Summary: Trying my hand at what could have happened after the fade to black at the end of 3.08.
When Dean gets back from the washroom he grabs his drink and slides onto the couch beside Sam. It’s getting cold in their shitty little motel room, and Sam’s basically a portable space heater so Dean does the logical thing and settles down against his brother.
Dean’s never really thought about it, but he doesn’t find this kind of shit all that weird. There’ve been plenty of Christmases where the two of them pressed together to share their heat, curled under the sheets or sprawled on a couch. It’s not like there was anyone else there to make fun of them, calling hey, fags, like those times when Dean would throw his arm around Sam in those afternoons and afterschools.
It’s not like there was anyone else there to laugh at them, to scold them, or to warm them. It’s not like there was anyone else there at all.
Dean eases out of his memories and deeper into Sam’s space. It’s probably all that boozed-up eggnog that smoothed the transition from dream sequence to the current scene, but he barely felt the shift at all. Even in the present he’s just sort of floating, not hearing or seeing the game on TV, not thinking about his dwindling year, just feeling the heat of his brother beside him and his slow inhale-exhale in and out.
Sam’s so solid there beside him. Sam’s so solid there while he’s evaporating, the sands of his hourglass shook loose and slipping. Sam held it together and did all this for him, gave him Christmas even though doing so scorches every inch of him.
And it hits Dean that he has nothing else –no father, no future, no soul—nothing else but the prize his self was sold for, sitting here. Suddenly his chest burns, not with sadness, but something huge and proud and wonderful, for that only thing he has. (Has ever had.)
He looks up at Sam to see his brother looking back.
It’s a weird fucking moment. He’s not gonna lie. How can Dean care, though, when he has to memorize his brother’s face, every single inch, because he knows exactly what it is he’ll hold onto in hell. What he’ll cling to tight downstairs, ‘cause nothing will touch him whenever he thinks of why it is he’s there.
He sees that Sam’s eyes scan his face, too.
Dean’s the first to break, has to smile and smash the tension so he crosses his eyes and Sam laughs. Leans down and thunks his forehead against Dean’s and they take a second to huff out their amusement in quiet little breaths.
Fucking idiot, says Sam.
Yeah, says Dean.
The plan is to punch Sam in the shoulder, push him back and head to bed, but somehow that tension has repaired itself, has twisted into a whole new creature. Dean’s eyes are clenched tight as he thinks of all the ways he’s loved wrongly, or too much. His raised fists end up balled in the collar of Sammy’s shirt and he has to force himself to break contact and lean away.
Now Dean takes stock of his brother, whose eyes are a little wet and whose breathing has gone a little fast.
Well fuck everything. He’s going to hell anyway.
Sammy, Dean whispers. Sammy, I’m so fucking drunk. There isn’t a waver in his words.
Yeah, goes Sam, voice rough and articulation perfect. Yeah, Dean. Me too.
When their lips touch he waits for the end of the world, to be smote by a god fresh out of hiding, to open his eyes and be in the pit already. He waits for the panic, the shame, the inevitable urge to hurl, but none of the above is forthcoming. There’re just warm lips against his and a pause as Sam presumably waits for similar damnation.
After that’s out of the way it’s so, so good.
Neither one of them is interested to end things quick, because the door at the end of this tunnel surely leads to annihilation.
Consciously, they make it slow.
Dean keeps his eyes open as he feels Sam slip into his mouth, reads pleasure on the features he’s not yet done cataloging. The strangeness of this is swallowed by a huge fucking ball of adoration and joy that threatens to overwhelm him. He just feels good all over, inside and out, with Sam sucking marks onto his throat and grinding out the suggestion bed, bed, the bed.
They peel off their shirts on the way there and then Sam just throws him down, chucks him on the bed and follows to straddle his hips. Dean thinks about fighting and struggling to pin Sammy down instead, but in the sweet thick heat of the room he lets his brother rub against him and whisper wanna fuck you, Dean, low and filthy in his ear.
Well, it is Christmas. It’s not like he’d ever deny Sammy anything on any other day of the year. Right now he’d give Sam every single atom of his self if it was still his to give.
So instead of fighting or flying he moans real low, ‘cause he’s already full of his brother anyway, all his hollowness stuffed to the brim with Sammy. Maybe a few inches of thick cock inside him will just push Sam deeper inside, fill him completely those last few inches, stuff him full so that no matter what the demons do to him he’ll always have his brother there. Dean moans again and spreads his thighs.
When their jeans are off and Dean catches sight of his brother’s twitching cock and laughs, don’t think that’ll fit, Sammy. Sam can tell from his joke and his laugh that brave old Dean is fucking terrified, but he holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers and grins, then we’ll just have to make some room, won't we?
They’re both laughing as Sam slides down to soothe Dean with his fingers and tongue, slicks himself up when Dean finally whispers okay, you little shit, fucking do it already or I’ll get off myself. Sam really doesn’t have to be told twice.
Dean’s up on his hands and knees and Sam’s surprised at the desperation in his own no!, and Dean’s startled too, until Sam leans over patiently explains it in his ear, that he has to, has to see Dean, god, fuck. He flips his brother over and starts to slide in and Dean’s heart’s going a mile a minute, can’t slow down his breathing, can’t stop his body from reacting to being split open by something so huge. Sam’s big hands smooth down his chest and his sides, over that amulet and their tattoo, up to his neck and his face, and they cup his cheeks and turn Dean towards him, away from where he’d hid in the softness of the pillow beside him.
Shh, Dean, I’ve got you, shh. And despite himself Dean takes a little calm from that and slowly breathes his brother in. He wraps his arms around Sam’s broad back and spreads a little wider and their foreheads knock together again. Sam grinds and rubs against him slow and Dean clenches around how good everything about this feels. Yeah, Sammy, fuck me, Sammy, that’s it, that’s it, Dean encourages, and Sam can’t help but to give it to him harder and faster and deeper when Dean asks for it like that.
It sure isn’t cold in that motel room anymore, and the two of them slide slickly together, wet with each other’s sweat, drinking each other’s moans down as their lips slip soft together. So didja ask to get assfucked in your letter to Santa this year, Sam asks in his ear. The fuck, Sammy? Dean laughs, need to work on your dirty talk, and then he’s moaning when Sam gets a hand around his cock.
Oh yeah, Dean? It’s basically a growl, and Dean has never heard anything so deep and predatory before. I think I’m doing alright, the way your hungry little hole’s gripping me so tight, the way I’ve got you begging like a slut to get fucked, ‘cause you love to, love to get fucked, and you’re gonna tell me exactly that right when I feed you my come, and holy shit, yeah, Dean feels his cheeks and neck and chest get hotter, even now, feels everything clench inside as he comes on his brother’s cock.
It’s actually nice, so nice to have lost it first, ‘cause now he can watch Sammy through thick lashes and heavy eyelids, can watch every twitch of his brother’s body and every moment of pleasure radiate from his face. He lets Sam use him and he gasps with how sweet that is, that he can be good for his brother and make him feel like that, look like that.
When Sammy finally shoots inside him and pulls off him they roll away from each other and end up on opposite sides of the bed. Of course there’s only a moment of calm before Dean, masochist Dean, forces himself to look over and see the man who was the boy he once took care of, pure perfect little kid whose hand he held when he took him to school, who he fed and held and bathed. Dean doesn’t know but Sam’s looking at the brother he’s about to lose forever, who is, because of what they did, more than a brother and a partner and a best friend. Who is now absolutely every single thing Sam could ever have, and he’s gonna lose that, screaming, to the flames.
It’s the terror in Sam’s eyes that lets him go when Dean gets up and throws on his clothes and is out the door. He doesn’t stop Dean at all and he hears Dean’s baby roar and it’s then he remembers to whisper it.