Chapter Text
No sex while they’re at Bobby’s.
It’s a perfectly reasonable rule, Dean thinks, because he may only have about a week left unless they stumble across the Loophole From Heaven, but he still doesn’t want to shove the fact that he’s been having an on-again, off-again, very on-again relationship with his kid brother into Bobby’s face. And Sam even agreed with him—reluctantly, sure, but he promised.
And yet somehow Dean is lying on his back in the spare bed with his legs spread obscenely wide as Sam ruts into him. Not for the first or even the second time, either, but for the third.
At this point, Dean’s pretty much just riding it out. He came a few minutes ago—no hands to help him along: just Sam moving over and against and in him—and his cock lies limp and sticky on his stomach. Sam can pound into that sparking place inside of Dean as much as he wants, but baring some kind of Lazarus-like miracle, he's finished. In fact, Dean realizes as his brother gives a particularly determined thrust, if Sam doesn’t finish soon this is gonna get painful.
Biting his lip, he shuts his eyes and turns his head to one side. Tries to detach his mind from the toogood toomuch sensations flooding his body.
“No,” Sam grunts. “Don’t—c’mon, look at me.” Heaving himself up on one arm, he shoves his other hand in between Dean’s cheek and the pillow and pushes his head around again.
“Sam,” Dean manages hoarsely as he stares at the darkness behind his eyelids. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say—a plea for mercy, maybe—but the rest of it gets lost in a choked moan.
“C’mon,” Sam persists, nipping the last of the moan from Dean’s lips. “Fucking look at me. Dean. Dean, c’mon—”
Jesus Christ, he’s not gonna let this go, is he?
With dragging effort, Dean gathers all of the shivering, exhausted pieces of himself and clutches them close. His walls are battered, worn down by what feels like hours of Sam all but devouring his body. Opening his eyes takes more energy than Dean thinks it should, and as soon as he catches sight of his brother’s face, the flimsy remnants of his defenses collapse.
Sam’s slanted, hazel eyes bore into him—through him—and Sam follows. Sam flows into Dean: laps up everywhere inside of him like a moon-dark ocean, boundless and irresistible and enigmatic. So much love in those eyes: so much need. Dean doesn’t know how one person can be possessed by such fervent devotion and remain sane.
Sam’s expression sharpens. His eyes catch in Dean like hooks and haul him out from behind the crumbled debris of his walls. A trick of the light—or maybe Dean’s own feverish mind—makes them gleam with gold highlights for a moment and the sensation of being laid open intensifies. Exposed and vulnerable, Dean groans and tilts his hips up.
“That’s it,” Sam pants as his thrusts roughen.
Dean tossed his dignity onto the floor with his clothes sometime between the first time (pants around his ankles and bent over Bobby’s kitchen table) and the second (hands and knees on the bed), so he doesn’t even try to swallow his whimper. One of his arms comes up and clutches at Sam’s shoulder. He isn’t sure if he’s trying to pull his brother closer or shove him away.
His whole body aches: muscles overworked and skin covered with the marks Sam put there. By the time they got upstairs, Dean was already sporting bruises on his hips where Sam held him down on the table, and his brother has been hard at work since then. Dean’s neck feels like a vamp’s been at it, and his lips are numb: swollen. He has bite marks all over his chest: more bruises in the shape of his brother’s fingers on his wrists and biceps and thighs.
Sam has never been particularly gentle (not that Dean minds: he’s not a girl, isn’t gonna break from a little rough handling) but this close to the deadline everything has been sharpened and magnified. Sam is sharper: wears his desperation right out there in the open and flashes it around at anyone and everyone within a fifty-foot radius. He’s all hard edges these days—hunger and clutching, forceful hands—like he can keep Dean here if he only holds on tight enough: if he fucks him hard enough and long enough.
Now Dean is spread out underneath his brother, all that need pouring over him while he drowns in the illusion of wearing his soul on the outside of his body instead of hidden deep where it belongs.
Jesus, he doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.
“Fuck,” he rasps, and forces his quaking leg muscles to work long enough to lift up and wrap around his brother’s hips.
Sam makes a wild noise—he fucking loves it when Dean does that: always loses his grip on that iron control of his—and shoves their mouths together. Dean can taste blood in the kiss: thinks his lower lip might have split. It’s a minor pain amidst of the clamor the rest of him is making, and he opens up for his brother easily.
And as frightened as he is by the depth of Sam’s need, as terrified as he is by having been laid bare, it is easy. It’s easy because it’s Sam. The demons can rip his soul into tattered, smoky rags, and what Dean feels for his brother will still be there: the solid and unflinching core of him.
His chest twists as a fierce surge of loveloveneedSam rips through him and he grabs his brother’s hair in a weak fist. Sam can’t get any closer than he already is, can’t possibly shove any deeper into Dean’s mouth, but Dean does his best to deepen the kiss anyway. He's raw and trembling with how fucking much he loves his brother, and despite the eerie sensation (hallucination, it's a hallucination just like those fucking howls) of his soul floating on top of his skin, Dean knows that Sam can't see inside of him. But he needs—desperately—for Sam to understand.
Anything for Sam. Oh God, anything and always.
Sam makes a strange, sobbing moan into Dean’s mouth. He gives two more thrusts, which Dean’s body protests with twitching muscles and a deep-seated burn, and then stills. Sam's entire body shudders as he comes, and as distracted as Dean is by his brother's mouth on his—and by the desolate, opened feeling inside of him—he can’t help but think, fucking finally.
The kiss doesn’t falter for so much as a second, and Dean isn’t sure Sam even noticed his own climax. After a moment, he collapses on top of Dean and brings trembling hands up to tug at his sweat-soaked hair and to paw at his face while he kisses him. Dean thinks his brother might be crying, but they’re both covered in too much sweat for him to be sure.
Just in case, he wraps both arms around Sam: drags one leg up and down against his brother’s lower body in an attempt at comfort. The movement slips Sam’s cock free a little and Dean moans into the kiss at the strange sensation: sloppy with one and a half tubes of lube and three orgasms and now only half-full.
He has no idea how long they stay like that, but eventually Sam’s fervor eases. The kiss doesn’t deepen—no chance of that happening unless Dean figures out how to unhinge his jaw—but it softens, and Sam is doing things with his mouth and tongue that make it feel deeper. Things that make it feel like he’s stroking Dean’s soul as well as his face. It makes him … well, not exactly comfortable with that exposed sensation, but not really uncomfortable anymore either.
Dean’s body still hurts like a bitch, of course, and he’s going to have a few things to say to his brother about that later, but this right here? This lazy, worshipful kissing? He could happily do this for the rest of his life.
Which isn’t all that long at this point, but that doesn’t change the sentiment.
“You’re fucking amazing,” Sam says when he finally—reluctantly—lifts his head.
Dean groans. “Don’t say that word,” he complains, shifting his hips.
He immediately regrets the movement when it slips Sam the rest of the way free. Even that tiny bit of friction burned, and now he can feel something dribbling out of him, which has to be one of the most uncomfortable sensations in the entire universe. Sex always feels better without condoms—closer, more intense—but they have their perks.
“What? Amazing?” Sam asks. Mischief sparks in his eyes, making him look more like his old self than he has in months.
Dean’s chest swells with a bittersweet happiness that leaves a deep ache over his insides, but he can’t resist smiling. “Bitch,” he says fondly, and gives Sam a light cuff to the back of the head for good measure.
Grinning back, Sam shakes his head and sprays sweat everywhere. Dean snorts out a soft laugh and pushes at his brother’s chest.
“Dude, gross. Get your sweaty ass off me.”
As Sam stares down at him, his expression slips into something more intimate. That phantom, illusionary feeling of having his soul caressed returns and Dean’s stomach plummets.
Sam can’t. Not again. He’s young, but he isn’t that young, not unless he took Viagra when Dean wasn’t looking.
Fuck, Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Sam can, because he sure as hell can’t. But he doesn’t know if he can say no to his brother: never learned how.
When Sam pushes up onto his hands and knees, Dean sneaks a glance down his brother’s body and lets out a tiny sigh of relief. Sam is soft, and his cock looks almost as sore as Dean’s ass feels. The friction from a marathon session like they just had will do that to a guy, no matter how much lube he uses.
But if Dean is in the safety zone, then why is his stomach still rolling around nervously? It’s almost as worrying as the goddamned hallucination fucking with his head: that sensation of Sam rubbing up against his insides.
Keeping his eyes locked with Dean’s, Sam crawls backwards with a sinuous, rolling motion. Dean feels a twinge of annoyance through his unease. He has great endurance, and Sam did most of the work here, and for some reason Dean feels as weak as he did when he got himself electrocuted that one time. Sam, on the other hand, looks like he just woke up from a refreshing nap. No one should be that coordinated and graceful after the amount of sex they just had.
Now that Sam isn't draped over him, Dean could try getting up, but he’s too distracted by that feeling of being touched deep inside where no one should ever be able to go. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that something was going on here, but … but it’s just him and Sam. Nothing can get in past Bobby’s defenses: not unless it's invited. That’s one of the reasons they’re spending Dean’s last few weeks here, although Dean doubts that anything Bobby has in place is gonna stop the hellhounds from coming for him.
No, Dean’s first instincts were correct. This is just Hell playing tricks on him: in essence no different from those distant, hungry howls he’s been hearing for the past week or so.
Dean forces his mind away from those grim thoughts to find his brother kneeling in the space between his legs. Sam is trailing his eyes up and down Dean’s body, gaze catching on every bite and bruise. When he sees that Dean is paying attention, Sam's mouth curves up into a satisfied smirk that Dean kind of wants to smack him for, even if it is warranted.
Then his brother’s eyes drop to the place where Dean’s splayed legs meet and his smile goes so deep and predatory that all of the spit in Dean’s mouth dries up.
He swallows a few times in a vain attempt to work up some moisture and then says, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, man, but I’m done.”
Sam puts his left hand on Dean’s thigh and rubs his thumb into the skin. “Aw, did I wear you out, baby?”
The nervous tension in Dean’s stomach dissipates at the familiar, taunting tone. He’s about to come back with a suitably scathing response when his brother’s hand slides higher. Two of Sam’s fingers toy with his entrance and anything Dean was about to say cuts off with a pained hiss.
“Dude, fuck off,” he complains, trying to push his legs together.
Sam grabs one of Dean’s thighs with each hand and holds him open. Dean’s used to being manhandled in bed, but right now he really can’t fight his brother’s grip, and it's starting to freak him out.
“Okay, joke’s over,” he says. His voice comes out a little too harsh, roughened by nerves. “Get the fuck off me so I can shower.”
“Want me to kiss it better?” Sam asks, ignoring the order.
“What I want is for you to stop being an asshole and—”
Dean’s words break into a startled yelp as Sam yanks up on his thighs. His upper body slides down the bed, head coming off the pillow to rest on the mattress. Sam ducks forward as he pulls, draping Dean’s useless, malfunctioning legs over his shoulders. Dean’s stomach is twisting around in the most confusing ways: want and worry running through him in equal amounts.
They’ve done this before, of course, and normally Dean would be firmly in favor of it because it’s fucking hot: Sam’s tongue is, like, double-jointed or something. But he wasn’t kidding when he said he was done. He can’t shake that stripped, open sensation inside of him, and as raw as his ass feels, no way is this gonna be anything but painful.
Sam gives Dean a look that says he knows everything Dean's thinking and then lays a slow, wet kiss to the sensitive join of his left thigh. His eyes are warm on Dean’s: full of promises that make him shiver in hunger, need, and a little fear.
“You smell so good,” Sam murmurs, and then noses at the spot he just kissed.
Oh God.
“I’m a mess,” Dean tries. Like that isn’t the whole fucking point.
“Mmm,” Sam agrees: a low rumble deep in his throat. He nuzzles again, cheek against the side of Dean’s thigh and mouth perilously close to Dean’s aching, sloppy center. “Wanna taste you.” His fingers flex on Dean’s thighs as he shifts his grip, digging in and leaving new bruises.
“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean blurts.
He can’t help but notice that he isn’t struggling, though. His dick isn’t anywhere near hard—Sam went and broke it—but that doesn’t mean he isn’t aroused. By what Sam’s doing, yeah, but more and more by that intrusive, fondling feeling in his soul. Hallucination or not, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt this close to his brother. So cherished.
“Please, baby,” Sam begs, his voice cracked open with something far too close to desolation for Dean’s comfort. There are jagged shadows in his eyes, as though holding himself back is ripping him up inside. “Please, I need this.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Yeah. Yeah, go ahead.”
All Sam has to do is turn his head slightly and he’s pressing a gentle kiss right over Dean’s opening. It aches, but not too badly, and Dean relaxes in his brother’s grip. Then Sam’s tongue darts out, licking along the puffy rim of his hole, and that hurts a little more. Dean shifts without thinking about it, making Sam tighten up on him.
“S’okay,” Sam whispers, breath hot and wet and shuddering against Dean’s center. “It’s just me. Gotta let me. You have to let me in, okay?”
Before Dean has a chance to respond, Sam seals his mouth against him and shoves his tongue inside. That feeling of being touched in too intimate, impossible places intensifies and Dean’s hips jerk helplessly. Sam is ready for the movement, though, and he doesn’t actually go anywhere. Dean bites at his lip, gets more blood, and tangles his fists in the sheets.
“Fuck,” he says, low and broken. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Sam makes this contented noise and it funnels up his throat and out his mouth and into Dean. His tongue is hard at work, licking at the mess he made inside of him: squirming as deep as Sam can force it. Dean hears a thick, wet noise—not him for once—and after a few, shell-shocked moments he realizes that it’s coming from Sam. That it’s the sound of Sam swallowing.
The rush of pleasure-pain that jolts through him feels shockingly like the orgasm he can’t be having. “Sam!” he shouts, bucking.
In the midst of Dean’s high, he's blindsided by the sensation of something slotting into place inside of him. It's intense, skimming along that razor edge of agonizing and blissful, and his shout breaks into a high keening noise. Distantly, he feels Sam's fingers dig even deeper into his thighs, drawing a thin trickle of blood. His brother's cry, coming directly on top of his own, is muffled against Dean’s body.
Dean is still coming down from that thing that felt like an orgasm but wasn’t as Sam lowers his body back to the bed, so it takes him a few seconds to realize that his brother has draped forward over him, back bent almost in half as he buries his face against Dean’s stomach and shakes. Dean’s a little messed up himself right now, but he thinks that Sam might be sobbing. Fuck if he’s gonna leave his little brother uncomforted.
Somehow, he manages to make it up onto his elbows and touches the curve of Sam’s shoulder with one hand.
“Sammy,” he says. “Hey, man. Hey.”
“Dean,” Sam breathes, like he’s pouring his soul out in that one word.
Dean’s chest hollows out at the sound, and he isn’t sure which is worse: seeing his brother like this or those hellish hours when Sam was dead. At least Sam wasn’t hurting when he was dead. Dean didn’t have to listen to him sounding so lost, and broken, and damned.
“C’mere,” he says, reaching further to grab Sam’s shoulder. “Baby, c’mere.”
Sam is still shaking and uncoordinated, but he comes. He half-crawls, half-slithers back up Dean’s body—moving like he’s injured, like he’s in agony—until Dean is blanketed by two-hundred plus pounds of trembling muscle. Sam’s face is wrecked, and Dean was right about him crying. His eyes are red-rimmed and there are tears streaming down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, and then feels like kicking himself because, duh, like this could be about anything else with his expiration date only a week away.
“It hurts,” Sam moans, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Fuck, it hurts.”
“Shh,” Dean says helplessly, holding his brother against him and rocking him as best as he can. “Shh, it’s okay, I’m right here.”
It seems to be the right thing to say. Sam’s shaking lessens and his hands squirm underneath Dean’s body to hold him in return. “Can’t lose you,” Sam mumbles. “I won’t. I won’t.” His voice twists viciously, and Dean’s pretty sure that he feels his ribs crack when Sam squeezes him.
He didn’t think he could be more concerned about his brother, but it looks like he was wrong.
Dean frowns as he rocks his brother. He’s going to have to ask Bobby to watch Sam closely After. Make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid. Sam's been taking too many chances looking for a loophole, and Dean suspects that somewhere along the way his brother’s morals may have slipped. Not enough that he thinks about Dad’s final words to him (not in the daylight, he doesn’t, anyway), but enough that Sam might need a guiding hand to rein him once Dean is gone.
Like Dean didn’t already have enough to worry about these days. Oh well, at least his soul feels like it’s back inside where it belongs. That nutty hallucination kept up much longer and he was gonna go nuts. Dean will take hellhound howls over phony spiritual experiences any day.
Refocusing his attention fully on his brother where it belongs, Dean murmurs, “I love you.”
He doesn’t say it a lot: doesn’t see the point in saying something they both know. But it feels necessary right now, when he can’t make Sam any other promises.
“Always,” Sam insists. “Tell me you’ll always love me, n-no matter what h-happens.”
This Dean can promise. Easily and honestly. A smile tugs up the corners of his lips as he strokes his hands down Sam’s back. “Yeah, man. Always.”
Sam starts crying for real then: gasping, violent sobs while he twists against Dean like he really is in pain. Dean wants to comfort his brother, but he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to start. In the end, he settles for just holding him and letting the attack run its course. Sam’ll wear himself out eventually.
It feels like hours pass before Sam is finally quiet again. When Dean glances over, the clock on the nightstand reads 4:57. It was around noon when Sam pressed up behind him and shoved his hand down Dean’s pants. Of course, Dean has no idea how much of that time they spent fucking.
He gives Sam a few minutes of quiet and then asks, “Better?”
Sam nods against his chest. “Yeah, thanks.” He shifts around a little more and then lifts his head. “What time is it?”
“Almost five,” Dean tells him. Sam’s hair is sticking up on one side and he can’t resist carding his fingers through it.
Sam groans and drops his head back down on Dean’s chest. “We should get cleaned up,” he mumbles into Dean’s skin.
Dean always knew Sam was a genius. “Oh God, yes,” he agrees.
The sex is fantastic, and he doesn’t mind cuddling, but he’s never been a fan of how messy sex with another guy gets. It’s a little better when he tops (not that it happens often: he’s too addicted to the way Sam makes him feel when they go at it like this), but if Dean goes too long with his own spunk on his stomach and cock then he starts itching. There’s actually a telltale tickle spreading across his skin right now.
Sam isn’t making any effort to move, though.
“You know that the cleaning up part is easier if I can get up, right?” Dean prods.
“Yeah,” Sam sighs, and finally clambers off of Dean to stand next to the bed. He's still moving like he’s injured: shoulders hunched and steps ginger. Frowning, Dean looks his brother up and down. Sam has a few bruises of his own—Dean can give as good as he gets, as long as he’s coherent enough—but otherwise he looks okay.
“You pull something?” Dean asks.
“What?” There’s a worrisome quality to his brother’s voice, and something that looks almost like guilt in the glance Sam tosses Dean’s way, which makes no sense at all.
“I asked if you pulled a muscle or something,” Dean repeats.
“Oh.” Some of the tension drains out of Sam’s face. “Yeah, I—I think I pulled one of my obliques.” His hand skirts down his side, just above his skin.
Dean would feel sympathetic—that’s one of those muscles that you never seem to notice until you pull it, and then it drives you fucking nuts—but now that he isn’t so worried about Sam, he’s becoming more aware of his own body. Of what Sam did to his body.
“Oh, poor baby,” he says sarcastically, slowly maneuvering himself up so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s a position that puts a whole lot of pressure on his ass that he doesn’t need there right now, but he isn’t up to standing just yet.
“Fuck,” Dean grunts as he looks down at himself. The damage is even worse than he thought it was earlier: hand prints and bite marks fucking everywhere, and several of his muscles feel strained in a way that makes Dean think Sam isn’t the only one who pulled something. Fixing his brother with a sour glare, he says, “You owe me a new body. This one’s done.”
“Sorry, I got kind of carried away.” But Sam doesn’t sound sorry. He doesn’t sound much of anything, actually. Maybe a little distant. Which means he’s either feeling really fucking guilty or he’s still dwelling on Dean’s deal and is trying not to show it. Dean isn’t in the mood to deal with either right now.
“You think?” he says, and slowly pushes up to his feet. His right thigh twitches, and for a few seconds the muscle is in danger of either cramping or giving out and dropping him on his ass. Dean kneads it with one hand, willing it to relax again. Stares at the bracelet of bruises around his wrist.
Man, Sam worked him over good.
Dean’s thigh is just starting to unclench when Sam drops a hand onto his forearm and yanks him forward. He stumbles into his brother with a low curse.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Sam breathes, sliding his hand down the small of Dean’s back to cup his ass. He bends his head and licks Dean’s collarbone in a long, slow line.
Dean’s never been at his best when he’s in pain, and the fact that Sam is offering to make up for this with more sex? It’s at once hilarious and a little annoying. Maybe more than a little annoying. Even if what Sam is doing with his mouth right now feels really, really good …
Get a fucking grip, Dean tells himself sternly, and then shoves his way out of his brother’s grasp. His muscles cry out in protest and he winces.
“Yeah, I don't think the healing powers of your cock are what I need right now,” he grunts, starting toward the adjoining bathroom with careful, awkward steps. He knows he must look ridiculous as he all but waddles across the room, and it only makes him grumpier.
“I’m flattered you think my cock has magical healing powers,” Sam says with a hint of amusement. “But I was thinking more along the lines of dinner and drinks.”
That brings Dean up short in the doorway. Because ‘dinner’ sounded a hell of a lot like ‘restaurant’ and ‘drinks’ sounded like ‘bar’ and both would require more sitting on hard, unyielding surfaces than Dean wants to be doing tonight. He shoots his brother a glare that should let Sam know exactly what he thinks of his idea and Sam just looks back at him calmly.
Looks like Dean’s gonna have to be a little more vocal on the subject.
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m not really up to moving right now, let alone going out.”
Sam regards him for a moment longer and then breaks out into one of those impudent grins that used to drive Dad nuts. Dean can sympathize.
“Okay, man,” Sam says with false nonchalance. “It’s your call. But I think Bobby’s gonna be a little curious how you got marked up so pretty if we stay in.”
Dean snorts and turns back around, flipping on the bathroom light. “I’m not planning on walking around naked in front of the man.”
“You won’t have to.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to—” Then Dean catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. Staring in horror, he moves closer to his reflection.
Dean’s neck looks like the entire squad of Dallas cheerleaders have been at him. His lips are bruised and swollen and split from the relentless pressure of his brother’s mouth. There’s bruising along his jaw as well—some of it from Sam’s kisses and some from the way Sam held Dean’s head still when he sucked Sam back to hardness between rounds two and three. He even managed to break the skin on Dean’s left earlobe, which is impressive since Dean doesn’t remember Sam going anywhere near his ears.
Twisting, Dean tries to get a good look at the nape of his neck. He knows full well that his brother has some kind of fetish when it comes to that spot—has since this thing between them first started—so it only makes sense that it’s gonna be worse than the rest of him. Sam couldn’t get at that bit of skin this last time, but he did more than enough during the first two rounds. There’s more bruising, of course, which Dean expected, but there are also actual teeth marks.
Dean couldn’t be more obvious if he were wearing a shirt with Freshly Fucked printed in pink neon across the front.
He catches movement behind him in the mirror—Sam—and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You fucker.”
Sam leans against the doorframe and grins at him. There’s no sign of his earlier breakdown: just the cockiness he normally displays when they’ve gone at it particularly hard.
“Unless you have a turtleneck lying around somewhere, Bobby’s gonna have a few questions,” he points out. “And even if you had a turtleneck, you’re still walking like you just got ridden hard and put away wet.”
Sam’s right, the asshole. Bobby’s out checking on a possible solution to Dean’s problem right now, but he’s due back sometime late tonight or early tomorrow morning. And when he sees Dean, he’s gonna ask what the hell happened to him. At which point, Dean can either try to make up some bullshit story—a bullshit story that Bobby will inevitably see through—or he can admit that Sam just gave him one of the most intense fucks of his life, or he can give Bobby a shrug and a, “We went out last night and I got lucky,” which would have enough truth in it not to set off Bobby’s internal lie detector and still cover Dean’s ass.
But that last one is only gonna work if Dean actually goes out tonight.
Fucking A.
“I hate you,” Dean grumbles. “You did this on purpose.”
Something flickers in Sam’s eyes and is gone quickly enough that Dean is pretty sure he imagined it. “Oh yeah,” Sam drawls. “You’re onto my evil scheme now. I deliberately seduced you and marked you up so I could blackmail you into coming out with me tonight—which you would have done anyway if I’d just asked you earlier. Makes tons of sense.”
Well, no, not when Sam puts it that way, it doesn’t.
Scowling, Dean turns away from his brother and limps over to the shower. “Prime ribs, mashed potatoes, gravy, apple pie for dessert, and you’re buying.”
“Okay,” Sam agrees easily, watching while Dean turns the water on. Then he adds, “Can I shower with you?”
Dean shoots his brother a glance, one hand stuck out in the spray of water as he waits for the temperature to rise. He’s still a little annoyed at just how fucked up his body is, but it’s difficult to hold on to that emotion when Sam is giving him that hopeful, earnest look. Just like a damned dog begging for table scraps.
“You gonna try anything?” he says after a moment.
Sam’s lips tilt up in a smile that’s absurdly sweet and shy in light of what they just did. “Might kiss you a little,” he admits.
Dean turns his head away to hide his answering grin. Man, he is so stupidly in love with Sam, it isn’t even funny. Wouldn’t do to let the kid know how much of a pushover he is, though. Set a bad precedent.
“Just keep your cock to yourself, Romeo,” he says, keeping his voice gruff.
Sam immediately bounds forward, tumbling them both into the spray. Luckily for him, the water's warm enough that Dean's balls don't try to make a strategic retreat into his body.
“You realize that makes you the girl, right?” Sam asks, wrapping one arm low around Dean's stomach and reaching past him for the soap.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, but he can't keep the goofy, contented smile off his face when Sam lathers his hands up and starts washing him. Leaning into his brother, he shuts his eyes and enjoys the feel of Sam's hands on his body: Sam's lips on his neck and jaw and cheek. Sam's being careful now, and reverent, and Dean is in no way responsible for the noises he's making.
"You're such a sensualist," Sam accuses, lightly scratching Dean's stomach.
"Mmhmm," Dean agrees.
Lulled by the pounding of the water, he lets his head fall back against his brother's shoulder. The warmth feels good on his aching muscles and skin, and by the time that Sam has finished with his front, Dean's feeling loose and pliant. It won't last too long, but that's what painkillers and alcohol are for.
Normally, this is the point when Sam turns him around and and goes about kissing him senseless while caressing his back, but today he just tugs at one of the short strands of Dean's hair. "You want me to wash your hair too?"
Dean cracks one eye open and cranes his neck to get a glimpse of his brother's face. "Why, you want to?"
Sam scrubs his fingers against Dean's scalp, making him curl his toes into the slick floor. "Maybe."
"You perving on my hair, Sammy?" Dean teases.
He's pretty sure the way he's pushing into Sam's fingers makes it clear that he's okay with it, but Sam's quiet long enough that Dean starts to think this is gonna be one of those things his brother's gonna freak over. It's weird what Sam decides to be self-conscious about. The kid had no problem whatsoever telling Dean he wanted to stick his tongue up Dean's ass, but had to be poked and prodded into admitting that he got off on holding Dean down. And he still hasn't been able to come straight out and explain why he gets off on biting the nape of Dean's neck.
"Look," Dean says finally, "It's okay if you—"
"You should grow it out."
"What?" Dean says. The word comes out riding a laugh. "Dude, there's only room for one Cousin It in this family, and that's you."
"Fuck you," Sam says absently, and drags his fingers against Dean's scalp again. "I didn't mean a lot. Just a little."
"You just want something to hold onto when I blow you," Dean says, only half-joking. Sam never can seem to figure out what to do with his hands when Dean sucks him.
"Is that a no?"
Dean snorts. "I'll think about it. Now stop fucking around and wash my hair, bitch."