Title: We All Fall Down
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: NC-17
Note: Another one-shot based on some prompts.
Summary: The stalemate has to end sometime.


All he can remember of the first time is yellow. And Sam's eyes. Wide and round, black in the sulphur street light haze.


The trunk of the Impala is cold through his jeans, steel bumper biting into the backs of his knees. The night sky is spitting snow above the fluorescence. Huge, quick lumps that flatten and melt on everything they touch. Backroads New York, and he's waiting outside because the fucking Quickway is so hot he can't breathe.

Sam appears from behind the store, sweatshirt rucked up over one hip until he jerks it down, rough. He watches Dean the whole time.

"The hell, Sam."

"What kind of name for a town is 'New Berlin'?"

Dean glares. He only gets a shrug, pointed, focused, and Dean's breath looks like it could shatter it comes out so hard. Sam's hair is curled, wet at his temples and slicked to the skin in front of his ears, bangs shoved to the side. "Fuck. Here."

The keys sail towards Sam's head, chink as they're caught, and Dean shoves off the car. When Sam turns off the radio, the car goes dark. Dean slides down in the seat, jacket crumpled under his head. Driver picks the music, but he wants to hear the hum of the miles pass behind them. Sam keeps his eyes on the road, and Dean takes a breath deep enough to burn.


"There's no goddamn city," Dean mutters, looking out the window. The neon is harsh, red and green, and it's not fucking Christmas in South Dakota, and The City View Motel is a goddamn liar. Sand colored ocean stretches around the seafoam hotel, and he can't see what's on the other side. "There aren't even any goddamn trees."

"They have a pool."

Dean's pupils snap to pinpoints when he looks at Sam, dark eyes shining back. He grabs his jacket and slams the door behind him.


He knows all he has to do is look away. His eyes hold Sam down for weeks, and Sam acts like it's a stalemate. Dean sees him worry his lip when he doesn't know Dean's watching, pick his sleeves threadbare, fist hands in his hair too tightly. They're all silent spies, and Dean uses them, wears him down, doesn't have a choice.

He blames the moon, and the rain that won't stop.


Thirty miles outside Tulsa, his brother's voice is just a breath against his ear, a whisper he must imagine.

Don't you? Sam is heavy behind him, warm and solid and not fucking close enough.

He swallows so hard it hurts, and fingers drag fire across his throat. They pull at his jaw, urge him to turn his head. But Dean reaches behind, finds the back of Sam's neck and yanks him down, crushes their lips together. The chair falls, crashes and slides against the table as Sam's back finds the wall. Short silhouettes skip across the window's dirty curtain when Dean falls to his knees, hands, fingers grabbing belt, button, fly and shoving.

Every hair is on end, skin rough with gooseflesh, and Dean stops breathing when he slides his hand up along his brother's thigh.

Please, to the warmth he ghosts over Sam's dick. It doesn't matter who said it, just that it cracks something so sharply he can hear it. Sledge on concrete on brick on the fucking storm of wheat raging outside. Dean feels cresents pressed into his flesh, warm and flushed, when his mouth slides around his brother's cock.

The heels of his palms fit the angle of Sam's hips, thumbs over the jut of bone. One of Sam's hands lifts, leaving his shoulder cold, and finds his hand to brush knuckles over knuckles. Dean licks, sucks, swallows him whole and sees Sam's fingernails scratch white through the floral wallpaper.

He meets the buck of Sam's hips, crashes headlong into his own name tumbling from his brother's lips. Sam comes, pulsing heat over his tongue, and Dean sees white behind closed eyes, flashes falling uneven and slow from his vision.

Sam pulls him up, slack mouth and shining half-lidded eyes. The kiss is too wet, bad aim and worse balance, and when Sam pushes him back, away, down onto the bed, Dean is sure that under all the sweat he's got a handprint branded on his chest.