Current mood:	horny
Current music:	The Pierces - Lights On
Entry tags:	fic, supernatural

FIC: Not That I Need Proof
This is an instance of "I couldn't find what I was looking for, so I did it myself". A filthy, somewhat schmoopy coda to 4.01. I'd feel guilty on both counts, but I had a crappy weekend and this is how I cheered myself up.


Not That I Need Proof. Sam/Dean, NC-17, 4385 words. Basically a PWP coda to 4.01, and thus (obviously!) spoilery for that ep.



Bobby wasn't gone for an hour before Dean fell asleep.

Sam walked around the room aimlessly at first, tucking things into his bag and trying to make sure nothing in the room would broadcast "Sam Winchester Uses His Demonic Powers Now" to a different eye, but it was pretty useless.

He just kept looking over at Dean and being jolted all over again.

There was a part of him that was still reticent to believe the fact that Dean was actually there again. Demons had tortured him about it for months, describing the things that happen to souls in hell. He heard in detail the way they were stretched to the point of breaking, feeling pain greater than the human mind could imagine, and then feeling a little more.

Dean, though, looked fine. His chest moved slow and easy under his t-shirt, like this was any other motel bed on any other night.

Sam was careful when he touched his hand to Dean's stomach, fingertips and palm brushing over the warmth there.

He tried so hard to not remember any of this. He crushed down his memories of Dean, both the trivial and the important. It was easier to not remember the feeling of sharing a bed and feeling his body heat, or knowing that all it took was to reach out and he'd be right there. He separated himself from the days when they were one person, no room for secrets, no room for anything but the bare, honest truth. The days when they fucked in shady motels that felt separate from the world, little pockets where they didn't have to explain themselves or feel anything but good about what they were.

There were times it was inevitable – a song would come on the radio and hit a nerve, or there'd be someone in a supermarket with the same way of walking or a similar voice. At one point he and Ruby followed a hunt to a town they lived in while he was in high school, and the memories that crashed back were so visceral that he couldn't even stick around to finish the job.

It seemed impossible that Dean could be in front of him again, snoozing so casually on the tacky red bedspread. He would have likened it to a dream, but even that was wrong; in a dream he wouldn't have the burn searing through him of panic and hope and fear.

Dean opened his eyes so abruptly that it made Sam jump a little.

"Quit molesting me in my sleep," he said muzzily, eyes blinking shut again, but Sam couldn't stop himself from reaching up to touch his face.

It was a little, hesitant touch – starting at the forehead and slipping down, tracing the bones of his face. There was a rasp of stubble under his thumb when he reached Dean's jaw, and it was so normal – so bizarrely, achingly familiar and normal that his chest tightened up.

It felt like Florida all over again. Dean didn't realize, didn't understand what it all meant, and Sam – Sam knew with more certainty than anyone ever should that he needed this.

"Dean," he said, so thin he was surprised Dean could even hear it. When he opened his eyes again, though, there was a different expression on his face – more understanding, more aware.

"Sammy," Dean said, voice gravelly, and reached to touch his wrist, following the line of his arm up to where his shirtsleeves were rolled up.

Sam traced his face at first, and then followed the path with his mouth – the corner of Dean's lips, the tip of his pointy nose, the smooth space between his eyebrows.

"I forgot," he said, and he could hear his own voice crack. "I think I started to forget–"

He couldn't quite get it out, but Dean just shook his head.

"You didn't forget," he said. Like it was just that simple, just that easy.

He felt like breaking in two, for some reason. He had prayed and hoped and worked for this for so long, and now – to finally have Dean again, to be alone with him – it felt dizzying. The urge welling up in him was to claw his way inside Dean so he couldn't ever get away again, to bind the two of them together in any way possible. It was scary and overwhelming and he didn't know what to do with what he was feeling.

Dean just waited, one corner of his mouth tilting up a little. It was a mannerism so utterly Dean that Sam did the only thing he could think to do just then: he kissed him.

It was careful at first, a gentle touch of lips, but the moment he felt Dean's breath against his face it went deeper. He made a little noise in his throat, tongue touching the seam of Dean's lips and pressing in when he parted them.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it was a shock that he tasted the same, responded the same. Sam licked into him, tongue desperate and needy, skimming over Dean's and moving against it in demanding, sweet laps.

His stubble felt visceral then, and Sam's lip caught gently on the smattering of it over Dean's mouth, the tender pink skin inside scraping against the wiry roughness. He hissed into the kiss, lost to everything but the slip-slide of spit and teeth and tongues.

Dean's hands moved up over his shoulders, following the lines of muscle until he twisted them into Sam's hair. He was always the best kisser Sam ever knew, but just then it was completely hedonistic, messy and wanting. His tongue skimmed over Sam's bottom lip, catching in the corners of his mouth, that forgotten spot inside his upper lip – and then deep again, jaw open wide like he was breathing air into Sam's lungs.

"Dean," he finally managed when they broke apart a little, but Dean already had his hands at Sam's chest, yanking open the buttons there and pushing the shirt off his shoulders. The skim of fingers against his stomach felt like electricity, Dean's skin hot and his ring still cool.

He shoved the hem of Dean's t-shirt up, too impatient for the feeling of skin on skin to manage pulling it off of him. Dean did it for him, tugging it over his head and losing it somewhere in the blanket as their chests pressed together.

Sam was already hard in his pants – he hadn't even realized until Dean's hips pressed against his in just the right way. He groaned, rubbing his face in against Dean's neck. He could really smell him that way – smell his sweat and skin, both so familiar and strange that it made his head spin.

"God, Sammy," Dean breathed, hands running down his back as they rubbed against each other. He could feel Dean's cock pressing through the layers, grinding into his hip, and the only thing he could focus on is how badly he wanted it.

His hands were clumsy when they scrabbled down between them, wrenching open Dean's jeans and then his own. It felt impossible to peel himself away enough to tug his own down, but Dean's hands were right there helping him, until the only thing between them was the thinness of Dean's boxer-briefs.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, dragging one leg up against Sam's. He could feel the rasp of hair as they slid together, stinging his senses awake.

His cock leaked a heavy little load of precome against the fabric of Dean's boxers as he rocked against him, face resting against Dean's chest as he reached to push down that last layer.

The head of Dean's prick was silky and smooth against his belly, all blood-warm and hot, and they both hissed a little as Sam's cock slid down against it.

He could see it from where his head was tilted, the angry red of Dean's knob against the pale pink skin of his stomach, and Sam's own prick there against it – the way they both seemed to redden like that from the friction and the heat.

"Sammy," Dean muttered, hips moving up so he was rubbing back, they were rubbing together, and Sam's head swam as he lifted it to look at Dean's face.

It was so fucking pretty – he couldn't even believe how gorgeous he was, twin dots of pink at his cheeks, eyelashes just fans of dark brown against them.

It didn't feel real, any of it; he was just along for the ride, desperate and needy and so in love with Dean that it hurt.

"That good?" he whispered, pointlessly, just for the reaction it got him: Dean opening his eyes and looking at him, focusing on him with all that pent-up heat and want.

"God, Sammy," he breathed back. "You're so fuckin'–"

He didn't seem able to finish that thought, and Sam tipped his face in to kiss at his neck, lips rubbing over the roughness of stubble there under his chin and then down, nipping against the pulse that was still so fucking incredible to him, down to his chest.

"I need to," he breathed by way of explanation, and slipped down further, face skimming over the muscles of Dean's stomach to where he was hottest.

His cock was flushed dark pink, so fucking heavy in his hand, and Dean's hips gave an ineffectual little thrust when Sam got a fist around him, lips brushing over the swollen head.

He ran his tongue over the slit, collecting the mess of precome there.

"God, Sam," Dean huffed, arching a little, hands gripping at the sheets. He never liked to grab Sam's hair when he was doing this, always afraid of crossing some kind of line, and it seemed ridiculous that he'd still do that. Like there were any lines left to cross.

"Hold my head," he whispered, staring up the muscled plane of his stomach. Dean hesitated, and Sam let out a frustrated huff, hot air against his skin. "Dean, god - just hold me while I blow you."

The hands that came down into his hair were uncertain at first. He petted his hair away from his face as Sam ran his mouth up the underside of his cock, lips skimming gently and his tongue coming out to trace over the edge of the head. Sam made an encouraging noise, sucking at that gentle, sensitive spot, and all at once those fingers went tighter.

"God, Sam," he muttered, voice abruptly threadbare. "Yeah, just–"

Sam didn't, though. He went back down to the base and started it all over again.

It had been too long. Too many months without this, without Dean. Too long pushing the memories of this down, burying them as deep in his mind as he could so they wouldn't keep torturing him. Ruby told him he had to give parts of himself up to do what she wanted him to do, and this was one of those – the part that could remember what it was like to be Dean's.

He hummed an answer to Dean's sharp little mutters, licking at his slit again before sliding his mouth down low. The head was velvety, hard from the blood pounding under the skin but so soft, giving with each lick he ran over it. It tasted like salt and sweat and cock; it tasted like Dean. He let his lips form a tight ring around the neck and just slurped there, feeling another clear little load of precome cut out the tip.

"Fuck," Dean groaned, doing a full-body squirm beneath him. The muscles in his thighs flickered warningly, like he was ready to just flip the both of them over and fuck his mouth deep; instead, though, he did what Sam thought he might - he yanked on his hair in a warning, instinctual jerk.

The room was too dark for Sam to see much, but he could see Dean. The light from under the lampshades was red and muted, but it caught on the sweat forming along Dean's collarbone and the pull of his throat around ragged breaths. He was so hot, so alive – so fucking alive, right underneath him.

Sam shut his eyes slowly as he sank down low, taking him as far as he could. The wet pit at the back of his throat was used to this once, but strained a little as he got him deep.

He'd get used to it again.

He worked his muscles in a slow rhythm until the need for air pushed him back again, off his cock. Thick strands of saliva connected his mouth to it for a long moment as Dean's muscles strained again.

"Fuck," whispered, and Sam slid his tongue out to taste the head again as Dean's fingers grasped at his hair. "Fuck - Sammy – "

"I know," he whispered, voice ruined and low. "I know. God, Dean–"

Dean's prick oozed out another wad of precome, a fat droplet that ran down the head in the same path as Sam's spit. His cock was fucking drooling for it, so ready for more of his mouth.

"I missed you," he muttered, rubbing the head against the corners of his mouth, the line of his nose. "I missed this."

Dean's hips did jerk up then, his whole body seeming to pry up off the mattress and right into the hot hole of his mouth.

"God, you're so beautiful," Dean muttered, and when Sam looked up he found him staring right down at him. One hand slid out of his hair and rubbed over his cheek. "So fucking beautiful, Sammy."

Inexplicably, he could feel his cheeks heating a little, and knit his eyebrows as he bobbed on his cock. He wasn't used to this – used to being around anyone who could unspool him that easily, pull him to pieces with praise.

"Just like that, fuck," Dean groaned, and Sam rolled his hips, dragging his erection right down against the sheets.

"Come on," he finally managed, popping off again to give him a squeeze. The sheen of spit made his hand move easy, big and firm on Dean's cock. "Come on, Dean, come on my face."

He smeared the red head of it, sticky-wet and sensitive, across the bridge of his nose, the rosy flush of his cheek.

"I need to feel you."

Dean jerked again, hips driving his cock to fuck Sam's fist. He breathed on it, warm little huffs between his swollen lips until Dean did what he asked him too – made a wounded noise and blew his load, stuttering spurts that hit Sam's cheek, eyebrow, nose.

"Sammy." It seemed to be all he could say, and Sam sucked in a shuddering breath as he crawled up the bed, face sticky and smeared when he pressed it against Dean's neck.

He could feel his heartbeat, there, palm pressed down against Dean's tattoo, cheek up against the steady throb in his throat. It was too much – too painful, too sweet, and all he could do was press the two of them together until it seemed possible that Dean wasn't about to disappear.

"Sammy," he muttered again, and Sam could hear it vibrate through his chest. A hand came up to touch his hair again, twist around the flippy curl in the back and just clutch at him.

When he lifted his head, Dean twisted his mouth in a little smile, hand shifting to wipe away the streaks of jizz.

Sam's jaw fit right between Dean's hands like it was made for that, like he was a child being soothed. Dean's thumbs touched at the corners of his mouth, then trailed down to the dip in his chin. Dean had one just like it; they got it from their dad.

"Such a fuckin' perv," Dean muttered, still thumbing at the stickiness on his skin. Somehow, through the swirl of emotions that was gripping at Sam's throat, that got him to laugh.

"Can I," he finally said, bottom lip swollen and soft against Dean's thumb. "Please, I need–"

Dean just studied his face for a second, as though he were as desperate for the details of it as Sam was for him.

"Yeah," he said. His voice was ragged, but there was a glimmer of heat to it that Sam recognized. He flashed him a little grin then, sex-flushed and satisfied, thumb rubbing up under the head of Sam’s cock. “Fuck, yeah.”

It took the most tender part of him and twisted it hard, seeing Dean’s face lit up like that. It was a slow, smirky little smile, just for him, but it made it all so clear – that Dean still wanted this, too. That Dean was right there with him. That Dean was still Dean.

He stumbled away from the bed and into the bathroom without thinking, working on autopilot and the knowledge that there had to be some bottle of something slippery in there. The drawers were all empty, but his shaving kit yielded a slim bottle of lotion he took from a motel a few months ago.

Dean had one arm tucked behind his head when Sam clambered back up over him, squeezing it out messily over his fingers. Dean's teeth sank into his fat bottom lip when Sam touched him, wordlessly sliding between his legs and skimming his fingers against his hole – one at first, pressing deep.

They'd done this a thousand times before, more ways and places than he could remember, but right then it felt like the first. Dean's eyebrows knitted a little with the pressure of Sam's fingers – another one, then, twisting him open. He was as hot inside as he was out, legs spreading for Sam so he could take more, breaths lowering into encouraging little noises.

It felt so intimate, like this. When Dean showed up at the door, when Ruby was slinking around the room and Bobby was there, holding him back, Dean felt like a stranger. Like someone who didn't fit into his life anymore, something he didn't know what to do with, how to understand.

He didn't know how it happened, how it was possible to snap back to knowing that Dean was stamped on his heart in every possible way, that they would always be like this.

Sam pressed Dean's legs up against his chest, not quite willing to take his eyes off his face. There was a dull flush creeping across Dean's cheeks, and he was so pretty it made Sam's heart hurt.

"Dean," he said, stupidly, hair falling across his forehead as he pressed in. It took a second, but then Dean opened up for him, easy and sweet.

"Shit," he breathed, because it was too good – it felt like sugar in his veins, the feeling of Dean – Dean – taking him like this, so hot and sweet around him. His eyes were slits, but he could still see Dean's face, the slightly open-mouthed look there of being filled, of giving it all up to him and needing this as badly as Sam.

"Dean," he managed, the only thing that would come to his blank, swirling mind, and Dean arched, taking more of him, taking him until Sam had slid in all the way, until they were finally – finally connected.

He couldn't move at first; couldn't do anything. He just stayed there, leaning against Dean, hands broad and clenching at the red bedspread, mouth still salty with Dean's cock.

Everything – the room, his powers, the plan, Ruby, hell – faded to nothing, nothing but the feeling of being inside Dean, feeling Dean breathe and squirm and flex beneath him. Nothing mattered but Dean, and he finally got him back.

"You feel so good," he whispered, voice honest and small. Dean's eyebrows came together a little, like the tone of that hit him in some way.

"Sammy," he started, but his voice was rough, too. They were too connected, too together for anything but the truth, and Dean met his gaze, breathing it out in a low, tight string. “Come on, Sam, I’m right here. I know what you want, now just – give it to me.”

Sam finally shifted his hips, rocking just for the friction of it.

Everything in him wanted to close his eyes, just lose himself in the sweetness of it around his cock, but he kept them open – had to keep them open, to take in the sight of Dean laid out for him. Dean, so fucking pale and muscled and pretty, open for him and waiting. He wasn't sure he believed it was happening, even now.

Dean's lips were swollen and flushed where he'd been biting them, and Sam leaned in without thinking – shifting his position just to touch their mouths together, lick his way past Dean's lips and taste him.

The noise Dean made against his mouth was threadbare and needy, and Sam rolled his hips again – finding a rhythm just like that, grinding into him as Dean sucked at his tongue, twisting his own around it tracing the shape of his teeth.

When he pulled back, too desperate for longer strokes, Dean just watched him – eyes heavy-lidded, skin pink and mouth wet.

Sam tipped his head back, lost in the sound of his hips against the backs of Dean's thighs, the wet noises they made moving together. The motion in the mirror caught him by surprise, and he slowed a little, just watching it all reflected back at him: his own back, pink at the center where the knife went in a year ago; Dean's chest, heaving and marked over his heart with their tattoo.

"Dean," was all he could say, leaning his face in against Dean's hair and driving in deeper, pressing harder. His chest was flushed pink, a blush that drown out the usual tan of his skin. He was so alive, so thrumming with heat that it was impossible to think he ever wasn't - that Sam ever felt him go cold and still, ever bound together wood to make a cross for his grave. His voice cracked a little as he huffed it out again, just the word itself feeling good now. "Dean."

He reached down, weight shifting onto one palm as he wrapped his fingers wrapped around the amulet.

The sharp edges cut into his hand, and Dean sucked in a breath when Sam gave it a tug. He pulled it, tightening the cord enough they could both feel the tension in it, the thing that had connected them for fifteen years.

"You don't even know," Sam groaned, still clutching him by it as he rocked in deeper. The wetness between them was slippery and endless, bodies fitting together in a slick, easy slide. "You don't even know how hard I tried. How much – Dean, god, how much I did. Just needed you again."

“I know,” Dean said, pushing against him, moving with him. “Christ, Sammy – I know.”

His hand tightened around the slim piece of metal. It was like an anchor, holding him there to Dean as he slid into him, deeper and deeper, just fucking drunk on the feeling of that connection. He could never give this up, never really separate himself from it, and this was what he was drawing all that power from those months – the knowledge that he could and would destroy heaven and earth if it meant getting to hell, getting back to this.

"Dean," he whispered again, and Dean seemed to squeeze around him, eyes dark and shadowy. Sam could see the flash of light off his teeth when he bit into his bottom lip. "Jesus, Dean, I love you so much–"

He couldn't believe it was out until he said it, but instead of anything he would have expected before, instead of flinching or laughing or rolling his eyes, Dean just squeezed his arm.

"Sammy." It wasn't the same thing, but he knew that to Dean, it practically was. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere again."

For some reason, that did it, that pushed him over the edge. It was the heat of Dean's skin, the heat of being nose-deep in him, surrounded by him and taking what he had wanted for so fucking long. It was those words coming out of Dean's mouth, because after twenty-five years he couldn’t do anything but believe his big brother.

"Dean," he said again, the word sweet in his mouth, and then lost it – pumping out hard and deep as his lips pressed into Dean's shoulder.

Right then, he could actually believe it. He could feel the bubble of realization slide through him, that things might be okay again. That he didn't have to be alone again.

Dean didn't let him go when he started to slump to the side. He caught him, holding them there together, breaths warm and damp against Sam's forehead.

In the mirror, he could see them again: wrapped around each other, just as desperate as before.

His hand was a little larger than the one on Dean's shoulder, but he put it there anyway – careful at first, sensitive, and then gripping him.

"I don't care who did this," he whispered. His voice wasn't catching anymore; it was so fierce it almost scared him. "I don't care who got you out of there. You aren't theirs, Dean. You're mine."

They were the words he used a year ago, trying to wash away the taint of the crossroads demon. It was the promise he made before, but now he knew it was true. It's what he was working towards all those months with Ruby, and even though for a moment he felt a frantic desire to shut it off again, to just take Dean and run as far away from demons and death and possession as he could – this is what he wanted. He could do this, he could save him, and he would.

"I know," Dean said. "We're gonna do whatever it takes."

When Dean said it, he didn't know what those words meant.

Sam did.


-fin.