Tiana (__tiana__) wrote,

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once more with feeling | R | Sam/Dean

Title:once more with feeling
Author: __tiana__
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: R for language, sexual situations
Length: 3,200ish words
Summary: Sam has a theory about how to get his soul back. He saw it on Buffy.
Spoilers: Through Season 6, Episode 8.
Disclaimer: This is fiction and no harm is meant.
Author’s Note: Written for the How the Winchesters Got Their Groove Back commentfic meme, in reply to a prompt from atimi suggesting that one of the boys gets an idea about how to restore a soul from watching Buffy. Started cracky, got serious, and then it got long. These things happen!

"Wha - Sam? What?" Dean wipes furiously at his eyes, gravel and grit seeming to be caught there. "What's wrong?" And for a moment, Dean thinks this is his Sam, waking him, and he hates how the world between asleep and awake likes to fuck with him. "I mean, what time is it?" He squints toward the windows. Still dark, not even near dawn. The fact that this Sam does not sleep is vastly irritating, though it's pretty far down on the list of things he finds irritating about this Sam, actually. The fact that he’s not Sam, for one, is quite a bit higher.

Sam is sitting on the edge of the other bed, watching him wake up. Dean rolls on his side and squints at him.

"You're awake. Good. So, I have an idea." Sam’s hands are pressed together, in a weird semblance of prayer.

Dean blinks. "It couldn't wait 'til morning?"

Sam sighs, looks vaguely anxious, which is unsettling to say the least. "I kind of thought if you were sleepy, you'd be more receptive, but I guess I forgot how cranky you are when I wake you up. Still. You're up." Sam shrugs, then leans towards Dean across the gap between the beds, and Dean knows that lean. Sam's going to fucking kiss him.

Dean jerks back like he's been shocked, fear jittering up his back. "What the fuck?" His brain spins wildly, a top out of control.

Sam is still pretty placid as he leans back a little. "I have this theory that if I experience a moment of perfect happiness, I might get my soul back. I’ve been working on a list, and I’m pretty sure the thing that makes me - makes Sam - the most happy in the world is you." Sam shifts, sits on the edge of Dean's bed, and Dean feels trapped, covers pinned down on one side now. “So...” He gestures, as if that completes the argument.

"So, what. You're going to...experience me?" Dean's eyes shift wide, pulse pounding. Sam's statement briefly overtook his entire brain's logic centers, but a few synapses start firing, and he jerks a look at the TV, still on and volume low. He recognizes that show. "Wait a fuck - you were watching Buffy? This isn't a theory of yours - you saw it on TV!"

Sam shrugs. "They do get a surprising amount of lore correct on that show, even if they completely fucked up the vampires. I think that was purely for dramatic effect. So, maybe..."

Dean rubs a hand down his face, and twitches when he feels Sam's hand on his arm.


Dean looks at him, at Sam's eyes glittering in the dark, at the sharp blue shadows cast on his face from the TV. Sam's hand lands between his legs, large and warm, closing over his cock. Dean jerks at the sudden contact, bites his lip.

"This is really stupid, Sam. No way is something you saw on a TV show going to fix this." Dean shifts up the pillows a little, tries to concentrate while Sam rubs his cock through the blanket.

Sam nods, then leans in, breath hot on Dean's neck. His mouth is a brand on his skin, heat flooding Dean. "I did the pros and cons, Dean. Pro, it might work. Pro, it will feel really fucking good. I couldn’t think of a con."

Dean shakes a little, thinks he should find it really hysterical to hear Sam use his seductive voice, on him, no less, but instead, it's doing things to him, waking a deeply buried curl of want in his belly. "We're brothers." Dean swallows. "That's a con."

Shrugging, Sam sucks against Dean's neck, his hair brushing Dean's cheek. "Not really brothers. Not right now."

And that hurts. It does. But if there could be a silver lining in the biggest fucking cloud Dean's ever had to live under, that's it, he guesses. It's a technicality, but he's gotten off on more tenuous ones.

Sam takes his silence for assent, and pulls the covers off Dean, hands running hot down his bare chest. He's reaching for Dean's boxers, pushing cotton down his hips before Dean can blink. "Whoa. Whoa, Sam. What's the game plan here. I - I need to know."

Sam pauses, eyes intense on Dean's. "I'm thinking the thing that would make me perfectly happy, if I could feel that emotion, would be to fuck you." Sam's eyes slide down Dean's chest as one hand moves along his side, fingertips curling around to grab his hip. "Definitely."

Dean stares at him, a series of visuals snapshotting through his brain at breakneck speed. They are all combinations of Sam pile-driving into him, and sweating and groaning and Dean being held down as he does, and it is suddenly very, very warm in here.

"I've fucked a lot of people this year, Dean. Far more than I ever did before, and I think. I think." Sam pauses, face twisted a little. "I think I missed you? Like, I was replacing you with them, and ...well, maybe." He says it so confused, almost innocent in a way that does not fit with this statement about being a nationwide fucking machine, that Dean doesn't even know what to do. Maybe this is a dream. He’s going to wake up, and his non-brother will be sitting at the table, reading, and he will get up and face another shitty day. That notion really sucks, but there it is.

"I think I wanted you the whole time. If that’s possible. It just doesn't - it doesn't make sense, but if that is the case, then logically, it follows that fucking you is a good - something to try."

Dean jerks up to a seated position, Sam's hands still in the waist of his boxers. "Something to try? Goddammit, Sam. I'm not going to be your eighth grade science project."

“It might work, Dean. Isn’t that worth the try?” Sam’s fingers shift low on his belly, teasing. The look on Sam’s face is dangerous, a stranger in so many ways, but that expression is trapped on a face he knows as well as his own. Better. “I’ll make it good.” The twist of his mouth turns a key in a lock, and Dean exhales.

It’s not like things could get much worse. Dean shoots a hand forward, cupping the back of Sam’s skull, fingers in his hair, and pulls. They kiss, and at first it doesn’t work. It’s too hard, too much of a fight. Dean’s trying too hard to make it work.

He gives in to Sam, and that’s when it starts to work. Sam is taking charge, and against Dean’s better judgement, he lets him. Dean has been trying to be in charge - of Sam, of their lives, of the world - for a long time, especially lately - and he’s tired. Extremely tired. He’s going to let himself have this, even if it’s a boneheaded idea, and a stupid mistake, and likely something he’ll regret.

Dean has never claimed to look that far past the things right in front of him, and right now, that thing is Sam. Or more to the point, on top of him, because that’s suddenly where Sam is. Dean’s boxers are long gone, and he realizes Sam doesn’t have his shirt on, and holy shit, apparently when Sam wasn’t killing everything, or fucking everything, this year, he was working out. Or maybe the killing and the fucking led to this body, but shit, Dean is impressed.

“You like that, huh?” Sam is apparently not missing the way Dean’s eyes are tracking his arms, his chest, the shift of muscle under skin. “Didn’t know that about you, Dean.”

Dean grimaces. It’s wholly unfair that Sam is this hot. That his body is this ridiculous and his voice is dark and promising. And that it’s messing Dean up, on a possibly molecular level.

He goes with it.

The firmness with which Sam moves Dean, the way he takes without asking, it’s not very Sam-like. In a way, that helps. Dean doesn’t want to mistake this Sam for his Sam. He might not forgive himself for a mistake like that. The way Dean’s mind works - the way it works when he’s dealing with his brother - is utterly inexplicable. He’s letting this Sam fuck him, in hopes he’ll get the other Sam back.

The fact that we wants the other Sam to fuck him, too? He’s putting that fact in a box and keeping it for later. This feels like cheating on that possibility, but it also feels illicit and dirty, and Dean is not actually opposed to those last two things. And his cock thinks they are awesome.

“Goddamn, Sam. When did you learn - you know what, never mind. Don’t tell me.” Sam has Dean on his back, legs spread wide around Sam’s hips. He’s sitting on his knees, right hand holding Dean’s thigh, keeping him open, left hand between Dean’s legs. More specifically, three fingers of Sam’s not-small left hand driving Dean to distraction, plunging deep and twisting. He’s opening Dean up in ways, physical and mental, that are disturbing and brain-meltingly hot at the same time. Every time he pushes in, Dean moves on the bed, cotton scratching along his back. And at that moment, Sam’s right hand digs into his thigh, holding him there.

And Dean has a moment of ridiculous clarity, the fog of his mind parting just long enough for a pesky fact to sneak in, even as Sam’s left hand shifts to his cock, stroking lightly. Playing.

“Not how it worked, Sam. Not. He lost his soul.” Dean digs his hands into the sheets as he bucks off the bed, sweat dripping off his sides, slow trickle.

“What?” Sam leans forward, and the movement presses Dean’s legs so far apart, he’s a little worried something’s going to pop. He feels Sam pull his fingers out, feels that slick hand grab the other thigh, press Dean wide around him, and Dean rocks up into it, words still fumbling out of his throat. Sam’s mouth is very close to his, and Sam’s cock, hard and long, is catching on his, and he chokes on a breath.

“Guy lost his soul when he got happy. Not the other way around.”

Sam cocks his head, and it reminds Dean of a dog, and it infuriates him, the way Sam looks at him now. “Yeah. But - well, it’s just a theory, Dean. It made a soul transfer between a body and somewhere else, so I thought maybe it was worth a shot.”

Dean’s a moron. He lets his head fall back, and he laughs, chest shaking with it. He’s moments away from committing full-on incest (technically, not technically, whatever) because Sam convinced him it was ‘worth a shot’. He thought his life was messed up before. That was child’s play. “You thought fucking your brother was worth the off-chance that it would make your soul come back, even though the only evidence was that you’d seen it done on TV and even in that case, it made the soul go away?”

Sam lowers his eyebrows a little, clearly thinking this over. He nods at Dean. “You thought it was worth the chance, too.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. “You have a point.”

“I thought I did.” Sam’s hands clench on Dean’s thighs. “Could I -” He is visibly holding himself still, waiting for permission to continue.

There is no reason Dean should say yes, no reason at all. It’s not going to work. It’s never, ever going to -

He nods.

Sam’s shoulder slump in relief, and when he takes his cock in hand and places the blunt head at Dean’s slick entrance, it gets real. Dean has the idea that he’d probably slam his legs shut if Sam wasn’t there between them, but as it is, he closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

It goes from painful to uncomfortable and back to painful, before rounding a corner to not so bad, and abruptly to - “Holy shit, what did you just do?” Sam had been thrusting at a different angle, face creased in concentration, and Dean had felt this weird spiraling thing happening, that kept building and building, and finally, it felt good. Really, really good.

He’s breathing hard and his hands are clutching the bedsheets in a death grip as stars pop before his eyes.

“Told you I’d make it good, Dean. Don’t you trust me?” Sam grabs the back of Dean’s thighs and yanks him higher, angle shifting again, and Dean can’t even reply, that no, of course he doesn’t trust him because Sam is getting down to business. Dean’s never been fucked like this. Never had someone take control of his body so thoroughly, and until tonight, he assumed that he’d hate the idea.

The feverish pleasure crashing around inside him begs to differ. He’s moving with Sam now, but mostly letting Sam take what he wants, and apparently Sam wants it hard, and fast. Deep and deeper. The sound of breathing, of skin slapping, is deafening in the room. Dean can’t hear anything else, beyond the blood rushing in his ears.

When he looks at Sam, when he can focus his eyes, there is this look of determination, but he doesn’t see happiness. A knife twists in his gut. Of course it’s not working, but he guesses a part of him still hoped.

Sam lifts his eyes away from the point of their meeting, and looks at Dean. The look is searching, and Dean looks back. He’s not sure what expression is on his face, but Sam hitches his rhythm, hands letting Dean’s legs fall a little bit. Sam’s moving slow now, rocking deep.

“Finish, Sam. Come on.” Dean pushes at him, grabs his own cock and starts jacking it with intent. “Come with me, okay?”

Sam nods, eyes darting from his own cock driving back into Dean to Dean’s hand, and his face is warm, flushed. He fucks less mechanically, with more abandon, and it isn’t long before his thrusting goes wild and then he lunges forward, pinning Dean down and comes with a shout. His head dips between his shoulders and he puts his hand around Dean’s, stroking him to completion, too. Dean comes, body going limp immediately after, used and sore, but satisfied.

When Sam pulls out, it’s the first time Dean even realizes Sam had put on a condom, but now he’s grateful. “Didn’t work, did it, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t look up, shakes his head. “I mean, I came. That was good, of course.” He smirks a little, Dean can see the edge of his mouth curl. “I can feel lust, Dean. Desire. Craving.” He lifts his eyes, and they’re haunted, dark circles below. “Not love. Not happiness.” He shrugs, and it’s a gesture of dismissal, but it clearly bothers him at some level that he can’t. Dean has to call that a good sign. “I wish I could. I’m pretty sure I used to enjoy that.”

Sam is holding himself up on his hands, not pressing his body into Dean’s, and suddenly, that’s what Dean wants.

“I know you do, Sammy. I know. You did, you will.” Dean reaches for his brother, and his brother comes to him. Their mouths touch, careful, and it’s a sharp counterpoint to the sex. Dean doesn’t try to escalate the kiss, and he doesn’t let Sam do it either. He kisses him slow, kisses him serious. Tasting every corner of Sam’s mouth, tasting the sweat running down his face and catching on his lips.

“Look at me.”

Sam looks at him.

“It means something that you’re trying, Sam. This was probably just a way to get in my pants, and I can appreciate that, because come on.” Dean gestures at his naked body, and Sam snorts out a laugh, and Dean almost loses his train of thought, the reaction is so achingly familiar. “But the fact that you remember how shitty things were, how hard it was to feel all of this life, and believe me, it’s pretty fucking hard, and you still want to get it back?”

Sam swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. He nods.

“It means something.” Dean shifts his eyes to the side, can’t look at Sam. “To me.”

Sam’s mouth is warm on Dean’s, his breath a hot puff against his skin. “Usually I’d already be taking a shower this many minutes after sex, Dean. I think the fact that I just stayed here and kissed you and listened to your emotional outpouring is a sign I’m growing as a person.”

Dean punches Sam in the shoulder, even as he sees the touch of something new in Sam’s eyes. “Was that sarcasm? You little shit.” But inside, Dean was crowing. Even Sam being a little shit was a reason to celebrate.

Sam is smiling as he sits back on his haunches. His hands are still touching Dean, and Dean is not going to call him out on it, but it’s gentle, how Sam strokes him, apparently without agenda.

“Seriously. I was never sarcastic this year. Couldn’t read the moment, I guess. Being around you is good for me.”

“Well, get used to it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m - I can’t say I’m happy, but I think I’m relieved, Dean. I’ve been someone else for a year, and I’m thinking I’d rather be Sam. Okay?”

“Okay, Sam. We’ll get there. Trust me.”

Sam’s smile was almost familiar. “I do.”

“And no more trusting late night TV for research purposes.”

“Deal.” Sam shifts away from Dean, walks toward the bathroom, naked as the day he was born. “We could try again tomorrow night, though. Just to be sure.”

“Maybe it would make you happy if I fucked you, instead.” Dean sits up on his elbows, smirks at his little brother, or the reasonable facsimile.

“It’s a theory.” Sam’s eyes shift over Dean’s body, and he knows lust when he sees it.

“Well, in the interest of science...”

“Of course, of course. Science.” Sam slaps the doorframe and disappears into the bathroom.

Dean watches him go, listens to the water start with a whine. He realizes the TV is still on, and shifts his attention to the screen, ignoring how sore he is, how sweaty, for a few minutes.

Buffy’s still on, and go figure, it turns out that tall guy did eventually get his soul back. Dean smiles, and decides to watch.

See how it ends.

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