Dean lays like a seal, flat on his stomach with his head next to Sam's crossed ankles. His legs are bent at the knee, feet hover in the air behind him. He shovels Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey into his grinning face. Banana, cream and fudge dance on his tongue before it all slides cold down his throat.

'The good life.'

He trails the end of his spoon down the center of Sam's bare sole and smiles when Bigfoot wiggles his toes.

A glob of ice cream spills out of Dean's mouth as he laughs at Ricky Bobby saying he wants to go fast, just like he does every time. He checks Sam's reaction over his shoulder. Sam isn't laughing at all. He's sort of smiling, watching Dean as if he's on the screen.

Dean rolls onto his side to get a better view of Sam. "You don't like it?"

Sam purses his lips. "It's good. I'm enjoying it. I am." His voice is quiet as ever, all clipped and proper.

Dean lifts the hem of Sam's shirt.

"Dean, what part of -"

"Sam, shut up." He drops a dollop into Sam's navel and grins at the sharp hiss and wriggle it produces from his giant plaything.

He sucks out the ice cream and licks up the residue. The way Sam's muscles roll and contract under his tongue is even better than all the sweet. He's starting to get hard just from that.

"This is what you do with your friends," Sam asks breathlessly.

"Yup. Every last one of 'em." Dean lifts up to his knees, scoops up some ice cream. He crawls up the bed and holds it to Sam's pursed lips. "Come on. Try some."

Sam shakes his head and makes a face like a little kid being offered Brussels sprouts. "I told you. Sugar. And milk. They don't agree with me."

"What does that even mean? Who doesn't like ice cream, Sam? Just try it."

Sam squirrels his face away from the spoon. "I don't like it. Never have. I only got it because I thought you would."

Dean straddles his chest. Sam's humongous hands wrap around Dean's hips as he tries to keep him from coming any closer. Sam leans to the side, dead set on keeping his eyes on the screen. Dean bobs and weaves and moves every which way to make sure he's blocking Sam's view. In retaliation, Sam comes for Dean's ribs.

"No no no no no no. Forget it. Never mind." Dean drops the spoon on the bed so that he can clamp his arms shut in self-defense.

He curls up like a hedgehog, trying to hide every tender part of him from Sam's relentless fingers. Sam burrows his face in Dean's neck, growling low in his throat. That tickles worse than everything else he's doing.

"Fuck. Okay. Okay. You win."

Sam raises his arms in triumph. Dean shudders and rolls away. Catching his breath, he picks up the sticky spoon. "Look what you made me do."

"It's okay. I can change the sheets." Sam tips it into the ice cream container and puts them both on his bedside table.

"Come on. Try it." Dean breathes out and leans close enough for Sam to smell the awesomeness on his tongue.

"It's all melted." Sam turns up his nose.

Dean rubs his balls back and forth over Sam's broad and rock solid chest. He grabs the spoon and holds it to Sam's mouth. "Doesn't matter. It's still fucking delicious. Just eat it."

The pink tip of his tongue sticks out for a tiny taste. He grimaces when he's fed.

Dean smacks his chest. "It's good, and you know it."

"It's okay," Sam admits around the silverware.

"Here, have some more. Open up, Sammy."

"Don't call me that, Dean." Sam turns his head away from the flying spoon airplane. "No. That's enough."

Dean grips his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Just eat it, Sam. Stop being a freak."

Sam sighs and opens his mouth. He lets Dean feed him every last drop of the remaining ice cream.

"Good, wasn't it?"

Sam nods, licking the residue from his lips.

"Told you." Dean sets the empty container aside and wipes Sam's mouth with his thumb. "Now, if you're going to change the sheets anyway..."

"Dean."

"I'm just saying." Dean stares at Sam's lips and licks his own.

Sam turns his eyes to the ceiling. "I thought we agreed."

"Yeah, I know. We agreed. Would you be a friend and help me with this?" Dean tilts his hips up toward Sam's face. "Please, Sam? Just … Would you just touch me? Please?"

Sam winces, like he's scared to do it. He stares a hole in the wall as he rubs Dean over his jeans. Dean moans, braces his hands on his back and sways into the touch. His hands flit over Sam's shoulders. He bows until their foreheads meet and breathes in Sam's cologne. "God, I want you."

Sam shakes his head.

Dean pours every ounce of his frustration and need into one word: "Sam."

Sam sighs long and hard before he opens Dean's fly and frees him. His insanely large hand fists loosely around Dean and strokes in steady, even pulls. His thumb slips over Dean's slit to gather up the juice and slick his dick up so nice. Dean droops over Sam's face, whimpering.

Nice. That's what it is. Nice.

Dean has never - would never - touch himself this way. He is quick and to the point with his self-loving. This is merciless. It's so good, he might die from it.

After a few agonizing minutes, Sam is still jacking him so slow it's brutal. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and clutches the back of Sam's neck. His breath hitches. "Fuck you, Sam. Bring me off."

"Patience." Sam presses a palm into the small of Dean's back and keeps at his leisurely pace.

That centering, grounding hand is the last straw. Dean can't take it anymore. His hips drive themselves frantically into Sam's fist. He gropes and grasps at the man's shirt, grinding and whining like some little kid who's never been touched in his life.

Sam wraps an arm around his waist. "Shh. It's okay. It's okay, baby. I got you."

Nobody calls Dean fucking Baby. For some reason, his muscles seize up at the word. Just as he's about to sail over the cliff, Sam tightens his fingers around the base of his shaft.

"Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck? What are you doing to me?" Dean lurches forward and whimpers at the tension built up so thick, he is going to fucking explode, if Sam would only let him.

"It's okay. Trust me."

Dean tries to claw Sam's hand away, beats his fists against Sam's chest. "Let me come. Let me come, Sam."

"I will. I promise. Just trust me. Okay?" That hand, the one on his back, is so warm and gentle, stroking him like a troubled horse.

Dean whimpers again and finally, nods. Sam, again, with the slow slide of his hand. Pre-come dribbles over his fingers. Dean's mouth falls open, thighs tremble against Sam's sides. Sam's other hand drops from his back to caress up and down his thigh. He stares up at Dean, hazel eyes gone dark. Dean slips his fingers into Sam's hair, intending to hold him in place and make him end this. Sam's grip tightens around the base of Dean's dick again. "You ready, baby?"

Dean pants, shaking his muddled head. "You fucker."

When his poor, tortured dick stops throbbing, Sam hands it over and slides down the mattress to lay flat on his back. "Come in my mouth."

Dean jacks himself the right way: hard and fast, breathing like a racehorse. Usually, Dean would describe orgasm like being shoved off a cliff - in a good way. What's happening to him now is more like being swept up in a tornado - gut clenched, breathless, helpless, shuddering, resistance fucking futile.

Tears pool in the corners of his eyes. The word 'pleasure' doesn't cut it. There isn't a word for it. It's so fucking good he doesn't even know what language he's speaking. Senseless sounds tumble from him as rope after rope of come spills into Sam's open mouth.

Smiling, Sam wipes it out of his eye, off his cheeks and licks it from his fingers.

"Holy fuck." Dean shudders, still coming down.

Since the guy seems to be starving for it, Dean uses the tip of his dick to clean Sam's chin and feed him more. Sam sticks out his tongue. Dean quivers and draws in a quick breath, like some kind of virgin. Sam chuckles. "You good?"

"You are one filthy bastard." Dean drops his spent body onto the bed.

"You're delicious. What can I say?" He licks his lower lip.

"Fuck." Dean covers his eyes with his arms for a moment. "Fu… Is that how you do it?"

"Sometimes." Sam rolls onto his side and wipes the sweat from Dean's brow.

"Shit." This is one of the moments when Dean realizes what he's missed out not having a guy around while he was growing up. He reaches over and massages Sam's massive wood. "Can I do something for you?"

"No, thank you."

"Come on." Dean flicks open Sam's button.

"No, seriously. I'm fine for now." Sam lifts Dean's hand and plants a kiss on his knuckles.

Dean's sigh turns into a gaping yawn. That wins a laugh from Sam, which gives Dean a weird warm sensation he's not really familiar with. He's isn't going to fight for a dick in his mouth as tired as he is. "Let me know if you change your mind."

Dean falls asleep to the drone of engines and conversations he knows by heart. A content smile spreads on his face as he slips under.

Before his eyes open again, he knows by the scene that only a few minutes have passed

When he wakes, Sam is staring at him.

He smacks his lips, ice cream sweet gone a little sour. "Yeah. That's not creepy at all."

Sam smiles and kneads his thigh. Dean is slender, but he's not skinny. Still, but Sam's hand wraps nearly halfway around and dig into the flesh just beneath his ball sack. "Shit."

Dean tries to adjust himself, but it's too late.

"Again?"

All Dean can do is shrug an apology for his overactive body.

"Do you have any condoms with you?" Sam's voice is hardly more than a breath.

"Of course. What do you … "

Sam nods toward the living room where Dean abandoned his backpack when they arrived. "Go get them."

Dignity flies out of the window. Instantly forgetting his own exhaustion, Dean dives from the bed, clumsily tripping over his sagging jeans. He doesn't even give a shit that Sam is laughing at him as he hops out of the pants and scrambles from the bedroom.

Sam is undressed by the time his young lover returns. The boy's bare body is sun-kissed and lightly freckled. Sam drinks him in all the way to his toes. A small packet hangs from between straight, pearl-white teeth. Dean strokes himself and kneels on the edge of the bed. Sam smiles up at this Adonis, beauty on the verge of breaking his heart. "God. Look at you."

Dean actually looks down at his own flawless body and rubs the hand not on his cock across his smooth chest. There is a semi-circular raised scar on Dean's chest, just below his clavicle. Sam had seen it before, when they went into Doggett's Creek, but he'd been somewhat preoccupied with dunking Dean and having his brain sucked out through his cock and hadn't gotten around to asking then.

If he didn't know better, he would say it's an Islamic crescent. Besides the fact that there's no star, it doesn't fit what he knows of Dean.

Intriguing though it is, Sam is far more entranced by the way the kid tweaks an already stiff, pink nipple and spits the unopened condom onto the bed. "You want me to…"

Sam nods. "If you want to."

He appears to sway slightly on his feet. "You know, I'm clean. I mean, if you wanted … I got tested as part of the physical to join the team, and I haven't done anything unprotected since then, so … you know."

Sam shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He doesn't even want to think about what Dean is offering, because he knows he can't accept. He wraps a palm around his own weeping cock. "I haven't been tested in a while."

"But you've only been with the one guy, right?" Dean probably doesn't realize that he's whining or know how adorable it is.

"Yes. Only he wasn't exactly, always, all that faithful." Sam turns his eyes to the TV and swallows back his emotion.

He needs to not look at Dean for just a second. The whole thing is getting to be a little bit overwhelming and he doesn't want to start crying on him again.

"Oh. Okay."

Not for the first time, Sam wishes he could strangle Castiel. "I wanted to … get tested. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I will. Just … we should be careful for now?"

Dean licks his lips and nods eagerly. "Yeah, okay. That's cool. So, how do you want to do this?"

Sam chuckles and flips onto his stomach.

"Are you serious? That's what you want?"

Sam buries his face in the mattress and nods. "If it's okay with you."

"Shit, yeah."

There's not any way for Sam to convey how very much he wants this that doesn't involve singing telegram and fireworks, so he just lays still with his cheek resting on his forearm.

Dean's palms rove carefully over the scars on the backs of Sam's thighs. Sam tenses and waits for the inevitable litany of questions about them. It doesn't come. Dean rolls on the condom, hops up and immediately lodges the tip of his cock between Sam's cheeks.

"Whoa, whoa, kid." Sam clenches his ass and props up onto his elbows.

He is loathe to think that anyone had ever taken Dean that way. Sam hands Dean the lube.

"Sorry." Dean takes the container.

Sam blows out a breath and eases back down at the sound of the liquid squelching. "Just kind of … open me up a little."

"Yeah, okay."

"And don't be in such a rush. I'm not going anywhere." That is a promise.

Dean palms both globes of Sam's ass. He kneads and gives him a sharp smack. Sam sucks in a quick breath. That's more like it.

Carefully, Dean draws one of his cheeks aside and pours on the cool liquid. Sam gasps as it slides over his entrance.

"That okay?"

Sam nods. It's cold but fine.

A fingertip drags over his entrance. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean watching his face for any further protest.

The kid presses the pad of a finger against Sam's opening. When there is no complaint, the tip of Dean's tongue peeks out between his lips in concentration. Sam smiles. 'So cute.'

Dean cautiously applies a bit more pressure until the finger is swallowed to the first knuckle. It burns a little at first, but no worse than when Sam prods himself.

"You good?"

Sam nods. "You can go for two, if you want."

"Who's impatient now?"

Sam chuckles. Dean works him open until he's rocking back onto three fingers. Loving the lust blossoming on Dean's face as much as the pressure in his ass, Sam's entire body thrums.

Dean sucks in a breath. "Dude, if I don't do this now, I don't know if I'm gonna make it."

"All right. Just take it easy."

Dean bites his lower lip as he aligns himself. He supports his weight with one hand and uses the other to hold his cock in place as the tip urges past the reluctant ring of muscle. "Oh, fuck."

Sam sinks his teeth into his own arm and tries not to sound how it feels. The pressure is so intense; the slow drag burns. Sam's toes curl. His body tenses despite repeating to himself,'relax, relax, relax'.

As Dean presses into him, the burning becomes pain. Now he knows, that was not nearly enough prep.

"You okay?"

Sam hums his consent, but his jaws remains clenched.

"You're so fucking tight," Dean gasps, his body trembling. "Sam, I'm sorry."

That is the only warning before Dean lapses into what can only be described as involuntary spasms. Both hands claw into Sam's hips as he plows his ass. It isn't like anything Sam has ever experienced before. He has fingered himself and used a dildo, gently, carefully.

It's nothing like this. This is Dean, alive and on fire for him. Full and burning, inside and out. There is a hint of future pleasure beneath the pain. He grips the sheets and bites back his cries. Dean drives in and out of him in utter, rhythmless abandon, grunting like a wild thing.

In a moment of mercy, Dean's cock slides over Sam's prostate, granting new perspective: it hurts like Heaven. Filthy curses and praise fall from his mouth like a damned saint. "Fuck me. Oh my fucking God. Dean. Oh my God. Fuck. Oh fuck, yes. Please."

"Sam." Dean gasps, muscles tightening already. He drops himself against Sam's back as he yelps and convulses.

Sam pushes up, lifting his own body along with the boy on his back so he can grab hold of his sputtering cock. In a few smooth strokes, he groans and releases onto the Prussian blue, satin sheets. He collapses into the wet spot with Dean still on his back and lodged within him.

They lay that way for a brief moment, catching their breaths until Sam gets the sneaky suspicion the kid has fallen asleep. He gives Dean's leg a little pat. Dean grunts a complaint, but arches his back to carefully remove himself with the condom in tact. He ties and discards it on the floor beside the bed.

Sam stands and wipes his hand in the top sheet. "Hop up."

Dean groans, but climbs to his feet so Sam can bunch up the fabric.

Sam grins. "You sound like a wounded puppy."

"Fuck you."

"Come here, puppy." Sam catches him in a headlock and then, tosses him onto his back on the mattress.

Dean squirms and wrestles against Sam who is probably twice his weight and half a foot taller. Dean's size is not necessarily a disadvantage, though and his body is slippery with sweat. He writhes away, rolling up and contracting himself in movements that are far from professional. Still, they serve the purpose of making him difficult to pin.

In the end, Sam's six years of actual wrestling experience allow him to capture Dean in a body scissor. Sam's legs locked around his middle and an arm, firmly around his neck. "You surrender?"

"Never." Dean bucks and strains until he's breathless.

He rests for a few seconds and tries to break the hold again. Sam grins and lets him wear himself out.

Finally, Dean acquiesces and tilts back his head, exposing his neck in concession. Sam laughs and slips down to pin the boy flat on his back. He lays still with both arms out to the side, secured in place by Sam's fists around his wrists. Sam's body weighs him down, even though he has stopped fighting. He tongues Dean's Adam's apple and hums at the delectable brackishness of his sweat. It's not all so different from his come. When Dean moans, the vibration tickles Sam's mouth.

Sam drops onto his back and sighs, more satiated than he's been in years. Dean tucks himself into his side, with one of his slim, well-muscled thighs curled up over Sam's middle. He runs a finger over the jagged, pink curve of indentations of teeth marks Sam left in his own forearm. "Did it hurt?"

"Just a little."

Dean leans up on his elbow, worry etched in his furrowed brow. "Why didn't you say something?"

Sam shrugs.

"I didn't want to fucking hurt you."

"I liked it." Sam wipes a hand over his forehead, trying to ease away the concern. It doesn't work, so he changes the subject by tracing the scar on Dean's chest. "What is this?"

"Birthmark."

Sam leans up to get a better look. "Doesn't your mom have the same one?"

Dean's brow raises. "Why the hell do you know that?"

"The day we met … she wasn't wearing much." Sam puts it as diplomatically as possible.

"Yeah." Dean concedes, as if he just remembers that detail.

"That's kind of strange, isn't it?" Sam pets the mark until Dean stays his hand.

"Hereditary birthmarks? It's a thing. Look it up."

"Hm." Sam folds his right arm back behind his head and idly runs his left fingers over the shell of Dean's ear. After a few minutes, he announces, "This movie is extremely stupid?"

"Hey, chill with the blasphemy. You missed most of it."

Sam snickers. "Yeah, I think I may be glad of that."

Dean squints up at him. "How old are you?

Sam laughs at the indictment, as if his age is what makes this movie stupid. "Twenty-seven."

Dean's solemn nod isn't an encouraging reaction.

"Creeped out now?"

"I'm old enough to know what I want," Dean replies, still so serious.

Sam sits up so he can get a good look at Dean's face. He wishes he could crack the boy open and see what's darkening the way he ticks. "When was your first time?"

Dean watches the screen. At first, Sam assumes he's gone too far, and that Dean won't answer.

"It depends on what you count. First chick, I was eleven. She was sixteen, by the way." Dean smirks.

Sam waits for Dean to turn the question on him.

"Since you got to know, first guy I was nine."

"Wow." Sam's more weirded out than impressed. He's not even sure he knew what sex was at nine. "How old was he?"

Dean shrugs. "Not a kid."

Sam covers his mouth with his hand. Dean's eyes remain focused on the TV. Not knowing what else to do, Sam strokes his arm. Dean tenses, like Sam kind of expected he would. "You want to talk about it?"

"Why, you getting paid by the hour? Nothing to talk about. It happened. It's over."

"Was it…" Sam's not even sure what he wants to ask. The words dissolve into the sour taste of bile.

"When having a girlfriend is not enough, you go after her kid."

"Does your mother know about it?"

"Who knows?"

Sam wipes the back of his neck. "How am I supposed to keep from feeling like I'm taking advantage of you?"

Dean shakes his head. "Number one, are you that asshole? No. Secondly, I fucking want you." Dean's smile is beautiful as always, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He punches Sam's chest, playfully. "Dude. Don't worry your pretty head so much."

"You know what I want to do?"

Dean looks at him, waiting for the answer.

"I want to find this guy and earn myself a few years in prison." The honesty of that statement startles Sam. It's not a thought he's ever had.

Dean's eyebrow raises. "You?"

Sam strokes his slightly trembling fingers down Dean's face. The thought that anyone would ever hurt him constricts Sam's throat. It's useless for Sam to wish he could have been there to protect Dean. That fact doesn't stop him from thinking it. He wipes the corner of his eye with his shoulder. His face stings. With a bit of effort, he controls his voice. "When's the last time you saw your dad?"

"What the fuck? You sure you aren't a shrink?" Dean narrows his eyes, clearly debating whether to answer. "How is that related?"

"Just a question." Sam keeps his eyes on the TV, hoping it will make Dean a little less edgy if he doesn't look directly at him.

"I don't talk about this shit, Sam."

Sam bites his bottom lip. He wants to press the point, but he knows, instinctively, how counterproductive that will be.

Dean sighs. "Last year. My team won our division. They had this big write up in the paper. He showed up outside of my school. I ran like hell. Hid in a dumpster. That what you wanted to know?"

"Your mom ever call the cops?" Sam considers laying his hand over Dean's, but he's afraid that it will just shut the boy down. He folds it with the other in his lap.

Dean shakes his head, eyes glued to the TV. He's shutting down. Sam can almost feel the agitation swelling beneath his skin. "Was this your first time topping?"

"Fuck you. What are you trying to do?" Dean jumps off the bed and starts to pull on his jeans. "No. Okay?"

Sam sidles to the edge of the bed and pulls him back, so that Dean is seated between his thighs. He smooths a hand down the boy's tense shoulder and rests the other on his belly. "I'm just trying to understand you. This was my first time ... catching." He smiles against Dean's neck. "It was amazing. You're amazing."

Sam hooks his chin on Dean's shoulder and holds his lips to Dean's throat, reveling in the sensation of his pulse. "And 18 is arbitrary."

Sam remembers being sixteen. He was often mistaken for older, because of his height. Psychologically, he was little more than a child. If some adult had tried to have sex with him, it would have been a crime. That person would have deserved to be locked up and have the key tossed into the ocean.

It makes him a little sad to think it, but Sam's not sure Dean was ever really a kid.

"When's the last time you talked to your mother?" Two can play this crackpot psychiatry game, and Dean's been wondering about this forever.

Sam gently pushes Dean to his feet. Then he stands and pulls on his boxer briefs. "It's been a while. My dad's party, I guess. It was about five years before that." He pulls a fresh sheet from the bench in the corner of the room.

Dean scoots up to the head of the bed. "That's insane. You know that, right?"

"She's the only reason I was there at all. She thought it would be some kind of warm, wonderful reunion." Sam scoffs and shakes the fabric loose before he tosses it over the bed.

Dean doesn't move, and it covers his head. Grinning like a little kid, he peels it down. "Maybe it could have been if you hadn't left after 5 minutes."

"You've seen how acts. He didn't want me there."

"Fuck him." Dean shrugs. "You should go see your mom. You would kick yourself if something happened to her and you hadn't, you know, patched up whatever went wrong between you two."

"Nothing went wrong between us. She's just respecting my dad's wishes." Sam leaves the room.

Dean hops up and follows him into the living room. "What's the deal, Sam? People don't lose it like your dad did for no reason."

"I don't know. I sincerely don't." Sam turns his back, running his fingers over books on his shelf.

There's no way he wants to read right now. Dean puts an arm around Sam's waist and rests his chin on his back. "Hey. Come on, Dr. Phil. You can dish it; you can take it. "

Sam turns and squints down at Dean for a moment. He clamps his eyes tight. For just a moment, he sways on his feet, like the Eiffel Tower ready to topple.

"Whoa. Dude. You okay?" Dean braces himself and prepares to hold Sam's weight, as well.

Sam nods and plops on the sofa. Dean settles beside him and pulls a tuft of his chest hair. Sam clamps down on his hand. "Ow."

"You like it."

"I don't like it." Sam takes a deep breath.

Dean smirks. "You like it."

"You know what I like? The way you smell." He nuzzles Dean's cheek before he licks a broad, sloppy stripe.

Dean wipes the away trail of the spit and turns up his nose at his hand like he's been slobbered by a St. Bernard. "Never do that shit again."

Sam cracks up laughing. "The look on your face."

"Seriously. That's disgusting."

"Come here." Sam pulls on Dean until he's straddling his lap and stands.

"Put me down, Sam." Dean struggles, squirming to get Sam to drop him. "I'm serious. I do not fucking like this."

He is still complaining when Sam presses him up against the wall, alternating between nibbling and slurping any body part he can reach.

Dean beats on his shoulders. "Sam. I mean it. Knock it off."

Sam grins like a Cheshire cat, drops him to his feet, takes a few steps back. He slumps against the wall, spins, and slides to his ass on the floor. He laughs for a few seconds before his head falls forward. "I have to pee."

"What the hell?" Dean stares and waits for this to make sense.

"I'm going to pee on myself." Sam giggles.

Dean curls up his nose. "Then, go to the bathroom, Sam."

"Can't. Can't move."

"You can move. Just get up." Cautiously, Deans lifts his arm. When he lets go, it falls like dead weight to the floor.

"I can't. I can't." Sam whimpers like a stubborn child.

"Dude, what the hell…"

"Sugar. I told you." Sam sobs or laughs.

Dean can't tell what the sound is that Sam is making. "What, are you three? That was like an hour ago?"

Sam sags back against the wall before his eyes flutter shut.

Dean chuckles to himself. "No fucking way."

Sometime before dawn, Sam wakes up on the living room floor and thinks, 'This can't be good.'

Dean is leaned up against him with an arm draped around his middle. Sam wipes the dried spittle from the corner of his mouth and runs a finger down Dean's arm. The kid just groans.

"Hey," Sam whispers.

Dean moans, "What?"

"If I don't take you home now, it's not going to happen."

As it is, the idea of driving Dean home is unappealing. The idea of getting up and into the bed is not much better. Sam feels like he's been on the business side of a battering ram.

Dean mumbles against his chest, completely incoherent. Sam grins. He pushes back against the wall, swoops Dean up into a princess carry and stands. It works like magic.

"No. Absolutely not." Dean hops down out of his arms, lands on his feet and stretches out his neck and shoulders.

He batters his eyelids a few times before picking his wedgie and heading back into the bedroom. Sam just shakes his head and huffs.

Dean settles back against the pillow with the remote control. "Star Trek. Nice."

"You want to watch another movie?" Sam eases in beside him.

"What? You don't?"

Sam checks his phone. "It's 4 o'clock in the morning, Dean."

"Yeah, but tomorrow is Saturday. Or today is. Anyway, we can sleep until noon, get up, fuck, and then, go back to sleep."

Sam is speechless and surprised with how on board he is with that plan.

Dean lays the remote on his own chest and stretches his arms behind his head. "Mmmm. Man, do you have any idea what I would do to Chris Pine?"

Sam shrugs. He has no idea who that is. Dean reaches over and plucks Sam's nipple until it buds into a stiff nub. He closes his eyes and lets the surge lick at his spine.

"Did you know that there's a whole mess of gadgets and stuff that only exist because of Gene Roddenberry?"

Sam didn't know that, because he has never heard of Gene Roddenberry.

"Hey, what inventions did they not have in your day?"

"Dean, you act like I'm a hundred years older than you." Sam ruffles the boy's hair, unsure if he means the question seriously or whether he's just trying to get under Sam's skin.

"Yeah, but like, did they have internet and cell phones and what not?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? Yeah. Sheesh." Sam laughs a little to himself. "But you know what my mother used to do? She used to make us commit the important ones to memory. She always said in case of some emergency, it should be saved in our brain and not in just in our phones."

Dean screws up his eyes, considering it. "That's crazy. What's going to happen to your phone?"

"I know. But I still do it. I've actually, already learned yours by heart." Sam scratches the back of his neck.

"Seriously?"

"That's how you know I like you." Sam pinches his cheek.

Dean jerks away and makes the most lovable annoyed face. Sam does it again just for the reaction. Dean flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "I guess I would learn Jody's but we never keep ours. New town, new phone. She says it keeps my dad from tracking us."

"Is he in the CIA or something?"

Dean shakes his head. "Just a crazy shit head."

They lay there perfectly still with shouts and explosions blaring in the background. Thinking the kid must have fallen asleep, Sam runs a fingertip down his sternum.

Dean whispers, "Hey. Can I see your guy?"

Sam's hand freezes. "Please don't call him that."

"Fine. Your 'ex.' Do you have a picture or something?"

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Sam shakes his head, exhaling loudly. He hates everything about it. "You want me to get up, right now and find a picture of him?"

"Don't you have one in your phone or something?"

Sam glances at his phone where it lays, harmless until now, on the nightstand. He probably does have a picture, but he does not want to be talking about Castiel, let alone looking for photos of him to share with his new … whatever Dean is. "Seriously, Dean?"

"Yeah."

Sam huffs. "If it's that important to you, you can look through and see if you find one." He hands him the phone and holds his breath.

It takes about a minute for Dean to find a selfie Castiel had taken in a pair of leather booty shorts and a hot pink tank top. His ass is the feature, but he peers back at the camera over his shoulder. Dean's brow raises, clearly impressed. "Pretty."

Sam clears his throat and curls up his lip, feeling utterly sick to his stomach.

"Is he…"

"I don't want to talk about him, Dean."

Dean studies the photo for a second longer before Sam reclaims his phone.

"Then, what do you want to talk about?"

"Something else." Sam deletes the photo, drops the phone into the table drawer and shuts it, for good measure.

"Fine." Dean folds his hands behind his head, nearly poking Sam in the eye with his elbow. "You think your dad's pissed you like guys?"

Apparently, conversation isn't a good idea. Sam sits up on the edge of the bed with his back to this kid. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to send Dean home. "He doesn't know."

"So, is there something else wrong with you that I should know about?"

Sam winces, thinking of calling a cab. "Dean, maybe we shouldn't talk anymore."

Dean crawls up behind him, wrapping his legs around his waist. "Okay. Sensitive. Then, why don't you tell me what you thought of the game?"

"I already told you what I thought of the game." Sam closes his eyes, trying to cool his roiling emotions.

Dean plucks his ear. His hands glide over Sam's pecs. "I want to hear it again."

"I think, that you are, without question, the best young quarterback I've ever seen. Better than me. Way better than I was at your age. But that wouldn't take much, because I wasn't actually that great. I was good, but …"

"I don't want to hear about you. I want to hear about me."

Sam laughs out loud and spins to tackle Dean onto his back again. He fights, but Sam pulls his arms above his head without much effort. The boy could use a shower. Sam pins his wrists together with one hand and tickles his ribs until he is a beautiful, twisting, breathless mess.

"Fuck you. That's not fair, you fucking caveman." Dean tries to sit up, muscles in his stomach cording tightly beneath Sam's hand.

Sam draws back to get a good look at him. Dean stills beneath his gaze and looks mildly concerned when he asks, "What?"

'There is no way this ends well for me.'

Sam smiles and gives his nose a soft peck before he says, "Nothing."