eruthros: kink: a girl showing off her tongue piercing and studded collar (kink: tongue piercing)
[personal profile] eruthros
words: 4200
contains: (skip) Incest-related content (mostly about brotherhood, but also including older/younger power dynamics, a scene of pre-pubescent roleplay, invocation of parental authority figures, and humiliation). Other kinks include dirty talk, orgasm control, gunplay, and emotion manipulation. Some dirty talk scenes may read as topping from the bottom or dubcon.
notes: Look, you guys, I finally finished something that I started three years ago for [community profile] kink_bingo! Thanks to [personal profile] chagrined and [personal profile] livrelibre and [personal profile] thingswithwings for encouragement and beta. The title is from the Contemporary English Version of the Song of Songs 8:1, which leaves out the bit about breastfeeding.

summary: "Oh, shit," he says, feeling his face heat with anger and embarrassment. And then, since he's drawn the clerk's attention, "... we're brothers."

if you were my brother I could kiss you

It's the fucking worst motel Dean's ever seen, but it's got a vacancies sign and he's covered in corrosive blood, so he's in no mood to be picky. He hangs back from the counter, though, because even though he took off his sweatshirt to hide the worst of the damage he's still splashed with black and he doesn't look his most respectable.

"One room, double occupancy," Sam announces at the desk, slapping down a credit card.

"The only room we've got has a double bed," the clerk says doubtfully.

"That'll be fine," Sam says, reaching across the counter for the key. But the clerk keeps holding onto it, keeps glancing back and forth between the two of them. Dean doesn't need this shit; his skin started to itch and burn back out in the parking lot, and the longer they keep him waiting the more he has to resist the urge to just shake the baking soda over his arms right here in the lobby.

"It's just the one bed," the clerk says. He looks like he's working himself up to asking them another question or maybe refusing the room altogether.

Dean finally recognizes the holdup when the clerk curls a suspicious lip in the general direction of his tight undershirt and ragged jeans. "Oh, shit," he says, feeling his face heat with anger and embarrassment. And then, since he's drawn the clerk's attention, "... we're brothers."

The clerk keeps looking at them skeptically, but at least he relents enough to push the receipt across for Sam to sign.

***

Sam punches his shoulder, hard, as they walk to their room. "Asshole."

"What?" Dean's got his hand up to cover his shoulder, in case Sam hits him again.

"What do you think we were like as kids, big bro?" Sam has his eyes open wide and innocent. "Do you think Dad liked you better? Gosh, I bet we were awful pests at Sunday School!"

Dean laughs, relieved that it's not anything important, and hits Sam right back. "Cut it out, man, what does it matter if we lie to that jerk? I had to say something to get him off our backs."

"Oh, sure," says Sam, sounding like he's going to drop it, which -- damn, means he never will.

***

Sam's got a hand on Dean's dick in the shitty motel room when he brings it up again. "What do you think you'd have been like as my big brother?"

Dean snorts and kicks at Sam to get his attention back where it belongs. "Harassed."

"No, seriously -- what do you think you were like? Do you think you would've taught me how to hunt?" Sam's got his contemplative look on, but he's sure as hell not focusing it on the situation at hand; he's somewhere off inside his head doing his own shit.

"Sure," says Dean, because otherwise Sam's just gonna keep at it -- harassed is right. "I would've hunted with you all the time."

"That's what I thought," Sam says, and then he slides down to put his mouth on Dean's dick.

***

They finish their burgers and their plans for the next job long before the waitress comes back with pie. Sam fidgets with his fork for five long teeth-gritting minutes before Dean finally breaks. "What's up?"

"I was just thinking about -- if we were brothers, you'd have carried me out of the house when my mom died."

"Oh, come on, why are you so stuck on this?" Dean rolls his eyes; he can't believe Sam's still doing this shit. "It was a crappy excuse, I get it, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, okay?"

Sam shrugs and looks away. "It just made me think -- sometimes I wished I had a brother. Someone who had to look out for me no matter what. Even when -- it doesn't matter."

Dean feels like he ought to make fun of Sam right about now, but on the other hand Sam basically doesn't ever talk about himself, so. "I bet you wouldn't have remembered it. Weren't you just a baby when Mary died?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "but if you'd carried me out of the house, you'd have told me about it all the time for years. You'd never let me forget it."

Dean grins at the passing waitress, and grins bigger when she stops and puts down the pie and coffee. "Yeah, you're right, that's exactly the kind of brother I'd be."

"The asshole kind? Or the kind who tries to take care of his brother?"

"Probably both," Dean says, and proves it by stealing some of Sam's apple pie. Sam tries to fight him off, but Dean is older and wiser and has better pie-stealing skills.

Sam doesn't look like he's planning to complain; he probably ordered so Dean could eat it, anyway. "That's what I'd want in an older brother, really -- someone who might laugh, but always take care of me. And you would've, you'd have saved my life a hundred times."

"Of course I would have," Dean says. "Just in the last year I've saved your ass a hundred times."

"Yeah," Sam says, and he grins suddenly. "Yeah, you did. But you taught me how to save you, too."

***

"I bet after my mom died in the fire, your dad didn't know how to raise us," Sam says. "I bet he liked you best, because you loved the car, and you loved to hunt, and he thought you'd grow up to make him proud. I bet he tried to teach you."

"Dad did teach me to hunt," Dean says, confused; Sam's slicking up his own ass, and it's hard to pay much attention to anything he says when he's kneeling over Dean and sliding his ass down onto Dean's dick.

"No," says Sam, "Dad taught us how to hunt -- well, he taught you, and you taught me. I bet Dad took us out and left us in the forest one night to see if we could get home, but he didn't know about the ghoul that was haunting the forest."

"Christ, Sam, you're fucked up," Dean says, throwing his arm over his eyes to block the image. He can't believe Sam's talking about this again, and now of all times -- the fucker never did have a sense of polite conversation. And, of course, Sam keeps working up and down on his dick, body and voice completely steady. He's gotta be inhuman or something.

"I bet you killed that ghoul with nothing but a stick from the campfire, and you held me behind you with one hand the whole time," Sam says.

"I can't be hearing this right now, seriously," Dean says, his arm still over his eyes, but he doesn't actually shut Sam up. He feels weird: a little tingly, a little confused. He thinks about the pictures he's seen of Sam, thinks about Sam facing a ghoul when he was six, and he can almost feel it: pushing Sam behind him, grabbing Sam's arm. His hands are shuddering like he's waiting for a fight -- and it's got to be all Sam's fault, all the adrenaline of thinking about facing a ghoul.

Sam, of course, doesn't stop talking. And he doesn't slow down, either; he's still doing that perfect rhythm, completely implacable. "You said you always had to protect me 'cause I was your little brother. And then when I cried, afterwards, you held me tight, and told me it was okay."

"You've always been a big baby, you know that, right?" Dean says, before he realizes that none of this is true, that none of this happened, that it wasn't one of the times he's held Sam in his arms.

"I always remember that feeling, safe and secure in your arms in the middle of nowhere. I think about it sometimes when I'm in trouble, about your arms around me, about the way I could hear your heart beating, and I know you'll always find me."

"You -- you know I will," Dean says, his breath catching as he slides his shaking hands up Sam's legs, "always."

***

Dean's flirting with some chick in a bar, just to prove he still can, when Sam comes up behind him. "Oh, hey, bro, you met someone nice?" he asks, and Dean nearly chokes on his beer. He doesn't know what's going on here; he never knows what Sam's thinking, but this is fucking ridiculous -- it's bad enough in bed, but here in a public bar of all fucking places.

Sam slides into the bench seat next to him, slides his arm over Dean's shoulder in a move clearly calculated to look sloppy drunk. "Dean's got such awful taste in women sometimes," he confides. "I've got to keep an eye out for him to make sure he doesn't go home with a serial killer or something."

"Uh," the chick says, pulling at the label of her beer bottle nervously. "I guess that's what brothers do, right?"

"Yeah," Sam beams at her, "that's what brothers do. We look out for each other."

***

There's a claw through his shoulder, and it's pulling him over some pretty fucking bumpy rocks. Which means -- oh fuck, the gigantic spider-thing must've gotten him, so he's got to be paralyzed, and when they get back to the cave he's going to have eggs planted in his belly so the babies can eat him alive when they crawl out, which is not at all the way he plans to die. He's trying to figure out if he can move even a single finger, or maybe a toe, when Sam steps out of the forest in front of the spider-thing. He looks like even more of a giant from down here, Dean realizes, and then there's a flaming branch whirling over his head, and Sam's making a lot of noise up there, he's shouting something, and the spider-thing lets go of him, and he crashes down into the leaf mulch before he makes sense of the noise:

"Stay the fuck away from my brother."

He watches Sam a little in awe; Sam told him that story about the ghoul and the branch, but that's nothing on this, on Sam standing over him shouting and just whacking the spider-thing with the torch until it falls down.

He blacks out, or something, because when he sees Sam next Sam's leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder holding his blood in, and Sam's crying a little like the big baby he is. "Oh god, Dean, are you okay?" Sam asks. "Hey, are you with me? Can you hear me at all?"

"Gonna be okay," Dean slurs, and he tries to reach a hand up to wipe Sam's tears away but he still can't move. "Good work, little brother. So proud of you."

When he wakes up in the hospital three days later, the first thing he sees is Sam, asleep in the visitor's chair. He blinks a couple of times, confused, and kicks Sam's feet off the hospital bed.

Sam jolts awake when his feet hit the floor and leans over to spoon some ice into a cup for him. "Good to see you awake!"

Dean swallows some of the ice chips and falls back against the pillows exhausted. "How did you get in here?"

"Visiting hours are for immediate family only," Sam says, and grins. "Glad you're feeling better, bro."

***

When Dean calls Dad from the next motel, he waits until they've finished swapping notes about their last jobs -- Dad's impressed by the giant spider-thing, says he's never seen anything like it before -- and then takes a deep breath and clutches the phone a little tighter. "I, uh. You know Sam and I have been hunting and, uh, together for a while now? Well, we're -- I think of him as family." He's not facing Sam, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam sit up sharply and turn to look at him.

"Well, you and that boy are doing great work, that's for sure." Dad doesn't sound like he cares much one way or the other, like he thinks this is just the same as the times he used to pick Bill up because the job was too big for him.

Dean's suddenly angry at him for it -- for the way he keeps pretending not to remember how he and Sam met, what they get up to together, why they drove off alone. And he's not going to let Dad do that anymore; he grits his teeth and tries again. "No. I mean -- Dad. I let him drive the car."

Dad's quiet for a minute; then he laughs and says, "Well, he's got to be family then."

"I just wanted you to know. In case something happens to me or something."

"Sure thing, Dean. Listen - put Sam on for a minute."

Dean holds the phone out to Sam and watches his expression fade into terror before he even reaches out for the phone. Sam's end of the conversation is pretty much just yes sir and no sir; Dean can't tell if Dad's being an asshole again.

Afterwards, Sam hits him upside the head with his notebook. "I can't believe you didn't warn me," he says.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, relieved, because if Sam were really angry he'd be doing his silent judgment thing, "you'd just have worried about it all day. What did you talk about?"

"He told me to look after you, that's all."

Dean snorts. "I don't know why he bothered. What does he think we've been doing, playing hopscotch with spirits all year?"

"It's okay," Sam says, "there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

***

The spirit's coming at him and Sam fucking fumbles a little reloading the rock salt.

Dean shouts at him, frustrated and nearly fucking gored to death, "Fuck, Sammy, am I going to have to time you field dressing a shotgun again?"

"Yes" Sam says, even though he's pushing the spirit back with a clean shot. "I think you'd better teach me again."

When they get home, when they're clean, Sam sits down naked at the table and reaches for the rifle. "You'd better show it to me again," he says, and looks over at Dean pleadingly. Dean makes him wait a minute, makes him wait to see if Dean's figured it out, if he's going to play. And then he stands up, leans over Sam, and reaches for the rifle. "You should always make sure it's not loaded, first," he says, pressing his dick up against Sam's back and sliding his hands over Sam's. He wants to linger there, but he doesn't, he pulls himself back, sits down on the bed with his watch in one hand. "Now, your job is to take it apart and put it back together as fast as you can. I'm going to time you -- see if you can do better than last time."

"Okay," Sam whispers, his breathing harsh and loud in the sudden quiet. "I'll do my best, Dean. I want you to be proud of your brother."

And when it's there, right there in the open like that, Dean can't help but feel it down through his spine, tingling in his hands, and he can't believe Sam's going to be able to take the gun apart if he feels like this too, but -- fuck it.

"Okay," he says, and takes his dick in his other hand. "Three, two, one, go." The beep of the stopwatch fills the whole room.

Sam's slower at this than he usually is, his hands fumbling on the parts; he even fucking drops the magazine pin. Dean watches Sam's hands stutter across the barrel, watches Sam's cheeks flush when he glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye, times his own hand to Sam's movements, and says nothing. He pushes the button on the stopwatch the moment Sam sets the gun down.

Sam pushes the chair back hastily, is standing and walking toward him when Dean holds up the hand with the stopwatch. "Three minutes, Sammy? That's pathetic. Don't think you can get away with that shit," he says. "If you want to come hunting with me and Dad, you've got to do better than that. How're you going to save my life that way?"

Sam's standing perfectly still between the bed and the table, his hands clenching and his breath coming in sharp gasps. His dick's bobbing with his breathing.

"I think you'd better do that again," Dean says, a little viciously, his other hand holding his dick so tightly it hurts. "You don't want to let me and Dad down in a fight, do you?"

"... no, Dean," Sam says, low and quiet. "I want to be able to go hunting with you and Dad."

"Then you'd better do that again," Dean says, pointing at the gun with his stopwatch, "you'd better do it until you're perfect." He waits perfectly still, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, getting more turned on with every step Sam takes back to the chair.

Finally Sam's sitting again, both his hands flat on the table and his head bowed down a little; he's breathing like they'd just been fighting something dangerous. "Give me a minute, please, Dean?" he asks, his eyes closed.

"You think a spirit is going to give you a minute?" Dean asks, and he leans back a little further to give his dick more space before pressing the stopwatch button again.

Sam's head jerks up at the beep, and he reaches trembling hands out for the gun, ready to try again.

When Dean finally props Sam up on the bed and fucks him, half an hour later, Sam's still trembling. His hands smell like gun oil, and they're slippery enough that he's having trouble holding on to Dean's shoulders. He's moaning like he's going to come before Dean's even finished fucking him open; without thinking, Dean presses his hand, the hand with the stopwatch, down against Sam's dick. "Don't. Not until I tell you to," he says.

"Okay, okay," Sam whimpers, "I'll try, Dean. I want you to be proud of me."

"Oh, I am," Dean says. "I'm so proud of you for the job you're doing, Sammy. Never been prouder. I think you'll be nearly as good as Dad soon."

Sam fucking mewls, and he's got tears in his eyes, he's holding himself rigid with his effort not to come, so Dean slides out and fucks him again, harder, trying to make Sam fail. "You did a great job. Dad'll probably let you come with us next time."

Sam's fingers dig into Dean's shoulders; he's leaving smears of gun oil, and he'd be leaving bruises if his hands didn't keep slipping off.

"I've never loved you more, little brother," Dean tries, and Sam's coming, his eyes scrunched up, his hands grasping tighter. Dean holds on by the skin of his teeth and waits for Sam to open his eyes again before slamming in as hard as he can; he wants to see the way it burns in Sam's face. "Oh, Sammy," he says. "I'm so disappointed in you -- and you know we're going to have to tell Dad about that later."

***

He can't help it after that; he plays along with Sam all the time. When they're in a bar, he calls out "hey, bro, I'm gonna head back early." When a vampire starts making like he's going to grab Sam, he shouts "leave my brother alone." When he holds Sam down in bed, he whispers stories of their childhood.

When they drive into a new town, sometimes they're two FBI agents on the trail of a killer, and sometimes they're a pair of priests going door to door, and sometimes they're with the forestry service, but most of the time they're two brothers on a road trip. Dean grins at the witnesses and introduces "my baby brother, Sam." He manhandles Sam in public, the way he never could before; he slaps his ass and his shoulder, grabs him by the arm, pushes him around.

When they're lying awake in a hotel, Sam tells him about his room at Bobby's, the mobile made of sacred symbols, and he tells Sam how much he'd wanted Transformers sheets; Sam tells him about the things in Bobby's house that he pretended were toys, before he knew any better, and he tells Sam about the GI Joes that were his only toys when he was a kid; Sam tells him how scared he was of cars, when he thought his mom had died in a crash, and he tells Sam how scared he was, the first time Dad let him drive the Impala.

Sometimes, when they're driving with the windows open and the sun is warm on his face, or when they're fighting about the music or where to get lunch, or when they're scratching their heads over something in Sumerian in the library, Sam takes it all and turns it into one story. We played with GI Joes in the back seat, the guns on half of mine were broken; then we drove into town, and Dad left us at the hotel alone, but you went to the arcade and played video games, and ever since then you've always said you'll protect me; I gave you that amulet for Christmas, that one year when Dad didn't show up. He twists it together until Dean's not sure, sometimes, which story is real.

When Sam gets accepted to Stanford, it's "but we've been hunting together all our lives" and "wait, you're really fucking leaving? What will Dad think?"

He never asks if they're breaking up.

***

He goes to find Sam, later, when he doesn't hear from Dad for a couple weeks. Sam's pissed, at first; he cut the ties pretty firmly when he left. Changed his phone number. Changed his fucking name, even, which is pretty much the biggest mixed message Dean's ever seen. But Dean knows he'd want to know this, would want Dean to find him and tell him. So he stands outside of Sam's new apartment, tries to explain what it means that he hasn't heard from Dad, tries to get Sam to care again. And Sam comes along, finally, comes and helps, and after everything goes wrong and Dean pulls him away from the flames of another burning building, he gets in the car, waits for Dean to point it toward Colorado, and it's just like old times.

"Why'd you leave?" Dean asks, eventually, on some lonely strip of I-80, when there's nothing around them but big rigs and cornfields.

"It was just -- " Sam starts, and then pauses, awkwardly, his mouth hanging open while he waits for his brain to work. He's always been good -- brilliant -- at figuring out Dean, but he never could figure himself out. "I thought I'd pushed you into it."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, bro," Dean says.

And Sam says, "No, see, that's what I mean."

So Dean has to pull over the side of the highway, because this is clearly bullshit. "I didn't know at first. I didn't know it was an option. But you always were smarter than me, Sammy." And then he reaches out, ruffles Sam's hair, slides his hand down to the nape of Sam's neck and pulls him close. "Even when we were kids, you were smarter than me."

Sam's words are muffled in Dean's shoulder, in the press of Dean's hand holding him down, when he says "I hated helping you with your algebra."

"I hated asking you," Dean says, "but Dad made me." And then: "God, Sammy, we have to find him."

They sit for a moment before he pulls out onto the road again, driving until he can't stay awake another minute, and stopping at the first motel he sees in -- Christ, where the hell are they, Wyoming?

They check in with the usual routine, Sam taking point because he's better dressed, looks more respectable. Dean doesn't pay any attention to the conversation until he sees the clerk giving him the once over.

"No, just one room," Sam says.

"One?" The clerk sounds maybe a little scandalized.

"Christ, lady," Dean says, throwing an arm over Sam's shoulder with easy affection. "He's my brother."
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eruthros: Delenn from Babylon 5 with a startled expression and the text "omg!" (Default)
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