can i ask for wincest + some kind of hurt/comfort involving sam getting whumped? *points to username* i am nothing if not predictable lmao
thank you sm for the prompt!! I'm incapable of keeping things short, it seems. I do apologize.
I hope this is somewhat okay, I've decided to go with wincest + the aftermath of Dean violating Sam + hurt/comfort
(tw for rape/abuse/manipulation) The door of the motel room slamming shut has left an echo that’s still ringing in his ears, even after all the time he’s been motionlessly sprawled across the bed.
His toes are cold and it hurts to wiggle them, so he doesn’t. He’s sticky all over- the thick scent of iron clogging his nose, the mess between his legs- and he’d love nothing more than to drag himself into the shower and turn the water on as hot as it’ll go, burn the tainted layers of his skin off until he’s shiny and clean underneath, but his body feels lead-heavy and impossible to move.
One thought makes him hate himself just a tad bit more right this second, the thought that’s been periodically punching its way through his brain for what seems like a lifetime now appears again, and it grabs him by the lungs and squeezes until his eyes fill with tears: he wants Dean to come back, to be here with him.
He shouldn’t wish for it, should flinch at the thought of his brother’s hands on his body after what he’s done to him, because if there’s anybody who can break Sam this way, it’s Dean.
But if there’s anybody who can mend Sam in any way that matters, it too is Dean.
It’s a conundrum Sam’s been choking on since he was capable of independent thought.
He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, in through his bloody nose, out through his dry mouth. Deep, calm.
Heart in his throat when he hears the door click, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes, just in case his mind’s playing tricks on him again.
“Sammy,” comes Dean’s rumble of a voice, far away then close, right next to him. “Hey, little brother.”
Sam hasn’t cried once tonight: not when the first punch landed smack in the middle of his face, not when he was pinned and unable to breathe, not when it sank in what was about to happen. Not when he looked into his brother’s eyes, dark with danger, feral with fury. Not when he decided not to fight it, bone-deep tired and resigned.
That hand on his face, calloused yet gentle with reverence, that’s what finally does him in, punches through the resolve he’s been digging his claws into all night, makes him let the tears fall freely now.
“Oh, Sammy,” Dean rasps and buries his face in Sam’s unwashed hair, the heat of his kiss burning through Sam’s skin like a brand. “Go ‘head, let it out. ‘m here now.”
Sam doesn’t know how long he cries it out but once he’s done, his throat is hurting something fierce.
“Up you go now, c'mon.”
Dean grabs him by the arms and helps him to his feet, grip loosening when he sees Sam flinch, turn in on himself at having eyes on him in this state: disheveled, pants and underwear at his knees, smeared with various bodily fluids, shirt ripped and digging into his skin uncomfortably.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, huh? You look a mess, man.”
Sam wants to scream, wants to thrash, wants to run and run and never come back, but he nods and helps Dean take his clothes off slowly but shakily, follows him into the too-small bathroom.
“Y’want a bath or will a shower be enough?”
Sam clears his throat. Rasps, “A shower’s fine. ‘m tired.”
Dean clicks his tongue, sympathetic.
“Yeah, I bet. C’mon then, get in.”
Dean doesn’t take his clothes off, and Sam is grateful. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he saw his brother’s naked body right now.
A light push sends him to his knees and soon enough there’s warm water running down his back, into the crease of his ass, making him hiss.
“Wanna do it yourself or should I?” Dean asks, drives gentle hands down the knobs of Sam’s spine.
“You do it. Please.”
Dean bends down and presses a long kiss to his forehead, breathes him in even though he probably smells rotten right now. Sam closes his eyes and, against his better judgment, basks in the affection.
“I’ll use this, how ‘bout it?” Dean asks, holding out one of the soft washcloths they keep in their bags at all times. They come in handy.
At Sam’s nod he starts cleaning the sweat and dried spit off his back, his chest, reaching lower to clean between Sam’s legs, carefully sweeping over his most tender spots to get rid of what he left behind. The rag comes away bloody, but the water washes it away swiftly.
“I got you, Sammy. You’re okay, hm? You’re gonna be okay.”
Exhaling shakily, Sam nods, keeps his eyes shut and lets his big brother take care of him. Remembers what it was like when they were younger, when Sam fell off his bike and Dean patched him up, when Sam got into his first fistfight and Dean held him while he secretly cried, when Sam got injured in a hunt and Dean was the one who stitched the cut back up with capable fingers.
Dean cleans his face last, wet fingers delicately rubbing at the dried blood until it’s wiped away, tilting Sam’s chin up and inspecting him expertly.
“’s not broken, is it?”
Sam wrinkles his nose and shrugs at the slight discomfort.
“Nah, it’s okay.”
Dean nods, drives his wet hand down Sam’s face one more time, ridding him of whatever doesn’t belong on those rosy cheeks. Pecks Sam’s wet mouth once, twice, chuckles.
“Good as new, little brother,” he whispers against Sam’s lips.
Sam smiles, can’t help it.
“Thank you, Dean.”
Sam deepens the kiss, now that he’s got Dean close, after he’s waited for him all night.
Dean pulls away and straightens back up, and when Sam looks at him, there’s a flicker of something passing across Dean’s face. Sam would be crazy to call it regret, it’s gone as quick as it came.
“Let’s get you dried off and into bed, Sammy. Wanna share tonight?”
The squeezing sensation in Sam’s lungs returns, way different than mere minutes ago. Sam smiles, gets up, doesn’t even cover his naked body. Dean can look all he wants.
“Yeah, I’d like that. A lot.”
The ringing in his ears is gone now, everything is calm.
