dean spoiling the hell out of sam when they first start fucking and he just lives to get sam to come first and maybe second too and sam tries sO hard to fight dean and turn the focus on him and make dean come first but sam’s seventeen and hormonal and constantly horny and he can’t remember his first name when dean gets his hands on him

“It’s only because you wake up too early. The bed gets cold.”

“Cas, too early for you is before noon.”


I DID IT I POSTED IM SO SORRY. p.s. the ask is open because a lot of the old asks seem to have gone missing? uwu sorry about that. 

Dean’s eyes flutter open, lungs drawing a breath he never thought he’d need again.

He’s alive.

He’s… alive?

He’d said his goodbyes, blood tricking from his cheeks, down his lips, last bit of his strength reaching out for Sam, pulling him in close by the back of the neck, “I’m proud of us.”

Last breath leaving him on the downward spiral of Sam calling his name echoing all through him; image of his brother’s face sheathed in tears taken with him last of all.

He’d done it right. That’s the thought that follows him into darkness. He’d done it right, and Sam won’t sell his soul to bring Dean back, and he shouldn’t—shouldn’t—

He shouldn’t because—

When Dean wakes, he can feel it; the hunger inside him, the need and want to kill, the shadow that reaches up from inside him to cover his eyes as they open, turning them black.


He can feel darkness inside him, swirling, so desirable, so easy to embrace, and he wants to, he wants to.

“No,” Dean forces the word from between his lips as he sits up on the bed. His brother’s bed, not his own, and the very thought drives the black cover from his eyes.

Crowley’s face is the first one he sees.

“Dean,” Crowley hums out his name with a pleasure he’s never heard before, and the thing inside him wants to answer, wants to heel at the feet of its master.

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “I’m not that… not yet.”

“Dean?” Crowley asks, his tone a hushed whisper tinged with surprise. ”Your soul shouldn’t still be in there.”

“Tough shit,” Dean grates, sitting up.

“You know this is inevitable,” Crowley says, almost like he feels sorry for Dean.

Dean can feel it like ink beneath his skin, streaking through his veins, slowly painting out the lines of his veins, trying to fill him.

It’s coming. It’s coming and he’d already said goodbye. But he isn’t finished, yet.

“I need to see Sam.”

“Have it your way, squirrel.”


Dean showers with a monumental effort, rubs a towel over himself until he can imagine putting on fresh clothing. He dresses himself, then looks to the mirror, facing his image head on. He still doesn’t look right, green eyes intact, blackness curling like smoke under his skin, and no, no, not yet, heaving out a breath, hand rubbed through his hair.

He walks to the kitchen with halting steps, slowly getting himself under control. Deep breaths, and he’s walking, he’s okay, he’s fine.

He pulls two beers from the fridge, shuddering as he does, palms slipping against the lids until he cracks both of them open. He sits down at the tables in what the Men of Letters called the war room—what Dean has always thought of as the common room, like something out of a fantasy story.

The bottles begin to sweat against his hands in the few minutes until Sam appears. Sam’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy and Dean feels the way they fall on him, leaving him bare for an instant.

“I’m still dreaming,” Sam whispers, his voice cracking over the syllables.

“You think so?” Dean asks, voice quiet and unsteady, sliding a beer in Sam’s direction, toward the end of the table, directly diagonal from Dean.

Sam sits down, taking the beer in hand. “I think I must be. Because I tried everything last night and Crowley still didn’t show.”

“If you were dreaming, what would I say?” Dean runs a hand through his hair, feeling tired.

Sam squints at Dean, taking a drink from his bottle before he sets in backs down, fingertips curling around the circumference of the bottle, turning it within his palm as he looks at Dean. Looking at Dean so directly, so honest and forthright and it hurts that Sam can only look at him like this now; when he thinks he’s dreaming.

Dean can remember when that was the only way Sam knew how to look at him.

“Nothing,” Sam sighs. “You’d just be Dean, like you are right now. Like this was any other morning.”

Dean closes his eyes, pushes down against the wild, violent rush through his veins, demon inside him shoving up hard beneath the skin. He bites down hard against his lower lip on the intake of breath, eyes opening to focus on Sam.

He’s beautiful, and Dean’s never given thought to other men as being beautiful; just his brother, and it’s something he would never admit on pain of death. But here and now, he thinks it, sees, the way the light catches at the edges of Sam’s face, how it makes him even more beautiful, features cast in the starkness of glowing incandescent and shadow. He’s beautiful, almost delicate, but so strong. So easy to forget how strong he is in the face of his beauty.

But Sam has always been strong—stronger than Dean has ever been. Stronger than anyone else Dean has ever known. He’d thought Sam was weak, giving in to the darkness inside him. But Dean understands it now—understands it like he will never get the chance to understand again.

Sam, who Dean had condemned for failing him and carried the pain. Sam who had never failed him in the end. Sam, who had sacrificed himself to save the world.

Sam, who had always, even at his darkest, had been trying to do the right thing; the best thing.

“If this was a dream…” Dean breathes, setting his beer bottle down. “Maybe I’d say I was sorry, Sam. Sorry for everything I ever put you through. Sorry for everything you’ve had to go through. Maybe I’d say I understand now, because the blade was turning me into someone I didn’t want to be. Someone who needed revenge so much they let it take over them. Someone who thought they were doing the right thing. Just like you always did. Someone who didn’t understand up until the very end how much they had changed.“

Sam laughs, sound of it almost harsh as he pulls the bottle from between his lips, shaking his head, like a man so certain he’s dreaming he’s got nothing left to lose. “You’d never say that.”

“Or maybe I finally get it, Sam.” The words leave Dean with what feels like all of his breath, and then he breathes in, goes on. “Maybe I’ve changed, like you did. Maybe I’ve changed more than you– so much that I know I’m never coming back.”

“I’d always bring you back,” Sam says, squinting at him across his beer bottle like Dean is an idiot for ever having a doubt, and Dean feels it like an arrow through his heart, knows Sam believes it.

“At what cost Sam? Selling your soul? Finishing the trials on me with your human blood?”

Sam stops, staring at Dean. “Why would I have to finish the trials?”

Dean lets the darkness inside him expand just a fraction, feels his eyes roll over black. “This is why.”

He can hear the way Sam hisses in a breath.

“You think I’d let you die for me? You think I’d let you die to save me from this?” Dean shakes his head, hand shattering the beer bottle between his fingers, shards of glass digging deep, blood dripping thick around the pieces lodged in his skin.  “I never would. Just like I know you’d never stop trying.”

Sam takes in a deep breath, leaning across the table. “Dean.” Sam taking Dean’s hand gently in his own, fingertips closing around a brown shard of glass in his palm, pulling it free before he glances up, and Dean can see it in his eyes.

–Two boys in a hayloft, laughing and wrestling, hay itching underneath their clothes and against their skin until they’d fallen atop each other, fingers tangled together as they’d laughed, fifteen and nineteen with their whole lives ahead of them.

We’ll always have each other, Dean words whispered against Dean’s mouth, and Sam had kissed him—kissed him slow and sweet down into the hay beneath.–

“Dean we can work this out. I will find a way.”

“Shut up, come here.“

Sam climbs into his lap, pushing his lips against Dean’s, hands twining at the base of Dean’s skull. It’s incredible, the way their mouths meet, the need and want between them that’s always been there. Two boys covered in hay, kissing like their lives depend on it and Dean wants to stay here—right here—always here. Wants Sam to stay here, too.

“I love you, Sam.”

"I love you, too, Dean. Always wi—“

Sam’s words cut off as Dean slides the first blade between his ribs, piercing his heart in two.


Dean spends hours digging Sam’s grave, tears spilling from clear, green eyes.

I couldn’t let you stay. I couldn’t leave you behind. Not for this.

I killed you. If I don’t see you in heaven, you’ll know, and you’ll know why. But at least you’ll be there. You won’t have to hunt me down and kill me. And if you’d stayed… you would’ve. You would have had to clean up my mess.

Worse, you would have had to clean up the mess of the thing inside me—the sickness working through me. You would have cleaned up the mess of a demon; a lapdog who could never be saved.

It would never have let you live. Would have gloried in the spilling of your blood.

Beautiful boy, kissing him down into the hay, and Dean had known, even then, even before everything else.

Nothing else would ever be as important. 

We were always damned.


“Now?” Crowley asks, standing over him.

Dean sits heavy on his knees, clenches his fist through grave dirt and nods, letting go of the last of Sam that remains.

Tears in his eyes and he feels the demon inside him slide completely into place, feels his soul fall away.

He hopes for heaven.


When the kid mentions workplace romance, Dean inhales sharply. Sam bites his lip and keeps his eyes on the screen because if he looks in Dean’s eyes he’ll remember everything: Dean’s trembling hands touching Sam’s face; Dean desperate beneath him as Sam fucked him over his desk; Dean’s laughter when Sam pulled him into a kiss by his tie. Remember, too, the startled realization on Dean’s face when he looked at Sam, when Sam looked at him, and they finally both remembered who they really were.