the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist

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And the third installment

Title: An Unmade Bed (or five guys Sam fucked before Dean)
Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine. Kripke and I don't see the same things when we look at his characters.
Summary: A story of Samuel Winchester’s Gay Sexual History, and how Dean, a minor but important character, became a hero in the final chapter.
Pairing: Wincest, Sam/MCFW (by which I mean Male Characters From other Works)
Chapters: 3/3
Rating: NC-17
Acknowledgements: Thank you to nomelon for dutifully setting me straight when I was going off course, and also to balefully for making sure that this story was worth reading. Thanks also goes to everybody who participated on the poll to see who Sam should sleep with. I guess you'll just have to read it to see what I did with the results.

Part One
Part Two

You Are the Action, I Am the Reaction

Sam kissed Sarah more so that Dean would revoke his officially gay status than because he really wanted to. It didn’t make him feel better, not when Dean vacillated between wanting Sam to stay and wanting to put a good stretch of highway between them. They took three small jobs in quick session, barely time to think, but Sam couldn’t forget that conversation in their bleak motel hidden away in Oak Park.

“Dean, we are a family, I’d do anything for you.” Sam had tilted his head. “But things we’ll never be the way they were before.”

“Could be,” Dean had said softly, clinging to straws.

“I don’t want them to be.” It had been a hard thing for Sam to say. He’d waited for Dean to ask him why, to push rather than giving in, and he’d sighed. “Dean, I can’t live like this forever.”

The subject hadn’t come up again. They’d carefully skirted the issue. Sarah, on the other hand, had come up almost five times a day. We could go back, you could visit her, you know you want to. But Sam didn’t want to and it was driving him up the wall. He picked several calculated fights, just to get Dean to talk about something else, and Dean unwittingly hit on the perfect revenge. He hit a new bar every night for a week, going back to a different girl’s place each time.

He didn’t even return smug and satisfied, just irritable. He went through their entire arsenal cleaning and polishing and sharpening. Sam felt an enormous tension headache building ever greater by the hour. He had to lie on the bed with his arms over his eyes to block out the light to even cope.

Dean tossed him the last of their store of oxycodone and that was the end of Sarah. Sam was grateful, and when Dean decided they had to max out one of their last credit cards on new shocks for the Impala, he didn’t protest.

Dean spent two days working out in the hot sun with a ratchet and jack, smudged and greasy, with his thin t-shirt in the back pocket of his ratty jeans—the dip of his spine just visible over the waistband. Sam found himself continually distracted by the contract and shift of the muscles in Dean’s back. The sun rid Dean of his paleness, freckles blooming across the tops of his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.

They were low on cash after that though, and when they tried to use their one remaining card, the shopkeeper had pulled out a pair of scissors and cut it in half. Sam had to dig up a few crumpled ones to pay for the snacks Dean had plunked down on the counter. The shopkeeper had glared at them, keeping them in sight as they walked back to their car. Dean shot Sam a pointed look that Sam knew to interpret as “pool hall,” and Sam used his Treo to find directions to the nearest watering hole.

The Blue Chalk was a little more upscale than they were used to. Dean’s scuffed brown leather jacket and flannel shirt looked out of place amid colorful glass lighting fixtures, suede-upholstered couches, and mahogany wood finish on the walls. There were four pool tables though, felt barely marked, and the people lining up around them were young urban professionals just waiting to be fleeced.

Dean grinned and smacked Sam on the back. He thumbed his lower lip and went off to a group of girls, who had the sleeves of their blouses rolled up, and half full mugs of beer at their elbows. Their eyes lit as Dean pushed his way into the cloud of estrogen.

Sam looked away. There was a row of empty seats at the bar, and he swung his laptop bag up on the counter and ordered himself a fruity ice tea. The coffee shop next door had a free network set up, and Sam connected to it. They didn’t have a case, and he didn’t want to spend his few quiet hours researching one. The University of Chicago Press had published some new theories about political autonomy and utilitarianism that he was interested in reading. He still had access to JSTOR, their internet resource, through his Stanford e-mail address.

Dean came back after forty-five minutes with a fatter bill fold than he’d started with. Sam shook his head. He looked back at the women Dean had left behind, they were flushed and giggling, collars loosened. Sam blew out a breath, and focused back on the screen.

“Hey, how are you doing?” Dean asked. “I was watching from over there, you’re not working on a case are you?”

Sam raised a brow, propping his chin on his fist. “Dean, you never ask me how I’m doing.”

Dean made a face. “Yeah, well I’m asking now.”

“I’m good,” Sam said with a smile, and scrolled down the article page. He caught the girls looking over at them, interested grins on their faces, and Sam shot Dean a quick look. A few months back three girls that Dean had been flirting with had asked for Sam to come along with, Dean had happily extended the offer. Three, check it, three chicks who wanted to sleep with him, there was little he wouldn’t say no to. Sam had firmly told him no, though. He couldn’t—do that, not with Dean. The way the girls were looking at them now, he almost wondered if the same thing had happened, but Dean didn’t give any indication.

He nodded at Sam, face blank, and turned away to try to order hot wings. The bartender blinked at him and told him they had chili-fried calamari and tempura goat-cheese. Dean made a face, but ordered calamari with a heavy dark German beer. He raised his tankard to Sam and then went back to the women. They cheered when Dean joined them again, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“He always like that?”

Sam looked to his left. “Hmm?” There was a slender young guy in a rumpled Armani suit nursing three fingers worth of whiskey to his left. “Oh, him? Yeah, pretty much.”

The guy tossed the whiskey back and asked, “You been friends a long time?”

Sam remembered the fake names they’d been using that week, different last names. “Yeah, since childhood.”

“How do you stand it?” he asked, smile lightening the sting of the question.

“Different interests,” Sam stated with a shrug.

The man laughed and offered his hand. “I’m Jeremy.”

“Sam,” he replied and shook Jeremy’s hand.

“You a student?”

Sam stilled for a moment, before answering, “Yeah, I am, taking a year off.”

Jeremy nodded. “I graduated in ’05—wish I was back.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you do?”

“I’m a trend analyst for a little start-up.” Jeremy made a face. “It’s painful, hard work that hardly pays, but we’ll get somewhere someday.”

Sam nodded. He noticed that Jeremy had really nice ears, they sort of made him look like an elf, and long eyelashes. And who did that remind him of? “I’m sure you will.”

“So what brings you here? Or are you from here?” he leaned his head on his fist.

Sam laughed. “No, I’m from Lawrence, Kansas, but I’m here for research.”

“Yeah?” Jeremy gestured at the bartender for another. “What are you looking at?”

Sam struggled to come up with a lie, but Jeremy had had just enough drink not to notice Sam’s pause. “I—I’m a botanist, I’m looking at the trees.”

“Trees?” Jeremy chuckled. “Mmm, and your friend?”

Sam looked back at Dean, only to find his brother’s eyes on him. Dean looked away quickly, but Sam faltered nevertheless. “He, uh, he lives around here. So we hooked up.”

The song changed to the heavy guitar intro of “Money For Nothing.” Sam looked up like it would help him listen better. He didn’t turn around, but he knew his brother was cringing. “Dean hates Dire Straights.”

When he looked back at Jeremy, the other man was staring at him with a bemused look. Sam shifted his eyes down at his iced tea, and Jeremy’s entire face was really rather elfin, he thought. He fiddled with a few of the keys of his laptop and sighed.

“Listen, Sam?” Sam picked uplifted his head. Jeremy fiddled with the button on his cuff. “Do you, maybe want to get out of here?”

Sam swallowed and looked back at Dean. His brother was highly engrossed with an exotic-looking brunette. He was leaning on the table, pool cue held in hand, while she leaned into him. Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think I would.”

Jeremy stepped down from his stool. He barely came up to Sam’s chest. He gestured toward the exit with his head, and Sam put his laptop back in his bag and unplugged his power source. He followed Jeremy to the door, they were just about to step out into the chill night air when Dean called after them.


He spun back to look at his older brother, who was pushing through the crowd, brunette completely forgotten.

“What’s up?” Sam asked. “I didn’t forget any—”

“Don’t go home with him,” Dean interrupted.

Sam was shocked. “Uh, I—what?”

Dean stepped in closer, hand coming up to grip Sam’s elbow. “Sam, don’t go home with him.” It was the closest Dean got to begging. Sam didn’t know what he wanted or why.
“Dean, I—” Dean’s grip tightened around his elbow and Sam looked down.

“Just, don’t,” he whispered.

Sam shook his head and turned around, Jeremy was already gone. Sam felt annoyance crawling up the back of his throat and creeping into his brain. He shook his head bitterly and snapped, “What is wrong with you? My ‘official’ gayness bother you?”

Sam pushed the door open, out of the bar, leaving Dean behind. He expected Dean to shrug and go back to the pool tables, but he followed after Sam.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Sam shouted over his shoulder. “Well hey, if you ever feel like explaining yourself, please step up to the plate.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dean stomped after Sam.

“Speak a language I can understand!” Sam shot back. Dean shoved him back against the Impala, one hand sliding around his throat. His eyes were wild, and Sam watched his fist nervously. “Hey, you know, that wasn’t quite what I—”

Dean kissed him, thumb smoothing over his Adam’s apple, and hips pressed tight to Sam’s. Sam inhaled and pressed limp against the car. Dean pulled back. “You—you—in my hospital room!”

“No, no I didn’t—” Sam protested, but Dean interrupted him with more pressure around his throat, and the return of his lips to Sam’s.

“You thought about it,” Dean pressed, tongue sliding wickedly against the jut of Sam’s lower lip.

“It doesn’t matter, Dean,” Sam answered, voice ragged. Every place that Dean’s body touched burned with sensation.

Dean leaned away from Sam, just pinning him with his pelvis. “You weren’t supposed to want it. Sam, it’s not—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Sam growled, hauling him in with a hand in his pocket. Dean made a noise in the back of his throat, and dug his fingers into Sam’s hair, pulling to tilt his head for another harsh meeting of mouths. Sam’s grip on Dean’s ass tightened, and he pushed his other hand under Dean’s leather jacket. His brother was solid and warm, and Sam pushed the tips of his fingers through a hole in the seam of his shirt, nails grazing skin. Dean hissed and jerked, shoving him harder into the door. Sam tried to mold his body around his brother’s.

Everything, everything, right here, the reason he’d walked away and the reason he’d walked back again rolling his hips into Sam’s, trying to own his mouth, just strong enough that Sam couldn’t enjoy his usual control. He was so hard it hurt, and Dean was making a sound that had him arching away from the car, trying to gain friction against his dick.

It was too much. The silk of Dean’s lips on his, the sharp bite of his teeth, Sam had to rip his mouth away and lean back against the cool metal of the car just to breathe. Dean was sucking in air like his lungs were on fire, and Sam swallowed, lashes fluttering. The sky was foggy, overcast, made reddish and Dean’s skin took on a strange cast when he blinked up at his brother through half-lidded eyes. Sam didn’t know what was going on, not really. But Dean pressed a thigh down over Sam’s dick and bit savagely at his lips.

“Ah, God, I should have let you go with him,” Dean muttered against the thin skin just under his jaw, but he was tugging Sam away from the car door by his belt loop, and unlocking it and shoving him inside. “Get in the fucking car.”

Sam watched his brother fumbling to unlock the car, and smiled. Dean climbed in on the other side, and had barely stuck the key in the ignition before he got distracted by the long column of Sam’s neck. Sam let him do it, he wanted it all, anyway that Dean would let him. He felt scrambled and incoherent, reaching for a lifeline to sanity, and tangling himself up in the scent of his brother’s skin. It was wood smoke and slate just curling under the scent of Dean’s cologne, the same way something dangerous lurked just behind the fine bones of his face and the burnished sweep of his eyelashes. He was just this side of risky to have girls pushing their panties down their thighs, and not enough to stop them from taking him home with them.

They twisted together on the bench seat, Sam sprawled on top of Dean, hands up his shirt, moving over scarred skin with a purpose—teasing Dean’s nipples to hardness. It didn’t seem real. Dean’s thighs bracketed his hips and his lungs pumped desperately. “Oh, God, wanna fuck you, Sammy,” he breathed.

“Yeah? You think you can?” Sam asked, pulling his mouth away from Dean’s collarbone. Dean glared up at him, and heaved him off, detangling their legs.

“Don’t test me, Sammy.”

“No?” Sam asked, voice choking with a grin. He ran a finger down the lobe of Dean’s ear, enjoying Dean’s answering shudder.

Dean grabbed his hand and shoved it away. He narrowed his eyes at Sam. “You stay on that side of the car, no touching until we get the motel, and while we’re driving, I want you to think about exactly what I’m going to do to you when I’ve got you pinned under me.”

Sam slowly moved over to his side, and closed his eyes, teeth worrying his lip. Dean got the engine started and pulled out of the parking lot. Sam felt Dean’s eyes on him though, so he tipped his head back and slid his palms down over the tops of his thighs and moaned.

There was an audible click as Dean swallowed. He revved the engine when Sam palmed his dick, and Sam’s eyes popped open. Dean was gripping the steering wheel hard, his knuckles were clearly delineated against bloodless flesh. Sam could feel his gaze burning on the line of Sam’s hips just above the top of his jeans, and the clench of his spread thighs. Sam’s hips lifted of their own accord, and he moaned again, throaty and low, and God, he would’ve been embarrassed if he’d been with anybody else. Dean stripped that away.

They pulled into the shitty motel that had been home for the last three days, and Dean climbed out of the car, like he was trying to restore himself to a state of calm dispassion. Put a hold on the immediacy and some distance between them. Two steps forward, and then ten steps back. Sam had been playing hopscotch with his brother for too long. Sam wouldn’t have it, not if he had to steal it from him with the sweep of his tongue and the edge of his nails. Dean could suck it. Literally. “Don’t back down on me now, man,” he whispered and smoothed his palm over his thigh.

He was surprised by Dean coming around the car. He paused to look and was gratified to see that Dean couldn’t quite summon up the mask, it was deteriorating around the edges. He tugged Sam out of his seat by his collar, one button popping loose and pinging on the metal. Dean didn’t even check to see if it left a scratch, just kissed him again, mouth sweet like maraschino; one of those girls must have bought him a drink. Dean pushed his tongue between Sam’s lips. Sam made a small sound of encouragement and stepped further into his brother’s space.

They backed towards their room, number 15, and they tripped over the curb, falling back hard on one of the building supports. Sam threw his hand up to protect the back of Dean’s head, as the rest of his weight came crashing down.

“Mother—Sam! You weigh a fuckton,” Dean gasped and then muttered, “never would’ve been like this with a chick.”

“Mmm, couldn’t do this, then.” He hoisted Dean up by his thighs, ‘til they were on level, and pressed himself between them.

“Oh, oh, Jesus.” Dean threw his head back against the wall. “Put. Me. Down.”

Sam scraped his teeth over Dean’s pulse, and lowered him. “Ah, all right, but we’re exploring this later.”

Dean shoved him back, hand flat over Sam’s heart. Sam fished the keys out of Dean’s front pocket, fingers just brushing the hard line of his cock. Dean flexed, muscles tightening, and Sam grinned impishly, dimples showing. He twirled them around his fingertip and went to open the door. Dean came up behind him, arms around Sam’s hips, and tongued the patch of skin bared by his collar. The key missed the lock. Once, twice, he tried. Dean was already pulling buttons free from their holes on his shirt.

Sam shivered when Dean shoved the fabric of his undershirt up his stomach, calloused fingers brushing sensitive skin. Sam laid his palm flat against the door and drew in a long breath.

“Could fuck you right here,” Dean told him, lips on the ridge of his spine.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight, and allowed himself to imagine it. “You could have me anywhere.”

Dean moaned, head dropping to rest between Sam’s shoulder blades. His hand came up and tightened on Sam’s wrist, sliding the key in the lock. The door fell open under their combined weight. Dean steered Sam with a hand on the small of his back, pushing him back on Dean’s bed. The maid-service hadn’t come today, and the rumpled sheets still smelled like him, and the prick of his cologne. Sam’s limbs splayed everywhere: Dean settled between his spread thighs, hands digging into the strong muscle as he pulled Sam’s hips up to meet his.

Sam’s eyes were hooded, his head tipping back at an impossible angle as Dean hauled his pants down, fingernails grazing skin and leaving white lines behind. Dean laughed at the sound that forced its way out of Sam’s throat. “Is this what you’re like for all of them, or just me?”

“Don’t mock me,” Sam replied, shoving a hand between their bodies to grip Dean’s erection. “What’s this, Dean?” Dean jerked and swallowed, hips rolling into the Sam’s hand.

“When I walked around with the bruises and the hickies and the scratches they left, you could’ve said something.” Sam was stern. “You didn’t have to force me out, but that’s what you do best.” Sam could feel Dean’s cockhead forced tight against denim, and he pressed into it.

“God, you—”

Sam stopped him with the soft clamp of teeth on his throat. Dean shook, muscles beyond his control. He moaned and rolled off Sam, his swollen lips and high cheek bones soft in the diffuse light of the moon filtered in from the window. Dean pushed his jeans down his legs, hissing as his fingers came in contact with his dick. No underwear. Sam was still wearing his unbuttoned shirt, and soft gray boxers that had been black many washings ago. He shrugged out of his shirt, dragging the fabric over Dean’s skin, skimming Dean’s nipples.

He felt a wet patch at the front of his boxers spread, pre-come sliding down his skin, at the look on Dean’s face. Sam had to close his eyes for a second. Dean tugged Sam down to lie on top of him, feel his weight. There was fire burning in Sam's belly, pulling at his skin, singeing the pads of his fingers when he touched Dean. He’d felt empty for so long, and he’d tried so hard to find someone to fill the Dean-shaped space up. But Dean left an impressive gap.

Sam kissed him, large palm swallowing half of his face, thumb pressing into the curve of bone just below Dean’s eye.

Dean wrenched his mouth away. “You gonna let me fuck you?” he asked, voice frayed.

Sam propped himself up by his elbows. “You gonna make it good?”

Dean hit him hard in the center of his chest, palm flat. The force was enough to send Sam rolling off him. “I told you not to test me.” His dick met Sam’s, only worn fabric separated skin from skin.

“You think I’m not gonna, then you don’t know me.” Sam struggled for breath. Dean wasn’t going to have to fuck him, all he had to do was drape that powerful body over his own, and Sam was already there.

“Oh, I know you,” Dean growled, yanking Sam's boxers down. Sam whimpered they dragged over his dick. Dean wrapped a tight fist around him, and leaned in close, right next to Sam’s ear. “I know where you live.”

Sam's eyes rolled back in his head, and he pulled his legs up to bracket Dean’s thighs. “Do it then.”

Dean pushed two fingers inside of him, no preamble or warning, lube borrowed from Sam’s wallet. A high pitched noise caught in Sam’s throat. Dean’s fingers curved up, found his prostate and drove against it. Sam twisted from the sensation, his cock jumping. Dean laughed again and laid his teeth into the skin just above Sam's hip. Sweat beaded on his chest, on the hair at the nape of his neck, running down his skin, itchy and uncomfortable.

Dean added a third finger, sliding in and out, quickly, viciously hitting that spot. Sam’s eyes were squeezed tight. If he saw Dean's face right now, it would all be over.

“That all you got?” he whispered. “That all there is to you?”

Dean snorted, pulled his fingers free, and shoved inside, dick impossibly hard. Sam didn’t remember him putting on the condom, had he? It stung and burned, the intrusion making his eyes prickle with tears, and his muscles lock up. Sam felt absurdly full, but the heat, and slide of Dean’s skin across his inner thighs slowly brought him back to himself.

Dean froze, muscles trembling, “Have you—”

“Once,” Sam told him, voice tight with strain. “And then, never again.”

Dean smoothed a hand down his arm. “But after Astoria, those bruises—”

“I got them—mmm—from this.” Sam arched against him, tugging on Dean’s buttocks, fingers sunk into his skin.

“Christ, Sam,” Dean whispered, head dropping between his shoulder blades. His touch softened. Sam felt something burn away. Jealousy. “Oh, Christ,” he repeated, voice broken. He felt Dean get harder, fuller inside him.

“Don’t come yet,” he begged, knees squeezing Dean’s hips. He reached down, nails digging into flesh, and drew Dean deeper inside of him, cock head right on his prostate. Dean gargled, muscles spasming under Sam’s hands. “Thought you were gonna fuck me,” he said, before clamping his teeth down over Dean’s earlobe.

Dean exhaled, before pulling out and slamming back in. Once, twice, three times. Sam felt his inhibitions being torn away from him, mumbling how good it felt, how much he wanted it, how much he needed it.

Dean answered with grunts and long drawn out moans, when Sam tightened his muscles around him, giving as good as he got. Dean’s abs ground down on his dick, sweat and pre-come making it slick. He felt so full it felt like his heart was gonna burst. Dean came first, his eyes open and staring right at Sam.

Sam was right there, hanging on the edge, too much sensation fizzing through him. Dean took his dick in hand, and continued to push into him, fucking him even as he softened.

“Ah—Dean,” Sam moaned.

“Tell me what you need, Sam.” He nuzzled Sam’s ear with his nose.

“You,” Sam replied, voice a ragged mess.

Dean wrapped his hand around Sam’s wrist, pressed into the pillow. “Then do it—come.”

Sam gasped as Dean’s cockhead hit his prostate one last time, and gave it up. He climaxed with Dean’s name branded into his skin, pressure bursting and pulsing through him. He held Dean inside him until he stopped trembling with the aftershocks, jizz sticky on both their stomachs. They laid there, Dean half on top of Sam, half on the bed. Sam wasn’t sure what happened next. He hadn’t missed the significance of being on Dean’s bed, but Dean could still get up and go to the other one. Leave him there. It would drain Sam dry, leave him weightless and unbalanced.

“Sam, you remember Chicago?” Dean asked and Sam furrowed his brow and nodded. “You asked me what I wanted after the demon was dead, and I said—” he paused, folding the paper up and setting it aside. “I said I wanted nothing, but I lied.”

Dean didn’t get up.


And that brings that to a close
Tags: fic, sam/chase, sam/dean, sam/duke, sam/james franco, sam/preston, sam/sam monroe, slash, wincest
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