You Were Always Mine

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: A for Adult

Year/Length: 2006/~4165 words

Pairing: Dean/Sam

Spoilers: Set immediately after Provenance.

Disclaimer: The Characters aren't mine, and my pain is great. CW and Eric Kripke own them, and I merely borrow them to play with them.

Beta: Thank you to ailurophile6 for fast and willing help.

The door opens again, and Sarah comes out, looking as if she has made up her mind about something. Sam smiles, and moves in, and at last he kisses her.

Dean, standing by his car, watching them, feels a chill deep inside him and wishes that he and his brother were long gone from here, despite the fact that he's been throwing Sarah at Sam for days.

Watching, Dean can tell that Sam kisses like fire, like ice, like he's never going to stop, and this is where he'll be forever and ever amen. He knows he holds your face cupped in his palms, long fingers threading your hair as he goes for it, lips warm, tongue curling against yours as he sucks on it.

Dean watches him kiss Sarah, and he smiles, because it could be that Sam's starting to rejoin the human race, and Dean's been aching for that to happen for months now. He hates to see his brother grieve as he hovers in the background, remote from the worldly things that Dean loves so much.

"That's my boy," he murmurs, and he tells himself that he's truly glad that his lanky brother is getting some; he's happy that his little pep talk was successful, and he ignores the ache that starts up somewhere down deep in his chest – the ache that tells him Sam's going to leave him just as soon as he can.

He's glad when they drive away, and it's still just the two of them, because a dreadful thought has just occurred to him – the thought that, while he likes to get down and dirty with just about anyone who is cute and friendly, Sammy isn't the same. Sammy holds grudges, and keeps faith and falls in love.
Sam falls in love.

Dean never falls in love these days. In a way, Dean's story is as sad as Sam's; the truth of the matter is that Dean has no heart; he lost it years ago, and he won't ever get it back again, because it's sitting in the back pocket of the man currently riding shotgun at his side.

So they drive, and Dean is grateful that Sam is still right there, staring out of the window of the Impala, thinking his Sammish, inscrutable thoughts, because he'd had a feeling that Sam would decide to stay with Sarah and play normal again.

He broods as he drives - a half–smile on his face that's hiding a world of pain. "Unskinny Bop" is playing on the radio, and the car is eating up the mileage sweetly. Dean quirks his eyebrows at Sam. "It's like riding a bike, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" Sam turns those cat-like eyes on him, half-hooded and amused.

"Kissing," explains Dean. "Once you can do it, you don't forget. The body remembers." He gives a short laugh. "Or so I'm told. I've never really been out of practice myself."

"Dude, you're gross. Shut up!" Sam rolls his eyes, but there's affection in his tone, and as ever when Sam is even remotely kind, Dean feels the warmth suffuse his belly, feels his heart thump painfully as it attempts to leap straight through his ribcage.

"So you wanna come back this way next week?" Dean holds his breath, sings a line or two and tries to look as though he's being a benevolent big brother, rather than a desperate one.

Sam doesn't really notice. He widens his eyes and asks Dean, "Why?"

"Dude, Sarah!" Dean's perplexed. For sure he can count the number of willing bed partners he's turned down on the fingers of one foot. "Don't you want to see her again? You were getting on so well."

"Yeah, I liked her. She was nice." Sam shrugs, and the conversation languishes for the moment, while Dean processes the information he's just received.

They drive in silence, while Dean attempts to assess Sam's few words. He doesn't want to go back, or so it seems. Dean guesses that he will have his brother's company for at least another week or so, and that would give him joy, if only the pain of wanting would abate. He doesn't know if he can live with such terrible pain, but he knows for sure that he can't live without Sam, and that's a hell of a dilemma. Dean understands what it is to be a moth and batter against the pure, searing heat of a candle until he believes he'll be consumed, knowing that it'll kill him, but unable to stop.

They drive, and Sam broods, as is his wont. Dean hums along with "Enter Sandman," and tries to think of a way to introduce the subject of his own desperate need, the same as he's done for the past six months, or possibly ever since he was sixteen. He comes up yet again with the same blank screen, finally shrugging mentally, as usual, and sweeping the hurt under the metaphorical carpet, sending it to join all the other pains and unfulfilled wishes he keeps so tightly locked down.

"I'm tired." Sam's voice is low, but Dean's attuned to it and turns to see his brother pressing fingers to his forehead.

"What is it, Sam? You having another Patricia Arquette moment?" There's worry in his voice. This is something he has no trouble expressing.

"No, I don't think so. I've just got a headache is all." Sam rubs his forehead, closes his eyes for a moment and leans his head back against the leather seat. "I wish we could stop for a day – get some sleep."

His voice trails away, and Dean frowns. "There's a rest stop a few miles down the road," he murmured. "Or we could just go back to the disco special and stay another night in Travolta Towers."

That makes Sam crack up laughing. "Hell, no, dude, anything but that. I was ready to start singing in a high-pitched, quavery voice, and I'm pretty sure you'd have shot me."

"You've got that right," smirked Dean. "I'd have assumed that you were possessed."

There's this thing that Sam does with his eyes. Dean lives for it; watches Sammy all the time when his brother is smiling, just in case he sees it happen. Sam does it now. His eyes are sultry, thickly fringed and tip-tilted in a manner that, when his face is at rest, gives him an air of amusement, as though there's something intrinsically funny about life, the universe and everything.

Dean loves Sam's eyes, because they're catlike, and he thinks that Sam, big as he is, moves gracefully, the way a cat might. Now, to Dean's delight, he lowers those sultry lids in a slow, cat-like blink as his face signals the unspoken affection he feels for his brother. It's such little things that make Dean happy these days. He responds with his warmest smile, head tilted, eyebrow raised in acknowledgement, although beneath the flood of warmth that suffuses him the pain of wanting drives in a little closer to his vitals.

A few miles further south, Dean turns off when he sees the "Vacancies" sign, and heads in to get them a room, even though it's still mid afternoon. Sam climbs out of the car gratefully and stretches, bones popping luxuriously as he unfurls his incredible length.

Dean watches covertly from his position beside the check-in desk, hissing in a breath when Sam's T-shirt rides up to expose his belly, because stolen snatches of Sammy flesh are what he lives for.

A crow chuffs overhead, watching a paper blow in the slight breeze, and there are bluebells around the front of the motel office. Dean imagines pushing Sam up against the stucco and applying his tongue to the exposed flesh from his navel to his happy trail.

He's embroidering his fantasy, almost getting to the good parts, when the receptionist comes out of the back room and asks if she can help him. The room is soon booked and Dean emerges into the spring sunlight, key in hand and saunters back to the Impala.

"You wanna walk over to the room, Sammy-boy?" He sits back behind the wheel and watches his brother consider. "It's around the other side. Room 119. See you there?"

Sam nods and starts walking, long legs eating up the pavement. Dean watches him out of sight as he turns the corner and then starts his beloved car, pulling around in the direction his brother has taken and finds Sam leaning on the door, arms folded across his chest and his head tilted back against the wood of the frame, eyes closed, smiling as if he's dreaming about something really good. Dean can't stop devouring him with his eyes, taking in the long, clean lines of him and wishing, just wishing.

"Catch!" He tosses the keys to Sam, who reaches out one long arm to field them, plucking them out of the air with a smile and turning to open the door. The room is slightly better appointed than some that they've been in lately, and the beds are soft and springy. Sam tests out the one closest to the window before going to help Dean unload their stuff.

"I figure that I'll clean the guns," murmurs Dean. "Might as well, since we've got a little time to ourselves. How's your head?"

"A little better, thanks." There's a rare, shared moment of affection as Sam acknowledges Dean's concern. "I'll do the knives, if you like. It's been a while," and Dean knows that Sam is rewarding him for his care, loves him for it, even though he wants so much more that his heart will some day burst.

He smiles at Sam, eyebrow raised sardonically. "Dude, get those knives out and sharpen them good. It's all penis envy, you know, but that's all right; I'll never tell."

"Hmmm, let me see. Shotguns and flame thrower and big old muscle car. I wonder who really has the penis envy." Sam sticks his tongue out at Dean in a manner reminiscent of his childhood, and Dean feels that like a punch in the gut, his loveneedwantohgodsammy bursting through him, because Sam is his – was always his – was given to him when he was just a baby and what is he doing, trying to give his Sam away to Sarah or any woman like her? The thought renders him temporarily speechless, and Sam thinks he's won that exchange, so, smirking, he gets out their knives and begins the painstaking process of oiling them and grinding them sharp enough to satisfy the exacting standards he's learned from his father.

Dean knows guns. He can disassemble an AK47 blindfolded, clean it and put it back together so that his father can find nothing to complain about. He knows guns instinctively, deft fingers breaking them down, then ramming, oiling, polishing to perfection. He starts with the shotguns, and has the first one broken down, is ramming the solvent-soaked patch down the barrel with the easy competence he's learned through constant practice. Ordinarily he loves to do this chore, but as he watches his brother, he comes to a standstill, the stock lying forgotten in his hands as he observes Sam.

Dean loves guns, but Sam… Sammy adores knives. He concentrates, throwing himself totally into the cleaning and sharpening of the blades they carry. Dean can see Sam's little, pink tongue-tip protruding from the corner of his mouth as he grinds the long, slender shiv he keeps in his sleeve against the whetstone until he's satisfied, dropping a little oil onto it from time to time and finally plucking a hair from his head to test the edge. When he sees the hair float down to the ground, severed with a touch of his knife, he smiles and sets it aside, reaching for the hunting knife that is Dean's constant companion and frequent bedmate.

They work for some time – or rather Sam does, while Dean watches him, smiling, the love he feels for his brother glowing naked in his eyes; he doesn't realize it's there until Sam looks over to him and sees and lowers his hands.

"What?"

"Huh?" That's not the brightest response, but Dean isn't thinking too clearly. He drags his mind back from the reverie he was enjoying, where those big hands of Sam's reach for him, cup his cheek the way that they cupped Sarah's when they kissed and turn his face so that their mouths collide.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Did I just morph into a Big Mac and fries?" Sam's got this quizzical expression on his face, a half-smile that's part 'what the fuck,' and part dawning realization, and Dean suddenly notices that he's blown his cover.

"Sammy," he whispers.

Sam says nothing, but there's a strange, dark heat in his eyes as he continues to stare at Dean. The hand that's been whetting the knife blade stills, and Sam lifts the knife to his lips, putting out his tongue-tip to lick at the point. For some reason the gesture makes Dean shiver, makes his state of arousal almost unbearable, and with a muttered oath, he rises to his feet and flees to the bathroom.

Safely inside, leaning on the door, Dean pulls out his cock and tries to persuade it that his strong right hand can do a job that's the equal of anything that tongue of Sam's might achieve. He bites his lip, keeping silent through his rough actions, because he knows that Sam will be listening, wondering. After a minute, he leans forward to turn on the water in the sink, just to maybe disguise the sounds he might make jerking off.

When he finally emerges from his concealment, face washed and hair combed, he tries his best to look as though he wasn't running away from whatever it was that they'd had going on between them just now. Sam studies him as though he's maybe some esoteric equation, or a complex paragraph from Cicero that he needs to translate. Loud and clear, Dean can hear the clack of bones as the skeleton in his own peculiar closet seeks an exit.

He returns to his partially completed gun cleaning, pretending that he doesn't see Sam's face, doesn't know that he's being inspected, dissected and, he suspects, rejected.

He picks up the rod, attaches a patch to it and fumbles it, dropping the assembled cleaning tool onto the floor with an oath. Bending, he picks it up, and as he's straightening up, he's already planning his escape to the nearest bar, where no doubt he'll be able to find a few moments solace between the willing thighs of the chick du jour, whoever she might be.

He puts the rod back down on the table and turns to survey his brother, mind busy searching for words to say that will put Sam off the trail for a brief moment. Sam is standing at his shoulder, and all the words he'd found, and all the thoughts he'd had about getting away for the evening vanish from his mind, leaving him defenseless as he stares up at his brother, sees his doom in Sam's eyes and swiftly looks away again.

"Dean?"

One word, no more, but Dean knows that he's in trouble, fears the chick-flick interlude that's coming. Sam's hand comes up to cup his cheek and make Dean meet his eyes, and Dean has to bite his lip to keep himself from turning into that touch, kissing the palm of that big, callused hand. He clears his throat.

"You got a problem, Sammy?"

"I don't, but you seem to." Sam's got a certain look in his eyes - the kind of look Dean's seen his brother wear when he's hunting, fierce, determined, dark.

"You always did have an overactive imagination." Dean jerks his head away from the hand that's holding it in place, aching for more, dying by degrees as he longs to be freed from this situation. "So what are you talking about now?"

Sam doesn't say a word, but there's a faint half smile as he surveys Dean, and Dean feels a fluttering of lust in his belly as Sam does his eyelid thing, the slow blink that he loves so much. Dean's about to rise to his feet and high tail it out to whatever bar is closest, when Sam returns his palm to Dean's cheek, bends and kisses him.

Warmth spills from Sam to Dean. There's warmth from the hand that's holding him steady, warmth - oh, god, such warmth - from the moist lips sealed to his, and warmth from the breath he can feel against his cheek as he sits, dumbfounded and lets Sam kiss him.

He can't breathe properly, and his chest labors as he tries to gain sustenance from air suddenly grown too thick to breathe. He's stunned, heart racing, and he wants this, wants Sam's mouth on his more than he can ever remember wanting anything, but he's Dean Winchester, and stuff like this doesn't fall into his lap just because he wants it. He wraps his fingers around Sam's hand and pulls it down, rears back, eyes like bruises in his desperately yearning face.

"Sammy, what the fuck?" His voice is shot, hoarse and cracked, and his breathing is ragged.

"I might ask you the same thing, dude." Sam makes no attempt to pull Dean back to him, but there's a look on his face that tells Dean he owns him, and Dean knows he's right, because... well, because this is Sam, and Sam has always owned Dean, body and soul. "You just can't ask for anything, can you?"

Dean can hear irritation in Sam's voice, and deep down behind it, he can sense excitement, a breathless sense of anticipation that makes him jittery, because why would Sam be excited about this?

Except that Sam just kissed him, and seems to want to do it again, because his eyes have a lazy, sensual look to them, and his face is coming in close again, and Dean's mesmerized, transfixed by the fact that his little brother is right here, right now. He feels the air whoosh out of him as Sam captures him again, one big hand pressed firmly against his cheek, and the other cupping the back of his head as he's caught, held, utterly possessed.

It's too much; it isn't enough. Dean moans into Sam's mouth, all his thoughts gone south. He pushes himself up out of the chair, gun barrel forgotten, dropped on the table to take its chances as he steps in close and lets his mouth fall open to admit Sam's probing tongue.

Sam tastes of the soda he's been drinking, and beneath that, of himself, sweet, a little in need of seasoning but heady enough to make Dean's head swim. He responds - he has to. His tongue duels with Sam's, his hands clutch at Sam's hips, pulling them together and holding them so that their bodies fit, and he moans again, lost in the feel and taste of his brother.

"Want you," he whispers, and Sam gives a low, dirty chuckle.

"I know." Sam's voice is amused, altogether too composed for Dean, and Dean is not amused - he's aroused for sure, but he's not amused. He presses close to Sam, grinds his hips into Sam's groin and feels the hard presence inside his brother's pants, telling tales that Sam won't be able to deny later, if he tries to do so.

Dean growls, deep in his throat, walks Sam backwards to the nearest bed and topples him, lowering him easily onto the covers and following him down without breaking their kiss. He's convinced that if once he breaks that precious, longed for contact, Sam will vanish away, a chimera brought on by his desperate desire.

Sam's laughing softly, and when he finally pulls away, it's to whisper soft words against Dean's mouth, words that Dean never thought he'd hear. "Friggin' idiot, if you'd only quit pimping me out, you'd realize what I want - what I always did want. Why don't you ask for what you want?"

Dean's mouth will always be his downfall, and someday it will likely be the death of him, because instead of accepting Sam's statement for what it's worth, he has to probe, has to up the ante. "So is that why you shot me in the asylum?" he asks, and it's a bit like picking a scab that you know will bleed, but Dean can't resist, because that's who he is.

Sam knows him as well as he knows himself. He frowns at his brother, grabs his chin and growls, "Shut the fuck up," before making sure that no further words will escape Dean's mouth by covering it with his own.

Their first lovemaking is hot and hard and sudden - so suddenly do they realize that they're getting there that neither of them actually manages to get their pants open. Sam laughs again, but Dean cringes, his masculinity apparently out there on the line. He's convinced that the sticky mess in his jeans is the end of their encounter, before they've even had chance to begin, and he starts to pull away.

"Get back here!" Sam is suddenly stern, hauling on Dean's shirt and rolling him over so that he's covered, and although he rarely uses his superior size, Sam is big enough to stop Dean from going anywhere he doesn't want him to. Dean only struggles for a moment before sliding his arms up around Sam's shoulders and pulling him down so that they are forehead to forehead.

"You want me? You want this?" Dean's voice is thready; he's unable to believe that he isn't the only one that's needy.

Sam laughs again and mutters, "Duh!" before he begins to take Dean apart, molecule by molecule. Lips caress, tongue licks and teeth nibble, then bite as he deposits sweet, sucking kisses down Dean's face, to his neck. Dean's shirt comes off - he isn't quite sure how, afterwards, but he knows that it needs serious surgery before it will be fit to wear again, because the rips in it are too much even for his casual appearance. Sam's mouth follows the line of Dean's throat, sliding down over stubble to reach the fine grained skin of his shoulder and leave a hickey right on his collar bone.

There's no room for doubt then. Dean knows that Sam wants him. Sam is telling him so with every lick and nip, and he shivers, relaxes and loses himself in the press of his brother against him, the feel of the satin skin when he manages to get Sam's shirt off. Thankful now that they took the edge off, earlier, Dean is ready to party again even before Sam gets a hand down his pants. The two of them tussle, fighting to get to the other's groin, find the other's cock and set in motion the sweet, piercing sensations that herald climax.

"Oh, yeah," husks Sam, fingers finding and mapping the thick length of Dean's cock as he finally gets around to answering Dean's question. "I want you - have since I was about thirteen." He grips Dean's dick in his hand and begins to pump it, and Dean can't stop bucking into his hand. He fumbles for Sam, reciprocating, trying to think when it was that he first started Jonesing for his brother. It seems like he always loved Sam, always craved him as the center of his universe, and anyway, Sam's fingers have found the ridge just under the head of his dick, and he's tugging and rubbing in just the way Dean likes it. Dean wants to say something - to tell Sam how much he loves him, to beg him to stay with him, now more than ever, but the words won't come.
Dean, on the other hand, comes.

And there's nothing left but adoration, and the need for some sleep, because he's wiped from too much emotion, too much love. He lies panting like a grounded fish, body hapless as he tries to make it obey him. He wants to get Sam off, watch the bliss creep over his features, lock them into a grimace that tells of his enjoyment, but it's so hard to move in the blissed-out state he's in. Sam rolls him, with a whispered word of love in his ear, slides his cock along the crack of Dean's ass and rides it for a couple of jerking thrusts. Dean can feel it when Sam comes, spill of sticky fluid and panting of hot breath against the nape of his neck. Dean laughs softly, for once happy with what he has.

When sleep takes him, Sam's pressed up behind him like spoons in a drawer, and Dean doesn't dream.

He doesn't need to any more.

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