fannishliss

title: Stone Number One
author: fannishliss
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: NC17

Summary -- is pain the only thing that can drive away Hallucifer?

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Dean, to Sam, who is having hallucinations of Lucifer:   I am your flesh-and-blood brother, okay? I’m the only one who can legitimately kick your ass in real time. You got away. We got you out, Sammy. Believe in that! Believe me, okay? You gotta believe me. You gotta make it stone number one and build on it. You understand? (transcript of 7.02 at Supernatural Wiki)

I had three prompts for s7 from day by drabble Midwinter -- a photo of silly hats, a photo of logs burning in a fireplace, and the word "flame."  All these point to Sam's struggles to retain his sanity while reliving the experience of suffering Lucifer's torments in Hell, but strangely enough, the prompts also point toward Sam finding comfort.  So I'm going with that. :)  Also-- There have to be around 3.2 million stories called Stone Number One, hm?? :)

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Dean's found a pretty good squat, somewhere near Cincinnati. Vacant maybe three months or so, still keeping out the weather.  The mildewy smell of neglect and rot isn't too bad, not so soon.  It's practically a spa retreat for the Winchesters, these days.

"Does it have to be pain?" Sam says, out of the blue, across the kitchen table.  Beautiful table.  Dean can't understand the things people leave behind.

Dean looks over.  Sam looks tired, hopeless.   His eyes are so sad.  "Huh?"

Sam feebly waves his injured hand.  Slowly it's healing despite the re-injuries Sam's torn into it.

"It's just…. dude. All that time in the cage… and he's still making me hurt… and he's not even real.  Right?"

Sam's weary, pain-filled gaze burns into Dean.  How much more can his brother really take at this point? He looks like the walking dead.  He barely sleeps.  The pain in his hand drives Lucifer away, but not for long, if Sam's panicky glances at nothing are anything to go by.

"He's not real, Sam.  You gotta believe me," Dean promises.

"I believe you," Sam says, but his voice has gone rote, quiet and lacking much conviction.

"Pain not cutting it?" Dean asks, shortly.

Sam shakes his head.

Dean considers the options.  He could amp it up, carve into Sam, whale on him a little, but the thought of it makes him sick inside. The thought of using his unwanted torturer skills  on his little brother? That's the kind of thing that would have made Alistair proud, and that's the last thing Dean would ever want to do.

So what's left to try?  Narcotics only made the hallucinations worse.  Booze don't cut it.  Talking it out only works till Lucifer drowns Dean out.

"Pain don't work, you could try pleasure," Dean quips, half heartedly, picturing a brothel, the time he'd taken Cas to lose his virginity and they'd been run out of the place.

"Pleasure?" Sam says, and there's something in Sam's voice that makes Dean look, really look.

Sam licks his lips, his gaze flickers uneasily at Dean and away.

"Pleasure might work," Dean says, slowly, testing the waters,  "you know, it cross circuits the brain, or some shit?"

Sam nods.  "So I've heard."

Dean nods.  Coughs, swallows.

"Sammy, you saying… you wanna fool around?"   Dean tries to make it sound like a joke, but he is thinking, whatever Sammy needs, whatever.

"Dean, man -- you're my brother…" Sam says, but his voice is soft, inquisitive.

"I am that.  Always have been, always will be," Dean responds.  He tries to make his own voice gentle, sure.  Whatever Sammy needs.

"I just need it…. not to hurt so much," and Sam's voice breaks and Dean sees the tears, and he's got Sam in his arms before he even thinks about it.

"Sammy, Sammy, I got you," Dean says, his arms tight around Sam, and that's nothing new.    Sam feels right in his arms, just like he always has -- big, strong, solid, with that indefinable smell that means brother and Dean can't imagine anything better.

But Dean doesn't want to feel Sam crying, shaking, trying to hold back the sobs, the desperation wracking him as the tortures of Hell burn their way through his sanity.

Dean rocks his brother, soothing him with a heavy touch, as Sam breathes and chokes and tries not to lose it.

"I got you," Dean repeats.  Sam's body is rock hard.  He feels like a mountain.  Dean can't stand how a man can be so strong and be brought so low.

"Please, Dean-- please-- just, I can't--" Sam says.

And Dean doesn't want to hear Sam beg, so he seals his lips over Sam's, licks inside, tasting his brother, and it doesn't taste at all like sin.

It feels like Heaven, if Heaven were a place you'd actually want to go.  Sam opens up with a moan of relief and Dean just wrestles him into place.

"Sammy, Sammy, I love you, brother," Dean mumbles, kissing Sam's mouth, stroking his chest.

"Dean, oh god, Dean," Sam says, grabbing on to Dean's shirts, peeling them back.

They topple from the rickety chair Sam was perched on (heavy tables, rickety chairs, the stuff of abandoned houses, Dean thinks)  onto the floor.  Dean writhes his thigh between Sam's and lays his brother out, holding him down.

"I'll do it for you, Sammy, whatever you want, just tell me, I'll do it," Dean promises, biting at Sam, but gently, just marking the flesh with the need he's always felt, always, to possess this man, his brother, to mark him as his own forever, in a way that can't be washed off or shaken loose.

Sam gropes for Dean's hands, threads one around his neck, brings the other to his chest. Dean's fingers tangle at the nape, his hand full of the back of Sam's giant skull.  It fills Dean with awe, to think that Sam had been dead more than a few times over, but still his noggin ticks on, and now Dean is here with him, biting at him, kissing him, humping against his leg, and it's hot, hot like he always knew in his gut it would be if they ever dared.

Sam leads his other hand over his heart and Dean, on instinct, ferrets out Sam's nipple through the thin tee shirt and pinches it, lightly, worrying it to hear Sam hiss.

"That's good, isn't it, Sam?  It is for me, too.  Just enough of a pinch to make you feel it, down to your balls, right Sam?"

"Ohh," Sam moans, and he's all the way hard, pressing thick against Dean through their clothes.  They've always lived in each other's pockets, but there's a certain amount of modesty even brothers try to preserve, so Sam's erection, the size and heft of it, hasn't been Dean's to survey, until now.  Like he'd guess, it's Gigantor.

"Don't know what you're hoping to do with that thing," Dean quips, pulling his hand free of Sam's hair, running it down Sam's side, across his belly, between them, "but maybe, something like this?" He palms Sam firmly through the thick layers of cloth and Sam's groan turns his insides liquid.

Somehow, Dean gets Sam's fly open and his boxer briefs down, and squirms enough out of his own clothes to press against Sam with his own erection.  Sam is hard, so hard, and leaking, and that turns Dean on so much, to feel how much Sam wants him -- this isn't just some sorry pity fuck or last ditch try.  Dean can read a body, he knows how to play desire, and fucking is one of the things that Dean does best.

"Can you feel that, Sammy?" he whispers, into Sam's ear, biting at Sam's neck and jaw and holding him down to the floor as Sam arches up against him.

"Does it feel good, me hot and hard and sliding through your slick, all up against you like this?" Dean has them both in his grip, and it does, it feels so good.  The pleasure is running up and down his spine, clear from the top of his head into places inside him that are going molten, ready to spill over soon.

"Tell me, Sam!" Dean commands.

"God, yes, it feels good, Dean!  Fuck!" Sam swears.

"I can make you feel so good, Sammy," Dean promises.  "You took me by surprise.  Just wait till I get you in a bed.  That's all we need.  A few pillows.  And then I'll show you how to fuck so good…"

Sam surges up into Dean and Dean flips.  Sam has him pinned, raging over him, sweat dripping from his long bangs as he arches over Dean.

"I want that, Dean.  I want it all!" Sam gasps, and the freedom of  hearing Sammy say it out loud brings Dean off, into their hands, and the sudden, wet heat makes it feel just so much better.

Sam practically roars as he spills all over Dean, thrusting into the hot mess on his stomach where his tee shirt rode up, until with one last keening wail, he lets go, and collapses, rolling to the side of Dean instead of crashing onto him like an avalanche.

Dean catches his breath, with Sam panting beside him.  After a bit he looks over and Sam is looking back, a sheepish little smile on his face.

"That was awesome," Dean says, and his face breaks out in a grin.

"It really was," Sam says, smiling, and his eyes are as clear as day.