Title: And the Lonely Lights of Another Lonely Town
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: NC-17
Note: Angst. Drunk!Sam. Title taken from the lyrics to the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash's "440 Horses".
Summary: One of these days, Sam'll figure out how not to do this. Missing scene from Playthings.

***

When he opens his eyes there's just dark, thick and rough, and he's swimming in it. There's a roar in his ears, a focused, deafening pressure, and he twists his face into the pillow, cast grinding against his chin. It's rain, just fucking rain, and it's tearing the building down around him.

"Are you drunk?"

"Yeah. So?"

He says something else, but there's only black when Dean turns away.

Sam sighs when he remembers, an edgy scent and tactile memory of his mix-and-match game with the mini-bar. His stomach aches, dull and solid, burning up and out and down, and it's making his heart race. He feels it thumping in his chest, cold behind the cage of his ribs. It makes him shiver atop the thin blankets. The roar dulls, turns sharp, and he can hear every raindrop crash against the window, the walls, the ground far below. It's in the room, raising red on his skin.

"What? No, no. Ahh, no. No. We–we're–Two singles. We're just brothers."

The way Dean looks away pulls something loose, and Sam's hand barely catches the desk.

He crosses his arms tighter beneath the worn pillow, legs tangling in the covers. There's a thick taste in his mouth, like cheap cough syrup, and it doesn't go with the rain, or the bed, or the dark. But he can't remember where it belongs.

"Dean," he says, muted by the bedding and the storm.

He hears his brother's chest rise and fall, feels it in his gut like it's the only thing he knows. Sam knows Dean, and that everyone is dying around him and he can't stop it. He isn't fucking stopping it. He squeezes his eyes shut as if it will stop the noise.

"He just said that I had to save you. That nothing else mattered. And that if I couldn't, I'd..."

"You'd what, Dean?"

"That I'd have to kill you. He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy."

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"You promised." He chooses statement over question, because he'll be met with silence either way. Because if he doesn't ask, the heavy air will be an answer.

The dark stretches on forever, and he tries to douse the waiting with sleep. But his head is cloudy, pounding, and it evades him, slips past the silver feeling behind his eyes. Sam rolls onto his side, feels like the bed twists and flips around him, and suddenly the floor cracks against his hip.

"Fuck."

"Sammy." It's a sigh, and he knows it's not, but it filters into Sam's head reeking of disappointment. So much goddamn disappointment it makes his blood boil.

"But things will never be the way they were before."

"Could be."

And suddenly he's freezing, his bones cracking like ice. "I don't want them to be."

"Then fucking stop me, Dean," he growls. He doesn't even know what he means. Sam pushes himself up and stumbles, staggers before he gets his feet under him. The ground should be tilting, but it's not, and he towers over the beds, sees his brother's eyes catch the faintest glint of light. Dean just stares up at him.

He's colour-blind, and everything fades into blue while he tries to pull something, anything forward. But he can't reach, and Dean's eyes are still locked on his, still wide and black. He loses hold of time, and the years melt away, freeze solid over again and threaten to split his head open.

Dean shoves him so hard his head cracks into the wall. "Get off me, Sammy! You're fucking fifteen. It's not fucking right–"

"I don't care," he says, his teeth about to crack, his knuckles white. "I don't fucking care, Dean."

There's a sick sound as his jaw grinds together, and Sam imagines blood running over his palms, drawn out by blunt nails. The mattress is soft against his knees, but his head hits the metal frame as he falls onto the bed. His hands plant on either side of Dean's chest, free wrist warm against his brother's skin, and the time-line stops reeling.

"Sam–" Dean grunts through his teeth, and Sam hears "Get off me" in the grip of Dean's hands on his arms. But Dean doesn't say it, and then there's just Sam sliding down his body, his good hand slipping under Dean's t-shirt, his cast forcing the knuckles of his other into the sheets, plaster biting skin.

Sam is ready to blame the liquor on his breath, the not-quite-stale taste still coating his tongue if Dean turns away. But he doesn't, and Sam drops his forehead and rests it against Dean's cheek. His fingers ache under his weight, and he hitches one leg up, nestles it between his brother's knees before his arm gives out and he can feel the warmth of Dean's chest against his own.

He inhales deep, smells cheap motel soap, leather, and, despite the shower, rain. And the road. Still the road. Always the road. Yellow dirt thick tar grey dust red mud road that they can never leave behind. Dean's stubble is rough against Sam's cheek as he drags it over his jaw. His brother's grip tightens around his biceps, palms pushing him up, fingers digging in and pulling him down. Sam draws back, his hair falling into his eyes, slicking against his forehead and curling over his temples in thick strands. Dean's still staring, and Sam can see the line of his throat dip as he swallows.

Sam's lips hover over Dean's, barely brushing, and he can taste him already. His tongue is thick in his mouth, his head dizzy, and his dick's straining behind his jeans. He grins against Dean, against the point of his hip, and his brother's eyes half slide shut.

"Sam, I can't–"

So Sam chooses for him. So neither of them have to say yes.

The kiss is bruising, burning the edges of Sam's lips, and it's too hot, too fucking hot when Dean's mouth opens under his, tongues clashing. Sam's fingers dig bluntly into Dean's chest, rake down over his ribs as he pulls him closer, slide lower until he's palming his brother through his boxers. Dean's as hard as he is, and he arches into the touch, his hands running over Sam's shirt and up to the back of his neck.

Dean fists his fingers into Sam's hair, pulls him back as Sam drags his teeth over his lip. Sam watches, mouth parted, as Dean breathes deep, his pupils blown, and everything on the periphery is just swimming in dark. Fingers slide through his hair when he pitches himself forward, forcing himself onto his bad hand. Pain shoots into his fingertips, through his wrist and into his elbow, but it's fuzzy, a dull shimmer in the back of his skull.

Sam's shoulders shadow Dean, block out the faint light entirely. The kisses are slow but fierce, Sam's lips stinging over Dean's unshaven skin. He pulls back, drops his head and runs his temple, his cheek, the bridge of his nose over Dean's chin, scraping, a trail of prickling skin. Sam mouths Dean's jawline, tongue tracing along the ridge of bone, catching the rough hairs that burn out the taste of soap, burn in Dean. His teeth scratch over the flesh under Dean's bottom lip before Sam crushes their mouths together again.

When Sam groans, Dean kisses him back harder, hand on the back of his head, tongue sweeping deep into his mouth. Sam's out of air, but Dean's breath is enough, enough if he can suffocate the rest of what's not enough, of what should be too fucking much. Their legs are tangled, Dean's thigh riding up against Sam's cock, hips rocking up and pressing the rough denim against his dick.

Sam curses, and Dean hisses.

"They already know," Sam half-growls, sliding his castles hand down between them. He grinds his leg against his brother's dick as he lifts just enough to open his jeans, to shove the fabric out and down and away. If Dean wants to bite something back at him, it's lost when his back arches, the only sound a throaty groan. Sam feels him give up fighting.

The rain sheets down, impossibly hard against the windows, the roof. The building stands frail against the onslaught, bold garden lights swallowed down to sparks, the wind a whisky howl. The walls creak, protest around them with sharp, twisting cracks that Sam thinks can't just be from the storm.

Sam pulls off his shirt, sending two buttons skittering across the floor. His t-shirt won't follow, not without pulling away from Dean, so he just trucks it up, leaves his stomach bare to be branded by Dean's skin. His fingers slide inside the elastic of Dean's boxers, knuckles brushing coarse hair, fingertips ghosting over Dean's cock and making his brother draw a sharp, shuddering breath. He runs his fingers along hot flesh, up the topside of Dean's dick and over the head before he pulls his brother's shorts out of the way.

Dean's shoulders rise off the mattress, and he pushes up against Sam. He shoves a hand between them, fingers curling around them both.

There's no fight, only need. Only sick, pure obsession in their touches, the wetness of their kisses, the red trails of their fingernails, the greedy rolls of their hips. Sam grinds his cock into Dean's hand, against Dean's dick, and his eyes flutter closed. He covers his brother's hand with his own, fingers sliding over knuckles as they jack each other. Sam's head drops, the hair curling at his ears catching on the stubble of Dean's jaw when he rests his temple against his brother's cheek. His brother's breath is rough in his ear, hot and fast, and his hips jerk upward, forcing them together, closer.

Dean's voice is the choked out gravel of a million miles of empty road. "Fuck, Sammy."

His back arches, his head falls back, and he comes, thick ropes of heat between them. Sam's fingers tighten around Dean's hand, fisting faster, a few more quick strokes before his orgasm hits him and all the light seems to vanish. Their stomachs are slick, sticky and hot, but Sam falls against Dean and buries his face against his brother's neck. His lungs ache, and he runs his tongue gingerly over his lips as he chases his breath. The tender skin burns, and he bites down hard on his lower lip, lets his teeth scrape over, tasting raw skin.

Dean's hands slide up his back, pausing at his shoulders and then finding the sides of his face. He lifts Sam's head with his fingers entwined in his hair and brushes a thumb over Sam's cheekbone.

There's only a second before Dean is sliding out from under him, untangling himself and pushing Sam gently against the bed. Away. Sam's stomach flips, wrenches under his ribs, and he can feel the thrum of his heart through his skin like needles. But he can't keep his eyes open, can't focus, can't see if there's anything to focus on beyond the glossy light from the window. He drowns in the darkness, goes under with the sound of a closing door.

He surfaces again in front of the toilet, arms resting on the cool porcelain and a taste like death in his mouth.

Dean watches him from outside the bathroom door. "I bet you don't remember a thing from last night, do ya."

But he does. Most of it, at least, all in a flood of rain. He always remembers, no matter how much booze he tries to choke himself with. His stomach heaves again, throat burning. And Dean tosses him lines like none of it ever happened.

The toilet is blessed ice against his skin, and he strips his voice of feeling so Dean can't tell it's a wish when he says, "I hate you."

***