Dean won't touch Sam after he gets out of the Cage. At first, he makes excuses for the way he flinches when Sam reaches for his wrist or cheek; says he's too tired, says he needs more time to get over Lisa, says he's not in the mood. Says anything other than, you're just so fucking wrong, Sam.
When they find out that Sam has no soul, the only upside is that Dean gets to stop pretending. The next time Sam reaches for him, slips warm fingers under the hem of his shirt and curls them over the belt of his pants, Dean slaps his hand away. "Get off," he hisses and Sam stills, raising an eyebrow.
"Why?" He runs his tongue over his lips, looking at Dean in an almost bored manner. "You never minded before."
"You're not Sammy," replies Dean instantly, face twisted in disgust as he steps backwards. "You're some weird… I dunno, but you're not him. I don't want you touching me."
Sam heeds the request, by and large. He doesn't try to kiss Dean, doesn't curl fingers around his wrist with that lazy possessiveness, but he doesn't stop touching entirely. It's nothing big – shoulder touching shoulder as they walk, brush of fingers whenever Dean passes him something, brush of his foot under the table – but it's constant, and the grating friction of it wears Dean down.
He's not surprised when he gives in. Nor is Sam, by the look on his face when Dean tugs his head down and kisses him once, chastely. He leans his forehead against Sam's collar bone as hands slip up to rest on his hip, and he never sees the victorious, self-satisfied smile that curls its way across Sam's lips. "Don't worry," he murmurs in Dean's ear, biting the lobe of it gently. "My soul may be missing, but my hands will make up for it.
As Dean lies in the soiled, empty bed hours later and listens to the hum over shower running, he thinks the worst part is that Sam was right.