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Dean wakes up slowly, gently.
In his dream, he was on a boat somewhere out on the ocean. It was the middle of a new moon night and he was lying on his back, gazing up at the myriad of brilliant stars high up in the pitch black sky. Better than hundreds upon thousands of diamonds, all the riches in the world paling next to the sheer beauty of the milky way, but even the stars could not compare to the invaluable treasure right beside Dean.
The boat was rocking, ever so gently, and Sammy was next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, Sam’s boot lightly knocking into his own every now and then. He was warm and comfortable and wishing for eternity.
The world takes its time coaxing Dean back into wakefulness, makes the transition from dream to reality as smooth as it can be.
It is still dark around him now, still warm. There’s a long, hard body pressed up against him; a hot, unyielding line of contact. Dean is rolled almost fully onto his belly, one leg up for better access, hips rolling into him from behind. He presses back into it without thinking — doesn’t have to think to know who it is at his back, the shape of the man and the way he moves as familiar to Dean as his own body — he wants to feel Sam closer, deeper. Dean feels warm and full and comfortable and it’s good, so good.
Sammy.
The bed smells like them, together, and Dean turns his head into Sam’s pillow and huffs it, still half asleep and loosely trying to hold onto the dream inexorably slipping from his mind. Instead of feeling ridiculed by the soft laugh the action earns him, it feels like the sun rises in his chest. Like his heart begins to glow, and half dreaming, Dean is convinced his chest must be glowing with it, light pouring out between his ribs and drenching the bed in sunshine.
His throat tight with affection, limbs loose and heavy with sleep, Dean reaches back blindly to pet over Sam’s head and tangle his fingers in his impossibly soft hair.
“Morning,” Sam murmurs into the skin behind his ear, fond laughter still in his voice, breath warm and humid. Dean sighs and melts back into him, welcomes Sam into his body.
“Hiya, Sammy.”
The motel sheets are scratchy against Dean’s sleep sensitive skin and his beard rasps over the threadbare pillowcase as he nuzzles into it more firmly. One of his torn nails gets momentarily caught on the blanket as Dean shifts his hand and he’s still so out of it he can’t even be bothered to be annoyed by it.
“Sorry for waking you. I thought maybe you’d sleep through it,” Sam says, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of Dean’s neck.
“And miss this?” Dean’s answer is half moan, half laugh. His voice is even deeper than usually, gravelly with disuse. “No way, Sammy. Best wake up call ever.”
Sam chuckles again, and Dean could drown in the golden sound of it.
“Hmm, glad you like it.”
Dean only hums in answer.
It is getting too hot under the blanket, but Dean is too comfortable to move. He keeps his eyes carefully closed, his limbs relaxed. The darkness behind his eyelids is impossibly warm and soft; he doesn’t want to look at the blinding brightness of the world just yet. This moment is an island and he is floating — it’s just Sam and him, him and Sam, and all the sensations of Sam moving around and within him.
Sam’s broad hands roam over Dean’s body, the roughness of his palms a stark contrast to the light, careful caresses. One settles low on Dean’s throat, not choking him but the implication is there, the threat, and Dean’s screwed up six ways from Sunday because it makes him feel safe more than anything else.
Any and all tension bleeds out of Dean as Sam tells him to relax, let me take care of you. Dean knows he will.
Sam keeps moving inside him, fucking Dean deep and hard and torturously slow. He keeps petting Dean, his chest, his flanks, his belly. Eventually, Sam’s hand comes to rest just above Dean’s straining erection and stills there. It feels hot and dry and maddening, like a searing brand on his skin as it presses against him and just doesn’t move, and Dean has never been too proud to beg Sam for what he wants.
“Please, Sammy. I need it, please—”
Dean groans with relief as Sam finally gets his hand on his cock. He does not even care that it’s a little too dry, he feels so close already and Sammy touching him will never not be good.
Sam jerks him in time with his thrusts, slow and languid, his fingers forming a tight circle around Dean’s dick. The pressure alone is so good. It’s even better when it is applied to that special point right below his head, and Sam knows exactly how to do this perfectly, when and where to squeeze and twist, his technique flawless after he has gotten his hands on Dean countless times before.
Dean is panting, each puff of air carrying a sliver of his voice, low and appreciative. He groans when Sam rubs his thumb over his slit and smears his precome back down over his shaft. When after two long drags new drops pearl at Dean’s tip, Sam repeats his action, groaning with delight.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Sam marvels.
“‘M close, Sammy,” Dean agrees, writhing against Sam, simultaneously trying to buck forward into his hand and push back onto his cock.
“Yeah.” Sam knows.
Dean wants to come, the molten pleasure in his guts almost too much, lightning shooting through him whenever Sam hits his prostate. It’s the most beautiful torture, and Dean doesn’t want this to end just yet. Just a little longer.
Sam squeezes the base of Dean’s cock, almost hard enough to hurt and just enough to starve his orgasm off a little longer. He always knows.
It’s not often that Sam is this slow and gentle, and Dean is loathe to admit it — never will admit it out loud, but he doesn’t need to, they both know — that he absolutely loves it. Softness is not something they indulge in often, they both like it hard and rough and frantic, and most of the time softness only feels forced, staged. This doesn’t.
Dean grabs Sam’s wrist, pulls his hand off his aching erection and brings it up to his face, covers his mouth and nose with it to breathe in the smell of him, of them.
He comes right then, sudden and hard and surprising to both of them, Sam’s smell in his nose and his dick in his ass and the sun spilling out of his body through his many, many cracks. Sam fucks him through it, holding onto Dean hard enough to bruise and following him right over the edge as Dean tightens around him perfectly. They rock together in perfect harmony, work each other through it until they are both wincing with overstimulation.
They don’t pull apart after, just still. With the way the are pressed together chest to back, it feels like their hearts are beating right next to each other, getting calmer by the minute, as if they were a single the creature. They breathe together, Sam’s cock slowly going soft inside Dean.
“What brought this on?” Dean asks eventually, happy and sated and frankly ready for another nap. The thought of drifting right back to sleep is very tempting indeed.
Sam runs his hand up Dean’s side and down again, not in a hurry to answer. For once, Dean doesn’t push. After a few moments, Sam’s hand stills on his hip. He gives it a little squeeze, comfort and warning in one before he pulls out of Dean, oh so carefully. Dean still winces a little.
Sam soothes his fingers over his hip in apology. He rolls onto his back and Dean follows him, not yet ready to give up the comfort of Sam’s warmth and his skin against his own.
Finally, Sam says, “I just— You looked so peaceful. At ease, for once. Haven’t seen that look on you in a while, it suits you.”
Dean huffs a little and shakes his head, fond. Sam can be such a big softie sometimes. Just a giant puppy. It’s adorable, really.
He’s right, though. Things really have been shit lately. This— Dean needed this. Sam, too.
They lie in comfortable silence for a few minutes, dozing and simply existing together for a while, until Dean’s senses finally pick up on something else.
“Smells good,” Dean murmurs longingly. It smells like hot coffee and grease, something salty and hearty. Just as he says it, his stomach growls loudly and Sam lets out a cheerful laugh.
“Yeah, I got us breakfast.”
“What’d you get?” Dean sounds so hopeful.
“Burger and bacon for you, plus a slice of pie as dessert.”
“Oh my god,” Dean groans. It sounds obscene. “You are a saint, Sammy, you know that? You spoil me.”
“Whatever you say,” Sam chuckles, patting Dean’s belly lightly. “Let’s get some food into you.”