Cut 'n Clean
Author’s note: So I now posted you the whole story as one piece. I hope that’s okay, if not I have it saved and can send it again in pieces. It’s 4.5k, JFC. I hope you like it! Your WM <33
Whoever said that alcohol is not the answer never lost the most important person in their life just because they couldn’t let them go. Ironic, when you say it like that. In refusing to let Sam go he may have lost his brother forever.
So, he and Jack would spend the evening in the kitchen, doing everything but thinking about Sam’s parting words.
Same circumstance, I wouldn’t.
He knew Sam had been angry and rightfully so. Dean had fucked up big time. Not necessarily by letting Gadreel in, because if nothing else, he did save Sam. And he can’t bring himself to be sorry for that. It’s just not in him. He would have freed Lucifer to get Sam back out of the Cage without regret.
It’s Sam. There are no rules that could be applied, no rationality or even a real decision.
His biggest mistake had been to lie to Sam though. How could he be so stupid? After having seen so many times what lies did to their relationship. And he still chose that path again. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity, to do the same thing over and over again and expecting another outcome? Sam would know. Hell, maybe he should pledge insanity. The lawyer in Sam should be able to work with that.
Dean felt pathetic, sitting in the empty kitchen with an empty bottle of Jack and an empty life. He wished the numbness would start to settle in already, because the ache in his heart and the pressure of tears behind his eyes were almost unbearable by now.
His body had started to feel hot and his stomach clenched like a fist whenever he thought of Sam, and of what he lost. The empty bottle shattered against the wood of their kitchen table without his conscious input. Splinters planted themselves in his hands, but Dean was too far gone to care, so he just buried his face in his bloody hands, mindless of the shards sticking in his flesh. He didn’t even feel them cutting the skin on his face as well or the blood that made his skin sticky.
He must have zoned out because the next thing he knew, Sam was kneeling at his side. His big, capable hands cradled Dean’s face and for a hysterical moment Dean thought that the last months had been one big bad dream.
“What the hell, Dean?”
Or maybe not.
As much as it pained him, he shoved Sam away, mumbling a dismissive “I’m fine” at him. He hoped Sam’s indifference would be enough to deter his little not-anymore-brother from asking more question. But when had Dean Winchester ever gotten what he hoped for?
“You’re clearly not. You’re bleeding Dean. So tell me, what happened?”
For no apparent reason that made anger bubble up in his chest. “What do you even care?” he roared with a force that surprised even himself.
“What do I care? Fine, be that way.” With a huff Sam stood up from the squatting position he had been in and started to walk away. Again.
Dean would forever blame the stupid alcohol for the tears that sprung to his eyes at the sight of his brother’s retreating back. He whispered a broken “Goodnight, Sammy,” sure Sam would be too far away to hear it. But one of the great traits of drunken people is their misjudging of their own volume.
When Sam turned back he wore that one pronounced crinkle between his eyebrows, the one that roughly translated in I have it up to here with your bullshit. The hard lines around his eyes only disappeared when he noticed the teardrops rolling down Dean’s bloody cheeks. His big brother almost never cried and the sight did something very complicated to Sam’s insides.
“How much did you have to drink?” Sam asked in a much softer voice, sadness and resignation dulling everything else he felt.
“Not enough,” came the clip reply. There was not enough alcohol in the world to make him forget all the times he had failed his brother.
In lieu of anything to say Sam heaved a sigh and stepped closer to Dean again, his gaze intent. Dean wouldn’t have been able to look anywhere else but the familiar face in front of him. These days it was rare for them to by so close to each other and he used the opportunity to drink in every tiny detail he could.
He was startled out of his reverie when Sam gently grabbed his hands to access the damage. His hands were a bloody mess and he saw that some of the flinders had buried themselves deeply in his flesh. Sam actually clucked with his tongue at the sight before his gaze returned to Dean’s bloody face.
“Your stupid scruff makes it impossible to ascertain the damage you did to your face,” he groused, but for a moment Dean could have sworn he detected something like fondness and concern in Sam’s tone. Must be wishful thinking.
“If it bothers you so much you will have to shave it off yourself because I certainly won’t.” It was meant as a joke, to break the weird tension that had settled between them. Only, it came out too soft and vulnerable.
Sam, who was considerable more sober than him, and also an observable little fucker if he wanted to be, picked up on his tone. Of-fucking-course he did. Dean braced himself for the blow, for being let down easily (or not , depending on how much resentment Sam harbored for him). But it never came.
“I guess I have to then. Come on, move your lazy ass.”
Again, Dean blamed the alcohol (and the way his body always listened to Sam’s voice when it ordered him to do something, the traitorous thing) for the way he hurriedly stumbled to his feet and followed Sam to the bathroom. The bright light that greeted him there helped to sober him up considerably. He still made no move to leave. Dean had no idea what Sam tried to accomplish but his selfish heart leaped at the chance to be close to his brother again.
“Dean? Hey, man, look at me.” Sam’s voice sounded thin, edgy with barely hidden worry. Dean wondered what happened to make him sound like that, when Sam reached out to still his trembling hands. That’s when Dean realized he was shaking like a leaf. Stupid alcohol. Stupid longing.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder, gentle pressure used to guide him towards the closed toilet lid. He sat down without protest, still slightly out of it by the proceedings of this overwhelming day. Besides, it felt good to let Sam take the lead, to give himself over to his brother. Sam may have lost his trust in Dean but that does not mean Dean had to do the same. Deep down Dean knew that Sammy was still safe, was still home.
While he sat there, head down and frame still trembling, Sam rummaged through the bathroom cupboard. When he returned to Dean it was with a razor in his right and shaving cream in his left hand. The sight baffled Dean despite its obviousness. Did Sam want to force him to shave himself? His confusion must have shown on his face because Sam gave him one of his impatient I-have-an-idiot-for-a-brother looks and Dean felt a new set of tears spring to his eyes. He stubbornly refused to let them fall, but to be subjected to this look again made his stomach hurt while it swallowed up his rapidly beating heart.
His little brother raised one of his eyebrows in question and he gave a barely discernible nod in answer. Their way of wordless communication still intact (and yet a curse when actual words were needed).
They’ve never done this before and it felt oddly intimate to even think about what Sam was about to do. They had sex for Christ sake and still, this right here felt heavier than anything they have done before. Dean had a feeling this was more than a simple act of shaving or taking care of each other’s wound. This was a chance for him to show Sam that he still trusted his brother. That he still wanted them to have this kind of relationship. The one where you give the other a way to hurt you, knowing they would never do it.
“First of all I need to make sure you didn’t cut yourself too bad before I go anywhere near you with this stuff.”
And with that Sam went over to the sink, put down the razor and the cream to grab a washcloth instead. He wetted it with warm water and went back to Dean to clean his face with gentle, careful strokes. The gesture was so tender Dean had problems reconciling it with the words Sam had spoken to him not even an hour ago. Still, he couldn’t help but press into the touch oh so slightly, face heating in embarrassing. He never had stopped needing Sam, loving, wanting him with every fiber of his fragile heart.
“Seems like there only a few shallow nicks, your hands are far worse.”
That made Dean look down, surprised at the sight of his mangled flesh. He looked back up at Sam again, dazed confusion openly displayed on his face. The alcohol, the accident, Sam’s strange behavior – something must have rendered his defenses useless, his mask had slipped sideways and he didn’t even care.
Sam looked back at him like you would look at a kid, eyes soft and so, so old. “Let’s get them cleaned up as well, shall we?” And with that he made a pair of tweezers appear out of thin air and started to tweeze the splinters of glass. He worked fast and expertly but still with utmost care. Sam had always been the one to stitch him up, wouldn’t hear a word about letting their father do it. It seemed like by taking care of Dean’s wounds he could make sure for himself that his big brother was still alive, relatively okay and breathing. Not even ten minutes later Sam applied the disinfectant and bandaged both of his hands. Not once did their eyes meet.
When Sam seemed to be satisfied with his work he took his time to put everything away at its proper place. Something about the utter Sam-ness of this gesture made Dean smile for the first time this evening. His smile disappeared however and was replaced by a new set of nerves when his brother took the dose of shaving cream in his hands.
Sam rattled the dose and filled a generous amount in the cup of his hand. His movements were steady but his eyes never met Dean’s. Sam also was aware how big this was for them, especially given the current status of their relationship. The moment Sam’s hand reached Dean’s cheek, cool cream a stark contrast to his burning face, a shiver ran down his spine. Sam made sure the cream was distributed equally, his hands gentle and warm. Dean gulped audibly at the sensation flooding his body.
Finished once again Sam finally took the razor in his hands before he slowly advanced on Dean. The tension was rising with every step he took towards an almost terrified Dean. He was so out of his comfort zone here and anticipation warred with fear in his chest. Rationally spoken, there should be no way how he could fuck up things between them even more but that had never stopped them before.
And then Sam touched the razor to his left cheek and moved it down in a first, slow stroke.
Despite his own apprehension of the intimacy this simple act conveyed, Dean found himself still overwhelmed by the desire that pooled in his groin at that first stroke. Intellectually, he was well aware that shaving was a serious kink for some people, but in all his years of sexual escapades, he never once suspected it was one for him as well. Maybe it had more to do with the fact that it was Sam who did it. That Sam was the one to put a sharp object against his skin, holding the power to hurt, and Dean helpless and at his mercy. And yet, his little brother did not abuse said power. Instead, he did what Dean had done all their life for him. Sam took care of his brother.
Sam slowly finished up his left cheek, stroke by tantalizing stroke. Sometimes it burnt a bit, whenever he hit a nick from the shards. But the slight pain, mixed with the maddening pleasure cursing through his veins, made it even better. By now the signs of arousal were visible for everyone who cared to look. He should be thankful Sam’s gaze was intently trained on the task at hand. Dean was not sure which rules applied to this situation (if any at all) but he didn’t want to break whatever spell they were under right now.
He didn’t even realize that his lungs hadn’t drawn any air since they started until Sam stopped his ministrations for a second to let out his own bated breath. To know that Sam was just as affected as he was helped a great deal to calm his nerves.
That was, until Sam directed his attention (and with it the razor) to Dean’s throat. As much as Dean would have wanted to stifle the needy moan that broke out of his chest, he stood no chance.
He felt cool air against the freshly exposed skin, a stir caused by Sam’s shaky exhale. Still, the hand that worked the razor continued its steadfast work as nothing had ever happened. From his head’s position Dean was unable to see Sam’s face and it was driving him insane. He needed to see if Sam’s cheek had turned the tantalizing shade of red they only took on if he was helplessly turned on. Craved to know if his tongue was visible between his pink lips, a sign of concentration that was oddly endearing to Dean.
The chance to do exactly that presented itself when Sam turned Dean’s face down and to the left with a hand on his jaw, ready to start on his other cheek. The look Dean got was shorter than he had hoped for but he didn’t mind as much either. Because instead he found himself face-to-face with Sam’s groin. The thick, hard length that caught his eye was so much better of a view. Sam had learned to lie with his face, had to in order to protect that big heart of his and survive their dangerous life. But his body told Dean that, if nothing else, the desire, the want, was still there. Sex was not all that Dean wanted, but it was still something he could give, something Sam would maybe want. Here they were. Two brothers, bound by their souls and still miles apart. Dean felt the ache, the actual physical sensation, of a longing soul. That was his excuse for what he did next, and it was as good as any. His hands went for Sam’s fly, his reward a sharp inhale from his brother and another nick on his face. “Dean.” Maybe it was meant as one but it didn’t sound like a protest.
It sounded like wonder and need, like his name in Sam’s mouth should always sound like. He ignored his half-shaven face, which probably looked ridiculous. The only thing that matters was skin on skin, his mouth on Sam. Sam’s hands in his hair. Dean hurriedly freed the throbbing flesh from its cotton prison, hungry for its unique taste. Their position brought his mouth at the perfect height, so he lost no time to lick off the first drops of clear liquid that had gathered at the head of Sam’s impressive erection. Nothing was little about his little brother, a fact that no longer unnerved him. He had learned to embrace it, was even turned on by it so badly it made him tremble from desire.
The salty tang was familiar and he felt once again reminded of all the time they had done this before. It’s been months by now since the last time, and even if it was by no means the longest stretch of time they hadn’t been with each other, it felt like forever. So much had changed since then and it made his movements desperate. And so his lips closed over the glossy head, hungry for another taste of Sam. The sucking motion he made earned him another cut off moan and the hands in his hair balled to fists. Just like that there was nothing he wanted more than to make Sam lose the control he had hung onto all night. Surprising Sam was always a good way to go about that so he swallowed down almost the whole length of him at once. The cockhead bumped against throat, making him gag. Tears sprung to his eyes but his own cock was throbbing almost painfully in his jeans. The sounds Sam were making by now -deep and guttural like he couldn’t believe something could feel this good- were driving him insane. Dean’s inhibitions had been shaved off together with most of his scruff and he wasn’t even embarrassed by the way he was thrusting into thin air in his search for friction. His own moans caused his throat to flutter around the flesh in his mouth. “Dean, fuck, that mouth of yours” To hear his name again, to have Sam acknowledge it’s Dean who made him feel like that, caused the heat in his belly to burn hot and bright. He swallowed once, twice, and then started bobbing his head in earnest. The skin on Sam’s hips had started to get moist with sweat under Dean’s hands and his breath came labored and uneven. Dean knew his brothers tells, no matter if it was poker, or lies, or sex. Sam was already close. But they weren’t finished. Not before Dean had one more chance to feel Sam inside of him. And so he pulled off with effort, Sam as reluctant to let him go as Dean was to let go of that gorgeous cock in his mouth. Sam’s hands held him there for another few heartbeats before allowing Dean to pull back and look up at Sam. “Fuck me. Now.” The needy groan he got in reply almost sent him over the edge. Sam looked at Dean like he could devour him whole, burn off his skin, flay him wide open and make his home between his bones. But then his eyes cleared from the lustful fog and he shook his head. “We don’t have anything here.” Shit. Lube was in his bedside drawer but Dean knew if he left right now the moment would be forever gone. So he looked around in desperate search of something they could use to ease the way. After Stanford he had once tried to take Sam without. It was an experience neither man wanted to repeat. “The shaving cream!” Of course! It was right there. Dean patted himself on his back mentally for this great idea but his face fell at Sam’s appalled look. “I’m not going to fuck you with shaving cream! Are you crazy?”
He would need to bring the big guns then. His hand went to Sam’s rigid cock once more, lazily pumping the hot flesh. With his other hand he went to his own fly to free his painfully hard dick, mirroring the movement.
“Sam, please, come one. Fuck me. I can’t, please –“
If there was one thing Sam couldn’t resist it was a begging Dean. The inner fight that was clearly visible on the expressive face was short.
“Okay. Okay. Fuck. Look at you.”
And with that he hauled Dean up to rid him of his jeans and underwear so fast, you could think they had offended him personally. Dean helped as well as he could but whenever Sam got like that he was like a tornado, unstoppable. A force of nature.
Dean was turned around like a ragdoll, like he wasn’t 6’1’ and almost two hundred pounds. The thick and steady stream of precome running down his length told the story about his stand on being manhandled by his little brother. Still, until his dying day he would deny the whimpers and mewls that were caused by him being thoroughly fucked. Sam’s dominant side laid dormant most of the time, but the right triggers always made him lose it quick and dirty.
Exhibit A was the two fingers that breached Dean at once, slicked by the cream but still thick enough to really burn. Good thing he was beyond caring at this moment. He even hoped to feel Sam for days, was not sure there would be another time.
The prep was fast and efficient, no lingering touches or excessive teasing. Once, Sam had gotten him off on his fingers alone twice before he had fucked Dean into the mattress. But they were both too keyed up by now for that, so Dean actually sighed in relief when he felt the thick and slippery head at his entrance. That sound was followed by a shout when Sam shoved in all the way with one smooth thrust, impaling Dean on his big cock.
Dean felt so full so sudden it gave him whiplash. It hurt but it was also the best feeling in the world, Sam flooding his senses from all sides. His smell, the feeling of his skin, the heat of his cock and the pressure that actually made Dean actually feel light and unburdened. And then, when he thought nothing could ever feel better, Sam started moving.
He withdrew almost all the way, until only the head was keeping Dean open, before he slammed back in with so much force they both almost lost their balance. That was the rhythm he set for them, hard and punishing, and Dean felt himself getting closer and closer embarrassingly soon. Sam skirted around his prostate, never hitting it dead on but teasing it, almost, almost there.
And then something changed.
Dean took one hand away from where it was supporting his weight against the wall to wrap it around his cook instead. Only, Sam wouldn’t have any of that, loved it when Dean came from nothing but Sam fucking him relentlessly. So he grabbed Dean’s hand and slammed it back against the wall. The impact made Dean wince in pain despite the happy hormones flooding his system right now. The wound on his hand started bleeding again and the pain was instant and sharp.
“Shit, Dean. I’m, I’m sorry.”
He was stroking Dean’s arms by now, hips moving in an almost lazy rhythm. One of Sam’s hands found its way to his chest to press Dean’s body flush against his, palm resting above the tattoo they no longer shared. Sam’s nose was pressed behind Dean’s ear, punched out breath tickling the sensitive skin there. His other hand wandered down, from his arm over his shoulder and flanks until it reached his hip, where it stayed to anchor them both.
The pace of his thrusts had changed from short and urgent to long and deep, stroking over his most sensitive spot every damn time. Were the sounds out of Dean’s mouth high and needy before, they were now breathy moans, almost inaudibly. His own orgasm came of a surprise to him, even more so in its intensity, whole body going lax in Sam’s arms. He was only held upright by his brother’s tight embrace, Sam’s hips speeding up again. Dean himself could do nothing but hold on for the ride and let his brother race towards his own climax while his body almost jiggled in Sam’s arms.
When he came, Sam let out one last shuddery breath that sounded suspiciously like Dean’s name. His movements stilled while he rested his forehead on Dean’s nape and they stayed like that for another minute or two before Sam pulled out and cleaned them up. Their eyes had still yet to meet.
Dean was looking at Sam, waiting for his little brother to say something, to acknowledge what they just did. Sam always was the one who wanted to talk, who said sappy shit like “I still care about you,” so Dean was waiting. And indeed, after the silence between them had lasted too long to be comfortable, he looked at Dean like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.
He only turned around, back to Dean, and walked towards the still open door. There, he paused.
“This doesn’t change a thing.”
The deafening silence did almost drown out the sound of a heart shattering in a million pieces.
OMGGGG ANONNNNNNNNNNNNN, you are trying to kill me--this is all i know???????????? because holy mother--4k words of fucking PURE UNDERLYING ANGST, with shaving!kink and breakup scruff thrown on top of it. I DIDNT KNOW WHETHER TO BE TURNED ON OR CLUTCH MY BLANKETS AND CRY. THE VERY END MADE ME GO :O because wowwww THAT HURT!!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t deserve you kind anon, you’ve done amazingly and I can’t thank you enough. ;;;;;;;;;;;