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He’s lost count of how many shiners this shit has earned him.
He’s gotten sneakier; doesn’t hurt to have something to work up towards. And, hell, he’d be lying if Sammy’s reflexes being so on point and all weren’t making his brittle little heart sing.
Or whatever equivalent scumbags like him have got sitting in there.
Sam smacks his lips, and Dean comes up halfway to see his eyelids fluttering—dangerous.
He swirls his tongue around-underneath the tip for another one, two rounds, before he takes him down all the way once more.
Other people do yoga or whatever, but his brother’s dick is the only workout Dean willingly drags himself out of bed for in the morning.
Tongue out, he can make it so close to the base it’s fucking torture. He’s gotta be quiet, barely moving, because Sam is a fucking dog with his sleep (all the relation, right there) and there’s only so long you can go without coughing, or heaving, on this guy.
It’s unwritten law that Dean will act like his little brother can in fact not spit on top of his head, regardless of the obvious opposite grinning into his face every fucking waking minute of any day, ever.
Sam’s not enough of an asshole to ever, ever point it out. There’s shit that goes unsaid, always has, always will.
Unlike this, because, obvious reasons.
Dean’s gotten his rib fractured and several muscles pulled but Sam insists that yeah, he is into getting woken up dick first. He’s made that very clear. Crystal. It keeps Dean motivated.
Dean can’t do much about his own body in this situation. He could grind his hips down, but that might stir the bed too much. He’s hard as a rock, he’s aware—but this isn’t about him. Yet.
Cheeks hollowed, going for the prize. He could do this for hours. Gets lost in this shit, his Sammy and the taste and skin and warmth and the fucking audacity of it—getting to do this in his brother’s bed, their own sheets.
Dean closes his eyes like a stupid fucking girl because the idea of this place becoming their home—a real, true home—it fucks him up. Right in that weird spot reserved for fourth of July memories and the tastes and sounds his brain supplies looking at those old family photos.
Some part of his back that’s not supposed to crack cracks, loudly, in the leg lock his moose of a brother wrestles him into before Dean can dislodge his fucking ten-incher from way past tonsils.
Sam yells, “Shit!” out of pure shock, hasn’t even woken up yet but curses again when he recognizes the (probably now paraplegic) pile of meat choked between his thunder thighs. “Shit, I—fuck, Dean, you alright? Shit.”
Dean gulps for air once he can and lets Sam haul him to lie alongside him. He wheezes, “I’m fine, fine,” and waves Sam’s hectic paws away from his old, broken body, before they can do any more damage.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”
“It’s fine, I know. I know.”
Sam’s eyes are very much wide awake. He’s panting like he’s run a marathon. Dean generously lets him pet his shoulder, eventually.
Again, “I’m sorry,” and again, “It’s fine. Don’t mention it.”
Dean takes a moment curled-up in fetal position to wait out the worst. Their breathing evens out soon enough and leaves the two of them in the so-quiet room, feet-deep underground. No cars just outside badly-insulated windows. No high heels or screaming babies next-door.
After a while, “Did you, uh… Were you…”
“Yup.”
“Shit, sorry, I…”
“Gimme two more minutes,” Dean groans, but a small movement is enough to drive all air out of his lungs and he scrunches up his face. “Guh, maybe, uh—might be your best bet to jus’, I dunno, roll me over and climb on my face or whatever.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“I think you broke me.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Right between my legs, doc,” Dean grunts. “I dunno, is it supposed to get that hard?”
When he opens his eyes, Sammy grins back just as stupid as himself. “You’re such an ass.”
Dean chuckles. “Hey, I’m really hurt!”
Half a stretch…good…yeah…ouch, okay, enough, enough.
Dean sighs deeply, now less cramped and blinking lazy at his stupid little brother. Who’s all cute and sleep-soft, hair a freaking nightmare of tangles and dried-up drool. Who runs his knuckles so soft along Dean’s arm that he could as well have wings and drink from flowers instead of swinging machetes around for a living.
Low, sincere, “How’s it feel?”
“Like you will have to ride my face. Honestly, the lower half—just ditch it, I can’t feel my legs.”
“Should I get you to the ER or anything?”
“Are you kidding me? I look that old to you? ER, very funny. Fuck you, man.”
Dean can’t keep his pout up for long. Not with Sammy’s tension crumbling away to that little-boy smile he’s somehow preserved through all these years. They beat the literal Devil himself, but this, right here, that’s the true miracle. Or, would be, if Dean believed in all that weird-ass mumbo jumbo (God, and good, and destiny; y’know, bullshit).
Sam moves to pet Dean’s face before he leans in to press a good Christian kiss to his forehead. Dean allows him to snuggle in right, pull him up to his impressive tits and pretend Dean’s the one who needs the hugs. Yeah, sure.
Dean yawns and his jaw reminds him of what he had been doing for like half an hour before things got unnecessarily violent. Sam pets his hair like he’s a tired dog or something and Dean thinks of correcting this misunderstanding, but, it’s just…so goddamn comfortable right here, right now.
“How’s pancakes sound to you?”
“Mmh.” Dean didn’t realize he’s closed his eyes. “From that one place, where they…?”
“Coffee, tall?”
“Mmmhmygod.”
Sam chuckles. “Give me twenty. I should…probably hit the shower.”
Dean hides his face deep in his brother’s armpit. And, yeah, he needs that shower. Dean takes the deepest breath he took all morning. “Mhno.”
“No?”
Dean’s enough of a bitch to throw his leg over that eight-pack and hold on for dear life. “Five more minutes?”
Sam’s enough of a girl to grant him ten.