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Fourteen was a tough age for Sam. A few days off from fifteen, he was a grumpy little shit hiding childish scowls under too-long bangs and digging his heels in at everything. He was still a sweet kid, always had been and always would be, but his tolerance for dad seemed to get shorter every year. He wasn’t outright cruel, wouldn’t be for another year or so, but Dean noticed the bared teeth and stubborn set of his jaw and awkward hunch of his shoulders the way he noticed everything else about Sammy.
Dean remembered being fifteen and so very uncomfortable within his own body — and oh, the ache of growing pains. Sam had shot up through puberty, towering a few (infuriating) inches over his big brother despite their four year age gap. If Dean thought his growing pains were bad, he could only imagine how bad it would have been for his beanstalk of a brother.
Those past few years had been good for Sam, slowly turning lanky limbs into lean muscle. He was still a wiry little shit but he managed to make it look good.
Dean had always known that Sammy was an attractive kid, from a purely objective standpoint. It wasn’t exactly hard to see; perfect white teeth and sweet little dimples and slanted eyes above a set of cheekbones that already drove girls crazy — Dean would have been blind if he didn’t see how visually appealing his little brother was.
Being attracted to Sammy was something entirely different, dirtybadwrong and terrifying.
Sam and dad had been surprisingly civil the last time they’d been in the same room together, John swinging a bag over his shoulder and telling them about the wendigo he’d caught wind of. Sam had straightened out those ever-growing shoulders and set his jaw and John had cut him off at the pass with a, “Teaming up for this one, got a few other jobs I’ll probably take after, don’t use all the money, get a scratch on the car and I’ll tan your hides.”
It’s been a little over two weeks since then, Sam riding shotgun after soccer practice at the tiny high school that Dean hadn’t bothered enrolling in. The windows of the Impala are cranked down and Sam has an arm hanging out, fingers splayed wide through the cool evening air. The days tended to be stifling, breeze itself hot enough to burn, only bearable after the sun had set.
Sam’s skin had tanned golden brown more in those few weeks than ever before, a new smattering of freckles across the width of his shoulders and the bridge of his nose. The motel room has a single double bed, all they’d been able to afford with the money that dad had left them. Even if they’d been able to afford anything more, it was an unspoken agreement that they’d choose the one bed anyway. They both slept better the closer together they were.
They often went shirtless at night in the warmer months and Dean had lost track of the hours spent tracing every inch of his brother’s body with his eyes, squished together in lumpy beds all over the country. He knew every freckle and mole and scar, knew about the crazy ticklish spots on the back of knobbly knees that he always took advantage of when they ended up wrestling over the TV remote, knew about Sam’s embarrassment over the new pimples on his jaw. Dean had subtly swiped an expensive looking face wash and been irrationally endeared by Sam’s angry, embarrassed little scowl as he stormed off to the bathroom the next morning with the face wash clutched to his chest.
He’d noticed the freckles the night they first appeared, after a weekend that Sam had spent sunning himself on the bed in front of the large window. The Impala was parked right out front of their room, and Dean had left the windows down while he checked under his baby’s hood, soft rock pouring into the midday heat. Sam had eventually called him back inside, skin freshly pinked up from the sun, scolding him for overworking himself on their days off.
Dean himself spent his weekdays at a garage near Sam’s school. He knew that he didn’t get paid enough for his hours, but they’d been left with such little after dad had taken off, and the garage paid him in cash. Any spare change was put toward food and fuel and ensuring they didn’t get kicked out of their room. The room had thin curtains that barely blocked out any light and the carpet smelled mostly like smoke and the mirror in the bathroom was cracked, but it was better than nothing. They had no problem sleeping in the Impala if they had to, but at least the room had a bed to stretch out on.
Sam has all but collapsed face-down into the unmade bed before Dean has even closed the door behind them, groaning and rolling shoulders that he is still growing into. He’d managed to strip out of his jeans from the entry to the bed, shoes somehow still in place. His boxers are an old pair of Dean’s, yet another pair of hand-me-downs.
“Dean?” Sammy’s voice pitches up ever so slightly, light and hopeful, and Dean knows exactly what Sam’s asking for. He’d asked for the same thing again and again after his latest growth spurt, all wide eyed and sweet and looking nothing like the little shit who’d once thrown a red sock in with Dean’s whites at a laundromat and turned them all pink. Those pretty eyes had always been his weakness and he’d forgiven Sammy for ruining his clothes with nothing more than a scowl and a rough shove.
This time, all it takes is Sam’s hopeful voice to draw him in.
“Spoiled brat.” He teases, shucking his jacket onto one of the rickety chairs around the rickety table and bending down to unlace his boots. A quick glance over his shoulder sees Sam tucking his smile into the pillow that he’s crossed his arms on top of. His body stretches out over the length of the bed, feet all but hanging off the end. Dean is endlessly fond of his little brother’s struggle with beds that he could comfortably sleep in without having to tuck his knees up to his chest.
“Let’s get it over with, then.” He crawls onto the bed, grinning at Sammy’s oof when he drops his weight onto the dip of his back.
“Shit,” Sam grunts, always such a potty mouth. “That’s — there’s a cramp right there, Dean.”
Dean mumbles an apology, shifting back enough to dig his thumbs into the ache of Sam’s lower back. Sammy jerks for a moment, gasping, before he all but melts with a breathy oh.
“Oh my god.” Sam wheezes, rolling his shoulders under the pressure of Dean’s hands. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Dean grins, teasing, “Sounds like a line, Sammy. You tryna pick me up or something?” and Sam barks a laugh, the effect softened by the breathy little moan that follows after.
“Shut up and work out my kinks.” Sam huffs, cutting Dean off before he can open his mouth. “No, no jokes about my kinks, you’re not as funny as you like to think.”
“I’m hilarious.” Dean sniffs, digging his thumbs into Sam’s shoulders just that little bit harder in retaliation. Sam quakes with his silent laughter and Dean can’t help but grin at the thought of that dazzling smile.
They spend a few minutes in mostly silence, rickety fan spinning slowly above them. It did little more than push the hot air around the room but Sam insisted that it was cooler with it on.
“Hey,” Dean whacks the back of his hand at Sam’s hip. “Shirt off, your dumb flannel is too thick for me to do this properly.”
Sam huffs, squirming to get his hands under himself and unbutton his shirt. Dean helps tug it over his head when he finishes, tossing it onto Sam’s duffel where it sits by the table.
An appreciative little sound escapes Dean as he brushes a hand over the fading bruise on Sam’s side. “This is healin’ up nicely.”
Sam makes a vague sound of agreement. He’d gotten the bruise from soccer, of all things, and Dean can’t help the bloom of something a lot like satisfaction that the most dangerous thing in Sam’s life at that point was a stray soccer ball to the side. A safe Sammy was a happy Sammy and both of those were Dean’s favorites.
Sam’s skin is warm under Dean’s hands when he returns to soothing his brother’s pains. Every so often Sam will groan or squirm or press back into the pressure, body becoming looser with every knot that Dean works out.
“Legs and then I’m done.” the announcement has Sam pouting — Dean doesn’t even have to see his face to know that he’s pouting. He shuffles back and shifts so that he’s between Sam’s legs rather than straddling them.
Sure enough, Sam bargains, “Legs and feet. My calves hurt and so do my feet.”
“Spoiled.” Dean repeats, even as he leans back to unlace the Chucks his brother is wearing. They’d been white, once, probably. The canvas was already an off white when they’d bought them from a thrift store, and had dirtied even more since then. Dean makes a note to get Sammy some new shoes when he saw the holes in the canvas.
The shoe makes a quiet thunk when it hits the floor, followed shortly by the other one. Sam wriggles his toes in his socks and Dean snorts, batting his foot away. Sam lowers his calf with another one of those quiet little laughs that makes Dean think of dimples and white teeth.
Sammy mmm ’s when Dean dives right in to work at his calf muscles. There’d been countless mornings where Sammy had woken up and stretched out, yawn cut off with a pained sound when his calves tensed and spasmed. It happened at night as well, right before bed, and Dean had considered buying one of those hot water bottles just to help Sam get through it a little easier.
By the time Dean gets to Sam’s foot, he’s almost sure that Sam has fallen asleep. The kid is little more than a sentient puddle by that point, one with the bed. A few moments of focusing on Sam’s breathing tells Dean that he’s still awake and apparently relaxed enough to have become a pile of goop.
Dean easily rolls off Sam’s ankle socks, tossing them in the same direction as the flannel. The sound Sammy makes at the first press into the arch of his foot is borderline pornographic, and Dean has to bite down a taunting remark. This is about taking care of Sammy, not teasing him and getting a rise out of the poor kid. There’d be time for that later.
Sam wriggles at every new press, and Dean has to duck to avoid getting kicked in the nose when Sam squeaks and his foot jerks at the feeling of fingers against his ankle.
“Okay, kid.” Dean announces, shuffling away from the offending foot. “You’re all good.”
Sammy manages to drag his heavy limbs over, flopping onto his back. The dopey little lopsided grin he throws Dean is nothing new, but the heavy eyes and the red-bitten mouth and the pink cheeks make something flop around in Dean’s stomach that definitely hadn’t been there before.
“Thanks, Dean.” Sam yawns,a lazy hand scratching at his bare chest. Dean tracks that hand as it strays to scratch his navel. There’s a trail of light brown hair there, barely noticeable, and Dean feels saliva flood his mouth at the sight of Sam all sprawled out and pink and sleepy with his thighs still spread open where they’d settled. The splay of those soft thighs makes him want to press closer, draw out those moans for a different reason —
Dean cuts his gaze away, feeling abruptly sick at himself, and throws himself off the bed with an excuse about getting dinner on. Dinner is, of course, another can of beans. Sam was sure to scrunch up his nose at having it for two weeks straight, even if he wouldn’t say anything about it. He’d have complained if dad were there, but he always tried to be on his best behavior when it was just them. Dean fights down the weird feeling in his stomach and focuses on making a list for the next time he goes on a grocery run.
Contrary to popular belief, Dean has messed around with other guys before. He’d partaken in his own fair share of fumbled handjobs and messy blowjobs. Only a few months earlier, a girl had whipped out a bright pink dildo and a pair of satiny panties and he’d let her fuck him into the mattress while he wore them. This, though — this was different. This was wanting to kiss the dimples that bracketed his favorite smile and bite those sweet sounds from petal pink lips and press bruises into thighs that hadn’t quite lost their baby fat yet.
Dad comes back the next morning before the sun has risen and they’re gone before it does so, crossing state lines with Sam scowling up a storm in the back like usual. The silence is tense and Dean reaches forward to turn the music up like that will help. Sam’s mood only gets worse after that, when they pull into a nicer-than-usual motel and Dean quietly asks dad to get him and Sam separate beds.
His skin had squirmed at the considering look he got for that, before dad nods and heads off for the main office.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam hisses, leaning forward. Dean pushes Sam’s face away without turning to look at him, shoving his skinny ass back into his seat. They wait for dad to return, Sam fuming and making outraged little sounds every few moments, as though he can’t believe Dean’s audacity. Dean had spent the night before pressed as far away from Sam on the tiny bed as possible and Sam was too smart not to notice the distance between them.
Dad had told them to that they were too old to be sharing beds for years now, even going as far as paying extra for a room with a third bed, but he’d eventually given up after they lost track of the amount of times Sammy would just crawl into Dean’s bed anyway and leave his own otherwise untouched. They’d gone back to sharing beds for the past three years without problems, but Dean had fucked it all up. The very thought of sweet little Sammy crawling into bed, cheeks pink as his rose petal mouth, has Dean’s fingers twitching with the need to reach out and touch. The pain of his nails digging into his own palm is enough to banish the image from his head.
If dad asked, he’d have said that Sam was too big for them to be sharing a bed anymore, and if dad had pressed, he’d shrug and say that it was too uncomfortable and the lack of sleep was messing with his ability to hunt. That would appease dad’s infuriating curiosity, if nothing else.
Thankfully, dad says nothing, and Dean helps him haul their duffels out of the trunk while Sam snatches the room keys out of dad’s outstretched hand and stomps off to find number 16.
“He’s just upset about, y’know, school.” Dean offers at his dad’s long-suffering sigh, as though that little bit of information could possibly help. Dad shoots him a look, indecipherable, before pulling the trunk shut and following his youngest son. Dean himself sighs, trailing after.
Dean half expects his stubborn asshole of a brother to crawl into bed anyway that night, refusing to sleep apart just as he did when he was twelve and could still easily curl into his big brother’s side. Dean lies awake for hours listening for every shift and change of breathing. Dad snores sometimes, and one of them usually has to throw a pillow at him to get him to shut up, but Sam is a quiet sleeper. He usually sleeps on his side or on his belly, arms tucked under his pillow, and the thought of that pose reminds him of massaging the aches out of his little brother’s growing body and fuck, Dean is almost twenty, he’s way too old to be getting hard at just the vague thought of touching Sam. It’s gross, he tells himself, it’s wrong, Sam is his brother, it’s disgusting to even dare think of him like that.
Those thoughts do nothing to help. Their entire lives are wrong — nothing about them has ever been right or normal. In a fucked up way, it almost makes sense that Dean would find himself feeling this way. It really fits in with the pattern of the Winchesters’ inability to have anything resembling a mundane life.
He’s a kid, Dean thinks, and yeah, that works. Regardless of their relation, Sam is only just fifteen. He’s practically still the chubby cheeked, bright eyed kid waddling across a nondescript motel room with arms outstretched, babbling something that sounded like Dean! He’s a hell of a lot taller, of course, but he’s still so goddamn young. The flood of relief that Dean feels when disgust roils in his gut at the thought of doing anything to his baby brother has him gasping for air. He’s fucked up and he knows it, but at least he’s not so fucked up that he gets off on Sam’s age.
He just, y’know. Happens to get off on just about everything else about the kid.
Sam stays in his own bed through the night, and Dean tries not to think about the fact that he knows Sam’s breathing well enough to know that he’s still awake, or that Sam probably knows that Dean is still awake as well. Their dad starts snoring, a quiet rumble that promises to rise to something more, but Dean cuts it off with a well-aimed pillow. John grunts, jolting awake for a moment, before throwing the pillow back and settling down again.
Dean eventually falls asleep thinking of back when Sam was a kid, a delighted five year old Dean sweeping little Sammy into his arms, cheering well done Sammy! and good boy ! and grinning over his shoulder at their dad, watching them with a fond little smile as he took apart one of his guns to clean. He kind of wishes things were that simple again. Five year old Dean wouldn’t find out about monster hunting for another two years, Sammy even longer than that. Taking care of Sam hadn’t yet settled an unhealthy, terrifying weight in his chest that never went away and even their constant moving was something of an adventure. Dean falls asleep, and he misses being able to hold his little brother without guilt or worry between them.
Sam’s birthday that year turns out to be one of the worst. He’s taken Dean’s distance to heart and recoils from his brother every time they’re close, locks himself away in the bathroom and shouts at Dean to leave him alone before he’d had the chance to congratulate his little brother on making it fifteen whole years. Dad had left on another hunt, only days after getting back from the wendigo. Dean spends Sam’s birthday taking swigs from dad’s six pack on one of the beds and pretending that he can’t hear Sam’s muffled sniffles through the flimsy door.
When Sam eventually opens the door, his eyes are red-rimmed and his hair a mess and even if Dean hadn’t heard anything, it would have been clear that he’d been crying.
Dean staggers to his feet and thrusts the shittily wrapped gift at Sam, hope blooming in his chest when Sam accepts it. That hope curls up and dies and bursts into flames when Sam tosses it into the trash without unwrapping it. He takes last night’s leftovers — a microwave lasagna that Dean had thrown on for the three of them right before Dad got the call and left — and walks right back into the bathroom without stopping to reheat it.
Dean turns on a soap and spends the rest of the night getting wasted in bed. Sam leaves the bathroom again some time in the middle of the night, crawling into his own bed, and Dean’s eyes sting with tears at the pained little sounds his brother makes. It has been a few days since Dean’s last massage at that point, and the aches were sure to be painful, but Dean can’t make himself bridge the gap between the two of them.
The pain would stop eventually and in the long run, Sammy would be better off.
It’s only a few months later that Sam whispers over the phone, “Oh, Dean. Quick question — how do you talk to girls?
Dean laughs and teases him and ends up crooning little Sammy’s growing up more than he gives any actual advice, and Dean can practically hear Sam’s embarrassed scowl down the line.
A month after that, Dean meets Lisa Braeden and thinks he falls a little bit in love with her brown eyes and sweet smile. He comes home to find Sam and dad back from their banshee hunt, Sam passed out drooling over his homework and he knows that nothing will ever compare to the love he has for his little brother.
Two years later, Dean fucks Sam’s prom date in the back seat of the Impala and pretends that the lingering smell of Sammy’s cologne on her skin isn’t the thing that end up getting him off more than the sounds she makes or the feel of her around him. Dean doesn’t remember her name or the color of the dress she’d been wearing, but it’s impossible for him to forget Sam’s fury when he found out, and later that night dad had taken one look at his bruised cheekbone and black eye and told him he’d deserved it. They’d managed to find themselves a decent house to stay in for a few weeks, and Dean had locked himself away in the room he’d taken to calling his own and jerked off hard and fast and a little painful at the memory of Sam throwing him against the car to yell at him.
Sam takes a year off school to hunt and Dean’s smug with it, thinks that Sam’s finally coming around to the life of a hunter, thinks that Sam’s going to stay. Then Sam breaks the news that he’s been accepted to Stanford and Dean’s so terrified of losing his little brother that he finds himself sitting silently between their screaming match.
Ever since his first growth spurt, all of Sammy’s anger had seemed directed at their dad, digging his heels in on hunts and striking for the jugular at every opportunity, Dean caught between the two screaming at each other. Sometimes in the car, Sam yelling you don’t give a shit about either of us it’s all about the hunt and John hollering back watch your language, Samuel and Dean hunched in the passenger seat like he could block it out if he just stared out the window hard enough. Other times it was in crappy motel rooms that ended with dad slamming the door and cursing up a storm while Sam angrily kicked out at whatever was around him and Dean stared blankly at the fuzzy images on the tiny TV set.
Sam is the one who leaves, this time, dad snarling don’t you dare come back if you walk out that door. Dean falls apart that night, crumbles into a thousand shards without his brother to hold him together and he knows that he could spend the rest of his life piecing himself back together but he’ll never be the same, there’s always going to be cracks and weaknesses that weren’t there before.
Eventually, Dean thinks that maybe it’s for the best. He can’t pine for Sam if Sam isn’t around, this distance will be good for both of them. You raise two kids in each other’s pockets, there’s bound to be some messed up feelings and wires crossed somewhere along the way. He tells himself that if they spend enough time apart, the feelings will fade away and it will stop hurting.
It doesn’t stop hurting, and the feelings don’t even begin to fade.
Dean isn’t jealous of Jess, not really. She’s outrageously gorgeous, all sunkissed skin and long legs and Dean makes it clear just how into it he is with his admittedly weak I love the Smurfs. He just also happens to be into the sunkissed, long-legged boy in the car next to him. There’s a quiet part of him that wishes, with an ache in his chest that hurts more than broken ribs and bullet wounds, that he was in her place. He waits in the car while Sam packs his bag and says goodbye to his apple pie girlfriend.
The thoughts rise unbidden, flashes of him and Sam in their own little apartment. It’d be a small thing, but it would have big bay windows because Sammy had always liked to sun himself in front of them. Dean would probably cook more than Sam, because his little brother was a downright genius but he was somehow incapable of making food edible. They would go shopping for curtains and argue over bed sheets and they’d share a bed like they had for so long before Dean had messed everything up.
The few years between Sam’s fifteenth birthday and the day he left for Stanford had been some of the most painful of his life. He’d missed Sam every damn day, even when they were in the same room.
In a way, Dean was right about the distance being good. The four years they’d spent apart had treated Sam right. His hair is, surprisingly, shorter than it had been the last time they’d seen each other. It’s still long enough to flick up at the ends and Dean hates himself for how endearing those little curls are. His face has lost some of its baby fat and he’s grown into himself more. It’s painfully obvious that he’s still uncomfortable and awkward in his own too-tall body, but his broad shoulders and long legs don’t make him look nearly as gangly as they had before.
He isn’t the kid that Dean had all but raised. He is still a boy, all soft angles rather than sharp edges like his brother, but he’s changed. Despite how much the thought hurts, Stanford was good to Sammy. He grew into himself and had the freedom to be Sam and here he is, tall and gorgeous and still Dean had wants nothing more than to bite his greeting into the line of Sam’s neck and bring color to those cheeks.
The Impala rumbles to life as Sam swings into the passenger seat.
Dean isn’t jealous of Jess. Her and Sam may have had a life together, but he has this He has Sam complaining about credit card scams and cassette tapes and Sammy’s a chubby twelve year old. He has Sam holding his arm out the window like he’s done countless times before, and he has Sam Winchester in ways that no one else ever would.
The gash on Sam’s cheekbone is still bleeding when they pull into one of the motels on the outskirts of town. Dean knows that he’s gross, has long such accepted such, but it reaches a whole new level when he gets the urge to lick the blood away. He scrunches his nose at himself and focuses on following Sam’s tired directions.
Their routine is automatic by that point; Dean slides the keys into his pocket as he heads for the main office, and Sam sets about grabbing their bags from the back seat. The girl behind the counter is cute, with long dark hair and green eyes and a cute little nose and for a moment, Dean finds himself leaning against the counter with a flirty smile at the edge of his mouth. The girl — Alicia, her nametag says — lights up with a grin that flashes dimples and Dean falters because suddenly all he can see is Sam in this tiny girl who can’t be a day over twenty.
He shifts away, slotting into the role of polite customer, and Alicia looks confused but nods when he asks for a room with two singles.
“Ah — sorry, we don’t have any left.” Alicia nervously flutters her hair over her shoulder. “We’ve only got a room with a single and a room with a double.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. He considers walking out and finding another motel, but it’s already so late and when he glances over his shoulder, he sees Sam slumped against the side of the car with a duffel bag on each shoulder. It’s been years, he tells himself. They haven’t shared a bed in years. He’s a fully grown man and he can handle spending a night in the same bed as his brother, who he happens to be disgustingly attracted to. In the morning they’ll keep driving for the bunker and they’ll be in separate beds again and he won’t have to worry about this problem.
“The double, thanks. Just for the night.” Dean eventually says, pulling out a handful of cash. Alicia’s nails clack on the keyboard and Dean awkwardly holds the money out while he waits for her to take it. He flashes her a smile when she does, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels. He’s always hated silences.
“Ooookay! Here you are.” Alicia spins in her chair to grab a key off the wall behind her. Dean gives her his most charming smile as he takes it, sending her a salute on the way out.
Sam straightens and blinks slowly when Dean picks up the duffels that had fallen from his shoulders.
“C’mon, little brother.” Dean nudges him and winces when Sam inhales sharply. The kid had gotten thrown into a wall by a werewolf less than an hour ago and was bound to have some serious bruising.
Sam shuffles after Dean, huffing like every step aches. Dean has to force the door open when the jamb gets stuck and wriggle the key to pull it out of the lock. The room is cheap and it definitely shows. Dean dumps their bags on the end of the bed, shucking his jacket. He notices as he crouches down to untie his boots that Sam’s still in the doorway.
For a moment he thinks something’s wrong, till he sees that Sam is staring at the bed with round eyes.
Dean clears his throat and Sam’s gaze barely flickers from where it seems to be stuck. “There weren’t any rooms with two beds and it was cheaper to just get the one double.”
“Right.” Sam’s mouth twists. “Yeah. That’s — okay. Yeah.”
“If it’s such a big deal, I’ll go back and grab another room.” Dean doesn’t mean to sound as snappy as he does. Sam finally looks at him, glaring. He moves further into the room and pulls the door shut behind him.
“Never said it was a big deal.” Sam mutters. Dean mouths a mocking never said it was a big deal and ignores the dirty look Sam shoots him, focusing on undoing his boots with fingers that tremble embarrassingly when Sam brushes past, grabbing his bag on the way.
Dean is already in bed when Sam comes out of the bathroom a while later, steam wafting into the main room. He glances over from their laptop to see Sam tugging a shirt on, sweats hanging low on his hips. Dean wets his lips at the sight and has to drag his gaze back to the episode of Dr. Sexy M.D.
“How’re your ribs?” He clears his throat and grimaces at how throaty he sounds. All it takes is a glimpse of Sam for his body to decide it’s time to get all fucked up.
Sam wanders to the kitchen, grabbing Dean’s bag on the way. “Could be worse. The first aid kit’s in your bag, yeah?”
“Pretty sure it is.”
After a few moments of rifling around, Sammy pulls out their first aid kit. He sits at the small table and sets about cleaning and dressing the cut on his cheek. It’s mostly stopped bleeding, and Sam must have washed most of the dried blood off his face in the shower.
“Go grab some ice?” Sam barely glances at Dean, digging around in the bag again.
“Spoiled.” Dean shoots back, even as he pauses the episode and pushes off from the bed. A heavy silence sits in the air for a moment. He thinks of the last time they were alone in a hotel room together, sharing a bed, teasing spoiled right before he got hard over his little brother’s body.
Not that Sam knows — as far as the kid is aware, that was the last night before Dean pushed them as far away from each other as possible.
“Ice.” Sam reminds after a few moments. He’s ducked his head, shoulders hunched in on himself, and Dean knows what a sad Sam looks like.
Dean heads off without a word. He doesn’t know what he’d say, anyway. I’m sorry? That wouldn’t work because Sam is a stubborn little shit and would want to know what for and Dean doesn’t have a death wish because if Sam pressed, he would crumble and the words he’s been holding back for so long would tumble out. They’ve been through a lot together and somehow managed to push through all of it, but this — this would ruin everything they’ve made together. This would tear apart the fragile stitches holding them together after too many lies and secrets and betrayals.
This is a secret, his mind whispers. Shut the fuck up, he whispers back.
He carries the ice bucket back to the room, inhaling so sharply he almost chokes when he sees Sam sitting shirtless on the bed. He’s got one of Dean’s shirts in hand, a plain black tee, and he holds his other hand out for the bucket.
Dean hands it over on autopilot, barely remembering to turn around and shut the door behind himself. He’s seen Sammy in various states of undress countless times and it shouldn’t mess him up anymore, he should be used to it, he shouldn’t be flushing like a schoolgirl with a crush and mooning over all that tan skin.
The shirt is wrapped around a hunk of ice and pressed to the deep purple bruises already blooming on his ribs. Dean swallows down his offer to help and heads for the bathroom instead.
Sammy’s settled in bed when Dean finally comes back out a while later. He’d spent longer than he usually would have in a motel shower, but what can he say — the bunker’s hot water system and blissful water pressure had turned him a little soft.
The lights are out and Dean can only see thanks to flashes from the tv throwing sporadic bursts of light around the room. He sees Sam, sitting up on his half of the bed, sheets drawn to his waist. He'd thrown his own shirt back on while Dean was gone. He’s facing the tv but Dean feels his skin prickle when Sam’s gaze follows him to his bag. He drops his dirty clothes inside and it reminds him that he’d found himself alone in the bathroom with only Sam’s duffel and a towel that was almost embarrassingly short.
He’d chosen one of Sam’s blue flannels and a pair of black boxers and immediately regrets his choice because they’re going to be sharing a bed and how is Dean meant to sleep in such close proximity to Sam when his legs are just flapping about in the breeze. He feels oddly like an old Victorian lady, scandalized at the thought of showing his ankles.
Sam’s got the remote when Dean turns around, flicking through channels.
“Anything good on?” Dean grimaces at how stilted he sounds. He leans on the table, shifts away, goes to stick his hands in pockets that he doesn’t have, shifts on his feet again. He feels so out of depth and he hates it. This situation is just about as far out of his control as it gets and he can feel it spiraling further and further.
Sam shrugs. “Not really. A lot of infomercials, soaps, and a truly horrific amount of porn.”
Infomercials and soaps, Dean can work with that. Just as long as he doesn’t mention the porn. Stay away from the porn, he tells himself. Don’t even think of the porn. “You want me to go back into the bathroom so you can go through your horrific amount of porn? Which, by the way kid, no such thing.”
To Dean’s delight, Sam looks like he doesn’t know whether to cringe or laugh. He somehow ends up doing both. “You’re not as funny as you like to think.”
“I’m hilarious.” He shoots back and fuck, fuck, it’s happening all over again.
They’re quiet for a few moments, Dean still standing awkwardly by the table. The bucket of ice is little more than water now and Dean sees his shirt hung over the back of one of the chairs.
“Your ribs okay? Need more ice?”
Sam flicks a quick glance his way. He licks his lips and Dean definitely doesn’t get distracted by the shine of them in the shitty tv lighting.
“Yeah, no, they’re fine. Nothing worse than usual. I just, uh. Well, uh, actually. I know it’s been….a while, but — I’m kinda sore? And a massage would be nice.” Sam twists his mouth the way he does when he was regretting whatever he’d just said, tucking a lock of too-long hair behind his ear. Dean’s tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth and for a moment he’s convinced that all of the air has left the room.
“A massage.” Dean finds himself echoing. “You gettin’ growing pains again, kid?”
Kid, kid, kid, not a kid anymore. Twenty-nine year old Sam is an impossibly, outrageously tall pain in the ass, who just so happens to have grown into his own body. Long gone were the days of knobbly knees and sharp wrists and a bony back perpetually hunched to try and make himself seem smaller. Sam hasn’t been a kid for a long time and Dean hates himself for just how much he wants to take advantage of that fact.
Sam’s nose scrunches up and fuck Dean is so gone for his brother, that shouldn’t look nearly as cute as it does. “Don’t be a jerk, Christ, if it’s such a big deal don’t worry about it.”
“Never said it was a big deal.” The words from earlier fling back at Sam.
Sam twitches an eyebrow. “So?”
“Sure, why not.” Dean feels miles away from his body and he wants to shut his own goddamn mouth. “I’ll show you just how magic these fingers are.”
“Ha. Funny.” His words are dry and humorless but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth and Dean — Dean aches with how much he wants to kiss that barely-there smile off his face. This is a bad idea, this is such a bad idea, there’s no way this’ll end well. For a moment, Dean thinks about shrugging it off, actually I’m kind of exhausted so I think I’m just gonna hit the hay, alright? And Sam would nod and agree and let him sleep because the kid asks for so very little and that’s part of what pushes Dean to follow through on this. Sam deserves the world and asks for nothing and Dean wants to give him everything he could ever want, and massages are definitely included in that.
“Just your back?” Dean asks as Sam shifts into the middle of the bed and flips onto his stomach, stretching his arms out under the pillows. He’s always been drawn to Sam, pulled in like they’re opposing magnets and he can’t help it. This time is no exception.
“Same as last time.”
“Last time. Right.” The room feels a thousand times too small. He wants to run as far as his legs will take him. He’s never wanted to stay as much as he does now.
“Back, legs, feet.” Sam reminds, like he could have possibly forgotten the last time they were this close. Decades down the road he’ll still remember every sound and twitch and shift of muscle.
“Back, legs, feet.” Dean repeats. The whole night is just echoes and it’s making something not unlike anxiety settle in his chest. He knee walks across the bed and settles next to Sam’s hips.
Sam doesn’t move for a while. He stays perfectly tense under Dean’s hands, barely making a sound. Dean works out a particularly vicious knot above Sam’s shoulder blade and expects a sigh, a groan, anything, gets nothing but silence.
It’s harder, from the side. Can’t quite put his back into it, has to lean all the way over Sam’s stupidly wide chest.
“I’m gonna,” Dean starts and falters, awkwardly patting at Sam’s lower back. Sam nods, the most reaction he’s shown since Dean started. Dean feels his heart pounding away in his throat when he swings a leg over Sam’s waist, resting back on his own heels. He’s barely touching Sam, hovering over him more than anything, and it’s bound to get uncomfortable sooner rather than later but he can deal with a lot worse.
Dean digs his thumbs into the dimples at the bottom of his spine and Sam tenses up for a moment, breathing out slowly as Dean drags the pressure up the length of his back. It’s a lot better like this, Sam hitching breaths and pressing back into Dean’s hands as he works out the knots. Sam carries his stress in his shoulders and it shows, a broken watery sound of relief leaving him when Dean soothes the pain he’d been carrying at the base of his neck.
It’s easy to slip his hands under Sam’s loose shirt and dig into the tense muscles of his shoulders. Sam makes a garbled sound that Dean files away to make of later and definitely doesn’t find hot, at all, none of Sam’s noises have been doing anything to him.
Dean remembers once, when they were still kids, Dad sent them off to wander around a toy store while he questioned a witness, brushing off questions with a shrug and a bring your kids to work day in his what-can-you-do voice that folks always sympathized with.
The nice lady who owned the store had all but fallen over herself cooing over Sam’s big doe eyes and Dean’s freckles. Dean had pulled faces behind her back that left Sammy smiling and giggling and Dean had puffed up with the big brother pride that came from making his little brother laugh. The lady had handed Sam a box of Legos to play with and the kid had gotten right to it, tongue poking out as he crouched down and pieced together randomly colored pieces without any seeming rhyme or reason.
She’d handed nine year old Dean a kaleidoscope and he’d given her a look that only kids are capable of giving adults they think are truly stupid. He’d understood, though, when he lifted it to look through. Every shift moved the colors in flashes of green and brown and blue and all Dean could think of was how it was like someone had captured the ever-changing colors of his little brother’s eyes.
Sam glances over his shoulder sleepily, blinking his big doe eyes, and Dean is struck with the memory of the kaleidoscope.
“Hey.” Sam mumbles after a few moments. He’s loose-limbed and his words are slurred and he has to clear his throat before continuing. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot, little brother.” Dean says, like he’s not thinking of how much he wants to kiss the mole on Sam’s shoulder blade. He remembers the first time he’d noticed Sam’s wide shoulders and itty-bitty waist and had known without a doubt that Sam would grow out of his narrow hips. He’d been wrong, apparently. Here Sam is, roughly fifteen years later, still broad-shouldered and tiny-waisted and the things that does to Dean’s brain totally messes him up. Every time he sees that waist he wants nothing more than to dig his fingers into the hollow of his hips and bite marks into them.
Sam hums vaguely. “Why’d you start avoiding me? When we were younger, I mean.”
Dean stills. He feels muscles shift under his hands where they’re still pressed to his brother’s lower back.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice is a low warning. He grinds out a rough Sam and he knows that they both hear the underlying drop it, kid.
But Sam is a stubborn little shit, always has been, insisting, “No, it’s been years, Dean, I wanna talk about it.”
“Sam.” Dean protests, hands stilling. There’s so much more he wants to say — shut up, fuck off, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. He ends up weakly repeating Sam’s name again, shaking his head.
“Dean.” Sam shoots back, pretty kaleidoscope eyes squinting at him. “Dean, c’mon, you gotta talk about this.”
I can’t, he thinks. I can’t I can’t I can’t. How exactly does one go about telling their sibling that they’re soul-crushingly in love with them?
It hits him, then, exactly what Sam’s asking. Horror floods his chest and propels him stumbling away, Sam twisting to follow.
“Dean, hold on,” Sam reaches out. Long fingers brush against the inside of Dean’s wrist, tugging him closer even as Dean backs away from where his brother perches on the edge of the bed.
Wrong wrong wrong his brain all but screeches at him. Disgust and horror twist together in his chest, tangled around feelings he’s been repressing for almost half his life.
“Fuck off.” He grits out, jerking away. Sam holds fast, clutching one of Dean’s hands to his chest, staring up at Dean standing over him with big hurt eyes. “Fuck off, Sam, I’ll break your fucking nose — ”
“Okay.” Sam says, “Okay. If you can’t talk about it, that’s alright. Just listen.”
Dean’s throat clicks. Sam gently tugs him closer, drawing him between outstretched legs. A sweet little smile tugs at the corner of Sam’s mouth as he releases Dean’s wrist.
Sam leans back, resting on his elbows. “I thought it was me, at first. Thought that you hated me or that you were disgusted by me.”
“Sam.” The very idea horrifies Dean, as if he could ever hate his baby brother.
“It — it turned me on, y’know? It wasn’t the first time it’d happened, I was barely fifteen and at that point someone looking at me probably could’ve gotten me off. It was the first time I’d gotten hard while you were on top of me, though. All I could think about was how good it felt and how good you felt and then you practically bolted. So I thought, of course, it was my fault. You’d realized how I looked at you, how much I wanted you, and you were disgusted.”
Dean can barely breathe. Everything he’s known has been flipped upside down and shaken and it’s a miracle he can still hear Sam talking over the thudding in his ears. He’d known for a long time that Sam had been angry at his sudden withdrawal. It had never occurred to him that Sam might blame himself.
“But I realized pretty quickly that you weren’t grossed out by me. It was something else, obviously. You went out of your way to avoid touching me, looked terrified if we so much as brushed fingers grabbing the same bag out of the trunk.” Sam shifts and sits up properly, thighs flexing where they’re spread around Dean’s hips. For a moment, Dean thinks about sinking his teeth into those perfect thighs. A beat later he thinks about grabbing his Bowie and sinking the blade into those perfect thighs and bolting before Sam can stop him again.
Instead Dean uselessly clenches his hands where they hang by his sides. Everything is spiraling and Dean can’t control it, he can’t control it, that thought scares Dean a lot more than anything has in a long time. He’s been to Hell and Purgatory and dealt with the horrors of watching his little brother suffer through the Trials but this — this scares the shit out of Dean like nothing else. This situation is in Sam’s hands right now and he trusts those hands completely, has put his life in them more times than he can count, but this is different, this is so much more than anything before. This is make or break and Dean is terrified out of his mind of what will happen if it breaks.
“And I thought, what the hell could’ve happened to scare you so much you were afraid of touching me? It hit me pretty soon after that. I don’t think you were disgusted in me for getting hard, I don’t think you even noticed. I think you were disgusted in yourself for getting hard.” Sam pierces him in place with startlingly bright eyes, “Am I wrong, Dean?”
“Sam,” Dean finds himself saying, rough and terrified. “Sam, Sammy, I can’t — ”
“You can.” Sam whispers viciously, leaning in. Large hands rest on Dean’s hips and draw him closer, thumbs brushing under the soft fabric of his borrowed shirt. “Dean, you can.”
The sick trembling feeling in Dean’s stomach is dancing the line between everything bad and everything good. “Why are you doing this, Sam? Why couldn’t you just let this lie?”
Sad hazel eyes meet his own. “You’ve been struggling with this for a long time, Dean. We both have. After everything we’ve done, everything we’ve given up, I think we deserve a break. If I’d thought there was any other way to get you to listen, I would’ve done it. But you’re….it’s not exactly easy to talk to you about this kind of stuff.”
Dean huffs a wry laugh. “About wanting to fuck your little brother?”
Sam pulls a face, roughly bumping his sharp chin into Dean’s sternum. “I think we both know it’s more than that.”
Dean swallows thickly. It’s more than that. It’s been more than that for a long time — it’s been everything since forever. His life, for as long as he can remember, has been built around the core concept of loving and taking care of Sammy. From the first time mom and dad brought home that tiny little blue bundle, his entire world has revolved around the chubby-cheeked, bright eyed kid who’d wrapped his tiny little hand around one of Dean’s fingers and dug surprisingly sharp nails in like he never wanted to let go.
The brush of Sam’s hand against the back of his neck sets off all warning bells for a moment. He wants to recoil because it’s too much , talking about this is like pouring salt into an open wound and poking it with a stick and all of the horrible dirtybadwrong he’s been holding down for so many years is burning him up inside.
Then Sam tugs him down and Dean finds himself following the gentle pressure. His knees hit the rough carpet and Sam curls over him. Hands settle onto Dean’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the dip of pronounced collarbones.
“Dean.” Sam murmurs like it’s so much more than just a name, like it’s one of the prayers he used to whisper at night when he thought Dean wasn’t listening. Soft lips press under the corner of his eye, the curve of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
Dean’s fingers tremble and shake where they press into his own thighs.
“You get to have this, Dean.” The brush of Sam’s mouth against his own is the sweetest ache. Lips catch and drag and Sam whispers into his mouth, “You get to have this. If you want this, I’m giving it to you. Let me give this to you.”
Dean’s heart thuds against his chest, pounding louder than the rumble of his baby’s engine or point-blank shots or any number of explosions. He distantly thinks that it’s trying to get to Sam. It’s spent so long trying to claw itself from its cage and find its way home to the boy who owns and loves it. And the best part, the part that aches the sweetest, is that Sam would cradle his fragile, shattered heart and love every dark and twisted and fucked up piece of it.
Dean wants to say yes. He wants to say please and I love you and thank you. For the trust, the devotion, the care that no one else has ever shown Dean to the degree that Sam shows every day just by staying by his side. It’s not something that has ever needed to be verbalized but god, in this moment Dean wants nothing more than to tell this boy just how much he loves him.
Instead, his voice catches and breaks and shatters like his heart and he only hopes that Sam’s able to catch all of the pieces.
“Yeah. Yeah, Sam — I want this.” The words taste like the sweetest freedom and a thousand more years of damnation but Sam’s tongue soothes the burn of them. Long fingers cradle the back of his head tenderly, so tenderly, like he’s something precious to be taken care of, and Dean’s chest feels fit to bursting with how much he loves this kid.
“You deserve this.” Sam whispers, trailing soft lips across the expanse of freckled cheeks. “You deserve everything you could ever want, Dean. You deserve this.”
Dean flexes his fingers where they cling to Sam’s shoulders and he presses in like he could leave love letters in the bruises left behind. You’re all I’ve ever wanted is etched into every mark and Dean can only hope that Sam will find them in the morning and see them for what they are.
Sam draws him onto the bed with soft hands that cradle the back of his head, Dean easily following the movement. He slots between Sam’s spread thighs like he’s meant to be there and Sam murmurs, “Always wanted this.” as he licks into Dean’s mouth. It’s unhurried, the way they end up pressed together on the bed. There’s no frantic hands or rushed jerking each other off or anything more than lazy grinding, one of Sam’s gangly legs hooked over Dean’s hip.
Sam sighs his name and Dean makes an embarrassingly longing sound, ducking his head to bite into the neck he’s been wanting to mark up for years. Sam tugs at the short length of Dean’s hair that he can curl his fingers into, hips rocking together languidly like they’re not both still fully dressed.
“Sammy.” Dean whispers, voice raw with everything he wants to say. He settles for grinding his forehead into Sam’s collarbones like he could hide there forever, and he comes when Sam holds him close and murmurs, “I love you, too.”
Hips wriggle and Sam bats his hand away when he reaches out to take care of the hard length pressing into the dip of waist. Sam bites at his mouth, teeth nicking and Sam’s tongue soothes the spot of pain that Dean grunts at. Sammy reaches out to lead one of Dean’s hands up to long, messy hair, and he curls his fingers into the locks like they belong there. Neither of them say anything, Sam gasping with every rock of his hips, but Dean knows to tug on the locks caught in his grip. He does it again at his little brother’s choked off whine, and catches Sam’s swollen lip between his teeth as he tugs one last time, tasting Sammy’s moan as he spills into sweats that end above his ankles and have a hole in the waistband and Dean victoriously thinks that he finally has a valid reason to get rid of them.
There’s an air of content about the both of them, Dean panting into Sam’s sweaty shirt as Sam trails his hands in lazy patterns over Dean’s back.
“C’mon, Dean,” Sam eventually yaws, nudging at him with the wriggle of a shoulder that displaces his head. “You’re heavy and you’re pressing on my bruise.”
Dean shifts his weight away from the bruise but presses in closer, feels Sam’s grimace when they line up from hips to chest.
“Really? That’s just gross, you’re so gross, what the hell.”
Dean bites at Sam’s chest through his thin shirt, rolling away after a few moments. Sam awkwardly waddles off to the bathroom and Dean hears him muttering about got come everywhere, fuck’s sake and grins to himself. His own boxers aren’t faring any better, pressing their hips together had only served as a reminder of the stickiness covering his dick and upper thighs, where the fabric has all but smeared it around.
“You’re an asshole.” Sam calls from the bathroom, wandering out with a wet cloth that he throws at Dean’s laughing face. Dean rolls his boxers down and cleans himself up as best he can, eyeing up Sam’s naked ass where he’s facing away, rifling through his bag for another pair of pants to wear to bed.
“Hey,” Dean shucks his boxers off and decides to toss them in the bin with the cloth and, hopefully, Sam’s ratty old sweats as well. “Get your ass over here.”
Sam pauses with one foot in a pair of flannel pants, slowly stepping back out of them at Dean’s raised eyebrow.
The image Sam makes, knee-crawling onto the bed as he strips his shirt off, is about a thousand times better than any porn Dean’s ever watched. He growls so as he tugs Sam closer, fingers easily settling into the hollow of sharp hips.
Sam easily pushes Dean onto his back and settles against his side, knee hitched up around his waist as he presses his face into Dean’s chest.
“Hey, shirt off.” Sam mutters, tugging at the offending fabric, settling down again when Dean’s gotten rid of it.
They’re quiet for a while, Sam lazily dragging his mouth over Dean’s chest, Dean combing knots out of Sammy’s hair with his fingers as gently as he can. It’s a lot softer and more intimate than anything they’ve done before, sets Dean’s heart pounding again. He’s wanted this for so long, so long , and he’s finally getting this simple gentle affection.
“I can hear your heart still racing, old man. Am I too much for you?” Sam eventually teases. Dean nips at his ear in retaliation, squeezing his brother closer when Sam jolts away. “Fuck! Jerk.”
Dean buries his smile in Sam’s hair. “Bitch.”
“Love you.” Sam trails long fingers over the scars criss-crossing his brother’s chest. The answer is there, a simple I love you too that Dean feels like he’s choking on. “It’s okay,” Sam says after a few moments. “You don’t have to say it. I know what you mean.”
Dean huffs a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know why it’s so hard for him to say those words, to verbalize his adoration for this man. He sighs into Sammy’s mess of hair and tells himself that it’s something he’ll work up to, over time.
Dean knows that he’s practically glowing the next morning. It’s almost midday by the time he wakes up. He expects Sam to be gone on a morning run like he usually is and has to press his grin into Sam’s shoulder when he finds himself wrapped in his brother’s arms. Sam laughs when he sees the marks Dean pressed into his shoulders and brushes gentle fingers over them. It’s hard for him not to get choked up at that, because he knows that Sam understands what those bruises mean and he treats them like they’re something special.
They don’t stray far from each other’s sides. The shower is just big enough to fit them, and Dean scrubs that stupidly large body from behind with the tiny bar of soap and washes his hair for him with the products that Sam brought himself, because he’s a girl and apparently motel shampoo isn’t good enough for him. Dean scrubs apple-scented lotion into his hair and presses a kiss to Sam’s cheek when he drops his head back onto Dean’s shoulder and finds that he wouldn’t mind doing this for the rest of his life if it got Sam that sweet and pliant. Sam returns the favor afterwards, Dean’s cock getting half-hard under his gentle hands, but there’s nothing explicitly sexual about what they’re doing. Sam’s fingers scratch over his scalp as he washes Dean’s hair and Dean murmurs a token complaint about smelling like apples, smiling to himself at Sam’s huff of laughter.
Sam complains when Dean snatches up the gross pair of sweats still left on the bathroom floor and shoves them into the bin, whining about having to buy another pair, and Dean settles it by grabbing a pair out of his bag to shove into Sam’s. It proves a moot point, though, when San points out, “Yours are going to be too short, how are those any better than the other ones?”
Dean concedes with a sigh, grumbling, “Fine, we’ll find a thrift store and get you another pair, you giant girl.”
Sam picks out a pair of jeans and Dean says, “No, the other ones — the black ones, you never wear them, they make your ass look great.” and as Sam wriggles into the tight black pants he insists he doesn’t remember buying, he pulls a green flannel out of his own bag and shoves it at Dean, saying, “I like you in my clothes.” like that’s all the reasoning he needs and really, it is.
Sam tries to take the bags to the car while Dean checks out. Dean stops him with an arm curled around his waist, dragging him off to the front desk. His little brother huffs, shaking his head, but there’s a smile at the corner of his mouth and Dean wants to kiss the little dimple that flashes up and then he remembers that he can so he does, right there in the office. There’s someone else checking in, and a girl with dyed hair and piercings is boredly flipping through pamphlets, and Dean holds his brother’s face in his hands and presses his mouth to that cute dimple. Sam gives a breathy little laugh, kaleidoscope eyes all lit up, and Dean kisses him sweeter than he’s ever been kissed before.
Alicia isn’t there to check them out, a middle-aged woman sitting in the seat instead, and Dean occupies himself with pressing his face into Sam’s throat as he hands the keys over.
“You’re like an overly affectionate cat.” Sam throws their bags into the back seat. Dean bristles, offended, and really, how could he be so stupid? They didn’t even fuck, why the hell would Sam want all of that schmoopy hand-holding cheek-kissing goopy-eyes bullshit? “Hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that, stop it.” Sam scolds when he slides into the front and Dean shrinks away from his touch.
Dean purses his lips. “Stop what? I’m not doing anything, you’re the one trying to hold my hand like a girl.”
And Sam scowls, reaching out to sock Dean in the arm. “Get over yourself and stop overthinking, asshole. God, do you have to ruin this?”
Baby rumbles to life around them, her low purr soothing Dean a whole lot more than being called an asshole. Dean always does his best thinking behind the wheel. He thinks about it as he lets her idle for a minute and okay, yeah, maybe he’d jumped the gun a little. He gets them out of the motel parking lot and heading down the highway before he eventually reaches over to grab Sam’s hand. They fumble for a moment and he can feel Sam staring at him as they twine their fingers together.
“You know I’m not good at talking about shit like this.” Dean clears his throat. “I don’t want to fuck this up, Sam. Didn’t mean to upset you or — whatever, I don’t know, doesn’t matter.”
The look Sam’s giving him is so utterly fond that Dean feels his face heat in response. He opens his mouth to speak and Sam shifts across the bench seat till their sides are pressed together, linked hands resting between their thighs. “S’okay, Dean, I know what you mean. We’ll take it slow, alright? Nothing you don’t wanna do. And trust that I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. If I let you hang off me and kiss me around other people, it’s because I’m okay with it. Save your freak out for later, if you have to.”
Dean huffs and tilts his head, mouth curling affectionately when Sammy automatically leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. It already feels like they’ve fallen into such an easy rhythm, like this is something they’ve been building up to their whole lives.
The drive is another three hours, give or take. Sam eventually moves away to lean against the window. He props his feet in Dean’s lap and pulls out his phone, apparently comfortable like that. His knees are bent, drawn up to his chest in order to have his feet where they are, and Dean shakes his head. The kid is still so tall and awkward and gangly and Dean wants to touch every tall awkward gangly part of him.
“Hey.” Sam says after a while, nudging him with his foot. Dean raises an eyebrow and turns to Sam, blinking when he sees his brother holding his phone out.
“Photo?” Dean guesses, flashing a grin. It isn’t wildly uncommon for them to take photos of each other, or things they see and deem interesting enough to take up space on their phone, or candids of people close enough to be family regardless of shared blood.
A sweet little smile curves Sam’s mouth, “Video.” and Dean laughs, because that’s something they do a lot less often. “Hey.” Sam repeats when Dean turns his gaze back to the road, nudging with his foot till he gets Dean’s attention again.
Dean makes a big deal out of dragging his eyes to Sam, raising both of his eyebrows as high as they go. Sam snorts a laugh, holding out his free hand towards Dean. They’re both quiet for a moment. They both know that the phone is capturing every second, and Dean rolls his lip into his mouth as he thinks it over.
It’s sweet, Sammy wanting to keep this moment on his phone. The thought makes his heart feel like it’s trying to melt right out of his ribcage. It could be dangerous, though, if someone else found the video. He already knows this is something they can’t go broadcasting about, especially around anyone they know, and having physical, tangible proof is a direct threat to keeping what they do a secret.
Dean looks at Sam still patiently holding his hand out, waiting to see which way Dean tips. He could shake his head and Sam would put his phone down and delete the clip like it had never existed. Dean glances at Sammy’s storm-gray eyes (always changing, Mediterranean blue one minute and sunlight through whiskey the next, Dean almost wishes he were an artist just so he could find a way to capture every shade of his brother’s eyes) and knows that he wants this physical, tangible proof of what they do.
Dean slides their hands together again, a lot smoother and less fumbling this time around. Sam’s smile lights up his face and brings out his dimples and Dean’s at least a little bit in love with this boy. (He’s so in love with him that sometimes he feels like he can’t breathe because there’s nothing, there’s no room for anything in his chest except absolute undying love for his baby brother, and if he died because he loved Sam too much to live then at least it would be a good way to go)
Their linked hands sit comfortably on one of Sam’s knees and Dean knows that the camera is getting every swipe of his thumb over the back of Sammy’s knuckles, every subtle squeeze. Sam starts to lower his phone after a while, and Dean knows there’s a good ten minutes there of just their interlocked hands and Dean’s profile against the midday sky. He raises their hands enough to press a kiss to the back of Sam’s hand, flicks a glance at his little brother when Sammy all but whispers his name. Dean looks into the camera as he kisses Sam’s hand again, dragging lips and a hint of teeth near a sharp wrist-bone.
Dean swells up with pride when Sam finally drops his phone and yanks their hands to himself, pressing his face against them. He mutters something that sounds like a curse and bites down on the sensitive skin of Dean’s wrist just hard enough to leave indents behind.
“That good enough for you, little brother?” Dean finally says, affection curling in his chest at Sam nuzzling at their hands. Slanted honey eyes squint at him and Sam nods, trailing his mouth over the back of Dean’s hand. Just like the shower earlier that morning, there’s nothing sexual about the way Sam softly bites at and kisses their joined hands; all Dean feels is a low rumble of contentment. This simple act is making Sam all soft and adoring and quiet-in-the-good-way and Dean is willing to give Sam whatever he needs to reach that quiet-in-a-good-way place in his own head.
“Home sweet home,” Dean all but cheers as Sam brings the power back on. Sam smiles, an uncomfortable tightness around the corners, and Dean squeezes his hand in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. The next smile he gets is a little warmer, scrunching up the corners of his eyes. Dean falls in love with that smile all over again.
He knows that Sam doesn’t hold the same fondness for the bunker. The walls of room 21 are bare, default gray sheets always straightened out, shelves lined with books and research material. He still sleeps on the original mattress like it isn’t too short for his uncomfortably long legs. Every time Dean finds himself in Sam’s room he feels oddly detached from it, like it’s nothing more than an extension of the study room or the library rather than a bedroom.
Dean hates being in there. He’d bragged about making his own room awesome, walls covered with firearms and knives, drawers stuffed with candy that they both pretend Sam doesn’t know about and doesn’t occasionally swipe a handful from, a memory-foam mattress that remembers him, desk piled with vinyls and old paperbacks.
Sam trails behind him down the stairs, running the tips of his fingers over walls as they pass. There are still papers scattered all over the War Room table and Dean sees Sam eyeing them, already planning on tidying them up.
Room 21 is off the first hall leading towards the bedroom complex and Sam ducks inside. His door clicks shut behind him.
Something inside of Dean settles as he opens his own door. He doesn’t know if he’s even capable of being homesick, but he imagines that being away from the bunker feels a lot like having a proper home to miss. They’d only been gone a week, called out to Atchison to take care of a vengeful spirit before getting caught up in the whole werewolf fiasco somewhere in Topeka.
He sets about unpacking his duffel, shoving jeans and flannel and undershirts in their respective drawers. The set of drawers were messy more often than not, overflowing with clothes that he half-assedly puts away. When he’s done he looks around at his desks. He thinks of Sam in the War Room tidying up scattered papers. The thought of Sam keeping his spaces so neat drives him to put away everything that’s somehow found its way into clutter since the last time he properly cleaned. He moves his record player to his set of drawers and moves it back, takes down the knives over his bed, puts them back and takes them down again before packing them away. He dives into his stash of candy, devastated to find that it’s mostly just wrappers and ends up throwing them out with a sigh.
He listens to Zeppelin on the record player, a vinyl he'd gotten from Sam a while back as a gift seemingly out of nowhere, while he properly sorts through his clothes and throws out anything too old or ratty or bloodstained.
Eventually, he finds himself with nothing to do, falling back onto his bed. He sinks in with a sigh, thinking it remembers me.
He can still feel Sam’s kiss, soft lower lip caught between his teeth, panting sweet little ah s into Dean’s mouth. His hands ache with the need to reach out, like it’s a physical pain to be so far from his little brother after being allowed to touch. He thinks of soft hair and long legs and the dip of his waist and he needs, more than anything, to be touching Sam again.
Thoughts of Sam draw him to the library. The War Room table has been cleared and Sam is hunched over the table closest to the telescope alcove, books already scattered around himself.
“Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” Dean leans against the table. Sam throws him an amused little smile, straightening out. He rolls his shoulders and holds out the book he’d been writing in.“Presumed broken lens.” Dean reads out, raising his eyebrows. “Cracked mirror, question mark, semicolon periscope question mark. Dude, what?”
Sam tilts his head toward the telescope. “We’re not exactly ground level down here. There’d have to be a periscope or — something, to be able to see out of here. Something probably got damaged over the years, that’s why we can’t see out of it.”
“We can’t see out of it?” Dean crosses to the telescope, crouching down to peer through the eyepiece. “Well shit, we can’t see out of it.”
Sam pushes away from the table, stretching. “It’s not important, I’d honestly be surprised if it still worked after this long.”
Dean opens his mouth to ask about where they could get replacement parts because Sam clearly wants to fix the thing, if his notes and diagrams are anything to go by. Sam reaches out for him, eyebrows raised, and Dean moves between his legs. Sammy rests his head against Dean’s ribcage, looking up through long dark lashes. Dean sighs as he drags his hands through soft hair.
That restless feeling settles in Dean’s chest now that he has Sam under his hands. He’s always felt comfortable with his brother in his line of sight, even better with a hand on his shoulder or arm. Sam nuzzling into him calms all of his keep Sammy safe instincts.
A pleased little sound leaves Sam when Dean leans down to kiss his forehead. Dean presses his smile into hair that Sam hasn’t brushed in hours, combing his fingers through knots that haven’t quite tangled themselves up yet.
“I’ll pick up Chinese if you order?” Dean offers. Sam hums, tilting into his touch. It’s already getting late by normal people closing-time standards but Dean finds himself lingering, basking in the feel of his Sam. They haven’t hugged like this in years. The only times they ever get this close are when one of them is dying and fuck, the fact that death has become such a mundane part of their life makes Dean feel sick.
Sam calls and waves Dean off to pick up their order. Dean pauses to kiss Sammy, turns to walk away, turns back again and drags him in. Sam huffs a laugh, creasing the corners of his eyes.
Dean blasts Metallica on the drive, thrumming his hands on the wheel of his baby and grinning to himself at the thought of his other baby waiting back at the bunker for him. His chest burns thinking of Sam as his baby but it’s not a bad burn, like something shouldn’t be able to feel that good and his body is trying to handle the warmbrightgood the only way it knows how.
Sam is his, his little brother, his partner, his best friend, his lover, his everything, his.
They sleep in their own rooms that night. Dean wants to hook his fingers into Sammy’s belt loops and drag him along and spend the night fucking him or — god help him — cuddling the kid. Dean drags a hand down his face and heads off for his own room instead.
His memory-foam mattress feels empty without Sam and he has to stuff his head under his pillow to silence thoughts of crawling into bed with him. It’s crazy, they spent a night in the same bed after years of sleeping apart, he shouldn’t feel like he’s missing a limb without his kid brother next to him.
“Mornin’, Sammy!” Dean calls into the library as he passes. He gets a low groan in return and pauses, turning on his heel to go find his brother. Sam’s face-down on the nearest table to the entrance, and he barely squints his eyes open when Dean walks in. “You alright, kid?”
“Yeah, yeah, no I’m — I’m fine.” Sam rubs at his forehead, pained pinch between his eyebrows. His hair’s still a mess and he looks like he’s barely slept. Dean spins the chair next to Sam and drops into it, warmed by just how natural it feels to reach out and run a comforting hand through the kid’s hair. Sam huffs, squinting slanted eyes at him. He tilts his head enough just to brush his nose affectionately over the inside of Dean’s wrist before dropping his head again.
“Gonna go make something to eat.” Dean says after a while. He grins when he hears Sam’s quiet footsteps behind him, softened by the socks he’s wearing.
The kitchen is just as they left it. There’s an open loaf of bread on the island, various ingredients still spread around. Dean had been midway through eating a sandwich when Sam brought news about the vengeful spirit and neither of them had bothered putting anything away. They’d stopped at a diner for lunch the day before and gotten takeout that night, and Dean had forgotten to visit the kitchen before now.
Sam lifts the bread high and looks it over critically, sighing, “This one’s no good. We got anything else?”
Dean pauses in his search for the mayo he definitely remembers putting in the fridge before Sam had barged in that day. “Fuck. Shit. Uh, frozen pizza alright?”
“For breakfast?”
“Hey, it’s all we’ve got. We’ve gotta go on another food run soon. Unless you want a stale sandwich with meat a week out of date?”
Sam drops the old loaf into the bin, crouching down to mess with the dials on the oven while Dean digs their last pizza out of the freezer and drop it on the stove.
Sam leans against the island with a yawn. Dean leans next to him, grinning when Sam presses against his side.
“You’re like an overly affectionate cat.” Dean teases. He curses and flinches away when Sam digs sharp nails into his side.
Sam mutters a low, “Fuck off.” into Dean’s shoulder, another yawn tacked onto the end.
“Hey, you uh — you sleep alright, Sammy?”
Sam hums, roughly jerking his shoulders. “About as well as I always have.”
Dean frowns. “You often sleep like shit in that bed?”
Sam gives a wry laugh. “Dean, I always sleep like shit.”
“You didn't last night.” Dean points out. Sam twists his mouth thoughtfully before he concedes with a shrug. “Huh.” Dean murmurs, eyes on that mouth.
Sam opens easily at the first slide of Dean’s tongue over his lip, humming pleasantly. All of his bite is gone this morning, only sweet sounds left behind. He tastes like peppermint toothpaste and Dean sets about licking it out of his mouth.
It’s easy to turn and slide up behind Sam, wrapping his arms around that waist. Sam leans back into his touch with a smile at the corner of his mouth. That feeling hits Dean again, wanting to touch every tall awkward gangly part of his little brother, and he settles for leaving one hand on the dip of his waist while the other slides around to grope at his chest. Goosebumps break out over his skin as Dean drags his shirt up, trailing soft fingers over his pecs. He traces the skin where he knows Sam’s matching anti-possession tattoo is and Sam murmurs a curse, squirming.
Dean noses behind Sam’s ear, pausing for a moment to nudge too-long hair out of the way, and Sam shakes with laughter when he ends up having to blow the locks of hair away. “Shut up and let me fuck you.” Dean huffs, grazing teeth over the sensitive skin behind his ear. Sam tenses up for a moment, turning to look over his shoulder.
“Really, Dean?” Sam’s wide-eyed with disbelief. “The kitchen?”
Dean bites at Sam’s shoulder, grumbling, “Hey, I’ll have you know that some of the best porn happens in the kitchen.” and Sam gives a short bark of laughter. He goes easily when Dean presses him down, stomach jumping sharply with his inhale as he makes contact with the cold bench. He grits out fuck that’s cold and Dean grinds against his ass as he rubs warm hands over his chest.
Sam moans when Dean rocks the palm of his hand over the front of his sweats. A sharp grin is pressed to the back of his neck when Dean feels Sam’s cock already thickening.
“You like this, Sammy?” Dean rumbles. Sam makes a sweet little noise, shivering and pressing into his touch, forward into his hand and back into the pressure against his ass.
“Hey,” Sam gasps, “The oven — it’s preheated, you gotta put the pizza in.”
Dean mutters preheated as he lifts himself away from Sam’s back, shoving the pizza on a tray and sliding it into the oven. He expects Sam to be vertical and adjusting his shirt when he turns around. Instead, he gets Sam still bent over the island, looking over his shoulder with big doe eyes. Sammy drags his lip between his teeth, widens his stance and it’s unfair how fucking good his ass looks in those sweats. Dean wants to sink his teeth into that perfect ass and press bruises into his thighs, leave behind marks that will ache for days. It feels like the most natural thing, falling to his knees behind his brother. Sam squirms, pink cheeked, when Dean slides the sweats to bunch around his knees.
“Dean.” Sam murmurs. Dean hums, trailing reverent fingers over pale scars and tanned skin. Sam repeats Dean’s name, reedy and embarrassed, at the first graze of teeth over the swell of his ass. Each bite gets him a high panting sound and a sweet full-body shiver that Dean fully plans on hoarding away. Dean grips his ass possessively, shuddering at Sammy’s high whine when he parts those perfect cheeks roughly. His sweet ass is so tight, Dean thinks of bouncing a nickel off it and has to pause for a moment so he doesn’t laugh while he eats out his baby brother.
Dean licks him open, rumbling a moan when Sam curses and pushes back into it. “Fuck, Sammy,” he mutters, resting his forehead against an already bitten-up thigh, “sound so fuckin’ pretty, like a girl, all sweet — you sweet for me, Sammy?”
“Dean.” Sam sobs, shaking apart under Dean’s mouth. He chants Dean’s name in this breathy voice, little nghs at the tail end of every pant.
Sam’s thighs tremble and shake when Dean finally pulls away. His mouth is wet and he groans at the sight of Sammy’s spit-slick hole.
Sam whines a petulant little, “Dean!” when he pulls away at the sound of the oven ringing. Dean huffs, whacking the inside of his thigh. Another ngh leaves his baby brother and his legs visibly tremble.
“I’m gonna finger you open, Sammy. Get you nice and ready to take my cock.” Dean murmurs, slotting himself against Sam’s back. The pizza is cooling on the stove and Dean plans to make him come before it cools. Sammy shudders at the first finger, whines brokenly at the second, drools against the cool island counter at the third. Slim hips tremble and buck into the press of his fingers.
“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Sammy chants, hands scrabbling uselessly at the counter. Dean growls do it Sammy, come for me and grins viciously when Sam obeys with a sob.
“There we go, Sam. Did good for me, sounded so sweet.” Dean grunts. He tugs his jeans down around his thighs, just enough to free his cock. He thinks back to the night Sam punched him after prom and jerking off in the bathroom to the memory of his baby brother knocking him senseless, how rough and fast he’d gotten himself off. He feels a little like that now, working his hand over himself till he spills over the tanned golden skin of Sam’s back.
Sam makes a pleased sound, stretching out languidly as Dean tucks himself away and shimmies Sam’s sweats back up around his hips.
“Pizza’s ready.” Dean huffs, reaching for a handtowel to wipe over Sam’s back with. Sam laughs, low and rough.
Dean serves their unconventional breakfast on a plate. Sammy rolls his shoulders and takes it without protest while Dean wipes over the counter.
“Come on, that’s gross.” Sam protests, pulling a face at Dean throwing the handtowel in the sink.
“What! We can’t go around throwing out every cloth we use to wipe up our — messes.”
“Messes.” Sam scoffs. “Come, Dean. Jizz. Spooge. ”
Dean waves a disgusted hand at his brother, hissing shut up. “We’ve gotta wash our cloths, Sammy, like normal people.”
“It’s still gross. I’ll never be able to use that cloth again now that I know.”
“You’re such a girl.” Dean leaves the kitchen, Sam following close behind. “Hey, no, come with me.” He catches Sam’s sleeve as he tries to duck into the library. Sam raises his eyebrows but lets himself be pulled along the curved corridors.
Sam hovers by the door while Dean falls onto his bed. After a few moments of silence, Dean raises his head from the pillow enough to squint at his brother. “You coming in or what?”
Hazel eyes flicker away for a moment, hesitant, and Dean knows that he’ll let it go if Sam walks away. He wants Sammy to be comfortable and if he isn’t comfortable in Dean’s room, well, he isn’t going to force the kid to spend time somewhere he doesn’t want to. If he prefers his cold, lonely room and crisp sheets, who’s Dean to judge?
(He’s most definitely judging, he loves his room, how could Sam prefer that isolated space more than the comfort of Dean’s?)
Finally, Sam follows Dean in. He jerkily comes to stand beside Dean’s bed and looks around like he’s never been in the room before, which they both know isn’t true. Sam follows when Dean beckons him onto the bed, setting the plate down on the table beside them. It takes a while for them to get comfortable — the mattress really isn’t made for two fully grown larger-than-average men.
Dean really should have thought about that before getting them squished onto it.
Sam eventually drops his head onto Dean’s chest, a leg hanging off the side of the bed while Dean curls in to Sammy’s body and intertwines his legs with the one still on the mattress.
“So — ” Sam tries, and Dean cuts him off with a shhh.
“Listen up, Sammy.” Dean pats at his face vaguely. “You don’t like your room. I don’t know why and I won’t force you to tell me, but you’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t like being in there. Want you to stay in here with me instead.” And he feels embarrassed as soon as he’s said it, like a blushing girl asking her boyfriend to move in with her. He manages to squash his immediate reaction to threaten Sam and/or tell him to fuck off.
Sam huffs, a quiet little laugh that Dean is endlessly endeared by. “Okay, Dean, whatever you say.”
Dean pats his shoulder before reaching over to grab a slice. Sam takes a bite out of it and Dean makes an offended sound, gnashing his teeth at his brother. Sammy just grins and twists till he can grab his own slice. Finally, Sam says, “Hey, I gotta hit the head.” and Dean unwraps his legs from around Sammy so he can slide off the bed and head out into the twisting hallways.
After a while Sam comes back with his laptop. He sets it up at the end of the bed, scrolling till he eventually says, “Shark Week?”
“Aw Sammy,” Dean makes his eyes all wide and moony. “You remembered! I didn’t know you cared.”
“Shut up, asshole.” Sam huffs. He crawls up the bed till he manages to settle back into his spot against Dean’s side. Dean presses his smile into Sam’s hair.
They get through a few episodes and argue over the last slice of pizza. Sam shoves at Dean’s chest, cursing when he leans forward to take the biggest bite out of the slice before it reaches Sam’s mouth. Sammy hisses you’re the worst and Dean grins smugly, chewing loudly right in his ear.
Sam settles down again with a scowl, calming only when Dean strokes at soft hair.
“Hey.” Sam murmurs after a while. He easily pulls Dean in for a kiss, and Dean gives up a token protest about missing Shark Week. Sam huffs a laugh into his mouth, biting at his cheek. It’s light and teasing and Dean smiles so big his cheeks hurt.
The sight of Sammy crawling on top of him, teasing little smile dimpling his cheek, makes Dean’s chest feel that same warmbrightgood as the night before. He drags his little brother down by the hair, licking into his mouth and delighting in Sam’s pleased hum.
Dean rolls them over, slotting easily between his thighs. Sam grins and wriggles under him like he’s testing just how well he’s being held down. It’s easy, rocking their hips together and pressing his brother into the bed. Over the years, Dean’s thought of countless ways this could go. He’s thought of roughly fucking him after a fight, both snarling and clawing at each other; sweet kisses traded under the cover of night; feelings coming to a head after years of pining; even, on occasion, desperate last-hours-before-one-or-both-of-us-dies fucking.
He’d never thought of it like this; Sam laughing and arching just to press their chests together, grin lighting up hazel eyes. He’s still smiling when Dean grinds against him, even as his pretty mouth parts on a gasp that ends on a sweet moan.
Sam goes easy, all loose-limbed and pliant, when Dean grabs the back of his collar and drags the shirt over his head. Long hair finger-combed neat ends up mussed and Dean wants more than anything to absolutely wreck his boy. Sam shucks his own sweats and tosses them as Dean steps back to tear off his own clothes. They slide back together, Sam hooking a too-long leg around Dean’s hips and dragging him closer.
“Fuck, Sam.” Dean drops his head against Sam’s collarbones, grinding his cock against that perfect ass. Dean goes a little crazy when he realizes Sammy’s still open and a little wet from before. His hips stutter and he curses, murmuring, “Wanna fuck you, Sammy, see you writhing on my cock, you want that?”
Sam keens, chokes out, “Yeah, fuck, ‘course. Need it, wanted it for — years, Dean, please.”
Sam goes all wide-eyed and melty when Dean whispers, “I got you, sweetheart.”
“Oh,” Sam gasps, and, “oh, Dean, say it again?”
“Sammy, sweetheart.” Dean wants to kiss the soft look off Sam’s face, settles for brushing their noses together in the way he used to do all the time when they were still kids. “Sweetheart, angel, my Sammy.”
“Dean, Dean.” Sam grasps at him, pretty little mouth open on a shaky gasp.
Dean presses a kiss to the mole under Sam’s eye, “Yeah, sweetheart, whatever you want.”
Sam looks torn open and bare and vulnerable, throat clicking as he swallows, rasps out something that sounds like a broken version of Dean’s name. The sound he makes is wrecked, a trembly little whimper.
“Want me to take care of you, baby?” The name usually sounds so tacky and fake, an endearment borrowed from countless less-than-satisfactory pornos over the years. He’s growled and moaned and rumbled baby a hundred times, a thousand times, all over the country, but he’s never said it like this. He murmurs baby against the pink flush of Sammy’s chest, nipping and licking and sucking at a nipple that he knows from experience is like a livewire to Sam’s cock, watches in satisfaction as Sam shivers and his pretty little cock twitches and spills precum and gets wetter than any girl Dean’s ever been with.
Baby doesn’t sound like it belongs in a B-grade porno when Sam’s the baby in question; it sounds fitting and perfect and like it’s something that he’s always meant to be called.
Sam arches the flushed-pink length of his neck and Dean latches on with a nipping bite to his Adam’s apple, determined to leave a mark there.
“I’ll take care of you, doll.” Dean murmurs like it’s a secret, words dripping honey-sweet into the delicate dips of Sammy’s collarbones.
Sam’s heart jackrabbits under the press of Dean’s mouth against his ribcage. Every panted exhale ends with a whimpery little ngh that makes Dean feel like he’s being torn apart and put back together anew each time, life’s purpose focused around drawing those sweet little sounds out until it’s the only thing Dean ever has to hear again.
“Dean, Dean,” Sammy chants, pretty eyes glistening. “Y’always, Dean, you always take care of me.”
Dean rumbles a pleased sound, biting into the meat of Sam’s pec. He soothes the bite with a swipe of his tongue and a soft stream of air over the wet patch of skin that has Sam trembling like he’s falling apart. “‘Course I do, kid, you’re mine, aren’t you? Gotta take care of my boy.”
And that’s all it takes for Sam to squeak a little moan, a sound that Dean’s never heard before, back arching at a dangerous angle as he spills over himself. Dean jerks back, blinking at the streaks of cum on the both of them.
“Dude.” Dean laughs in disbelief, “Did you seriously just come without me touching you?”
But Sammy’s still shaking, gaspy little noises falling from petal soft lips, tears glistening in the corner of kaleidoscope eyes before they fall and track a path down flushed cheeks. He’s staring at the ceiling, and Dean glances over his shoulder to confirm that there’s nothing there before turning to look at his dazed little brother.
Dean softens, leaning closer again, “Hey, Sammy, sweetheart, you still with me?”
After a few moments, Sam manages to drag his gaze to catch Dean’s. His mouth moves but no sound comes out, and a fresh round of tears make their way down pretty cheeks.
Dean has had partners check out on him like this before. They usually describe it as floating, afterwards, gazes distant and barely able to form words while their entire worlds narrow to whatever Dean is doing to them at the moment. He sees this in sweet Sam and everything he’s ever felt crashes over him, love and lust and need and pure unbridled adoration for the kid who came apart with nothing more than a few sweet words.
Dean kisses his forehead, murmuring comforting sounds, brushing gentle hands over Sam’s still-shaking form. A stray thumb catches on the nipple Dean had all but made out with and that gets a reaction; Sam violently shakes, nothing like the barely-there trembles, and whines a broken little, “Wait, Daddy, ‘s too sensitive.”
Dean stills, mouth still pressed to Sammy’s forehead. A lot of things click into place, suddenly, and it’s almost comical how he automatically thinks of a light clicking on over his own head. Dean takes a moment to breathe, to sift through bubblegum pink cheeks and wide eyed looks of adoration and snarled fuck yous at their dad with sweet of course Deans in the same breathe and Dean thinks oh because really, it’s less of a shock than he would have expected.
“Sorry, baby.” He finally whispers, noses brushing as he moves to press a sweet kiss to the corner of a bruise-bitten mouth. Sam sighs, pressing into the touch.
Dean waits a few moments for the telling slump of tension leaving Sam’s body. Sam melts back against the bed, soft breathy moans licked from his sugar-sweet mouth, and Dean twitches his thumb against the red-raw nipple again.
Sam makes that same squeaky moan from earlier, jolting again, and gives a drawn out whine at the scrape of nails down his chest.
“So fuckin’ pretty.” Dean mutters, pressed into Sam’s warm cheek. “God, baby, the things you do to me — the sounds you make, drives me fuckin’ crazy, y’know. Sam, Sammy, sweetheart, fuck.”
Sam sobs, big hands feeling so much smaller than usual as they press at Dean’s chest. Dean draws away, a smile curling his mouth when Sam whines and tries to pull him closer barely a moment later.
Dean ducks his head and grazes teeth over the sensitive skin of his neck, next to the countless marks he’s already left behind. He debates with himself, face burning at the thought, because this is something he’s done before but it’s not something he ever expected to do — to say — to Sam and it’s like everything needs a proper re-calibration before he’ll be able to do this without feeling like his face is on fire.
Dean Winchester, entirely shameless, embarrassed at the thought of calling himself his little brother’s daddy.
He thinks a vicious suck it up at himself. Sam’s his boy, his good sweet boy, he’ll do anything to make sure Sam knows it. He whispers, “A pretty boy for your Daddy, huh?”
Sam chokes out, “Daddy.” and Dean follows when Sam turns his face away in embarrassment. Pretty eyes are squeezed shut, brows drawn in, cheeks redder than Dean’s ever seen them. Dean groans, cock slicking a wet path along the jut of Sam’s hip when he rocks his hips. Fuck, there’s nothing prettier than a flustered Sammy.
Dean licks at the lip caught between Sam’s teeth, sucks it into his own mouth when Sammy lets go. His teeth catch and nick and he laves over the spot of pain that Sam whimpers at.
“Look at me,” Dean whispers when he finally releases that soft lower lip, all bitten up and bruised. Sam whines, tilting his face further into the pillow. Dean hisses, “Sammy, look at me, right this goddamn second.” and thrills when Sam peeks open a tear-shiny eye at him.
Sam sniffles, bruise-bitten lip trembling, and Dean soothes, “Good boy for listening, Sammy. You hear me, sweetheart? You’re a good boy, Daddy’s good boy, listen so well.”
Sam hiccups a sob, nodding. Dean croons, brushing away the fresh wave of tears.
“S’okay, angel, you cry if you need to. Whatever you gotta do to make this right for you, if you gotta cry to be my baby then you cry as much as you want.”
“Daddy,” Sam cries, sounding like the word is torn from the deepest recess of his chest, “Daddy, Daddy — ”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees smoothly. “That’s right, angel, your Daddy’s here to take care of you.”
Sam cries for a while, long enough for his sobs to taper off into sniffles and hiccups and for the tears on his cheeks to dry. Dean holds him close through it, making soothing noises and murmuring comfortingly. Eventually, Sam croaks out, “You ever tell anyone about this and I’ll cut your dick off.”
Dean huffs a sigh. “Aw, there go my weekend plans to tell everyone about my very active sex life with my brother.”
“Dick.” Sam mutters, scowling, and Dean smiles sweetly, murmurs is that any way for a sweet boy to talk? Sam flushes and lashes out and manages to catch Dean in the chest with a flailing elbow.
“Hey,” Dean grunts, dropping his weight onto his little brother and reveling in the pained oof he gets, “stop that, kid.”
Sam continues to wriggle and curse and glare under Dean’s weight, sweet little mouth pursed into a pout, and Dean doesn’t think twice before snagging his fingers in Sammy’s long hair and tugging. Like the yank of a leash, Sam freezes.
“There we go, sweetheart, calm down for me, huh? Good boys don’t throw tantrums like that.” Dean says, softening his grip and extending his fingers to scratch at Sam’s scalp. Dark eyelashes flutter over pink cheeks and Sam murmurs a soft oh as he tilts his head back into Dean’s touch. “Just like that, angel. Let your Daddy take care of you.”
Dean’s arousal has been a low thrum since Sam first started crying, put on the back burner in favor of making sure that Sam was okay. It comes back full-force now, dragged forth with Sammy’s rocking hips.
“Just like that.” Dean repeats, licking into that pretty mouth as he slides his fingers back inside his baby brother. Sam whines this breathy little sound that makes Dean feel like his teeth are tingling. Long legs tremble where they’re hiked up around Dean’s waist, narrow hips squirming, head thrown back. Dean fucks him on his fingers.
Dean murmurs, “There we go, baby. Let Daddy take care of you, be a good boy, huh?”
Sam keens, a long high whine, when Dean fucks into him. Dean murmurs comforting sounds, panting heavy against his baby’s brow. Sweet little Daddy s fall from red lips that Dean has spent years craving the taste of.
It’s a lot faster and messier than Dean would have planned. He’d wanted to take it slow, fuck his kid brother and take him apart piece by piece. Sam ends up coming only a few minutes in, nails raking scores down Dean’s back. Sammy whimpers, “Daddy, Daddy please?” and Dean curses, hips stuttering against Sam’s ass as he spills inside him.
A blissful little smile curves his mouth when Dean pulls away. It’s obscene, the way Sam looks all flushed and spread out and fuck-loose.
“Hey, kiss?” Sam murmurs, voice rough, and Dean obliges with a smile.
There’s another episode of Shark Week on, and the laptop has somehow managed to stay on the bed despite how roughly Dean had fucked Sam. It’s a good thing, too — he can only imagine how pissy Sam would have gotten if they’d broken it. Their clothes are flung all over the room like something out of a B-grade romcom, and Dean has to crouch down beside his bed to find his jeans. He shimmies into them, reaching out for the shirt that landed over by his record player.
“Come on, kid.” Dean slaps at Sammy’s hip. “We got shit to do today.”
Sam, up-and-at-’em 5am is the best time to run Sam, groans and rolls over, shoving his head under the pillow. Dean eyes the unblemished expanse of his back. The dimples at the base of his spine, mole under his shoulder blade, freckles across the expanse of his shoulders — Dean wants to put his mouth on all of it.
Sam shifts the pillow and peeks over his shoulder, all sly and sweet, like he isn’t the most gorgeous thing Dean’s ever seen. Dean curses, shoves his jeans off again and crawls back on top of his brother.
Sam’s laugh is muffled in the pillow and Dean retaliates with a sharp bite to the base of his neck. His laugh chokes off, rumbling into a moan halfway through.
“Had shit to do today, Sam.” Dean growls, raking nails down his back. “Thought you were gonna be a good boy for your Daddy. You misbehaving, Sammy? Need to be punished?”
Sam presses back, even as he murmurs, “No, Dean, that’s not — that doesn’t do it for me.”
“Alright, Sam, alright. You gonna be good, then? Listen to me and let me take care of you?”
The tension melts from his form, “Yeah, I’ll be good.”
Dean sinks his fingers back inside Sam, loose and wet. Sam shudders, a full body tremble, making soft kitten noises. “There we go, baby. Daddy’ll take care of you.”
There’s a whole to-do list that Dean puts on the back burner. He’ll have to take care of them afterwards, there are things that can’t be put off any later than a few hours, but he’s been waiting almost fifteen years for this. Dean fully plans on making the most of his time.