Sam is doing sunrise yoga in the library of the Men of Letters bunker when Dean enters. The younger Winchester is in the Downward Facing Dog position when he notices his older brother's presence.
"Hey, Dean," he groans.
"Lookin' good," Dean replies with a wink.
Sam ducks his head as a blush started forming on his cheeks. "Sh-shut up," he stammers. "You're up earlier than usual. Bad dream?" Sam's tone is teasing and Dean scowls playfully back.
"Oh, can it, Salad Boy." Sam sticks his tongue out at the nickname as Dean leaves to the kitchen for coffee.
Sam can feel his hands and feet slipping on the mat. He knows he needs to push his butt higher or he'll fall. "Crap," he mutters quietly to himself. Asking for help from Dean would only lead to hours of teasing.
"Aw, Sam," Dean smiles condescendingly. "Need help?"
Sam shakes his head slightly and coughs. "I got this..." he says and he realizes that, no, he absolutely does not have this. His knees falter slightly and he can hear Dean snickering at him. He sighs.
"Ok, yes. I do need help," Sam rolls his eyes, waiting for the inevitable mocking to come.
To his surprise, Dean steps closer and chuckles, "Alright, here." Dean's hands are grabbing Sam's hips and holding him up while he gets his grip back.
"Th'nks," Sam murmurs. The blush returns as he has to ask another favor. "Can you...lift my butt higher?" The question is so quiet Dean almost doesn't hear it.
Dean stifles a laugh. "Sure, Sammy." And his hands are on Sam's butt now; this is happening.
Sam shifts around. "You're not allowed to enjoy this," he grumbles, trying to get steady quickly and failing from going too fast.
"Oh, I will enjoy this," Dean replied, a smile in his voice.
Sam's face grows redder. "I-I almost got it." He realizes he's actually kind of pushing his butt onto Dean. "One word about this to anyone and no computer time for a month."
Dean would never say it out loud, but Sam's ass is so nice, especially in the tight shorts he's wearing. He smiles and leans into the touch. "Oh, please," he taunts, "Like you could really keep your computer away from me."
"S-shut up, jerk." Sam's shirt slid down and Dean caught sight of... dude, what the fuck?
Dean's shocked to see that Sam at some point had gotten a tattoo that reads 'Dean's Bitch.' And it's a trampstamp. Really, Sam? C'mon.
Dean runs his fingers over the ink anyways. "You're my bitch?" he asks quietly.
Sam feels like the Earth could be hit with a meteor right at this very moment and he'd be totally cool with it. "I-I can explain," he stammers, stock still from the embarrassment. "See, you were gone a-and I was really drunk... it seemed like a good idea at the time." Sam's voice is shaky and Dean can feel the shame radiating out of his brother.
Regardless, Dean drops Sam and he lands on his back. Before Sam can protest, Dean is straddling his hips and has his mouth pressed against Sam's.
"That is so...unbelievably hot," Dean whispers against his lips.
Sam's eyes widened. "So I have to keep it?" he whispers and bites his bottom lip.
Dean growls, "Absolutely."
Sam nods and sighs with relief. "Good. Tattoo removal is painful and expensive."
"Amen to that," Dean groans and punctuates it with a rough kiss.