Title: Collisions
By: nancy
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Fandoms: A Supernatural/Boondock Saints Crossover
Rating: NC-18
Warnings: INCEST, violence, language
Summary: Connor and Murphy meet up with some unusual hunters.

“Well now, and would you look at that?”

Yawning, Murphy looked to where Connor pointed and saw two shadows entering Carl Webster’s home. Or so he assumed, since they disappeared around back of it. Catching his brother’s gaze, he asked, “What do you think?”

Connor gave him a wolfish grin and answered, “That maybe we aren’t the only vigilantes in town. C’mon, let’s take a look.”

Murphy climbed out of the car and followed Connor to the house. Over the ten years they’d been doing God’s work, they’d refined the process a lot. At first, they’d stuck to the obvious, easy targets and that had kept them more than busy. Drug dealers, pimps, mobsters, and rapists all knew to be wary when rumors of ‘The Saints’ hit town.

The last couple of years had found them delving deeper into the heart of true evil though. They’d come across a killer right after squeezing the life from his victim and had changed gears completely. Because it was ‘the quiet evil’ as Connor called it, that truly needed their touch. The cops and feds knew all about the drug dealers, mobsters, and other such scum and, mostly, had it in hand. It was the ones they didn’t know about and couldn’t catch that had to be dealt with.

So now they hunted the hunters. They scoured the papers and internet to put together patterns the police never saw. They’d dispensed God’s justice on five serial killers and three serial rapists over the last two years. Not bound by red tape or protocol, Connor and Murphy had a much higher success rate than the police.

Carl Webster was a particularly nasty piece of work. They’d run across his trail the month before when two young girls, the oldest not even ten, had turned up dead and mutilated, robbed of their innocence, and carved into with satanic symbols. Connor had gone ballistic and they’d been tracking Webster down ever since.

Peering into a side window, Murphy saw the two men moving silently around the living room. One of them painted something that looked like a pentagram in a circle on the ceiling, while the other did the same on the floor. Anger surged and he asked, “Accomplices?”

Connor frowned as he continued observing through the window. “Don’t rightly know. Let’s watch a bit more.”

Murphy didn’t like it, but nodded. Connor’s instincts were different than his. Not better or worse, just different. He was better ay knowing when people lied and just a hair quicker at putting things together than Murphy. Not that he’d ever tell his brother so.

It was fifteen minutes later that Webster came home, but he paused in the doorway, as if sensing those inside. Murphy unwittingly held his breath and then had to gasp for air.

Webster’s head turned unerringly towards him and somehow, Murphy knew the man saw him. Webster ran back out the door.

“Fuck!” Murphy exclaimed. “He saw me!”

But Connor was already after Webster, so Murphy ran after Connor. His brother shot the man from behind, which tumbled him down into the street. It was a leg shot and he’d hobbled upright by the time they caught up to him. For an overweight man in his fifties, he was certainly spryer than most. Pulling his own weapon, he aimed it at the man and said to Connor, “A little more public than usual.”

Connor simply cocked the hammer on his gun. Murphy followed suit and opened his mouth to start the recitation when a voluminous black smoke poured from Webster’s mouth and flew at him. It surrounded him, suffocating as it covered his head, filling him with images of such evil that he screamed Connor’s name and dropped to his knees, clawing at whatever attacked him.

Darkness seeped into his soul, choking and foul and taking the Light of God itself from him, replacing it with such despair that all he could do was writhe and cry out for Connor.

*  *  *  *

One minute they were waiting for Webster to come home and the next, Sam saw the man bolt back out of the door. Bemused, he looked at Dean, but his brother hadn’t moved, still hidden by the bookcase, unable to see what had just happened. He ran for the door, calling, “Dean, he ran for it!”

Sam heard, “Son of a bitch!” from behind, but was already out the house, not wanting to lose Webster, now that they’d finally tracked him down. He almost stopped in shock at spotting two men holding guns on Webster, but then the demon left Webster and surrounded one of the men so he put on a burst of speed. Since the demon went for those with holier lives than most, Sam knew there was only one thing he could do.

The scream of despair that came from the unfamiliar man hit Sam like a freight train. He stumbled to a halt and focused all his will on dragging the demon out of the stranger. It was a struggle and his head instantly began a fierce ache that battled against the power, trying to distract him. It was the sight of the man on the ground that spurred him on, though. The second man cradled his partner and frantically shouted his name, oblivious to the very real danger he was in if the demon decided to change bodies yet again.

Ignoring everything except the need to destroy the demon, to send it back to Hell, Sam grit his teeth and put even more into it, everything he had. No way would this thing destroy any more lives, not if he had anything to say about it. Dean was suddenly right there, arm around his waist, a solid, buoying presence that held him up and let Sam close his eyes and deal only with the demon.

It was over as suddenly as it started and Sam sagged in his brother’s arms, groaning as his head made its extreme displeasure known.

“I got you, Sammy, it’s okay now, just relax,” Dean soothed, half-carrying him to the fire hydrant and sitting him on it.

Holding his head, Sam managed to say, “Cops’ll come. Someone had to hear that screaming.”

Dean nodded and moved to check for a pulse on Webster, but shook his head at Sam to say there was none. Then he faced the newcomers and said, “If you don’t want to get carted off to jail, you should come with us.”

The conscious one aimed a very big gun with a silencer at Dean when he stepped forward as if to help. With a brogue of some kind, the man snarled, “One step closer and I’ll no be showin’ any more restraint.”

Hands up, Dean stepped backwards until he reached Sam. “Don’t worry, we’re gone. C’mon Sam.”

Sam accepted his brother’s shoulder under his arm and leaned on Dean for the walk back to the car. He glanced back to find the man carrying his fallen partner over his shoulder towards a nondescript car down the street. Then Dean dumped him in the Impala and shut the door behind him and Sam couldn’t see any more so he closed his eyes against the pain.

It was a good half-hour before the car stopped again and Sam’s nose had at least stopped bleeding by then, though another shirt was ruined from the blood. He’d had frightening thoughts the last few times he’d had to use his powers; thoughts about aneurisms and brain tumors. It wasn’t as though he could do anything about it anyhow, so he kept those thoughts to himself. They still had Seals to keep from breaking and a hospital stay wasn’t in the cards.

“First time I’ve seen holy types carrying Barettas with silencers,” Dean observed as he helped Sam from the car.

Snorting, Sam agreed, “That was…different.”

“Different. Oh yeah, and you’re the genius,” Dean mock-bitched.

Sam leaned against the wall as Dean unlocked the door and then again on his brother as they went inside. Collapsing carefully on the bed, Sam lay back with a long, deep sigh, putting an arm behind his head. “I have no idea who those guys were, but they were the real deal, Dean.”

Dean moved to shut and lock the door. “What makes you think that?”

“It couldn’t get in him,” Sam pointed out. “It had at least fifteen seconds and was still trying to get into him.”

Dean made a non-committed noise and headed for the duffel bag, pulling out a bag of salt and starting the evening ritual. They were in for the night, so the salt went down. Ever since the standoff between Castiel, Uriel, and Alastair, the demons had been coming at them extra hard and fast. Sam watched as Dean put up a couple of protective runes on the walls, but didn’t comment. Whatever his brother needed to do to feel safe, if such a thing was possible, Sam was all in favor of.

Dean tossed the charcoal stock back onto the bag and said, “Could’ve had tats protecting him, or some kind of mojo like a fetish bag or amulet. Could’ve been anything, Sam.”

Shrugging, Sam agreed, “Could have.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Sam watched Dean pull off his shirt and appreciated the sight before echoing, “I don’t think so, no. I think they’re hunters, like us. There’s more out there than even Ellen knows.”

“Yeah, but Sam, they carried regular guns,” Dean protested, sitting on the bed. “What hunter carries a regular gun?”

Sam’s lips pursed as he acknowledged the point with another shrug. “It’s just a feeling. We’ll probably never see them again anyhow. If they’re smart, they’re long gone.”

Dean crawled up the bed and stretched out beside Sam before asking, “How’s the noodle?”

Giving him a wan smile, Sam told him, “Still attached. I need to sleep for a week after that one.”

Dean cupped his face and then gently rubbed his palm over Sam’s forehead as he stated, “You’ve got tonight and you can sleep in the backseat tomorrow. I want to get further away.”

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, relaxing under the caresses. “Keep doing that and I’ll be fine.”

A soft chuckle graced the air and then Dean’s lips pressed warm to his temple in a familiar benediction. Sam fell asleep moments later, bloody shirt and all.

*  *  *  *

As Connor set Murphy in the hotel bed, all he could do was hear that scream echo over and over in his mind. Murphy had never screamed for him before, not ever, not even with a gun to his head. Kneeling beside the bed, he pulled out his Rosary and immediately began praying. His fingers moved over the well-worn beads with intimate knowledge, the words falling from his lips with an urgency he hadn’t felt in a long time. He kept his other hand on Murphy’s chest over his heart, just to reassure himself that his brother was still alive.

It took an eternity before Murphy at last stirred. Connor finished the Rosary and dropped it under his shirt again. Sitting on the bed beside his brother, he brushed a hand over Murphy’s hair and said, “Welcome back, Murph.”

Murphy didn’t say a word as he practically launched himself at Connor, throwing his arms around him and holding on tight enough to almost choke him. Returning the embrace just as fiercely, he kissed Murphy’s throat and ear and every bit of him available. Finding out what had happened would wait until he knew Murphy was all right.

Once he knew that for sure and certain, then he’d find out who those fuckers were and what they’d done to his brother.

Then he’d make them pay.

Murphy woke in Connor’s arms, face pressed to his brother’s throat in a cocoon of warmth. Connor’s scent filled him, sleep-strong and soothing, a scent he knew as well as his own. After what had happened, it grounded and comforted him. Nuzzling against his brother’s throat, Murphy sighed deeply and brushed fingers along the small of Connor’s back, hitching a leg over his hip.

“Are y’back with me now?” Connor murmured.

Nodding, Murphy rasped, “What happened?”

Connor’s lips pressed to his cheek and he replied, “Dunno. Doan care. I only care that you’re all right.”

Lifting his face to Connor’s, Murphy kissed the corner of his mouth before clearing his throat and saying, “I love you, Connor.”

Connor’s arms tightened around him and he said hoarsely, “Love you, Murph, so much. God, I was so scared, Murph, thought I was losing you.”

“I was, I was so lost,” Murphy told him, shivering. “The darkness, the evil, it, it took away God, Con. I couldn’t feel Him, or you, or anything but evil.”

Rocking them gently, Connor kissed his hair and soothed, “Easy now, it’s over. You’re safe, my own, you’re safe now.”

But Murphy couldn’t forget that feeling of hopelessness, the lack of connection to his twin and his God. As real as Connor felt holding him, it also felt so tenuous. “I need to go to Church. I need Confession and Mass.”

Nodding, Connor promised, “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Murphy kept hold of Connor’s hand, somehow positive that if he let go, his brother would disappear. In the bathroom, they undressed one another silently and then stepped into the spray of hot water. The tub was average in size, but had a handheld showerhead, which Connor took off the hook to gently douse him in the hot water. Murphy stood still as the water washed over him and his brother’s hand followed, stroking in a soothing manner.

He set the showerhead back in place and turned Murphy, a familiar ritual. Coolness touched the top of his head and then Connor’s fingers scratched lightly over his scalp, washing his hair.  Tilting his head back, Murphy sighed and slowly felt his body unwind as the massage continued.

“Close your eyes.”

Murphy did so and the spray came a bit harder as it washed away the shampoo, Connor’s hand blocking his eyes. Then the soap rubbed over his back and then his chest before dropping away for hands to take its place. Strong hands that he knew so well rubbed over him, all over, touching every bit of him even unto kneeling down to wash his feet. Connor lifted them one at a time, resting each foot on his thigh to move the soap over the toes and along the arches before rubbing them with his fingers and thoroughly cleaning them.

Laying a hand on Connor’s head, Murphy whispered, “Thank you,” feeling almost normal again.

Standing, Connor tugged him forward, arms wrapping around his back as he asked, “Better?”

Murphy nodded and sighed deeply. Leaning fully on his brother, he felt the connection back between them and relaxed even further. He pulled back and stared into the pale eyes where concern and love lingered so clear. Smiling, he cupped Connor’s face and said, “Church now.”

Connor turned off the water as Murphy stepped out of the tub. Before he could do more than pick up a towel, his brother had taken it from him and dried him off with a proprietary air. Indulging Connor’s obvious need to reassure himself that Murphy was all right, he stood there and asked, “Where are we?”

“Empty FBI safehouse,” Connor told him.

Murphy laughed, unable to help himself. “Smecker’s a Godsend, he is.”

Connor flashed a grin at him and agreed, “And then some.”

They dressed in clean clothes and were out the apartment door heading for the nearest church ten minutes later. Connor told him, “It’s just down the block. Smecker made sure to give me the location when we talked.”

There was a five o’clock Mass, which left just enough time for Murphy to seek Confession beforehand. He left Connor at one of the back pews and walked straight to the Confessional, catching the priest’s eye on the way. Seeing the man walk towards him, Murphy opened the penitent’s door and stepped inside.

*  *  *  *

“Dean, I think I found them.”

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean reluctantly dragged his gaze from their tightly dressed waitress and turned it back on his brother. The newest obsession had been fueling Sam for over a week but, since it kept his mind off Ruby, Dean was all for it. “So who are they?”

“There’s no given names, but remember the urban legend about The Saints?” Sam asked.

Dean’s eyebrows shot upwards and he countered, “You are shitting me.”

Sam shook his head. “I really think they’re them. Here, take a look.”

Turning the laptop the rest of the way, Dean found a ten year old newspaper report titled “The Saints of South Boston,” and a subtitle, “Brothers’ case discovered to be self-defense.” Lips pursed, Dean glanced at Sam and prodded, “You’re going off that? Pretty flimsy, Sammy.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Not just that. Go to the next tab.”

Dean clicked on the next browser tab, which had three Wanted drawings. The two younger ones admittedly looked pretty damn close to the men from the week before. Grudging, he allowed, “Could be them, yeah. So now what?”

Sam sat back in the booth and answered, “I don’t know. I just feel better knowing who they are. Or, well, having an idea anyhow.”

Dean’s eyes returned to their waitress as he said, “Whatever floats your boat, bro.”

Sam kicked him under the table and demanded, “Would you stop ogling her? Geeze, Dean, she’s not some piece of meat!”

“You should listen to y’brother. Women should be respected. Our Ma taught us that.”

Dean stiffened and reached for the gun under his jacket when the all-too-familiar feel of a gun silencer touched the back of his head. Glaring at Sam, he hissed, “Way to keep an eye out, genius.”

The bar was busy, but not so busy that a gunfight wouldn’t get noticed. Dean was about to do something bold, and probably stupid, but Sam kicked him under the table again, glaring back at him. It was a clear warning not to do something bold and probably stupid, so he settled for kicking his brother back. Hard.

Sam flinched at the kick, but only looked beyond Dean and offered, “Care to join us?”

“Don’t mind if we do,” a different voice answered. “Just as soon as the guns are on the table where we can see them.”

“That’s a little public for us,” Sam replied calmly.

The first voice stated flatly, “Non-negotiable.”

The second added, “Go on. It’s really quite freeing.”

Not having a choice, Dean grit his teeth and slowly pulled out his Glock, setting it on the table.

“And your backup.”

Cursing under his breath, Dean reached under the table and pulled out the snub-nose revolver and added it to the pile now between him and Sam.

The second voice prompted, “I think we’d like that pig-sticker in view as well, Sammy-boy.”

That pissed Dean off more than losing his weapons and he snapped, “No one calls him that but me.”

To his surprise, the voice said, “My apologies then, but we still want that dagger on the table.”

Sam complied and then the newcomers sat at the booth with them, one on each side and the silencer now touching Dean’s ribs instead of his head. Cold blue eyes met his gaze and Dean couldn’t help but think that he face to face with a stone cold killer. He was slender, though not as slender as the one next to Sam, and his hair was slightly more golden, as was his complexion. The one next to Sam had the same color eyes, but didn’t seem nearly as threatening somehow. The smell of cigarettes lingered, making his nose twitch unpleasantly.

“You know our names,” Sam began slowly. “What’re yours?”

The one beside Dean answered, “I’m Connor and that’s Murphy.”

Their waitress came over just then and she stopped short, jaw dropping and her eyes glued to the weaponry. Murphy flashed her a grin and said, “There y’are, lass. Mind bringin’ over a couple o’pints of Guinness for me and my brother here? We’d right appreciate it.”

For a second, Dean thought that she’d head right for a phone to call the cops, but then Connor leaned back in the booth and asked, “Maybe some fries, too? What d’ya think, Murph? Fries? You want a burger?”

Murphy nodded and winked at her. “Been a long drive, it has. My back’s stickin’ to my front by now, I’m so hungry.”

She laughed a bit uncertainly, but wrote it down and asked, “How’d you like them cooked?”

“Well done, thanks lass,” Connor told her.

Dean watched as she walked away, his professional pride tweaked at how quickly she’d discounted the whole situation. Giving Sam a sour look, he said, “How come we never get that kind of luck?”

Sam shook his head, exasperated, and asked Connor, “So now what?”

“Now boy-o, you tell us exactly what happened back at Webster’s place.”

The voice was cold and menacing, a far cry from the charm of only a minute before.

*  *  *  *

Sam didn’t miss the look Murphy gave his brother after the ultimatum; it was the kind of look he invariably gave to Dean that said, ‘Stop being such a hardass.’ Knowing it was only a matter of time before Dean lost patience with the gun in his side, Sam suggested, “How about you put away the guns? They really aren’t necessary. We’re happy to explain things to you without them.”

Dean muttered, “Speak for yourself,” but was completely ignored by all involved.

The brothers shared a silent exchange of some sort that ended with Connor grimacing and guns sliding into holsters under the peacoats. Dean instantly shoved Connor out of the booth and stood up, fists clenched and ready to do damage. Murphy jumped out of the booth and Sam was a heartbeat behind him, standing between Dean and Connor, holding his brother back as Murphy did the same.

Hand to Dean’s chest, Sam said in a low voice, “Back off, Dean. C’mon, just let it go.”

Dean snarled quietly, “He had a gun on you, Sammy, and he’s a stone killer. No way that goes unanswered.”

Sam gripped his brother’s shoulder and squeezed as he pointed out, “If they’d wanted us dead, we’d be dead, Dean. I wasn’t in any danger, not really.”

“Everything okay here fellas?”

The new voice drew all four pairs of eyes and Sam nearly groaned at the man in a sheriff’s uniform. He said quickly, “Just a disagreement. We’re fine, aren’t we, Murphy?”

Hand on the side of his brother’s neck, Murphy gave a tight grin and agreed, “Absolutely, sir. Sit, Connor.”

Sam jerked his head at the booth and glared pointedly at Dean, who grumbled, but complied.

“That’s quite the hardware you’ve got there,” the Sheriff continued.

Connor confirmed, “Aye, the boys were just showin’ us how they worked. They’re quite wicked, are they not?”

Lips pursed, the Sheriff looked between all four of them for a long minute. Sam tried to look as innocent and harmless as he could and hoped it didn’t come across as either nervous or constipated, as Dean liked to mock. The man finally ordered sternly, “Put all that away before I confiscate them. You’re lucky this is Texas.”

Sam nodded in relief and moved quickly to holster his gun, sitting after Dean to box him in. No sense in taking a chance of a repeat. The waitress arrived with the food order and Guinness and, by the time all that was settled, Sam ordered, “Shots all around, please.”

He was hoping that the best way to forestall a massacre was by loosening everyone up.

She nodded and walked away.

Taking that as his cue, Sam began, “You’re ‘The Saints,’ aren’t you? You hunt evildoers.”

“We are and we do,” Connor stated baldly. “What do you hunt?”

Astounded that they really existed, he’d been sure the whole thing really was an urban legend, Sam answered simply, “Demons. Restless spirits. Vampires. You name it and we kill it.”

The brothers exchanged a look and then Murphy told him slowly, “Go on. We’re listening.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s thigh under the table and began, “It all started when I was six months old…”

Connor watched as Murphy walked from the bathroom back into the bedroom wearing nothing but his boxers. The conversation with the Winchester brothers had been long and bizarre, to say the least. He felt drained in a way that he hadn’t in a long time. Not since Rocco’s death and even then, he’d had some kind of mission immediately after to take his mind off it. This time there was nothing but knowledge, the kind of knowledge that made his head ache and his soul want to take refuge at the nearest Church.

“It’s a mindfuck, ain’t it?” Murphy asked rhetorically.

The bed jostled when Murphy dropped onto it and then rolled so that he was laying across Connor’s chest. Putting his arm on his brother’s back, Connor agreed, “Wish we’d never gone looking for Webster. Coulda done without all this knowing.”

Murphy kissed his collarbone and then reminded, “More girls would be dead, had we not.”

Sighing deeply, Connor nodded and stared up at the ceiling. Demons were real. Angels were real. Spirits could linger and turn into fell things that hurt people, even those they used to love.

“What’re you thinkin?’”

Connor looked down at his brother and answered, “That I heartily wish never to see those boys again. Ever.”

Grinning up at him, Murphy pointed out, “Kinda hard not to when we’re meetin’ for breakfast.”

“And whose fault is that?” Connor complained. “I was all set for leavin’ this sorry state at first light.”

Murphy bit him sharply and purred, “Anythin’ I can do to take your mind off things?”

A smile surfaced at that and Connor slid down a bit so they were even. Sliding a leg between his brother’s, he murmured, “Might be somethin,’ aye. What did y’have in mind?”

Staring at Connor’s mouth, Murphy told him, “All manner of things,” before leaning in to kiss him.

Connor opened to it, pushing his tongue into his brother’s mouth to twine with Murphy’s as they rolled on the bed until Murphy lay on top of him. No matter how many times they did this, it felt right and blessed. Skin to skin and blood to blood; he and Murphy had been born together, they loved together, and they would die together. It was written into their souls, of that he had no doubt.

Murphy groaned and rubbed down on him and then said against his mouth, “Fuck me,” biting his lower lip before returning to the kiss.

Gripping his brother’s ass in both hands, Connor squeezed hard and thrust up against his brother’s dick through the flimsy material. He flipped them and jumped off the bed to swiftly get the lube from his bag. When he got back to the bed, Murphy had gotten rid of the boxers and lay on his stomach, legs spread, and looked over his shoulder at Connor. He’d seen that look before many times. Trust. Complete Faith. Murphy knew that Connor would always come for him no matter the cost and would ever take care of him. Love him through eternity.

Connor knelt on the bed and shifted between his brother’s legs, stretching out and leaving the lube aside for the time being. Breathing in the scent so strong at Murphy’s cleft, he licked slow and firm along it and then returned to the hole, pushing his tongue inside. Murphy moaned chest deep, and parted his legs further as Connor ate him out with a need that startled him. He caught glimpses of Murphy’s hands, twisted in the sheets, his arched back and neck, but mostly paid attention to the salt musk beneath his tongue.

“Connor, Connor, oh fuck me, Connor please, just please,” Murphy begged, low and desperate.

Panting, Connor knelt up and found his brother in the same state, his eyes dilated with need and lower lip bloody from where he’d apparently bit through it. He picked up the lube and slathered up his cock before squirting some directly into his brother’s ass. Pushing his fingers in, Connor worked him a different way, preparing Murphy as though he were a virgin, slow and with soft kisses mixed all over with sharp nips of his teeth on pale skin.

At last he sank into his brother’s body, both of them groaning at the penetration. He undulated gently, barely moving as Murphy slowly opened to him. Connor paused and said, “Turn over, I have t’see ya.”

Murphy made a complaining noise, but turned onto his back when Connor withdrew and then put his legs over Connor’s shoulders. It felt like Heaven, pushing back into his brother’s body; warm and snug and like home should be. Connor bent forward onto his palms and set up a hard pace, fucking Murphy the way his brother liked best. The sight of him, arched back and open mouth, sent a slice of pure love through Connor. Short, choked gasps and cries escaped Murphy and then a loud one when Connor hit the magic spot.

Grinning fiercely, he repeated the strike there until Murphy shouted his name and jerked almost out of place, come splattering all over Connor. It was only a few thrusts later that Connor’s balls tightened and finally exploded. He hunched into Murphy, grinding in as he came, filling his brother until he had nothing left to give. He laid on Murphy, panting and fucked-out, his twin’s fingers combing through his sweat sticky hair.

“There now, my own,” Murphy murmured, satisfaction rich in his voice. “That’s right, Con, we’re safe and together again.”

Connor shook a bit as he finally let himself react to almost losing Murphy to real, true evil. They were together, but were they safe? Would they be, ever again?

Murphy kissed the top of his head and rocked him gently, knowing as always, exactly what Connor thought and how to help him.

*  *  *  *

Sam grunted when his back hit the wall, the air driven from him at the impact. Dean was on him instantly, thrusting his tongue into Sam’s mouth in a way he hadn’t since Castiel had brought him back from Hell. There’d been a few tentative, mutual relief sessions and plenty of kissing, but nothing like what had gone before and Sam had missed it intensely.

Of course, fucking Ruby probably hadn’t helped matters any.

Dean’s hand squeezed Sam’s dick through his jeans hard enough to hurt and he snarled, “Don’t you fuckin’ think of that bitch when you’re here with me.”

Sam didn’t bother to deny it, instead yanking Dean in for another kiss. They moved across the room to the bed, shedding clothes as they went, though Sam hadn’t gotten his jeans down further than his thighs when Dean shoved him onto the mattress. Licking kiss-swollen lips, he watched as his brother kicked aside his pants and then strode half-naked to the bag, coming back with lube.

Trepidation rose and Sam cautioned, “Dean, maybe we should…”

“Maybe you should shut the fuck up and get ready to lose some IQ points, asshole,” Dean growled.

To his surprise, Dean used the lube on himself, hands hidden because he was facing Sam, but Sam knew exactly what his brother was doing, preparing himself, and pure lust slammed through him. Before he could get rid of his clothes, Dean was on him again. He shouted in shocked pleasure when Dean simply sat on his cock, forcing it inside and not stopping until he sat flat in Sam’s lap.

Dean started moving after a few seconds, fucking himself on Sam’s dick. Leaning back, Dean’s hand gripped Sam’s shin and used it as leverage and support. Not that he seemed to need it, to Sam’s greedy eyes; muscles shifted slick and easy, rippling under smooth skin. Wanting to see all of him, Sam sat upright and tugged at the offending shirt, but Dean wouldn’t stop long enough to take it off.

Despite the implications, knowing that Castiel’s damned handprint somehow shamed Dean, Sam let it alone. It wasn’t something he could help with, as much as he wanted to. Instead, he tore it open from the front collar and then sucked and bit at his brother’s nipples, knowing how much he loved that.

“Oh God, Sammy,” Dean moaned, fucking him faster, ass clenched tight around Sam’s shaft. “Let me, please, oh God, let me…”

Sam fell back against the pillows, sensing that Dean needed to do it his way. Not that it was a hardship, because his dick was about ready to explode. Groaning, feeling his body tighten, Sam couldn’t help thrusting up. He arched, hands twisting into the bedspread until he came with a wordless yell, spilling deep in Dean’s body and almost simultaneously getting splattered with his brother’s come.

Dean collapsed on him, both of them breathing harshly. Wrapping his arms around his brother, Sam whispered, “I love you, Dean, so much. I…”

Kissing him again, Dean stopped the words. It was different than before, soft and slow and saying more than Dean ever did with mere words. Dean sighed deeply as he broke off the kiss and, though he would for sure deny it later, snuggled into Sam, face pressed to Sam’s throat.

Sam smiled and closed his eyes, letting himself relax towards sleep.