Settling the
Score

This isn't gentle, and it was never going to be. Sam walks into the motel room to find Dean already half-undressed, chest heaving, eyes black with something that isn't just anger. The years of tension — the arguments, the near-misses, the denials — snap like a frayed wire. Dean shoves him onto the bed before a single word is spoken, hands rough as they yank at Sam's jeans, mouth hard and punishing against his. It's a fight as much as it is a fuck: teeth scraping down Sam's throat, fingers digging bruises into his hips, thick cock driving into him with a brutality that borders on hatred. But Sam doesn't stop him — he curses Dean between gasps, spreads his legs wider, wraps his ankles around his brother's waist and dares him to keep going. Dean does. He fucks Sam like he's trying to solve an old equation through violence alone, each thrust a refutation of every time he pulled away. By the time he finishes, spilling deep inside Sam with a guttural groan that sounds almost broken, both of them are marked: bitten, scratched, trembling. The silence after is heavier than any argument they've ever had. Neither apologizes. Neither has to.