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Triptych

Title: Triptych
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating/Pairing: R, Sam/Dean, Sam/Ruby
Spoilers: up to and including 4x09 "I Know What You Did Last Summer"
Summary: Sam is broken, with or without Dean, and there is sex. It's bad, and it's wrong, and they shouldn't, but that doesn't stop them. Written for the spnflashfic 'broken things' challenge.




i. (no)

The last time Sam wanted sex, Dean said no.

He gave in, finally -- not that it took much to persuade him because both of them were equally desperate with the looming deadline. Dean didn't want to go to Hell, and Sam didn't want to lose the only thing in the world that mattered, and if sex could prevent the deal they'd be all fine and dandy. It couldn't, but they both needed it anyway.

"We should stop," Dean gasped, at one point, and then (when Sam paused to look up at him in disbelief) "--not *now*, dammit, Sam, oh fuck," and Sam licked his way down Dean's cock to suck on his balls, pulling a series of groans out of his brother. It kept Dean effectively silenced for a while -- well, not *silent*, but he wasn't exactly bothering with coherent words -- and then he gave a growl and twined his fingers in Sam's hair. (It needed a cut again one of these days, but not too short because that felt *good*.) Sam let himself be tugged up Dean's body for a fierce, sloppy, possessive kiss.

"Want you," Sam said between kisses and gulps of air. "Need you. In me. Fuck. Dean. Deeean." The name, stretched taut like the muscles of Sam's arm, seemed to stir something, and in a heartbeat Dean grabbed Sam and flipped the two of them over, clawing for lube as Sam spread his legs.

There wasn't any talking for a while. They both knew this dance by heart, even if the steps were different each time, and soon enough Dean was sheathed inside Sam as deeply as he could go, hands braced on either side of Sam's face and eyes staring raw and needy down. Sam wriggled, and Dean groaned and dropped his head down.

"We shouldn't be doing this." It came out raw and aching. "Not this. Not *us*. It's..."

"It's what, Dean?" Sam challenged; he'd heard it all before, though usually not while they were in the middle of said wrongness. "Tell me. Show me."

And Dean started to move, brutal and fierce the way both of them needed it, each thrust gaining more force; and each time he slammed forward a word wrenched hoarsely out of him. "Bad. Wrong. -- fuck -- Shouldn't. Can't." Sam was digging his heels in, pulling Dean deeper than he thought possible, and his hands were clawing at Dean's back. Scratches that wouldn't scar.

"You need to -- oh, fuck," Sam groaned, and let his head fall back. God, it felt so *good*. "--learn not to." He swallowed hard. "...talk." Dean licked a stripe up the length of his exposed neck, and Sam groaned and shuddered under him. "Just. Fuck," and Dean did.

(Dean did try again, later, to say, "Seriously, Sam, this isn't something we should be doing." There wasn't as much conviction in his voice as there might have been.

"Yeah, well." Sam kissed him again, more a lazy nuzzle-with-tongue than anything else. "You're mine. I won't let anything change that."

He said the last fiercely and stubbornly, and then kissed Dean again so he wouldn't ask /but what about the hell thing/, because he didn't have an answer.)



ii. (yes)

Sam didn't have sex again until the night Ruby kissed him.

He wasn't going to. He didn't want to. She was a *demon*, and she hadn't saved Dean. And, okay, maybe the body was pretty nice (and otherwise uninhabited if you believed her), and maybe it had been too long since he'd had any sort of action, but she wasn't Dean.

No one was Dean. Dean was *gone*, and it was his fault and he hadn't gotten Dean back, and a part of Sam was aware enough to know just how fucked up he was, but the rest of Sam didn't care. Ruby wanted forgiveness, and she wanted to comfort him, but she *wasn't Dean*.

Wasn't Dean when she kissed him, all soft lips and radiating heat, and so he pushed her away and wiped his mouth and tried to get rid of the taste that wasn't really there.

Wasn't Dean when she asked him what was wrong, because Dean would have known. She should have.

Wasn't Dean when she knelt between Sam's knees and put his hand on her waist (and didn't react when his fingers dug into soft flesh) and wriggled, pleading with him, needing him, begging him. "And it's nice inside this body, Sam," she said, voice cracking with desire. "Soft, and warm," and Sam had to take a deep breath because it had been ages since he'd been anything but cold and hollow and *lost*.

(Breathing didn't help, because it came with body-smell and desire and need and *not Dean*.)

"What are you doing." It wasn't a question. Both of them knew damn well. And she didn't really know, didn't understand, thought he was scared to fuck a demon. He wasn't, even if the thought (when he could think) made him slightly uneasy.

"Because it's wrong," she said, "and it's bad, and we shouldn't," and Sam closed his eyes because she couldn't have known how much of a *knife* those words were for him.

Or maybe she did.

Because for a moment, it wasn't Ruby there. It was Dean. (/Dude, we're brothers, hadn't you noticed?/ he'd said once, /what we're doing, it's wrong,/ though he had returned Sam's advances with equal need. /So we're going to hell,/ Sam had joked back, this long before it wasn't a joking matter, /so what?/) And Sam wanted -- *needed* --

Something inside him snapped.

His eyes were still closed from the first of the three verbal knife-stabs; he grabbed her, kissed her fiercely, hoisted her onto his lap, and she wasn't Dean but she was soft and warm and didn't resist Sam pulling at her hair and biting at her lips and clawing her back.

Her hair was too long and her body was not long enough; there wasn't enough muscle or strength or scars or *Dean*, but Sam didn't care any more. Couldn't care. He poured out all of his hate, at himself and at her and at Lilith and at Dean and at every single demon out there, and she took it and clawed more out of him.

It was rough and dirty and everything he needed and nothing he wanted, because he wanted Dean.

Still, he kept his eyes closed through most of it. He wasn't *totally* pretending she was Dean; there were, after all, breasts, and a clit, and a lack of cock or balls, and a nice warm wet hole that seemed made to take him, and his body wanted this even if it was different.

Ruby rippled around him with a cry when she came, and he groaned and thrust up a few more times and poured what was left of his soul into her, biting his lip to muffle the name he wanted to cry.

Out of breath, she leaned her forehead against his and said, softly, "...my name isn't Dean, you know."

"Shut up," Sam said, eyes still closed. He tasted blood, and his lip throbbed, and, oh, he was so fucked.



iii. (maybe)

Dean hasn't had sex with him since coming back. They haven't talked about it. (Not that they ever had before. Talking isn't a Winchester trait.)

They also haven't talked about the Ruby thing.

Finally telling the story to Dean, when he does, is a relief of sorts. It's awkward -- especially when he gets to the sex bits -- but he needs to explain what Ruby means to him. How she fixed him.

Sam finishes: "Ruby came back for me. Whatever you have to say, she saved me. More than that, she got through to me. What she said to me ... it's what you would have said."

He doesn't elaborate on which bits, exactly, he meant, and Dean doesn't ask. Probably assumes it was just the stuff about the Lilith fight, which is part of it. Part. Not all.

Even later -- when Sam has his mouth full of Dean, and Dean's hands are pressing into Sam hard enough to bruise, and all is right in Sam's (admittedly fucked-up) world -- there are more assumptions in Dean's eyes, and Sam doesn't bother to correct them.

Dean does start to say, "Sam, maybe we sh--" but Sam uses just enough teeth that Dean gives a strangled sort of gasp and tightens his grip on Sam and shuts up. Because they both know it's wrong, and there are angels watching every move they make, and *it doesn't matter*.

And Dean, afterwards, doesn't say a word.

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