My first try at a Supernatural fic. Be honest. Thanks. –D
Sam is twenty-four.
Dean is almost thirty besides that, but his age never worried him. His little brother isn't so little anymore, but the habits are still there. Like a Great Dane thinking he's a lap dog, Sam is snuggled up against Dean's chest, his head curled down under the covers, so that every inch of him is touching his big brother. Sam is big. Sam is twenty-four.
Dean can tell that Sam sleeps differently than he used to. Before they'd been caught, Sam would sprawl out, a hand fisted in Dean's sleep shirt, an arm dangling over the other side of the bed. His breathing was even, and Dean slept soundly next to him. His face portrayed no stress. As long as one hand was on Dean, everything was fine. But that was back then, when Sam was sixteen, less worried about the monsters under the bed than he should have been. Now, he's rightfully scared. He's twenty-four.
Dean should have known better, and as much as he tries not to think about it anymore, he knows that much is true. He should have pushed Sam away, explained for the umpteenth time that John would be back on the hour. He should have promised to make it up to Sam later, to be gentle and slow. Or rough, if he wanted, since back then Sam was into that. But he didn't. And for his mistake, his carelessness, John Winchester got an eyeful of Dean balls-deep in his younger brother, both covered in sweat and breathing too hard. He'd made Sam bleed that night. Dean remembered faintly the unfamiliar coolness dripping down onto him as he'd removed himself from Sam, ready for the worst. Sam was biting his tongue to keep from whimpering, and that bled too. In the back of his mind, Dean remembers why he never complied to Sam's pleading puppy-dog eyes, begging him to go harder, faster. I don't want to hurt you, Sam. They'd learned later that Dean was the one who got off on pain. Later, when Sam was eighteen, and bigger than his brother. Now he's twenty-four.
Dean made Sam bleed tonight. He hadn't meant to get so carried away, hadn't meant to lose control of where his mouth was. Sam wouldn't let him apologize, wouldn't let him even help clean the red stains out of the sheets. It's okay, Dean. I'm okay. Of course, Dean knew better. His little brother limped around the hotel room for a few hours before settling down in the bed next to him. Ever since John had walked in, Sam slept curled up so close to his brother that every part of one man's body touched the other. Dean wouldn't have minded this change if he didn't know that it was rooted in fear and a need for security. The kind of security Sam hadn't needed since he was ten years old. Sam is an adult now. Sam is twenty-four.
And Dean is nearly thirty. He knows himself well enough to know that he will feel the ache in his back tomorrow from sitting against the headboard, facing the door of the hotel room. One hand is carding through Sam's soft hair, longer than it used to be, longer than he remembers. The other hand is fiddling with a pistol. He won't sleep well tonight. Maybe he doesn't deserve to. He hadn't meant for the night to go this way. But there was always tomorrow, and there was always Sam, shirtless and warm, curled around him like a safety blanket. Dean wouldn't mess up tomorrow, wouldn't ruin Sam's birthday. The older they got, the more things would change. Dean wasn't in denial about that. But for now, the sex is good, and sometimes Sam still smiles like he did when he was a kid, up at Dean in admiration and awe. Dean glances at the clock on his nightstand, finger letting up on the trigger of the pistol in his lap.
Sam is twenty-five.