A/N: So, this is not my usual style. It is full of run-on sentences, commas and semicolons. It's supposed to convey thought process, but may just be a train wreck, I've no clue. This, like Just This Once, was a product of random, frenzied inspiration. Why do those always seem to come in shades of Wincest? (After Happy Noises, of course, cos that was one too and freaking started this whole mess.) Ah, well. *shrug* Enjoy it.
Ps. Anyone interested in the canon discrepancies regarding Sam's time at Stanford, there's an interesting page in the SuperWiki. I agree with this particular theory: [The] suggestion is that it was not two or four but three years. This theory is based on the suggestion that if four years had passed since Sam left for Stanford, he would have already graduated and been in law school by the time of the Pilot (which he is not). With this line of reasoning, Sam could not logically have been away for four years. This theory also takes into account the timeline of the Pilot - set at Halloween, Sam would only have been two months into his fourth year of college. This would mean that he has been at Stanford for three years and two months.
I actually did a timeline for this fic to make sure it made sense. It takes place between [3.06] Red Sky at Morning, and [3.07] Fresh Blood.
He should have just kept his fucking mouth shut.
Why'd you have to go and say that, why - It runs through Dean's head like a racehorse, stampeding sentences circling over and over the track of his mind; and he's glaring across the room, oh, if looks could kill.
It was all him, anyway, all his fault, just because he thought Sammy looked lonelier and lonelier nowadays, full two weeks after the second anniversary of Jess' death and Dean thought he'd do his little brother a solid. (Nevermind what Sam said about him caring for himself why fucking bother and anyway I've only ever cared about SamImpalaDadDadSammylittlebrotherSam.)
He eyes the scene before him and curses his ability to speak.
"You see that tall, floppy, and handsome over there?" Dean points languidly, still tonguing the rim of his beer bottle. The redhead nods; she's decked out tonight, not on the prowl per se but Dean can tell, he's seen it before, she's definitely looking. He chuckles a little, dark of the night in his voice and his eyes. "He's been eying you all night."
"Really?" She can't take her eyes off of Sam, miles long length of him stuffed into the booth, bluegreenhazel eyes riveted on a pool game. The girl smiles honestly at Dean but her eyes never leave Sam. "What's his name?"
Dean tells her and she's off, and he watches her approach the one thing in his life more precious than his car, than his mother's wedding ring, than their father's leather jacket currently chafing his wrists.
Ten minutes and two beers in to Sammy's game and the moves Dean has memorized, not because they happen that often but because when it's Sam, Dean can't help but observe with his whole being and remember like it's how to breathe.
Sam's sealing the deal and Dean's starting to regret the whole thing.
He's not even tasting the beer as it flows past his lips; he's thinking of stepping up his game, moving on to something stronger so he can no longer see so clearly the way Sam's hands cover the back of her neck, the small of her back; the get-some smirk on his lips as he bends to whisper something in her ear, maybe even lick up the shell, gargantuan freak.
Dean's freak. He tenses away the shudder that threatens to spill from his innermost, and signals the bartender. Gin, neat. Thank you very much.
He never drinks gin and it burns like bleach going down but he needs it, especially when Sam sidles over with the redhead on his arm, itching for the keys. The girl giggles at Dean, winks at him and Sam's got this look on his face like he knows but he doesn't, and Dean can't take it anymore.
"No, Sammy," he says, thank god his voice is strong and steady. The girl stares uncomprehending and Sam looks at him like he's crazy. "Dean," he says and that tone is grating, condescending, Dean doesn't like hearing that much of their father in Sammy's voice and knows Sam would hate it even more, if Dean were to mention it.
Dean just stares into his brother's eyes, that bluegreenhazel swirling, darkening, not with lust but with anger. Sammy's getting pissed, he doesn't get it, god do I have to spell it out for him -
Yanking his baby brother's arm Dean forces him down those scant few inches, the space between them severed, sewn together as his lips graze Sam's ear. "You're mine," he hisses, prays he won't have to say more than that.
Sam wrenches away, looks at him bewildered, almost like he's comprehending but not sure he wants to. "What," he mouths, soundless. Dean lets his eyes speak for him and he turns to the girl, who gets it and doesn't like it and looks like she's working up to a fit. He thrusts a bill at her, not sure how much, mutters, "Sorry about this... get yourself a drink, or three."
"Don't want your money," she spits, but she pockets it anyway and Dean's brain lurches through whore - ungrateful - Sam's too good for you - she was kinda cute but whatever - She's walking away, Dean grabs Sam's arm and hauls him to the exit, Sam putting up some sort of protest but Dean can't hear it for the blood rushing in his ears.
All these years, it all comes down to one night, and it was a girl that tripped it, Dean's big gay freakout. Incest, too! his brain squeaks helpfully. Fucking clarity. Where's more alcohol when he needs it? Oh, right, they left the bar. By his choice. Fuck. What? The girl, yeah. He supposes dourly that he should thank her, can't help but roll his eyes as he goes back over the memory and realizes he gave her a fifty.
The wind is a chill contradictory to the burn of the gin in his gut. Dean pops his collar further against the chill, refraining from humming a few obligatory bars of Simon and Garfunkel - the mood just isn't right; not so melancholy, there's more darker harder hotter burning in the stinging air.
Sam's a pouting mess in the passenger seat and Dean can blame him, oh yes. For leaving, for coming back, for finding a life, for finding too much of one, for dying on Dean and forcing Dean to slowly die because living without Sammy is no life at all.
The motel is dark inside; neither brother moves to turn on a light. By the weak filtered orange from behind the shitty motel curtains, Dean can see his brother's posture, poised like a man facing down monsters. "Sam," he says and it's like he gargled with rock salt, so goddamn gravelly, fuck. Sex voice at seven o'clock drop down and to your left and he has to make it to midnight, Sammy dead ahead.
"What's going on, Dean." Again, not a question. Sam's so good at making a question sound rhetorical sound obsolete. They both already know the answer.
"I learned something today," Dean says lightly, in the cadence of Kyle from South Park, because otherwise it won't be funny or lighthearted at all, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to finish his thoughts. "You see, there's such a thing as wanting something and not even knowing, until it's about to be taken from you." He can't keep the sarcasm out of his voice; it's masking the hole ripped through him, echoing beneath it all. Deep breath.
Five years ago, not a real goodbye. Too busy trying to keep the two men in his life from tearing out each others' throats. One week after and Dean was tearing his hair out, had to stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from moaning in shame and other things, all for the world to hear when he realized Sammy, fuck, Sam is all I ever needed or pretty much had and now he's gone gone gone, what do I do what the fuck do I do.
Dean can feel Sam's gaze on him like the chill in the air, only this is a blast of heat, so welcome against his skin. He basks in it, rolls his shoulders a little in appreciation of that gaze.
Sam takes one step forward, two. Fists clench, unclench. "Why are you saying this now." Still not a question. It's through clenched teeth (crooked a little at the bottom fuck) and hissed.
It's a close one but Dean turns another shoulder-roll into a shrug. "It just clicked. I had an epiphany. I was jealous; Sammy, pick one."
Sam huffs a laugh. It cuts. "Jealous?" his voice cracks high like he never wants it to; Dean knows. "You sent her over."
One more step, they're breathing the same air, and Dean can't catch enough of it in his lungs. He gasps, can't help it, asphyxiating just being near Sam now - all the time they spend together, much closer than this at the best and worst of times, and now they're whole feet apart and Dean feels Sam's movements like brands on his skin.
"I was wrong," Dean whispers, can't say that any louder. It is, to his knowledge, the only time he's said it this baldly.
Sam can't even snicker, or smirk. He gapes. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"
He's actually pulling a knife, Dean rolls his eyes before he remembers Sam can't see him. "Don't be such a little bitch, man, come on. I'm tryin'a have a moment, here."
"Jerk," Sam mutters, putting the knife away. Slowly.
"Shit, Sammy, you know me." Dean rubs a hand across the back of his head. "You know this can't - I can't -" His face contorts. "It's not -"
Sam explodes. "Dean, if you can't say it, how can you -"
"I don't know, Sam, this is fucking new -"
"Well, how long have you felt that way, Dean, Jesus fuck!" Sam practically shouts, it rings off the walls when he's done and his shoulders are heaving, lungful breaths, flaring nostrils.
"What?" Dean's voice is squeaky and breathy and what the, that sounded like a pixie said it. "I -"
"Because if it's as long as I have -" Sam says, breaks off as he steps forward, abortive jerking movements casting him further within Dean's orbit, close enough that Dean can smell cologne and bar on him, see the glint of his eyes - and the size of his pupils, shit - "then I'm sick and fucking tired of this charade."
"What." There's no sound, Dean has no breath, his eyes are wide enough that he's catching every bit of light in that room, and Sammy is glowing there in the dark.
"Dean." He's there, he's in Dean's sphere and taking up all the space in Dean's world. He breathes in, violently, Dean blinks and his brother's mouth is purging him of everything but the feel of Sam's lips on his, tongue slipping in quick and dirty, flickering, flirting behind Dean's teeth. Hands find Dean's waist, his hips, sliding up under his jacket, his shirt.
He can't breathe but he doesn't have to, sliding a hand almost instinctual from Sam's jawbone to his neck, other hand on the spur of one jutting hip, slam through scant space between and collide. Friction, heat, someone's moaning into this orgy of a kiss, Dean's not sure it's not him - Sam, after all, has the power to rupture things inside of Dean, to trip all of his goddamn switches. This is good, this is really good -
They break apart, stumble, panting. Sam's got a storm in his eyes - Dean's own have adjusted, or maybe just widened to take in all light, ever - and he's looking at Dean with something hooded and unreadable lurking there. Dean slips free of the leather jacket, hot and suddenly overbearing, tossing it out of the danger zone as he eyes Sam down, dares him.
Meeting for another kiss is a joint venture of wills and lack thereof; Dean feels taken, unleashed, out of control and yet so fucking sure of himself. Sammy feels the same way, holy shit gets swept aside by a more mindless SamSamSam to counter the time of minute little thrusts. Sam's hand creeps up into his shirt, finds one of his nipples with callused fingers - Dean shudders against his brother and that mouth, god, dick leaking precome in to the fabric of his briefs. Sam's other hand is splayed low on Dean's back; he kisses Dean possessively, long languid sweeps of tongue and the taste is beer and hot wings and Sam, oh Sam.
Baby brother breaks the kiss, a line of saliva wrapping Dean's cheek when Sam's lips find their way to his ear. "I want to fuck you," Sam growls, nipping the lobe; Dean's never heard this voice before, it actually makes him weak in the knees but if anyone's doing the fucking, it's him. "Not tonight, Sasquatch," he grunts, jerking their hips together, grinding, working Sam inch by inch toward one of the beds. "If anyone's doing the fucking, it's me."
"What makes you think I'll let -" Dean coils his leg around Sammy's and shoves, weight overbalances, falls and the bounce of the mattress almost knocks them nose to nose. Dean shifts, Sam wriggles; their hard lengths find one another and slide, grooves of hips encased in boxers and jeans and "Goddamnit, we are wearing too many clothes," Dean rasps, rucking up Sam's shirts to suckle every inch of skin.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam just about whines, long arms flailing to help pull the clothing up and off; Dean rewards this with lips and tongue and teeth to both nipples, sending Sam thrashing beneath him. Sam's so warm, tastes faintly of sweat, slight salty tang that just fits him and Dean hums approval around one rosy nub. Sam makes a noise through clenched teeth, then: "If you're so intent on fucking me, let me suck you, at least." Head held up with effort, the tendons in his neck rigid. Hazel like a savage tropical sea clashes into vibrant green; how can Dean say no to that? And "Lucky Sammy," he smirks, "I just got tested last week."
Confusion mars the heat in those eyes but Sam is moving, flipping them headily so Dean's back slams into the bed and Sam's sliding down, down. "When'd you find time to do that?" he mouths into Dean's zipper. Sodden heat encases his cock, which is swelling visibly and Dean falls back, fingers clenching in sheets and he hasn't even touched you yet. "Massachusetts," he manages, barely, "you were asleep."
Sure fingers pop the button on his jeans, slide the zipper down achingly slow. "That case sucked." Sam's got the full timbre of his voice back (for now) but it's still deeper than Dean's ever heard it.
"Yeah..." Dean breathes, and it turns into a gasp like a dying shriek when Sam pulls down the waistband of his briefs, snaps it snug beneath his balls, and wraps those long, warm fingers around the heat of him. Soft slide up, and down, "Fuck, Sam," Dean hisses, shifting his legs, he can feel Sam's smirk on him moments before there's a tongue on the underside of his cock head, swirling, dipping in the slit and - his grip is sweet, tortuous - air, what is that? Oh fuck, oh fuck - "S-Sammy..."
"I told you, it's Sam," and he swallows Dean down, full fat length him down that golden throat. Dean can't control the noises he makes, strangling out of his windpipe; his back arches, fingers drag furrows through soft sheets. There is warmth, there is heat, and then there is Sammy's goddamn sinful mouth, sucking powerful up and back down, dragging tongue, great swallows around the head of him and Dean is lost, making embarrassing little huh - huh – huh sounds, every breath a testament to his surprise, he's overwhelmed. Sam works him over like a deity of cocksucking, so sure in his movements, relaxed, fucking humming, and Dean would not have pinned this for a surety, not on his life.
"Where'd you learn to do this?" Dean garbles out, clutching Sam's ridiculous hair; not to guide, but as a lifeline. Sam pulls off with a pop and smirks, one arm slung across Dean's pelvis, snug. "Before I met Jess (he mentioned her, he doesn't look sad, that's my boy) I was kinda wild," he says, "went to parties, met all sorts of people. I have sucked exactly eight different cocks, Dean, but -" Dean raises his head, not enough, scoots up a little on his elbows and looks Sam full in the - lust-blown eyes, hair fallen across them, wide mouth in a smirk so lewd, did he - "Every single one of them was you."
Oh, fuck. Dean's cock blurts out precome, his eyes roll up, Sam's mouth slides back over him and Heaven is right there, Dean can taste it. "Sammy," he sighs, hips hitching against the restraint of his brother's arm. Sam hums his acknowledgment, yes Dean I'm here, then his tongue does something untraceable that coupled with the suction has Dean's balls drawing up; he grapples with Sam's hair. "S-Sam, I'm - I'm gonna -"
"Mm hmm," Sam says encouragingly, into his dick and Dean's done, little vibrations multiplying and fracturing him as he shakes, pulsing down the back of his brother's throat.
He hasn't come so fast from a blow job in years, but "holy shit, Sam," Dean says weakly as Sam sucks him through it, massaging with mouth and tongue and lips until he almost begs for it to stop. A shaky hiss from Dean and Sam's sliding off, smiling.
Stands there, shirtless, that toddler Dean taught to blow spit bubbles, that teen that Dean strutted and showed off around, tried to teach everything he knows, now he's all grown up and he's all Dean ever needed, ever wanted and only now does it not feel wrong. Sammy's his own person, no longer just Dean's baby brother but Sam Winchester, so tall, autonomous. For a split second, Dean doesn't know him at all.
Then he tosses the hair from his eyes, his smile is all dimples and there he is, that kid Dean loves more than anything else, holds him in higher esteem than anything ever was or will be, no matter what happens.
He's glorious. Dean wants to do things, so many things to him -
"I'm still gonna fuck you," Dean growls, shaking off the nostalgia, struggling up off his back. He rips his shirt up and off, and surges into Sam's arms. A shocked laugh belts out of Sam and is swallowed by Dean as he kisses him, teeth knocking, tongue flicking and sliding, hands catching in hair. Sam cups Dean's ass as his jeans slide down his thighs - kick those off, get 'em off - fucking boots oh I don't even care - and Sam rubs into him, careful not to grind on sensitive flesh until Dean can bring a hand down, pop the button on Sam's jeans and slide that zipper open.
Sam is huge and wretchedly hard, cock straining against the fabric of his briefs, head poking above the waistband. Dean slides his hand inside, grabs him tight, and Sam hisses into a dark, dark chuckle, working his pants down. Dean refuses to drop to his knees - he shifts them, tosses Sam down on the bed. Makes short work of his shoes and socks, draws jeans and briefs down his long legs in an unneeded bunch of cloth.
The biggest cock Dean has ever seen - and that includes all of the porn, Sammy, damn - bobs up toward Sam's stomach. Proportional, nothing, that belongs in a museum. "Yeah, no way you're gonna stick that in me," Dean says, eying it. Sam laughs, grabs at himself. Long fingers on that long shaft, tan clutching red, coaxing precome to dribble up and out and down, and he tosses his head. "Dean..." he whines, deep in his throat, and Dean just looks down at the bounty spread before him, deciding what to taste first.
Hmm. "You showered before the bar, yeah?"
"Yeah, man, what - ah!" The syllable punches out; as he answered, Dean moved, drawing Sam's legs up over his shoulders, his head moving down between them. The first teasing lick to the pucker must strike Sam like lightning; every muscle tenses up, nails raking furrows on Dean wherever he can reach. Sam's musky but not nastily so, and Dean teases the wrinkles with hard and soft tongue, amazed to find that there's no part of Sammy he doesn't want to just devour. Sam is keening above him, writhing on Dean's tongue as Dean circles him, spears him open, strokes inside and suckles the entrance as he opens his brother up so sweet, so completely.
Sam chants his name as he works, Dean Dean Dean in increasingly broken tones; Dean's dick twitches upward valiantly, and he reaches down to stroke himself in time with his thrusts into Sam's body. Sam's scrabbling fingers can't find purchase in his hair and the kid growls, slams his hips down, heels digging into Dean's back.
A few more thrusts and Dean pulls away with a flourish around the entrance; panting, flushed, and pleased with himself. "You want me, Sammy?" he asks, all cream-fed cat. Sam rolls his eyes. There's no way he missed the click of the lube-bottle lid, but he still jumps a mile when Dean slides a slick fingertip across his teased-out hole, and Sam's jaw drops slack. "Yes, Dean, fuck - want you so bad."
"Mm hmm," Dean purrs, slides that finger in and watches Sammy's muscles ripple, molten heat clenching so tight around his finger, "Fuck, Sam," Dean says appreciatively, "thought you said you'd done this before."
"Said I sucked cock," Sam pants, relaxing incrementally, hips twisting a miniature figure eight. "Never said I - mmph, never been fucked before, Dean, oh, god -" Dean's sliding that finger in and out, neat as you please, crooking it to find the little nub he knows will send Sam - and there he goes, arching, gasping, whimpering as he flails, torn to panting pieces with one finger on his prostate. Well, one of Dean's fingers. Dean likes to think he makes all the difference.
His fingers aren't as long as Sam's - he has to clamp his other fingers down hard on the base of his dick at that thought, Sammy reciprocating, fingering him deep, fuck - so he can't get a full bearing on the gland. Focuses instead on stretching, pulling, prepping Sam to take another finger, which takes Dean deeper, gives him more reach over that little spot that makes Sam moan so deep and pretty. And he does, too, full-throated wanton noise, head tossed back and sliding against the sheets, hands all over Dean, all over himself - Sam pinches his own nipple and clamps down on Dean's fingers, a soft little fuck punches out of Dean along with all of his air. "You're so fucking hot," Dean says when he can.
Third finger, "Shit, Dean, just get in me already," Sam growls, voice strained. Dean agrees. The condom packet is between his teeth when he looks up and meets his brother's eyes, blown wide with just a ring of bluegreenhazel; Dean's fingers slid deep in his ass. The condom drops when Dean says breathlessly, "You good?" Sam nods rapidly. "Got tested in June, and haven't - I haven't -"
"Poor kid," Dean says, mostly serious, stands up and lubes his cock, now rock hard and dripping, makes sure Sam can see. He loves the way his brother stares, drinking in the sight before him, bottom lip bloodless between his teeth. Dean ranges over Sam, covers that beautiful body with his own, golden legs with their soft dark hairs propped over his shoulders. Dean kisses one tensing calf, "Relax, baby boy," he murmurs and replaces his fingers with the slick head of his cock, pushing slowly, glacially past Sam's perineum.
Sam sucks in a breath and holds it, holds Dean's gaze, eyes wild. "Shh," Dean's breathing, placating, second nature to comfort his brother while he's so completely utterly focused on the insane pressure he's shoving through. Sam is boiling hot inside, searing in a way that ratchets up through Dean's limbs and out, sets all his nerves aflame. So tight, Sam, you're killing me but he doesn't say it, holds himself up on trembling arms and waits, grits his teeth and reads Sam's face until the tension bleeds out, and Sam moves experimentally. "Okay," he nods, "okay -"
and Dean moves, slides out slick and thick from Sam then shoves back, hard, angling for that spot that makes Sam clutch at him; seeing stars, Dean's sure. They're pressed so close together they're one body, one blood-flow with one rapid, rabbiting heartbeat - Dean strikes slow, deep as he's able, and Sam moans with the drag of every thrust, his legs spread wide, tucked around Dean's, simple sliding warmth a contrast to the fire Dean's sunk within. Hips clash, skin slides on skin; this is lovemaking, slow and steady and driving them both so surely mad. "Dean..." Sam groans his name, both capitulation and threat, "I'm not gonna break, dude - fuck me."
Next thrust Dean thinks he hits Sammy's spine, and his baby brother's yowl rattles around the room. Hips piston like an engine, head down, panting harsh; his fists are clenched in the blankets on either side of Sam, pulling them from beneath him in bunches every time the kid arches beneath him, rising to meet his rhythm. The most delicious noises Sam makes; it's like he can't control his lungs, his throat, mewling little cries and punctuated groans, Dean's name in every note a voice can produce. Sweat rolls down Dean's face, his back, to fall and mingle with Sam's own on Sam's skin, and every thrust sets the droplets spiraling, sliding to soak beneath them.
Dean can't look away from Sammy's face, my god, the rapture painted there renders the kid ethereal - not a kid anymore, look at him, his eyes actually water because Sammy's all grown up and beautiful... glad he can't read my thoughts, damn, Dean ducks his head and renews his pounding, jostling Sam's legs, tilting his hips and oh, there, that strangled scream, that's the way he wants Sam to feel. Like a million bucks, like he's made of supernovas, like nothing else matters at all. Trembling fingers detach from the blankets, stroke Sam's face and Dean falls forward, squashed against Sam's chest, no longer in control of his hips; he slams into his brother with all the force his body possesses, all the strength he's ever had, wanting to reach the deepest point and fall into orgasm together from the highest peak.
They reach the top of the mountain tag-team, Dean can feel it tickling through his extremities. Sam's shuddering, shaking, crying out beneath him, hair sweat-soaked and plastered to his face, his neck, he can't seem to decide which side of the comforter collects his screams the best. "Dean, fuck, Dean, I need, I - ohh, god, Dean -" With momentous effort Dean hauls himself up on one arm, which threatens to collapse; he reaches down between them and grasps Sam's monster cock, which has swelled and hardened and holy shitfuck this, I can't even get my hand all the way around it even though he can and Sam's squealing, no other word for that sound, his erection slick beneath Dean's hand - Dean's struggling to maintain the same rhythm with both hand and cock even as he feels his orgasm building fiercely from his toes, his fingers, the entire surface of his skin.
He gradually hears himself, chanting "yes, yes, yes, Sammy, fuck, yes" like it'll get him to the Promised Land, offset like jazz to the powerful th - oh, fuck, his hips stutter, eyes wide and he's meeting Sammy's unfocused stare, watches his brother's mouth drop open to climb from a gasp to a hoarse, wordless shout. Sam comes, spurts all over Dean's hand and his own stomach, shakes and sputters and clenches down on Dean like a vise, and holy mother of fucking god, I - I - Sammy -
Dean's orgasm hits, a tidal wave and the world whites out, fades crackling around the edges. He's vaguely aware of the snarl ripping from his throat, of the spasm that wracks his body and throws him down atop Sam, twitching; he's still coming and he's gotta, he needs to latch on - teeth find Sam's collarbone and bite, hard. Sam cries out, his cock twitches between them, his ass clamps down and Dean's wrung dry, empty, shaking and shaking and sucking what air he can into flattened lungs, tender little gasping breaths.
It takes him awhile to come back to himself. He floats, stuck to Sam and in Sam and wants to stay there, where it's warm and Sammy and why on earth would he want to be anywhere else? Why should he bother being anywhere that isn't this?
Eventually, though, there's a hand shoving weakly at his shoulder, trying to nudge up under and budge him. "Dean," Sam groans, "Dean, I can't breathe, dude, come on."
"Nngh," Dean says rather articulately into Sam's pectoral, trying to raise himself up on arms made of fucking spaghetti. They wriggle, move in fits and starts, and - Dean's still in his boots with his jeans trapping his legs but he cannot bring himself to care - eventually they flop to either side of the wet spot, fingers entwined across the soaked divide.
There's a great black void ahead. Dean knows it, he's seen it. He's willing to sleep for now, though, no immediate desire to see the world's wonders or drive states away or even leave this bed. He knows what's coming, but for the time being he can't bring himself to care. A blissed-out smile softens on his face as he sinks into dreams of exactly this: Sam on one side, Dean on the other, happy for once - and together.
- - - -*)
The next morning, Dean wakes (freed of boots and jeans; thanks, kid) to the delicious sensation of Sam's mouth enveloping his cock. "That's... nasty, Sammy, I - ooh..."
Sam laughs around him and Dean is fine, just fine.
*FIN