Sam can't believe he finally convinced Dean that he was ready. He can't believe last night actually happened. He's never felt emotionally closer to his brother. Not since this whole thing between them started. Physically, on the other hand… Well. Dean Winchester's manhood needs no talking up. It's no secret what he's packing, and it's apparently gonna take more time to get used to it than one night. So, physically, Sam's seen better days.

Dean notices it at first when they sit down inside a diner to eat lunch.

Sam's careful, holding onto the edge of the table to keep from putting too much weight on his bottom as he takes his seat, and very obviously favors one side.

Dean raises his eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

The second time Dean notices, they're headed into the local library to research the case they're on and Sam's walking almost with a limp, never putting too much pressure on his right leg.

Dean nearly says something this time, but he doesn't.

The third time he notices, Sam's in front of him going to the stairs to their motel room (not ideal for them, but there were no rooms left on the bottom floor when they checked in) and he's wincing with every step. It doesn't stop all the way down the hall, and when they get inside, it's obvious that he's extremely hesitant when he sits down on the bed.

"Okay," Dean finally says, sitting down beside his brother, careful not to jostle him considering that he's obviously in some degree of pain. "What's goin' on, kiddo?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, looking up at him with a genuinely perplexed expression.

"Somethin's hurtin'," Dean says. "You've been walkin' funny and havin' trouble sittin' down all day. What gives? Did you fall or somethin'?"

Sam's face turns redder than fucking fire.

Dean doesn't get it. Somehow, he honestly does not get what the problem is. "Sammy?" he prompts, obviously concerned but so, so oblivious.

"'M fine," Sam mumbles, playing with his sleeves and refusing to meet Dean's eyes.

"You're not fine," Dean argues, tucking his finger under Sam's chin to tip his face up. "Talk to me."

Sam is silent for a long, long time, and whether his face is turned toward his brother's or not, he still isn't looking at him. Finally, he half-whispers, "You."

Dean feels his blood run cold. "Me? What do you mean? I hurt you? When did… How…"

Sam snorts, rolling his eyes and allowing Dean a flitting glance to calm him down. "Chill, freak. You didn't black out and beat me or anything. I'm just… I'm sore. I'll be fine."

Fucking finally, Dean understands. Sam can practically hear the click in his head. "Oh. Oh, god, Sammy… I'm-"

"Don't," Sam says, bringing up his hand to cup Dean's face and kiss him briefly but sweetly. "You were as gentle as you possibly could've been. I couldn't have asked you to be more careful. It's just gonna take some time to adjust to. I'm okay."

"Knew we should've waited. Maybe it would've been better if—"

"De." Sam's interruption is soft, and it silences the elder Winchester nearly immediately. "It was perfect. It could not possibly have been any better. Okay? This happens to everyone. It's normal. I probably won't even be able to feel it anymore by tomorrow, the next day at the latest. Don't worry."

This seems to provoke an idea, and Dean's eyes flash up to Sam's, a new heat in them. "I bet I know how to make you feel better before tomorrow."

Sam swallows, throat suddenly dry. "Uh… Okay. How?"

Dean gives him a wicked grin, wasting no time responding to words and getting straight down to business.

The things that man can do with his tongue.