With Spit and a Prayer

With thanks to Starflow, Angel Jade, From Across the Pond, AngstLovesWincest and Emilia for their kind reviews.

Starflow: I haven't actually changed my plan for the plot or the timing at any point, so I hope that you decide the pacing is to your satisfaction :).

From Across the Pond: I suspect you'll find this chapter won't answer your questions, since I want a few more things to happen first, but rest assured some of them will be answered eventually :).

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With Spit and a Prayer, Chapter Ten

Fifty Days
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Dean didn’t think he could do this.

No, scratch that, Dean knew he couldn’t do this. Jesus, of course he couldn’t, he’d never at any stage been under the illusion that he could. It just didn’t make any sense.

Sam seemed to think differently, though. He’d agreed to take it slow, Dean desperately trying to bargain him down, to come up with a compromise, something, but Sam was like a freakin dog with a bone, he wouldn’t stop, and Dean was feeling like every minute another little piece of himself got torn off, like soon there would be nothing left, and then Sam could do whatever he wanted (could make Dean do whatever he wanted to him), and there would be no way to stop him, because there would be no Dean left to do the stopping.

Sam didn’t actually mention it, though. He never said it, never. He just watched Dean, all the time, and when Dean caught him staring and said dude, take a picture or for fuck’s sake, Sam (depending on how ripped up he was feeling) Sam would just keep right on staring, like there was nothing weird about it, about this. And the worst part was, Dean couldn’t tell what Sam was thinking any more. Sam had always been the easiest guy to read, his face instantly revealing whether he was pissed or happy or being an emo bitch, but now it seemed like all that was gone, like everything that made Sam Sam had been stripped away, and in it’s place was a silent stranger who wanted to let Dean act out his worst nightmares (except they’re not nightmares, are they, you don’t wake up hard from nightmares).

The first night, Dean said he was tired, after four days of not sleeping (and Jesus, he was, he was so tired), and lay rigid on his side for hours, listening to Sam not sleeping in the other bed; the second night, he was so exhausted he did sleep, and didn’t dream, and Sam didn’t bring it up all day, thank God, and didn’t try to leave, either. But now. Now was different, because Dean had managed to lull himself into a false sense of security, had thought maybe Sam had changed his mind, just had a momentary lapse into confusion, and now he was lying awake, panting, and the sheets were damp with sweat and his cock was rock hard and he knew Sam was awake and had heard whatever sound he made in his dream, knew Sam was looking at him and waiting.

He swallowed hard. The room was mostly in darkness, and Dean thought maybe, maybe Sam couldn’t tell he was awake, if he just pretended, just somehow managed to get his breathing to even out...

And then Sam was moving, and Dean felt the edge of his mattress dip and he closed his eyes and said Sam, I need a shower.

“You said you would be honest with me,” Sam said, and the words hurt all the more because he said them in a completely indifferent tone. “I know a shower’s not what you want.”

It is, God, Christ, it is, Dean wanted to yell, and it was true, he just wanted to scrub his skin until whatever it was inside him that had got so twisted was washed away, but he’d tried that before, so many times, and it just stayed lodged in him, leaking out the bile that was poisoning his life. And then Sam was manhandling him, pulling him up and around so that Sam was lying under him, and Dean put his hands on either side of Sam’s arms to support himself, tried to push away and untangle his legs, and Sam looked away and said “If you go to the shower, I’ll be gone when you get back. I mean it, Dean, I can’t take this any more.”

Dean closed his eyes and wondered if maybe he had killed himself back in Biloxi, if maybe he was in hell. He felt Sam shift under him, and a thrill of pleasure raced up his cock to his belly, and he just wanted to not be any more. “Sam,” he whispered, and choked on the dryness in his throat. His tongue felt like it was too big for his mouth, but his guts were aching with need.

“Dean,” Sam said, and Dean opened his eyes to see that Sam wasn’t looking at him any more, he’d been staring for three days but now he was looking away, going to push off his sweatpants, and Dean shifted, supported his weight on one arm, reached to stop him. “Please,” he said. “Let’s just take this slow.” I can’t do this.

Sam blinked and then nodded, still avoiding Dean’s eyes. He closed his eyes and shifted his hips, and Dean’s cock, Dean’s cock that had seen no action in seven weeks but Dean’s hand and one disastrous encounter, decided that this was the most exciting thing since Marilyn freakin Monroe. Dean tried to stifle a groan, but it was obvious from the way Sam flinched slightly that he had heard. “Sam,” he muttered, “let’s just... let’s stop.” Yeah, that was a great thing to say when his hips were moving of their own accord, not a lot, Dean was doing everything he could to stop them, but enough, enough that he could feel it (God, he could feel it), enough that Sam could feel it.

Sam’s features tightened into a scowl, he was biting on his lip, his face still turned away, eyes still closed, and Dean could almost hear him saying please, Dean, don’t. Dean couldn’t understand, couldn’t make it all fit together in his head, how they had come to be here, why they were doing this at all, and every time he tried the tension and the pleasure thrumming through his veins drew his attention back to this, nothing else but this, it was too late for whys and hows, here they were and there was only what now?

“Sam,” he said again, this wasn’t real, this wasn’t happening.

Sam’s face twisted. He didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. “For God’s sake, Dean, please, just...” His voice was rough with emotions that Dean could identify easily if he’d wanted, but God, he didn’t want to know, and the edge in it was enough to make Dean’s body betray him, his hips bucking hard this time, setting off little explosions of white behind his eyes, and that was all it took, it turned out, all it took for Dean’s will to crumble (that and seven weeks of living in a nightmare), and then Dean was thrusting, eyes screwed tight shut (not that that did much good, since the images he saw with them closed were pretty goddamn similar to the ones he saw with them open), waves of sensation rolling through him, God, how could it be this good, how could he be enjoying this? Part of him – the part that was disconnected from his history, his memories, what made him Dean -- wanted to prolong the moment as long as possible. The rest – the only part he could think about right now – just wanted it to be over. And a moment later, with a crescendo both of pleasure and of horror, it was, and Dean had to fight with everything he had not to collapse on top of Sam, holding his arms as rigid as he could and feeling his come slide stickily between his rapidly-softening cock and his pants.

He opened his eyes. Sam’s body was utterly still beneath him, tension in every line, head still turned away. “Jesus,” Dean muttered. “Jesus fucking Christ.” And he rolled off Sam before he could fall down, rolled off the bed and staggered across the room to the shower, wishing to God he’d just called Sam’s bluff and done that in the first place.

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Fifty-two Days
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The water was cold, but Sam didn’t care – if anything, it suited him better that way. Lately it seemed like there was something heavy in his head, pushing at the insides of his skull, making it throb constantly, not seriously, but there nonetheless, a continual low aching that buzzed under every thought and action. The water didn’t help, not really, but it felt like maybe it might, and that was OK, that was enough.

He drew back from the sink and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, feeling the cold water drip down his neck, the damp collar of his shirt rubbing against his skin. Beyond the bathroom door was the room, where Dean was sleeping (except probably he wasn’t, because Dean wasn’t really sleeping much more than Sam was right now). It was... it was OK. Everything was OK.

Sam looked down at his hands. The knuckles were bruised, and the back of one of them too, though he didn’t remember how that had happened. The bruises looked stark and painful in the brittle light of the fluorescents, but they didn’t hurt, Sam couldn’t even feel them, they were OK. Really, it was all happening the way it was supposed to now, right? Dean had looked after Sam all his life, given him everything, and Sam had taken it all without acknowledgement. This, this was acknowledgement, this was the wayit should be, now Sam was an adult, old enough to see how much had been sacrificed for him, old enough to make sacrifices in return.

He rubbed the balls of his fingers over his eyelids and wished he could just... let it all happen. It ought to be easy, God, Dean made it look easy, to put other people first, to choose Sam’s happiness over his own, but now that Sam actually came to try it, it was probably the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. It would help if Dean didn’t fight it so hard, of course, but then, Sam had no right to be angry with Dean for that (no right to be angry with Dean for anything, not that that stopped him, not that that helped when he felt rage crest in him like a wave and he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from lashing out), Dean was only doing what he thought was best for Sam, just like he always did. Dean couldn’t comprehend that for once, it wasn’t what Sam wanted that was important. Sam didn’t matter any more. Maybe Sam had never mattered.

Sam closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of sensation that had become so familiar now. Occasionally he wonder if there was something wrong with him, that he seemed to be transported at random times into another time and place, not just in memory, but for real, he could feel fingers bruising his elbows and the hot breath on his face. Recently, the episodes had become less clear, more garbled, sometimes it was Dean grinding down on top of him, sometimes one of the strangers who he’d found to take Dean’s place, the details were confused, blurred, but the theme was clear enough. He wondered if it had something to do with his visions; but there was nothing psychic about seeing the past.

It was OK, though. Everything was OK, really, Sam was doing OK, yeah, he was still a little screwed up, a little confused, but he’d found the way to fix it, to be the person he wanted to be. Dean would see it too, soon. So far he’d refused to do anything other than rub against Sam, and even that under protest, and Sam knew some of it – maybe a lot of it – was because he was finding it hard to hide his own emotions about the whole thing. He would practice, though, he would get better, and then Dean would see it was OK, that they could put the past behind them and move on, that Sam would be a better person now. All Sam had to do was try a little harder.

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Fifty-Seven Days
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The bottle of whiskey was more than half empty, but it hadn’t done more than blur the edges of the foreboding in Dean’s stomach. His limbs felt heavy, the alcohol in his veins spreading its warmth right to the ends of his fingers, but it stifled Dean, made him feel like he’s been burned, like he was radiating venomous heat. Coming out had been a bad idea, this bar full of strangers, the air rough with smoke and laughter, people whose lives went on as if everything was OK, when all Dean wanted to do was scream at them to fix it, because he couldn’t see a way out any more, couldn’t see any way to stop the last remnants of his family from sliding down into hell. He’d faced doubt before, lots of times, doubt that the people he loved felt as strongly about him, doubt that he could make it after Dad’s death, doubt that he had done the right thing coming to find Sam that Hallowe’en in Palo Alto, but he’d never doubted that there was at least something he could do to change things (to save Sammy). Now, though, there was just the coarse air and the whiskey, and for now, Dean would take that, because it was all he could get.

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Dean woke up only an hour after he’d gone to sleep (passed out), gulping air in desperately even though it was sullen and thick in his lungs, his head spinning and the blanket a dead weight on top of him, and then Sam was there, Sam was always there, gentle, like he was calming a startled horse, but with that look on his face that Dean knew and hated. Dean still felt the dream wrapping itself around him, wasn’t completely sure where he was any more, and he was lying on top of Sam, the feel of his brother’s groin against his familiar but not comforting, and Sam was naked, Sam was naked, and Dean moaned and licked his lips and thrust a couple of times, trying to keep his head still, feeling the ends of his thoughts skitter away, feeling like he was in some kind of surrealist movie.

Sam was pulling at Dean’s pants, and Dean said Sam, don’t, and Sam’s hands retreated, but he said it’s OK, Dean, really. I promise you, everything’s going to be all right. Dean let his hips move a few more times (Christ, it felt good), and then Sam said we can do it like this, if it’s easier, and he was using his sympathetic voice, the one he used on victims of crimes, he was using it on Dean, but Dean didn’t have time to try and figure out what that meant (or to decipher the edge of anger beneath it), because Sam was turning over, turning so that he was face-down on the bed, then rising up on his hands and knees so that Dean’s cock was pressed against his ass. Jesus.

“Just...” Sam said, and Dean heard it like he was underwater.

“I know,” he said, and he did, there was no way out of this any more, he knew, they were sliding and nothing could stop them. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, then slid his fingers into his mouth, trying to bring up enough saliva to coat them even though it felt like his throat was full of sand. He’d done this before, once, while Sam had been at college, and he’d been wasted then, too, but he thought he remembered how, how not to hurt, even though there’d been more to it then, there’d been kissing and blow-jobs and whatever the fuck else you were supposed to do when you weren’t having sex with your brother.

One finger went in OK, and Dean felt Sam’s muscles clench, felt him tense, and he said you gotta relax, Sam, and even he could hear the slurring in his voice. Then another, and Sam twitched beneath him, and Dean closed his eyes and felt shame burn down his spine. The third made Sam draw in a breath, and he said please, Dean, just fucking do it (only Dean heard please, Dean, don’t). Dean spat into his other hand and rubbed it on his cock (because they didn’t have lube, why would they have lube?), then pulled the fingers out and pressed himself against Sam’s ass, pushing until he felt the head of his cock slide inside his brother.

Fuck. Fuck. Dean bit his lip until he felt the blood drip down his chin, struggling to go slow when all his body wanted to do was thrust hard and brutally (just like before). The skin of Sam’s hips was slick with sweat under his hands, and the muscles in his back rippled and tensed as he let out a smothered grunt.

“Sam,” Dean said, and he wanted to say are you OK?, but that was laughable because of course Sam wasn’t fucking OK, nothing was OK, everything was shot to hell and it was only getting worse.

“For Christ’s sake,” said Sam, and pushed back so hard and suddenly that Dean didn’t have time to react, and then there he was, buried in his brother right up to his hips, and Sam started rocking, just a little, but it was enough to be too much, enough to make Dean start moving too, to thrust once, and then again, and then to set up a rhythm, sliding in and out, slick with saliva and sweat and Sam, and God, it felt like nothing he’d ever done before, it felt like lightning storms and freakin rollercoasters and the moment when you know you’re going to beat the game. But mainly, it felt like damnation.

“Christ, no,” Dean said, unable to stop himself from speaking as every thrust brought him closer to the edge (and his entire body thrummed with the fear of what might be on the other side). “No, Sam, no. Jesus.”

Sam had stopped moving, was immobile under Dean’s onslaught, but it didn’t make any difference anymore. Another thrust, and another, and Dean knew he was going to find out juat what it was like to fall off that edge. “Fuck,” he grunted. “Fuck, no.” And he slid into Sam one last time, the shocks bouncing around his body like ball-lightning, everything he had flowing away as it dissipated.

Dean couldn’t stop himself falling this time, dropping onto Sam’s broad, sweat-soaked back. “God,” he choked, and his head was spinning worse now, he was fucked, he was so fucked, but he felt like he ought to do something, like leaving it this way was worse than-- (don’t say it), so he reached his hand round, reaching between Sam’s legs, his fingers brushing against soft flesh.

Then Sam was jerking under him, pulling away sharply, and the loss of support had Dean collapsing face-first onto the bed, and unable for a moment to quiet the churning of his guts long enough to get up again. When finally he turned over, Sam was huddled on the other bed, knees drawn up to his chest, blankets pulled up around him.

“Sam, what...” Dean started, but Sam turned his head away.

“Don’t touch me, Dean,” he said, his voice muffled. “Just don’t... don’t fucking touch me, OK?”

Dean blinked. His eyes were watering, his head was starting to pound, and he wasn’t sure he could form a coherent sentence any more. “OK,” he said. “OK, Sammy. OK.”