You weren't supposed to die first.
Rating: Explicit
Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)
Pairing: Dean Winchester / Sam Winchester
Word Count: 2.3k
Tags: oral sex, anal sex, angst, hurt, smut
Warnings: Non-con, Necrophilia, Major Character Death
Dean finally forces himself into a motel room he’s been avoiding, and the weight of what’s inside hits him all at once, raw and suffocating. Left alone with his grief, he clings to what he’s lost, crossing lines he never thought he would in a desperate attempt to feel close again. It’s messy, quiet, and deeply unsettling, driven more by shock and denial than anything else, as he struggles to let go in the silence.
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The radio was playing some shitty country song, the kind Dean would’ve flipped off any other day, but right now, he didn’t have the energy to reach over and turn the damn thing off. The Impala’s engine hummed steady beneath him, the only thing still holding together as the world crumbled around him.
"You gonna sit here all night?" Bobby’s voice was gruff, but there was something softer underneath, something Dean didn’t want to acknowledge.
Dean didn’t answer. He just gripped the steering wheel tighter, staring at the motel door ahead. Room 14. Sam was in there. Sam was...
"Dean."
"I know," Dean said, hoarse, like his throat had been scraped raw. He didn’t look at Bobby. The weight of what was waiting for him crushed his chest.
Bobby sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and grief. "Ain’t nothin’ more to be done, son. You know that."
Dean’s jaw clenched. Yeah, he knew. Better than anyone. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Finally, Bobby reached over, gave Dean’s shoulder a rough squeeze. "I’ll give you some time. But you ain’t stayin’ here alone. I’ll be back."
Dean waited until Bobby’s truck disappeared down the gravel road before he finally moved. His hands trembled as he pulled the key from the ignition, dreading the sight behind the motel door.
The door creaked when he pushed it open, the sound grating in the silence. The room smelled like cheap disinfectant and old cigarettes, but beneath it, something darker, something metallic.
Dean’s stomach twisted as he forced himself to look at the bed. Sam lay there, too still, too pale, his hands folded over his stomach. Dean’s breath hitched. He stumbled forward, knees buckling as he dropped beside the bed, fingers brushing Sam’s cheek. Cold. So fucking cold.
"Sammy," he whispered, voice breaking. He pressed his forehead against Sam’s chest, where there should’ve been a heartbeat, should’ve been warmth. Nothing. Just the stiff fabric of Sam’s shirt and the hollow stillness beneath it. Dean’s hands shook as they trailed down Sam’s body, mapping the familiar lines; his broad shoulders, the dip of his waist, the curve of his hips.
He’d touched Sam like this before, in secret, in stolen moments when the world wasn’t ending. But now it was, and Sam was gone, and Dean couldn’t fucking breathe.
His fingers fumbled with Sam’s belt, the leather stiff under his trembling hands. He shouldn’t, but the ache in his chest was too much, the need to feel Sam one last time was too overwhelming.
The zipper sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room as he tugged it down, peeling away layers until Sam was bare before him. Dean’s throat tightened at the sight. Sam’s skin was still flawless, still perfect, even in death. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Sam’s collarbone, then lower, mouthing at his nipples, licking over the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach.
Dean’s breath wavered as he pressed closer, the scent of Sam fading, but still just there. His hands trembled as they slid down Sam’s thighs, spreading them open with a reverence that bordered on desperation. He shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong, so fucking wrong, but the grief living inside him, gnawing at his ribs, and this was the only way he knew how to keep Sam close, even for a moment.
Dean's fingers traced the inside of Sam's thighs, the skin still soft despite the creeping rigidity beneath. He exhaled shakily, his breath warm against Sam's stomach as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the hollow of Sam's hip. The scent of sweat, gunpowder, and cheap motel soap clung faintly, a ghost of the living, breathing man Dean had lost. His throat burned, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall. Not yet.
He mouthed at Sam's limp cock, tongue dragging along the length with a desperation that bordered on prayer. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sam was supposed to groan, arch into him, fist his hands in Dean's hair with that mix of frustration and need that always drove Dean wild. But Sam stayed still, silent, and Dean's chest ached with the absence of it. He sucked gently, fingers digging into Sam's hips as if he could will life back into him through sheer want.
He couldn't take it anymore, Dean pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His own erection strained against his jeans, a cruel mockery of the moment. He undid his belt with jerky movements, shoving his pants down just enough to free himself. The slide of his palm over his cock was rough, almost punishing, but he didn't care. He needed this, he needed to pretend, just for a second, that Sam was still here with him.
Dean leaned over Sam's body, one hand braced beside his head, the other guiding himself between Sam's thighs. The warmth of living flesh was gone, but Dean closed his eyes and remembered the way Sam would hitch his legs around Dean's waist, the bitten-off curses when Dean pressed in too fast. He rocked forward now, skin sliding against skin, and let out a broken breath against Sam's neck.
Dean’s hips moved with a rhythm that felt both familiar and horrifically wrong, every thrust a reminder of what he’d lost, every gasp a plea for something he could never get back. He buried his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, inhaling his fading scent. His fingers dug into Sam’s hips hard enough to bruise, if bruises could still form, now only leaving a slight dent in his skin.
“Sammy,” he choked out, the name cracking halfway through. His tears dripped onto Sam’s chest, sliding down the pale skin like raindrops on marble. “Fuck, Sammy-” His voice broke entirely then, collapsing into ragged sobs as he moved faster, rougher, chasing a release that wouldn’t bring relief.
Dean's hands trembled as he pulled back slightly, just enough to drag his fingertips down Sam's chest, over the faint scars from hunts gone wrong, the ridges of ribs that would never rise again. His touch lingered at Sam's hips before gripping harder, yanking Sam's limp body closer until their hips pressed flush. The friction was all wrong, Sam's skin cooling too fast, no answering groan or squirm, but Dean bit down on a sob and rocked forward again, relentless.
He adjusted his angle, pushing Sam's thighs wider apart with his knee, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Sam's inner thighs, dents of his fingers remaining. His cock throbbed, aching as he rutted against Sam's slack body, chasing the ghost of heat that should have been there. Dean's breath came in ragged bursts against Sam's collarbone, his lips brushing the skin there as if he could kiss life back into him. The weight of Sam's limp cock against his stomach was a cruel reminder that this wasn't passion, this was burial rites.
Dean choked, his hips stuttering as he pressed his forehead against Sam's sternum. The skin was cooling rapidly now, the warmth leaching away with every passing second. He could feel it, the moment when Sam stopped being Sam and became just a body. The realization hit him like a shotgun blast to the chest, and he collapsed forward, his arms wrapping around Sam's torso in a crushing embrace. His tears soaked into Sam's shirt, the fabric damp and clinging as Dean gasped for air between shuddering cries.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice shattered. His fingers twisted in the fabric of the bed, gripping tight enough to tear. "Fuck, Sammy, I can't-" The words died in his throat, replaced by a broken noise that sounded more animal than human. He buried his face deeper against Sam's chest, as if he could press himself right through skin and bone and into the space where Sam's heart should still be beating. The silence was unbearable. No teasing groan, no breathless "Dean-" drawn out between gritted teeth. Just emptiness.
Dean's hands moved without thought, sliding up to frame Sam's face, thumbs brushing over cold cheeks. He pressed their foreheads together, close enough that his tears dripped onto Sam's closed eyelids. For a wild, delirious second, he imagined them as Sam's own tears, that any moment those lashes would flutter, that familiar hazel would blink up at him with exasperated fondness. But Sam's skin was waxy under his touch, lips slightly parted in a way that would've been inviting if there'd been breath behind them. Dean kissed him anyway, desperate and messy, tongue sliding against unresponsive teeth.
Dean's cock ached against Sam's thigh, swollen and leaking. He groaned, pressing his hips forward in a slow grind, the coarse hair of Sam’s legs catching against his shaft. It should’ve pulled a gasp from Sam’s lips, but there was nothing. Just Dean’s own ragged breathing echoing off the motel walls. He wrapped a hand around himself, stroking roughly as he thrust against Sam’s lifeless body, the slick drag of precum making the slide easier.
His other hand tangled in Sam’s still soft, still perfect hair, gripping hard enough to pull if Sam was alive to feel it. The thought made Dean whimper, his hips jerking shakily as he pressed their bodies together tighter. The friction was all wrong, Sam’s skin too cool, his limbs too stiff.
A ragged cry tore from his throat as he came, his release streaking hot and messy ropes across Sam’s stomach. For a single, delirious moment, Dean imagined Sam laughing at the mess, imagined him rolling his eyes and muttering something about Dean being a 'goddamn animal.' But there was no laughter. No muttered insults. Just thick and suffocating silence.
Dean shuddered, his fingers trembling as he wiped at the mess with Sam’s discarded shirt, the fabric rough against his oversensitive skin.
When he was done, Dean collapsed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The scent of sweat, sex, and grief hung heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering traces of Sam. Dean pressed his face against Sam’s chest, his. He could feel the stiffness settling in now, the way Sam’s body resisted his touch where it had once yielded so easily. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath all over again.
“Sammy,” he whispered, voice cracking. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to stop, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words barely audible. “I’m so fucking sorry.” His hands moved without thought, smoothing over Sam’s chest, his stomach, his hips, memorizing every inch of him, committing it all to memory one last time.
Dean's fingers lingered over Sam's wrist, tracing the faint ridges of veins beneath skin that had already begun turning waxen. He lifted Sam's limp hand and pressed the knuckles to his lips. Dean inhaled sharply through his nose like he could trap the essence of him inside his lungs forever.
The bed creaked as Dean shifted, he wrapped himself around Sam's body with a possessiveness that bordered on feral, one arm slung heavy over Sam's waist, his face buried in the hollow of Sam's throat. The position was achingly familiar, a hundred hungover mornings and exhausted nights spent tangled just like this, but the stillness beneath him was unbearable. No sleepy grumbles, no reflexive shift of Sam's hips pressing back against him. Just dead weight and silence.
Dean's breath wobbled as his fingers crept upward, brushing over Sam's parted lips. He remembered the way Sam used to bite them when he was concentrating, the way they'd soften around Dean's name when they were alone. Dean leaned in, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. Sam's teeth were unyielding behind his lips, his tongue a cold weight that didn't respond. Dean kissed him anyway, slow and deep, until his lungs burned and he pulled away gasping.
The room was too quiet. No distant hum of traffic outside, no creak of the bedsprings shifting under Sam’s weight. Just the sound of Dean’s own hoarse breathing, echoing off the motel walls like a taunt. He pressed his forehead against Sam’s, fingers tangled in that stupidly long hair he’d always teased Sam about. “You were supposed to outlive me, you bastard,” he whispered, voice cracking.
His hands shook as they trailed down Sam’s arms, fingers tracing the faint scars from hunts gone wrong, the jagged line from a werewolf’s claws in Nebraska, the smooth patch of skin where a demon had burned him in Illinois. Dean knew every mark, every story, like they were his own.
When he reached Sam’s hands, those big, stupid hands that could snap a vampire’s neck one minute and cradle a stray kitten the next. Dean folded them carefully over Sam’s stomach, just like he’d found him. The position felt wrong, too peaceful, and too final. Sam had never been still in life, always fidgeting, always moving, and this forced stillness now made Dean’s stomach twist.
He pressed one last kiss to Sam’s palm before letting go, his own hands lingering for a second too long.
The bed creaked as Dean shifted, pulling Sam’s body closer, tucking Sam’s head under his chin like he used to when they were kids and little Sammy had nightmares. He wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist, and closed his eyes.
The tears came again, hot and silent, soaking into Sam’s hair. Dean didn’t fight them, he didn’t have the strength left. He just held on tighter, his breath against Sam’s scalp.
“I’ve got you, Sammy,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in years, Dean Winchester prayed.
But the room stayed silent.
And Sam stayed cold.