Dean worries the hole in his lip where Sam knocked it into his teeth. Woulda healed by now, if he didn’t keep biting it all the time. Dean sucks where it’s swollen, salt-and-iron. Can’t believe that kid…
Toothbrush. Clean some of the germs outta there, that’ll help. Dean takes a minute to appreciate, again, the big showers.
Mom couldn’t understand why they hadn’t put in stalls.
“It’s just me and Sam,” like that explained.
This is paradise. Thirty years of busted, moldy tiles, hunched under piss streams. Ain’t like we’re bashful. Better to tend life-threatening injuries with all this room.
Sam’s killing him. Stares at her, same as he did in 1978, same as he did God, still does Cas sometimes. Still. She never squared on Sam and said the last thing she wanted was a hunter’s life for her kids. Makes Dean sick, remembering.
Dean spits, pink-tint. Numbing cold water.
Stripping’s a snap decision. Dean turns the last taps in the line, shampoos, cranks it up hotter and tips to the tiles, rests his head on his forearms. Scalding conjures Magda, how she bled, only sin being her mother’s worst nightmare.
“Hey you all right?”
Dean jerks up, struck. “Yeah, just…” Rolls his shoulders.
“Gotcha,” Sam balks. “I was gonna—”
“Don’t bail on my account.” Dean scrubs his face. This is cool, right? This is normal. Normal. Eyes full of soap or he’d roll them.
Second stream splashing cues him to rinse. Sam’s two taps down, soaking that hair, damned Pantene commercial. They haven’t been avoiding this—Dean hasn’t—unless he has—shit. They settled this, fifteen years—well. Dean settled it for Sam, he guessed, whereas Sam put it in his fucking head. Two years of what-ifs later and Sam had a girl, apple-pie-eyes and Dean had fucked him up so bad since then those old sins sank, fossilized…
“Dude, kinda creepin me out here,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes dart off. Finger-grooves in the soap, suds drip from his elbow.
“Hey.” Spooked Witness Voice. “Do you smell toast?”
Dean snaps to.
Sam’s tryin to be funny, lips screwed up but, “What’s with you?”
Naked’s no time to say, You tell me, Sam. I can see beatin my ass but to kiss me? “I’m cool, man.” Weak swing at a smirk. Dean’s chin falls and that’s… half-hard…
Sam squeezes his shoulder. Blood rush dizzies him. Sam puts him stumbling into the tiles. Soap hands slip up collarbones, behind Dean’s neck. Sam washes his goddamn ears, watches his face.
Okay. This ain’t new. Ain’t quite normal, nobody pukin or bleedin but—
Sam loads a rag, buffs circles down Dean’s arms. Gets between his fingers, under his nails.
“Rinse.” Sam turns the spray.
Dean turns his head. Heartbeats while the water clears and Sam starts in again, pokes his navel. Dean’s stomach jumps.
“Ticklish,” like a revelation.
“I’ll shave your head in your sleep, I swear to—”
Sam’s rag falls open, slaps and slides off Dean’s dick and oh. Hey.
Dean does, stupid nod and Sam snags a towel. Dainty folds for his kneeling comfort, which, means he’s got plans to stay down there a while.
Sportin full wood now and Sam’s eye-level. Part of him pictures nudging past Sam’s lips, heat of that tongue. Part of him’s halfway to his room, drip trail, full-on naked sprint. Sam pries loose the rag and lathers up. Steam puffs off their skin. Dean gnaws his fat lip.
Sam strokes long, hipbone-to-kneecap, back. Digs trails behind Dean’s thigh, muscle lines. Dean’s head smacks the wall. Sam does both legs, all the way down to Dean’s ankles, calf massage just gettin good when Sam lifts his foot, prods between toes.
Sam moves away and Dean wobbles, not from the stork act. Gets under the stream and—
Twenty-eight thousand questions and he’s in no shape— “Don’t stop.”
Sam stands a shade straighter. Aims the spray off them.
Hot rag starts behind Dean’s balls. Scrapes in the crease. Dean bends a knee to make room and Sam grabs, slings Dean’s leg over his shoulder. Dean grunts, fights for balance while Sam scrubs, tight drags his shaft. Moves down, pushes Dean’s leg higher and swipes, right up in his crack. Sam holds him, arm around his thigh, palm at his middle. Scours him. Wet splat, dropped washrag and Sam’s bare finger finds Dean’s hole. Circles. Dean forces his eyes down.
Time stops. No, no that’s crazy, but Sam stops, drowned rabbit statue.
“Do it,” through Dean’s teeth and Sam rocks back. Dean balls up inside, wilts when Sam soaps his whole fuckin hand. Sam looks up, looks for reassurance until he reads Dean’s face. There’s my snot-nosed… Stifled hilarity.
Dean shores up in the corner, chin tips and Sam squints, chest grows and his eyes close. Dean raises his knee, Sam resumes the position. Bathes Dean’s cock, works him up to leaking, shaking this time before…
Thumb slip-slides his balls and…
Dean breathes out, slow as Sam sinks in. Wall of goosebumps. Dean’s teeth grind, nipples fit to cut glass and Sam drags with his finger, swirls around.
“Okay?” Whisper almost swallowed up in the spray.
And under his breath: “Good. Shit. Good.” Sam drives in, curls, slips out, twists. Drives him crazy, skirts that spot, Dean’s gotta—
“Yeah, jerk off for me.”
And he hadn’t figured Sam for a mouth but—
“God, Dean you’re burning up in there.”
But he ain’t—
“Can I…” Sam strokes his rim. “Can you take another?”
“You’re gonna fuck me I’d fuckin better.”
Sam gasps. Wiggles his fingers and Dean scoots up, reflex jolt but he breathes out, bears down. Fresh chills rip him, soap makes lousy lube and he swears he feels Sam’s every bump and callus in his asshole.
“Hurry up, huh?” Dean tries to get his dick back hard, lungs under control. Licks sweat off his top lip and squirms, pulls Sam right up in him and that’s—Dean growls.
“Come for me,” Sam angles, presses, “like this, wanna feel you.” Everything shrinks. “Fuck, you’re a—”
Dean can’t remember the last time he blew so hard, rocking on Sam and jerking fast. Sam mutters something he misses, bears his weight when he can’t stand and he still comes, blurts out aftershocks, Sam petting his insides.
Sam stands him up. Dean shifts. Hole’s kinda raw and he don’t regret it. Sam blankets him, grinds him. Dean just gives him a hand and Sam rides it, nose to Dean’s shoulder and steady groaning. Dean gets a handful of Sam’s hair, gives him a mouthful of tongue. Rumbling moan, not long and Sam’s head jerks back, hips jam forward and he yells, shoots up between them and drives Dean’s breath out, falling against him. Dean hangs on, rubs Sam’s spine, kisses around in his hair.
Gentle rinse, Sam goes over every inch again, when he’s keeping his lips to himself. Long finger runs right in Dean’s ear, makes him flinch.
“What.” Sam cuts the taps. “No crack about where that’s been?”
Sam laughs, “Was the other one, I swear.” Clean hand to God.
Dean points (gulps). “Cheap, man.”
Sam’s grin veers off triumphant, forehead creases.
“I get to make you come before you make me talk about this.”
Giant, fucking, naked brother, now gonna throw bashful. “You just—”
“Stood there.” Dean palms through Sam’s chest hair. “I got a rep. I can’t let you—”
Sam smacks into him so hard he busts Dean’s lip again. This rate, Cas is gonna have to heal—
Sammy’s a really good kisser.
They dry off, start for their rooms. “Hey.” Unison. Heads turn.
“You wanna cuddle, Sam?” Sopping with sarcasm.
“Why, do you?”
Dean tilts, shakes his head. Tugs Sam into his chest, once they’re laid down. Little brother, little spoon, like it oughta be. Dean chases off thoughts of Mom, out there…
“Go to sleep, Dean.” Which is when he realizes he’s circling one of Sam’s nipples, teasing. Sam squirms, rubs his butt in Dean’s crotch. “You got a rep to defend in the morning.”
“First thing.” Dean pulls Sam in tighter.