Word count: ~1600
Warnings: None, but there is rough sex and angst, which I know aren't everyone's cup of tea.
Summary: There's a good chance Sam's going to destroy the world in the next few days. Might as well destroy them while they're at it. (Set in the final few days before Detroit.)
A/N: Written for wendy's tag of "the morning after" over at salt_burn_porn. Mostly written when I was intoxicated, so it was fun to wake up this morning and go "hey, words! Oh, right." Title from the New Pornographers.
There's a mostly-empty bottle of Jack on the nightstand, and a single glass next to it. There's one car parked outside the door, one half-made bed, one gun on the table.
It looks like an alcoholic's spectacularly lonely night. It looks like Dean's forseeable future.
Except for how Sam's on that bed, back propped against the wall and yet still sprawled over most of the mattress. He's staring at the television, watching some guy trying his damndest to sell him a hedge clipper even with the sound off, but he clearly knows Dean's there, watching him from the bathroom door when he says, softly, "Come on."
Dean climbs onto one of the few patches of mattress that Sam hasn't draped himself all over, up on his knees and still holding only the barest height advantage. Sam looks at him, the same way he's been looking at him for days, sad and anxious and desperate and maybe other things Dean doesn't have words for.
Dean's supposed to break this stalemate, it's his turn, but Sam does it for him, sits up enough to pull off his t-shirt and toss it aside.
And that's it, that's a thing that can't be undone. This is happening.
Sam's skin is unremarkable. Dean's seen it ten thousand times, touched it more than he's touched anyone other than himself. It is nothing new, nothing special, and yet Dean needs to have it all, right now.
He tears at Sam's belt, jerks hard when it sticks and throws it away when it slips free. He hears it knock into something, hears the something crash to the floor, but he doesn't give a fuck so long as the room's not on fire.
"Dean," Sam starts to say, "it's all-"
"It's not all right." Dean goes for Sam's fly next, tries to tear off the buttons because fuck it, they might as well destroy everything in sight while they're at it. "You think I want this?"
"I don't know what you want," Sam says, lifting his hips so Dean can pull off his jeans, strip him naked.
Dean doesn't answer, and when he looks up at Sam's face Sam's licking his lips, like maybe he expects to be kissed, and- no. Dean doesn't trust himself to put his mouth anywhere near Sam and not bite and bite and bite until Sam's sliced bone-deep and bleeding out. He doesn't know where the urge is coming from, not sure if he wants to hurt Sam or shock some sense into him or just consume as much of his brother as he can, but he knows it's not one he can ignore.
"What do you want?" Sam says, plaintive this time, and Dean closes his eyes. He wants Sam here, wants every bit of Sam that he can get, wants to claw his way in so he can smell Sam on his skin and feel him under his fingernails and-
"Let me-" he says, choking on the end of his request. He rests a hand on Sam's thigh, the thigh he's touched countless times before, and presses it to the side, spreading Sam's legs apart. "Let me."
"Yes," Sam says, rough but without hesitation. He shifts down the bed a bit, spreads his legs wider, all open and inviting, and Sam of all people should know better than to give Dean free reign over his body.
But Dean can't bring himself to care, not now. He squeezes Sam's thigh hard enough to hurt and then some, far past the point of bruises, not letting up until Sam sucks in a near-silent breath. Only then does he release his grip and go to retrieve a condom from his bag.
"I don't have lube," he says, trying not to betray his sick, selfish happiness at getting to fight his way into Sam's body after all.
"That's okay," Sam says, bending his knees so Dean can fit between them, and Dean wonders if someone has already done this, taken this from Sam. He doesn't really want to know.
For having finished over half the whiskey himself, Dean manages to coat two of his fingers with a decent amount of spit, and he wastes no time before sliding them into Sam's ass. It's not gentle, but if he wanted gentle he wouldn't be doing this, wouldn't be anywhere near Sam.
Sam's tense all over, white-knuckling the sheets and staring at Dean with wide eyes. He looks... young, younger than he has in a long time, and Dean's caught between pulling away and pressing on because that's his Sam, the one he'd thought was gone for good, and all he wants is to keep him here, like this, as long as he can. That's all he's ever wanted.
Dean might have stopped right here, right at this spot that would be impossible to deny but maybe, maybe, not impossible to come back from, if Sam weren't surprisingly hard. But he is, his dick full and curving up toward his stomach even as he flinches through each rough twist of Dean's fingers, and just- no. No. Sam's hard, he's hard, they're both here, and they're not stopping. They're doing this.
He pulls his fingers from Sam's ass to fumble with the condom, only to have it ripped away when he can't quite open the saliva-slippery foil wrapper. "Hey," he says, making a grab for it, but Sam blocks him with a knee to the chest and grins.
"Looked like you needed some help," Sam says, tearing the end of the wrapper open. "Sure you've used one of these before?"
Dean feels sick to his stomach, knowing this is all it takes it get his little brother back, even if only for a few minutes. "You'd better hope so," he says, taking the moment to push his own jeans and boxers out of the way, "or you'll be walking funny for a while."
"Please," Sam scoffs, handing him the unwrapped rubber, "I've seen your dick. I think I'll survive."
"See what you say tomorrow, bitch," Dean grumbles as he rolls on the condom, and then- then he shuts up. Because he wants this moment, untainted by teasing. But he wants the teasing too. He wants Sam's girly coffee and shitty music. He wants to fuck Sam messy and stupid, wants Sam to do the same to him, wants to carve himself deep into Sam's body like the fucking angel sigels so Lucifer will know he can't have him. He wants everything, everything, and there's not enough time.
Dean swallows down the hot, gnawing tension in his chest, lines himself up with Sam's barely-slick hole and pushes in. Sam grunts, chest rising as he takes in a breath, and Dean holds himself still for a moment. They may not have time for everything, but they've got enough for him to make sure Sam can get off on this, too.
He leans over Sam, hands braced on either side of Sam's head, and watches Sam accustom himself to whatever he's feeling. It's not all pain, Dean's sure, but pain's enough of it for him to trust himself not to sink his teeth into Sam's skin and never let go.
When Sam's eyes refocus and latch onto his, Dean takes it as permission to move. He forces his dick the rest of the way in, ignoring the friction and tightness trying to keep him out, not stopping until his dick's entirely inside Sam's body and his face is hovering just over Sam's and he can taste the whiskey and the pain on Sam's breath.
"You're an asshole," Sam says, voice shaking but strong. Not a hint of regret.
"You're leaving," Dean says. Again, he doesn't add, because it's different, he knows it's different, but that doesn't stop him from pulling out and slamming back in as hard as he can.
Sam shouts at that, grabs at Dean's arm and chest, keeps them there as Dean fucks him as hard as he can. He wants Sam to feel this now, and tomorrow, and every day that remains until he lets Lucifer in. He wants Sam to feel him on every inch of his skin, inside and out, when he says yes. Wants to make this impossible to forget.
Sam seems on board with this plan; he's holding tight to Dean, hands in his shirt and legs locked behind his back. He's still hard, his erection rubbing up against Dean's stomach with every stroke, and Dean knows one of them should take care of that but he can't, not if he wants to keep up his pace, and it doesn't seem like Sam's too concerned about it at the moment anyway. So he keeps going, harder and faster as Sam's hole opens up for him, fighting to keep his eyes on Sam's face, to know that Sam's feeling everything he wants him to feel.
Nothing this good can last forever, of course; eventually Dean comes, head dropping so his forehead brushes Sam's as his orgasm takes him over. Sam releases his arm and shoves a hand between them to get himself off, his rhythm stunted by the close press of their bodies. Finally, Dean feels Sam's body go stiff, followed by a rush of hot fluid on his stomach.
It should be a good moment, a reassuring one: Sam got off, he didn't hate this, won't hate Dean. But all he can think is how that means it's over, and all that's left now is the fallout.
Dean extricates himself from Sam's limbs, collapses beside him on the bed and stares up at the yellowed ceiling. He wonders what will happen in the morning, whether they'll give it another go or stare at each other in horror, spend the rest of their remaining days wishing for a way to take it back.
It doesn't really matter, he tells himself. It's not like there are many mornings left to spend regretting it, anyway.