, and it’ll give you time to heal.”

“I don’t need time to heal, Sam,” Dean protests. “Not when people are dying.”

“Hot dogs and classic cars, Dean,” Sam counters.

They go because Dean can see that Sam really thinks he’s being a good little brother, and Dean doesn’t want to let him down. The event is crawling with ordinary guys who love their cars almost as much as Dean loves his Baby, and Dean can appreciate that, even while it raises his blood pressure to watch the hot-rodding and burnout competitions.

“Baby could so blow these motherfuckers out of the water,” Dean mutters under his breath more than once.

Sam smiles and nods, and Dean knows he’s being humored but doesn’t really mind. Baby gets lots of admiring attention, but nobody in this crowd would ever call them out even if they did get recognized as hunters and outlaws. There are too many independent, anti-authority types here, probably a few hunters if Dean bothered to ask.

He doesn’t. They watch the fireworks from the hood of the car with a six-pack of beer, and Dean lets himself feel almost happy. Sam sits close enough that Dean’s arm brushes his brother’s every time he lifts his beer, and it’s the best he’s felt since their mom died.


The shapeshifter in Milwaukee doesn’t stand a chance. When the Winchesters take it down, it morphs into the body of a security guard at the same bank the other shapeshifter robbed all those years ago, just as the Winchester knew it would. It never gets a chance to change bodies.

The Winchesters are in and out before Milwaukee police can get a good look at them.

“Where to next, Sammy?” Dean asks as they drive past the city limits sign.

“Fitchburg.” Sam studies his laptop screen. “Shtriga. Keep going East and we’ll be there in about an hour.”

Dean grasps the steering wheel with grim determination. “Bastard.”

The thing has been doing its damndest to mow through families again, just like last time. The residents are predictably spooked, since they remember the strange virus that put kids in the hospital fifteen years ago. They also know that there wasn’t ever any explanation, just that it stopped when the doctor treating the children disappeared mysteriously.

This time the thing is wearing a nurse at the same hospital. It’s almost too easy, and grateful parents are collecting their suddenly recovered kids without ever knowing what hit them.

“Nobody died this time, Dean,” Sam reminds his brother as they hit the road again. “This one’s a win.”

Dean clenches his jaw and doesn’t answer. He’ll never forget the night that thing attacked his six-year-old brother. He’ll never forgive himself for not being there until it was almost too late. Killing it again was satisfying, but nothing will ever make up for Dean’s childhood failure.


He wakes up screaming that night and Sam’s right there on top of him, holding him down and murmuring, “it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here,” as Dean thrashes and yells. He remembers vague fragments of the dream, something about monsters sucking Sam’s soul out of his body while Dean stands by helplessly. He’s so relieved to feel Sam’s hands on him and to hear his voice that he grabs onto him and pulls him down into a fierce, crushing hug.

Sam lets himself be hugged, breathing hard against Dean’s ear. He’s wearing his sleep t-shirt and sweatpants, and Dean can feel every detail of his body, can smell his sweat and remnants of the cheap soap he used in the motel shower earlier. Dean clutches handfuls of Sam’s shirt, shoves one hand into his hair and holds on for dear life, and Sam goes with it for another moment before pulling away. He leaves a smacking kiss on the side of Dean’s head as he climbs off.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean assures him, watching thoughtfully as Sam nods and turns away to go into the bathroom.

Dean could feel Sam’s erection, and he knows Sam knows he could feel it.

Doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. Sam was having a sex dream. Sam was half-asleep before he piled on top of his freaked-out, dreaming brother.

But Dean’s pretty sure it’s more than that. Dean’s pretty sure Sam was blushing as he turned away.

It’s a revelation, knowing Sam wants what Dean wants, knowing Sam knows he wants what Dean wants. Sam feels the same erotic energy Dean does. Maybe he always has. Every complicated, fucked-up emotion and sensation gets multiplied whenever they touch, and now, maybe for the first time, they’re both facing it at the same time.

Dean knows this, but it doesn’t stop the wanting. It doesn’t help that Sam feels the same way. It’s still a mess they need to keep buried because there’s no time to deal with it, ever. Not with their lives. Not with the work that now needs to be done over again.

It doesn’t matter that Dean’s suddenly able to face his desire for what it is. It doesn’t make those feelings anymore okay, or any less problematic. If anything, recognizing and facing it just makes it worse.


Once Dean recognizes Sam’s desire for him, he finds it almost impossible to stop thinking about it. Memories flood to the forefront, long ago moments in the car or in a diner or motel room when Dean caught glimpses of Sam’s longing.

Maybe it’s because they’re on this road trip through the past, chasing down the monsters they killed when they were first getting to know each other again after that long separation back in 2005 and 2006. Dean had wanted Sam so badly those first two years after they reunited he can almost taste it now.

Of course, back then Dean’s feelings were all mixed up with his need to find their dad, to reunite the family and make everything the way it used to be between them. He never let himself acknowledge that there could be anything unbrotherly about his feelings for Sam, even though he’s able to see it now for what it was then.

And since he’s being honest with himself at last, Dean has to admit that even when he was a horny teenager, these complicated feelings for Sam were there. Now that he thinks about it (and he can’t stop thinking about it) he’s pretty sure Sam felt it too. In those days, Dean hooked up with as many girls as he could find as a way to derail his desire for Sam, while Sam buried himself in his studies and his adolescent rage.

Dean blushes when he thinks about how he left the door open deliberately when he brought girls home, not even fully aware of why he did it. He glances at Sam in the passenger seat, wonders if he still holds a grudge for all the pain and jealousy Dean caused him, back when they were both desperately pining for each other and wouldn’t acknowledge it.

He decides Sam’s probably forgiven him by now, which makes Dean feel even more guilty. He’ll never in a million years be able to make it up to Sam for doing that to him when they were kids.

He’ll never in a million years confess to Sam how he feels now, how he’s always felt, now that he’s able to admit it. Nothing good can come of it, he’s sure. He’ll just keep stuffing it down, like he’s always done, channeling it into fits of violence and alcoholism.

If Sam can repress it, so can Dean.


The killer clown is back, of course.

Medford, Wisconsin is only a three-hour drive, so they get there by lunchtime. The rakshasa is posing as a carnival act again, as if it doesn’t remember the last time. It’s too easy to take the thing out with the same brass knife they used in 2006. Before it dies, it laughs at them.

“You think this is the end?” It smirks. “You haven’t even gotten started.”

As they drive away that night, Sam gets morbid.

“So monsters go to Purgatory when they die, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t like this line of thinking at all.

“So if they resurrect, do they remember what they were before?”

“How should I know, Sam? We used to say, what’s dead should stay dead, but I guess we broke that rule all to Hell.”

“Right.” Sam bites his lip, stares out at the rain on the windshield, and gets that hurt look in his eyes that Dean hates so much because it makes him feel so helpless. “But we remember when we resurrect. We remember what happened before.”

“I guess,” Dean concedes, shifting uncomfortably. He really hates this subject. “Maybe that’s because we’re human.”

Maybe it’s because we’re Winchesters, he doesn’t add because it’s obvious. They’ve been God’s playthings all along, but they don’t need to be reminded of that right now.

“Sometimes I’m not so sure we’re human anymore,” Sam mutters. He sounds so down, so morose, it makes Dean’s big brother radar go off big time.

“Okay, that’s it,” he says sharply. “We’re shutting down for the day.”

He pulls the Impala into the parking lot of Mercy’s All-Night Diner and turns off the engine. Sam locks his jaw stubbornly, but Dean’s got his number. Dean’s not having Sam’s despair another moment.

“Listen to me, Sam.” Dean starts in as soon as they’ve ordered.

Sam takes a sip of his water and doesn’t look up.

“I know this sucks, okay?” Dean goes on. “I know this big do-over deal isn’t your idea of a good time. I’m sorry the killer clown got another family. I am. But it doesn’t mean we give up, you hear me? Doesn’t mean we stop doing what we do. God may have given up on this universe, but it’s our universe, Sam. These are our lives.”

Sam nods but says nothing. Dean watches as Sam turns the glass slowly, till his fingers are glistening with condensation.

“And I don’t know about you, but I’m planning to keep doing this for as long as I can.”

Sam shakes his head. “We’re just cleaning up Chuck’s mess,” he says bitterly. “He’s like a toddler who comes along and knocks over his big brother’s block tower.”

“No, he’s worse than that,” Dean says, speaking from experience. “Toddlers don’t realize they’re doing anything malicious. Chuck knew exactly what he was doing when he did this.”

Well, maybe not exactly, he adds silently, staring at Sam’s hands a little too long. When he looks up at Sam’s face, his brother gives him a confused frown, so Dean huffs out a breath and shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter, Sam, that’s all I’m saying,” he says gruffly. “We keep fighting, as long as we can. That’s the only way.”

Sam looks like he’s about to say something, maybe argue with him that there’s always another way or some shit, but the waitress takes that moment to arrive with their food.

Dean didn’t realize how hungry he was until that moment. Watching Sam eat takes Dean’s mind off his brother’s misery, so he decides to take the win, winks at Sam to let him know it.

Sam frowns a little, then blushes and grins despite himself.

Dean’s definitely taking the win.


The Rusty Wagon Wheel Motel has only one room left. There’s an undertakers convention in town. The parking lot is full of black cars, so the Impala blends right in, for once.

“It’s a king size bed,” Sam announces as he returns to the car after checking them in. “Plenty of room.”

Dean feels his cheeks flush hot but he says nothing. He’s feeling trapped already. He can’t shake the feeling that Sam set this up on purpose, from the display of little brother neediness in the car earlier to the romantic dinner at Mercy’s. Now they’re about to share a bed in a Western-themed motel and Dean feels the prickly beginnings of a panic attack.

They get ready for bed like they always do. When Dean walks out of the bathroom Sam’s sitting on the left side of the king bed with his ankles crossed and his laptop open.

“Where to tomorrow?” Dean asks as he drops his towel and rummages through his duffel for underwear.

“Another exploding graveyard in Tennessee,” Sam says. “I’m sending Rudy and Eva to take care of it.”

Dean forgets sometimes what a good leader Sam’s become. Over the past couple of years, word has really gotten out in the hunting community. Sam’s organized a far-reaching database of hunters all over the country who can be called on to take care of situations locally. Other hunters respect him and follow his directions without question.

“You’re a regular Bobby Singer,” Dean comments as he pulls his boxers on and grabs a t-shirt.

Sam sighs, closes the laptop and taps his long fingers on the cover thoughtfully.

“You know, this could be it for us, this time,” he says.

Dean crosses around the bed to his side, pulls the covers back.

“What could be it?” he asks as he slips into his side of the big bed.

It’s so domestic it’s ridiculous. Pillow talking with his brother, his life partner, never felt weird before. But now Dean’s self-conscious, aware in a way he’s never been before.

And he’s pretty sure Sam is, too.

“I mean, before, I always thought we had God on our side, you know?” Sam says. “I always figured he had our backs, even when he was ignoring us. He’d be there to save us at the last minute, like he did in Ilchester, or with Amara and her poison gas.”

“Chuck was never on our side,” Dean growls. He hates this subject. “We were just puppets to him. Entertainment, like he said.”

“No, I know that, now,” Sam says. His voice trembles a little.

Dean reaches over to take the laptop, leaves his hand on Sam’s for a moment before he pulls the laptop away and sets it down on the bedside table.

“Chuck doesn’t control what we do, Sam,” Dean reminds him. “He never has. We make our own choices. We live our own lives.”

“Right, I know,” Sam nods. “It just feels like the end this time. There’s no more grand plan or big bad, just this final fight to the finish.”

“There will always be monsters to kill, whether they’re the ones we’ve already killed or not.”

“We can’t keep doing this forever,” Sam says. “One of these nights will be our last.”

Dean looks up, meets Sam’s gaze, sees the intent in his hazel eyes, and looks away.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” Dean mumbles, ignoring the heat in his cheeks as he reaches for the light.

As he turns the light off, Sam’s big hand closes over Dean’s and Dean freezes. “I kept thinking there’d be time, after the fighting was all done,” Sam says, voice soft. “I don’t think that anymore.”

“Sam...” Dean chokes, unable to fight the rising tide of panic in his chest. Sam pushes up behind him, still holding his hand. Sam breathes against the back of his neck, and Dean can’t move at all, can’t breathe.

“We don’t have forever anymore,” Sam says. “There’s no afterwards for us now. I used to think we’d end up in Heaven someday, and then we’d have all the time in the world, but I don’t think that anymore.”


“The end is coming, Dean. We need to live every night like it’s our last.”

Oh no. Sam did not just use Dean’s last-night-on-earth line. He wouldn’t dare.

Dean turns toward his brother, intending to make a joke, to lighten the mood, to make Sam see how ridiculous he’s being. Maybe he intends to scold him for stealing Dean’s corny pick-up line.

In the semidarkness, Sam gazes down at him, eyes soft and pleading and not even a little bit ridiculous. His big hand cups Dean’s face, and it feels much better than it should. Dean’s pretty sure he’s going back to Hell when this is all over, but it’s worth it for that look in Sam’s eyes, for the warmth of his hand on Dean’s cheek.

The kiss surprises him. As Sam’s lips touch his, Dean realizes he never imagined things going this far, at least not consciously. He’s been too focused on imagining Sam’s hands on him. Kissing wasn’t part of the deal.

It’s nice, though. Not weird at all, actually. Kissing Sam feels kind of normal, like they’ve been doing it forever. Like it’s just part of who they are, being lovers.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders if they do this in other universes. He wonders if they’ve been doing this since they were kids, somewhere else. It sure feels like the most natural thing in the world. Dean wonders why he never thought about it before.

As Sam’s kiss intensifies and deepens, Dean thinks he may have found a new obsession with Sam’s lips. When Sam’s hands slide down his neck, over his shoulders, careful of the left one, Dean shivers. Sam’s hands push up under his t-shirt, caressing his back and the sensitive skin of his sides, under his arms, making Dean squirm. When Sam shoves his big hands up over Dean’s pecs, dragging his thumbs over Dean’s nipples, Dean moans and throws his head back, tearing his mouth away from Sam’s against his better judgment.

“Ha,” Sam chuckles as he kisses along Dean’s jaw. “Always knew you’d like that.”

Not fair, Dean thinks as Sam pulls Dean’s t-shirt off over his head and pushes Dean down onto his back. Sam knows way too much about Dean’s sexual preferences. He’s always been right there, on the next bed or in the next room or there to hear about it the next day. Dean doesn’t stand a chance against his brother’s knowledge of his most intimate secrets.

As Sam’s mouth latches onto one of Dean’s nipples, his hands push down under the waistband of his shorts and Dean gasps. His ass fits perfectly in Sam’s hands, just like he knew it would, just like he imagined the other day. Dean slides his fingers through Sam’s hair, soft and thick as ever, and Sam raises his head, gives him his happy puppy look because he made Dean moan.

Sam sits back to pull Dean’s shorts off and Dean helps him. Then he spreads his legs so Sam can kneel between them, staring down at Dean with a hungry, possessive expression.

“God, you’re such an exhibitionist!” Sam smirks, making his dimples show, and now Dean’s got something new to obsess about.

“Come on,” he coaxes, reaching up with both arms. “Bring those little babies right down here where I can see ‘em!”

Now it’s Sam’s turn to blush. He grins wider, shaking his head as he lets Dean pull him down for more kissing. Dean runs his thumbs along the grooves in Sam’s cheeks, making him laugh and pull away again, but Dean holds on, keeps Sam’s face hovering close.

“Always loved these things,” Dean murmurs as he strokes Sam’s dimples until Sam shakes free with a laugh.

Dean grabs hold of the hem of Sam’s t-shirt then, yanking it up over his head so that Sam’s naked from the waist up, and that’s a revelation, too. Dean’s always appreciated Sam’s physique. His brother has always kept himself in good shape. He looks amazing with his clothes off, but that’s just something Dean’s taken for granted till now.

Dean reaches up, holding his breath as he presses the palms of his hands against Sam’s chest, smoothing them over the hot skin, running his fingers through the coarse hair. Sam hovers over him for another moment, his face growing dark and pensive as Dean touches him, then he leans down to capture Dean’s mouth again.

Dean slides his hands around to Sam’s back as they kiss, caressing the powerful muscles there, the sweat-slick, overheated skin. Sam’s back is strong. It carries so much of the weight of their world. Dean’s always been a little obsessed with it, now that he’s honest with himself. He loves staring for long moments, thinking about those powerful muscles and how much he counts on Sam for carrying so much more than his share of their burdens.

“Quit staring at my hair!” Sam has accused on more than one occasion when he could feel Dean standing behind him, staring.

If Sam only knew.

Dean’s fingers find the place on Sam’s back where the old scar used to be, the one that used to bring tears to Dean’s eyes whenever he caught a glimpse of it. It’s gone now, of course. Sam’s body was completely reconstituted after Hell, just as Dean’s was, but Dean knows exactly where that scar used to be. He rubs his thumb over it and Sam knows what he’s doing, pulls his lips away so he can kiss along Dean’s jaw to his ear.

“It’s gone, Dean,” Sam murmurs. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Dean will never not wish he could’ve prevented Sam’s death that horrible night in Cold Oaks. He’ll never not wish he could’ve saved Sam from all of his pain and suffering.

It’s weird to think about that now, all these years later. Dean thought he’d put that behind him. It’s this road trip down memory lane that’s dredging up all those old memories. For no reason at all, he thinks about Felix the snake, the ourobourus, then tosses that thought aside along with the grief it triggers.

Not thinking about Jack now. Not thinking about Mom.

Dean slides his hands down to the swell of Sam’s ass, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his sweatpants.

Sam stops kissing his neck and rears back on his knees so he can push his pants down, and Dean’s heart races as Sam’s cock bobs free.

They’re doing this. They’re really doing this.

Sam flops down on his back next to Dean as he pulls the pants off, and for a moment they lie side by side, breathing hard, not quite touching.

“You sure about this?” Dean has to ask.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “Definitely.”

Sam turns toward Dean, pushes up on his elbow, and cups Dean’s cheek with his big, gentle hand. “He’s not watching, now,” he says. “There’s nobody here but us.”

Dean blinks. He hadn’t thought of that. It’s creepy to think of Chuck watching them all these years. They’d been his favorites, out of all the Sams and Deans in all the universes, so he’d done a lot of watching, apparently.

“Well, thank God for that,” Dean mutters before he can stop himself.

“Not anymore.” Sam smiles, watching his own hand as it slides down Dean’s neck, over his collarbone to his chest. Lower.

Dean gasps and bucks up when Sam grasps his dick. His eyes slide closed and his lips part as Sam jacks him, slow and gentle at first, then with greater intensity as his dick leaks.

They should have been doing this all along. Not doing this was so stupid. They’re both such idiots.

He’s probably making dumb noises, probably begging Sam to marry him or some shit. When he feels Sam’s warm, wet mouth on the head of his dick, it’s all over. He comes so hard he whites out, floating away on the best orgasm he’s had in years, thanks to Sam’s mouth and Sam’s hand.

Afterwards, Dean’s vaguely aware of Sam getting up to use the bathroom. He opens one eye when Sam comes back to bed. He’s too relaxed and satisfied to let it bother him too much, but he knows he should take care of his little brother’s erection. He’s not usually such a pig.

“You need me to...”

“Nah, I’m good.” Sam pats his arm, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, lying in bed with your brother after sex.

Dean takes a deep breath, sighs happily. “God, your hands, Sammy...”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Your mouth.”

Oh. Right. Dean’s not the only one with an obsession.

Dean clears his throat. “You can...You know. When we go again.”

“You want to go again?” Sam sounds surprised, and Dean’s offended.

“Of course,” he growls. “What, you thought this was a one and done deal? How could you think that?”

“I don’t know, man. I was being pushy. Figured you were just giving me what I wanted.”

Dean’s awake now. He heaves himself up on one arm so he can stare down into Sam’s beloved face. Sam stares up at him, little brother insecurity shining from his hazel eyes, and Dean can’t stand it.

“Don’t you ever think this isn’t something I wanted too, Sam,” he says sternly. “Don’t you ever think that.”

“But you never...You wouldn’t...” Sam stammers, and Dean can see tears in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Dean says, reaching up automatically to brush away the single tear that slipped down Sam’s cheek. “I’m an ass sometimes, Sammy. You know that.”

Sam laughs and more tears leak out of his eyes, so Dean kisses him, tasting salt. His heart feels full in his chest, pushing against the barrier of flesh and bone between their bodies in an effort to bring them together.

Dean shows Sam exactly how much he’s always wanted him, how much he loves all of him. He kisses Sam all over, tenderly and devotedly, while Sam trembles and whines and cries. Dean always knew Sam was a crier, but he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t tease him, not now.

When Sam thrusts up a little too hard into Dean’s mouth, Dean takes it, swallows Sam’s massive dick as well as he can along with his orgasm, taking all of it while tears leak out of his own eyes. The bitter saltiness reminds Dean of Sam’s tears, makes him think there’s justice after all in this Godless universe. Their lives may be full of sorrow and loss and tears, but there’s this, now, too.

Sam’s big hands cradle Dean’s head afterwards as Dean rests between Sam’s legs with his cheek pressed to Sam’s hip.

It’s the only place he ever wants to be.

Tags: first time, pov dean, rating: nc-17, romance, season 14, wincest, wincest-reverse bang

Recent Posts from This Journal

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.