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I Can Be Yours If You Say It's a Gift

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Prompt: “Sam & Dean are getting too old to share a bed, but needs must. Sam is starting to have wet dreams and one night Dean is mortified to find himself being prodded by his not-so-little-brother's nocturnal...problem. But Dean's a great big brother, and Sam seems to need help real bad, and it doesn't count if Sam's asleep, right?” Fill for Sleepy Time Meme 

~*~

It doesn’t happen often but when it does, it’s on the heels of a case-related mishap, accident, or leave of absence of more than a week.  Doesn’t matter if the two of them are way too old for it and it’s not like they go to sleep that way, anyway. Yet some way, somehow Sam manages to migrate to wherever Dean makes his bed for the night.

Some people wet their beds and Sam sleeps with his brother.

Dean’s lucky like that. No harm really, omitting the fact Sam isn’t the sweet-faced, elfin child with sunburned cheeks, and knobby knees anymore. There are lines and boundaries where there were none and they keep crossing them. Usually, Dean envies Sam’s friends. But not now, not when they’re like this.

Sure, Dean could end it with a swift kick in the ass and a cutting glance, but it’s hardly the point. Dean loves his brother more than he should. If Sam needs a bit of reassurance now and again -- well, that’s what Dean’s there for.

But, there are times like tonight when his breath catches in his throat so tight he can barely swallow because . . . because Sam is all over him: sprawled artlessly on his side behind Dean, a hand on Dean’s hip -- flexing open and closed, Sam’s hair prickling his neck; and cock seeking heat between Dean’s cheeks like old lovers between the sheets. Neither one of them is wearing much in the July heat and normally it wouldn’t be an issue.

Far from dawn and Dean’s eyes are wide open in the dark, awake but dreaming. Nipples erect -- needy little points he’d like to touch, but the knife hilt is warm in Dean’s palm and a fingertip sings with pain across the blade.

Sam leaves nothing implied about the shape of him -- the texture: sticky-smooth -- lean and strong; more young Achilles than Ganymede and Dean should really stop reading Sam’s books.

His skin prickles in shame and excitement, with the backward reach and hook of thumbs slipping through folds of cloth -- his and Sam’s – pushing away until Sam slides out into the empty air and thumps Dean: heat radiating from the tip of Dean’s tailbone, where the head of Sam’s cock rests, sandwiched between mounds.

And this is it, Dean thinks. This. As he pushes back into his little brother, dip-slip of underwear beneath his buttocks, and the silky length of Sam bobbing against Dean: between the spread and pull of his knife-hand on his own ass, splitting himself open, on Sam, for Sam; the tip of Sam, a wet rubbing outline on his hole.

He has to let go, to cover his mouth, tasting copper and smelling metal. He shifts and Sam moves closer to him, unconscious but unwilling to let go. His cock underneath Dean now, nudging the back of his balls, velvet and blunt and so fucking huge it should have a name of its own.

This is not what brothers do. But it’s something Dean needs, something he’s never take in the light of day. Dean knows this, but refuses to share the guilt.

They’re bound together, cursed from the very moment Dean’s mouth parted over his mother’s belly to taste her skin, to taste Sam inside her, words like Sam and mine and brother hanging from the heavens.

He licks his fingers sloppy: brief, furtive movements as he reaches back again, fingertips finding his rim. Sam’s cock twitches against Dean’s perineum as he breaches himself.

It stings like it should. He surrenders a gasp grudgingly, middle and ring finger to the first then second, knuckle. Dean surges forward and away, proud cock searching friction; heavy and damp in his boxer-briefs. There’s no way the cotton should be as wet as it is.

Which is to say, it so makes him a girl.

He hears Sam moan and sniffle in sleep, mumbling nonsense words, and skidding gentle and quiet over Dean’s chest, over Dean’s heart with a grasping hand. He doesn’t move the knee slotted behind Dean’s.

Dean wants to tuck and roll his hips on his knuckles. But settles for the opposite, for the offensive hook and twirl, the gritty-sand and liquid-heat of a trigger point dance.

Dean wants to come like this -- from pain and only -- from the tug and stretch. He’s too relaxed: needs more and capitulates in a greater blaze that sets him aflame. He wonders how he can feel so hollow, stuffed so full. It’s more than he’s ever taken, alone or otherwise. It feels like a violation.

He reminds himself, he’s one to deserve.

It’s fight or flight now with Sam’s mouth slack on his shoulder and a line of drool trailing the breadth of Dean’s shoulders. Dean thinks of all the times he’s lain awake to listen to his brother come quick and dirty from across the room; all the times he’s come with his own fingers in his mouth to keep his secrets walled-in.

Wanting, because it’s never enough to imagine. Grieving because it feels like a little death, and it tugs low and mean on his dick every time. But he refuses himself when like this: thinking of Sam’s face pinch-startled and naked -- back bowed and cock pumping cruelly into his huge paw. It wasn’t for Dean to know.

He watched anyway through a break in a door.

Dean’s harder than he’s ever been, one hand on his knife, the other fingering his ass, and Sam’s thick flesh prodding gently, lovingly against Dean’s sac. He hopes futilely that he can come without a sound, because it’s building and squeezing the air from his lungs. It wrings tiny, mewling noises from his throat. It’s a bounding, heaving thing, dark and monstrous, trailing behind each jab and jerk of his hand.

And Dean’s so fucking screwed in the head, because it should be Sam inside him, cutting him deep and open and red. He wants Sam to take away his decisions, wants to give up everything to him, wants to take all of Sam in his mouth in return, with his eyes screwed shut so Dean doesn’t have to look him in the eye.

It’s an honest bitter craving filling him. It makes Dean clutch the anemone-yawn of his hand. It hurts, but not enough. Not like he needs it too. And he’s dribbling on his hip, sticky and sap-like. He’s too tight all over and Sam’s too much between his thighs. The heat of Sam’s hand over the breakneck pace of Dean’s heart.

He’s dizzy from the rush, and achy-bruised. He’s clenching and releasing so hard his fingers ache and cramp. He chases the orgasm, punching deep and urgent inside himself, chasing it like he chases Sam: instinctively, doggedly, and without regret.

And he’s close, so fucking close.

When he comes it’s with eyes wide open and an abortive, sawed-off motion to the image of Sam riding his ass. It’s the color of milk and bone, and it’s maw and womb and incision. It’s the dimly chopped echo of “Hey, Jude” on the radio and fireworks over a burning field.

It leaves him hungrier and more feverish than when he started, like a cast-out lover.

Sam’s still hard and huge and vulnerable in his palm when Dean tucks him back in. Sam rolls onto his stomach, rubbing his face in Dean’s pillow and Dean can feel the color draining from his face, the way a bluejay’s feathers pale when you pluck them.

Dean waits one heartbeat, two -- the desire to touch and taste growing stronger with every stolen glance of Sam’s sleeping form. It’s the sensation of come running down his leg that breaks him, the sound of the wind rising; and the night turning violet through the window.

He showers with too-hot water and takes the bed opposite Sam, staring at the ceiling, trying not to blink, trying not to hear him breathe or remember the raw-boned feel of him; his tawny skin, his eyes.

Sam.

Sammy.

His beautiful brother in the dark.