Silence

Silence

Sam was normally all about trying to talk things out, even if Dean, the only one he had been trying to talk things out with lately, wasn't.

Tonight, however, the few words Sam had said had hung in the air of the room like mist on a cold day, fading away without a trace. Dean had just slipped into bed without answering, lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, shirt off but bottle of whisky still in hand. Even the noises coming from the Roadhouse's main room had died down. There was only the two of them there, together in the small room, with the small beds, and an invisible wall between them.

Do you think, Sam had begun to ask, and Dean had answered dryly that no, he did not think, and that had been the end of that. The sense of dread weighted a little more on them, and Sam gave up, hoping again that later, they could talk.

So instead, he touched.

He lay his bare body on top of Dean's, holding on to Dean's shoulder with one hand, soaking up the heat of Dean's back against his chest, the softness of Dean's skin against his palm. This was wrong, but it was as right as their world could get.

Dean took a long sip, then closed his eyes and rubbed his head against Sam's as much as he could, exhaling softly. Sam pressed a kiss to the crook of his craned neck, and Dean lowered his upper body and head to the mattress in silent acceptance. He was tired.

There was noisy fumbling for a moment, then Sam tossed Dean's pants and underwear on the floor, clutching a condom from Dean's pocket in his hand. More fumbling, then Sam lay down on top of his brother again, his covered cock nestling itself between Dean's cheeks, deliciously pressed between their bodies.

A small shift, and Dean spread his legs underneath him.

Sam nodded and pressed against Dean. The condom was lubed, and Dean was relaxed, but still, it wasn't easy. Sam didn't mind; he had time. He could take it as slow as necessary. He felt Dean shift again, and then Dean's slightly calloused hand pressed against the curve of his ass, silently telling him to keep going.

For once, Sam didn't protest; he just obeyed.

After that, there was nothing but soft pants and wet kisses on Dean's hair, punctuated by small creaks from the mattress' tired springs. It was slow and tender like it was right but also silent and cold because it wasn't, and never would be.

It was Dean who came first, with a sigh; Sam followed shortly, muffling his cry against his hand. He didn't move right away after that, but stayed on top of his brother, listening to him breathing until Dean shrugged his shoulder. He was not very comfy with a heavy Sam on top of him and a spring digging into his liver.

Reluctantly, Sam moved away, wrapping the condom in a bundle of tissue before throwing it away - had to remember to find a better place to trash it tomorrow and moved to his own bed on the other side of the room.

Dean rolled away from his wet spot and drifted off to sleep with his back to Sam.

Sam lay with his back to Dean and, after praying the Lord his soul to keep, if he still had one, closed his eyes as well.