The first time Dean tells Sam no, Sam is seven. Sam cries and punches Dean in the stomach and shouts, “You’re mean, you never let me have anything, I hate you!” and the next morning he wakes up to find the coveted He-Man action figure waiting for him on the nightstand.
The second time, Sam is fourteen. They’re living in Blue Falls, Colorado, and there’s a month left of school. Sam’s middle school is having this huge graduation ceremony, and even though he only moved here four months ago, the school principal has asked him to give the graduation speech. When he comes home, bursting with energy and pride and eager to make the announcement, Dad isn’t there and Dean is packing their stuff.
Although Sam knows all too well what that means, he says, “Dean? What’s going on?”
“What’s it look like?”
“We can’t!” Sam protests. “We—we still have a month left of school.” As though that ever stopped Dad before.
“Yeah, well, this is more important,” Dean answers. He hasn’t paused in his packing: hasn’t even glanced at Sam. “Dad found this hunt in Kentucky, and—”
“One month!” Sam repeats. “It’s just one fucking—”
“Watch your mouth.”
“—month! Why can’t we wait until after?”
“Cause people are dying,” Dean snaps. His motions have grown sharp and jerky as he shoves clothing into open knapsacks, but Sam is too angry to heed the warning sign.
“I don’t want to go!”
“You think I do?” Dean shouts, finally turning to face him. He looks as pissed off as Sam feels and Sam suddenly remembers that the junior prom is in two weeks. Dean has been grinning like an idiot for days because he asked Cindy Whitmore—she’s stacked, Sammy—and she told him yes. His own rage eases.
“We could stay,” he tries. “Maybe we could—”
“It isn’t happening, Sam.” Dean’s voice is clipped as he turns back to packing: final.
“But Dad left us alone before, why can’t he—”
“There isn’t enough money, okay? Now stop being a little bitch and help me pack. Dad’ll be back in a few hours and we’re supposed to be ready.”
Sam stares at his brother’s back for a long moment, absorbing it. Dean doesn’t want to go either—he just admitted it—but he isn’t even going to bother fighting for it. Sam bets that the money thing is a load of crap: nothing more than a lie to placate him.
“You didn’t even ask, did you?” he says, clenching his hands into fists.
“We’re not staying,” Dean growls. “Now drop it already.” He tosses a balled-up shirt into one of the bags.
“He said ‘pack’ and you just said ‘yessir’, didn’t you? I bet you even saluted like a good little soldier.”
“Shut up before I shut you up, Sammy,” Dean threatens, starting toward him.
Sam jerks back out of reach. “I’m not going, you hear me? I’m staying right here and I’m gonna give the graduation speech like Principle Felton asked and you and Dad can just—you can just go fuck yourselves!”
A thrilled, shamed flush runs through him. He’s both stunned and appalled by his own defiance, but the look on Dean’s face, which goes from furious to sad and back again in about a second, makes his stomach clench unhappily.
Spinning around, he sprints down the hall and locks himself in the bathroom, where he slumps down with his back against the sink and bursts into tears. Dean kicks on the door a while, and shouts, and Sam thinks that his brother is probably gonna pick the lock and come in and beat the crap out of him for being a punk, but Dean doesn’t. After a while, Sam cries himself into a restless sleep, from which raised voices come to him like the far off pulse of drums.
“—important to him.”
“He’s tough. He’ll get over it.”
“Dad, please. It’s just a month!”
Beat of silence. Then, “You asking for him or for you?”
“Because I already went over this with you.”
“I’m not—it isn’t about that, I just—he doesn’t want to go, and you don’t need him anyway. You don’t—you don’t need either of us.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have the money to leave you two here and you know it.”
“I could—I could get a job. At the garage. I’m eighteen; no one would come looking for me.”
“You’re not dropping out of school.”
The first voice, which Sam’s drifting mind associates with noogies and freckles and a comforting, masculine smell, is softer when it comes again: almost inaudible with embarrassment.
“Dad, I’m not. I don’t. We both know that I’m no good at that stuff anyway. And it’s not like I’m gonna need it for anything.”
“I was planning on it anyway, after this year. It’ll give me more time to…”
The voices fade out like a weak radio signal, and Sam sinks deeper.
His speech gets a standing ovation from his classmates, but Dean isn’t there. He couldn’t get off work.
The third time, Dean doesn’t actually say it out loud, but from his position on the floor where Dean dumped him after he kissed his brother and palmed Dean's cock through his pants, Sam hears him loud and clear.
That one, he doesn’t get a take back on.
It’s Sam’s last night here: his last night as a Winchester because Dad told him that if he leaves he shouldn’t bother coming back. And he has to leave: that isn’t negotiable.
The few things Sam wants to take with him—clothing, a birthday card Dean made for him when Dean was ten and Sam was six, his knife—are sitting in a pile on the floor by the closet. It’s three thirty in the morning, according to the clock on the nightstand, and Sam doesn’t think Dad is home yet. He doesn’t think Dad’s going to be home for a few days.
“Sammy,” Dean says again. His voice is too thick: half-strangled by an emotion that Sam could name if he tried, but doesn’t want to.
Sam raises his head and locates his brother where he’s standing in the doorway. Although the hall beyond is shadow-shrouded and black, Sam has been lying in the dark long enough that he has no difficulty making out Dean’s face and the complete lack of expression there. His heart beats faster.
“What?” he asks, pushing up on his elbows. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean takes a few steps into the room, hesitant, and then turns around and pushes the door shut. Sam’s stomach moves uneasily.
“Dean, talk to me, man. What’s—”
Dean turns back and draws his shirt off in one smooth motion and the rest of Sam’s question catches in his throat. He stares at his brother while Dean stands by the door holding his t-shirt up in front of his chest in an uncharacteristically shy gesture. Dean isn’t looking at Sam, his gaze down and a little to one side. His fingers work in the fabric of his shirt.
“Dean,” Sam manages, and then can’t get anything else out.
Dean shakes himself a little at the sound of his name and drops the shirt. When he comes toward the bed, he moves slowly enough that Sam has ample opportunity to get up, to halt him with a word, to do anything but lie there and stare. But Sam doesn’t and then Dean is getting on the bed.
He still won't look at Sam, not directly, and Sam puts a hand up belatedly to stop him. Any good intentions that he has dissolve at the feel of soft skin and twitching stomach muscles. He sweeps his hand up Dean’s side, hears Dean’s shaky breath, feels his brother’s pulse racing when his hand comes to rest over Dean’s heart.
“What are you doing?” Sam whispers, even as his other hand comes up and closes around Dean’s right hip. Dean has broad shoulders but he’s slender there: hipbones tapered and muscles sleek. Sam rubs his thumb over the fraying waistband of his brother’s sweatpants.
“What’s it look like?” Dean shoots back. Sam can tell that his brother is going for the cocky bravado he generally uses with women, but Dean’s voice quavers and gives him away. He edges his fingers beneath his brother’s sweats, feels the beginning curve of Dean’s ass, and his brother’s breathing goes ragged.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks again, his voice soft and a little sad because he already knows that he isn’t quite selfish enough to take what Dean is offering.
His brother licks his lips and the unconscious habit sends an even stronger bolt of desire through Sam than the feel of warm skin beneath his hands did. Dean looms over him, knees dimpling the bed on either side of Sam’s body, and Sam wants. It’s actually causing him physical pain to hold still.
“If I—” Dean starts, and then stops. After a few seconds, he whispers, “You can have this, Sam.”
If you stay.
The words fill the room, taking up all the space and pushing the air out, and for a few seconds Sam can’t breathe. He knew all along why Dean was here—part of him has been expecting this since Dean went so quiet after the apocalyptic fight with Dad—but now that it’s out there in the open it feels devastatingly, horribly true.
Dean loves him—maybe even needs him—but he doesn’t want him. Not in the right ways.
“I’m not leaving because of you, Dean.”
Dean makes a tiny, choked noise that Sam’s pretty sure he isn’t aware of. He stokes his hands across his brother’s skin one last time—lingering, storing up memories—and then takes them back.
“But I can’t stay because of you, either,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fair. To either of us.”
Dean swallows audibly. His eyes widen in a way that would be comical at any other time, and Sam can actually see the moment it hits Dean. What he’s doing here. What he’s offering.
He’s off the bed so fast that Sam feels the cool rush of air from his passage. Sam watches him move back to the door with his shoulders hunched and his head down. Dean looks like a bull: wounded and pissed off about it and on the verge of attacking.
“Come with me to the bus station in the morning?” Sam offers as his brother retrieves his shirt and pulled it back over his head. Hiding himself.
Dean hesitates with one hand on the doorknob and then pulls the door open. “I can’t,” he says, and then he’s gone.
That’s the fourth time.
The fifth time Dean says no, the world smells like cinders and there’s ash on Sam’s clothes, in his mouth, on Dean’s face.
“Dean, I have to see her. I have to—”
“No,” Dean says again, and pulls Sam against him and threads a hand in his hair and yanks Sam’s face down against the side of his neck. Sam fights him and it’s unclear in his own, confused mind when his struggles change and he’s pushing to get closer. His mouth opens and he bites down—taste of Dean stronger than the taste of ash and, even now, awakening a bitter ache in his groin. Dean grunts and his grip on Sam’s hair shifts, like he maybe wants to pull Sam off, but then Sam catches the too-familiar jingling noise of a gurney and Dean relents.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam holds his brother closer and runs his tongue over the skin between his teeth. Dean’s pulse skyrockets against his lips.
When Dean finally yanks Sam off four minutes later, there’s already a bruise on the side of his neck. The skin there is slick and glistens in the flashing lights.
The ambulance with Jess’ body in it drives away silent and dark, sight unseen, mission accomplished, and Dean puts a hand to his neck and winces.
They’re in California again for no number six: some little town almost across the border into Mexico whose name Sam never gets. Jess has been gone less than two months and her absence—or maybe Dean’s complicating presence—has left Sam rudderless. He drinks himself stupid in a bar where half the patrons speak a mongrel language halfway between English and Spanish and sings along to songs he doesn’t know the words to.
When Dean finally pulls him out into the parking lot to take him home, Sam spins around in his brother’s arms and kisses him. His lips are on Dean’s for all of a second when Dean jerks back, swearing.
“Don’t,” he says. “Sam, don’t you—”
Sam lurches in for another try and Dean turns his head, which works out well because Sam was actually aiming for his neck: for the place he can’t stop staring at, even now, a whole month after the mark has faded. His teeth scrape against skin—Dean’s pulse—and he gets in a quick, fierce bite before Dean shoves him off.
“Ow!” he hisses, one hand clapped to his throat. “Damn it, Sam!”
“You said I could,” Sam says, and the sober Sam buried deep inside of him is horrified by his own drunken persistence. For a moment, he thinks Dean is going to hit him. He thinks he would probably deserve it if Dean did.
But his brother only says, “Yeah, well, that was a limited time offer. Come on, let’s get you back to the room before you puke in my car.”
Dean says ‘no’ a hundred times with his eyes on the way to Lawrence. He begs and pleads for Sam to let him off the hook, to tell him to turn the car around, to admit he was kidding about the whole psychic thing.
He never says anything aloud, though, so Sam figures it doesn’t count.
The seventh time means driving off and leaving Sam by the side of the road and almost being sacrificed to a demigod lame enough to possess a scarecrow, but Dean doesn’t relent. They’re not going to California to look for Dad, and that’s final.
Sam looks at his brother’s neck and wonders, after, whether it was California Dean wanted to avoid.
In a motel room just within the Nebraska state line, no becomes yes.
Dean’s heart is failing—he’s dying—and tomorrow is going to determine whether Sam will have to bury two loves in one year. He doesn’t expect to get any sleep, but he’s exhausted from days of research and is out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. When he wakes, later, the room is still dark and Dean is climbing into bed with him.
Sam’s still exhausted enough that he’s caught up in a flashback for a few moments. He’s eighteen again, and angry and hurting and confused, and Dean is begging him to stay. By the time he flounders back to the present, Dean is already under the sheet and pressed up against him.
“Shh,” Dean says, and leans in.
At the first brush of his brother’s lips against his own, Sam jerks back sharply enough that his neck muscles cry out in protest and blurts, “What the fuck, man?”
Dean looks like crap in the dim room—dark smudges underneath his eyes, skin pale and lips chapped—but he’s still beautiful. Beautiful and reaching a hand down to cup Sam’s cock through his sweats and completely out of his fucking mind.
“No,” Dean says, palming at Sam’s cock in a way that has it filling with a painful rush. Sam grabs his brother’s wrist and tries to pull Dean’s hand away. Dean fights him on it until Sam, cursing, pushes down instead, hard enough to still his brother’s explorations. The unrelenting pressure against his cock makes it difficult to think, but he doesn’t want to get into a wrestling match with Dean right now, not when a rush of adrenaline could kill him. Speaking of which …
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.
Dean won’t meet his gaze, eyes lowered and fixed on the place beneath the sheet where their hands are. His jaw twitches.
“Putting aside the fact that you don’t want this, you’re hurt. Jesus Christ, Dean, your heart—”
“I want this,” Dean says, and looks at him, and Sam is derailed completely because the expression on Dean’s face—earnest and frightened and desperate—says it’s true.
“You,” he says. “But you—all this time, you—”
“Because it’s wrong,” Dean says, still holding his eyes. “And I didn’t want to fuck you up like that, but I’m dying and I want this and a man’s entitled to a last request.”
Sam’s chest aches like he’s the one with the failing heart and his vision blurs. “You don’t get a last request because you’re not dying,” he bites out. “This is going to work.”
It is. It has to.
But he can tell from the bleak humor in Dean’s eyes that his brother doesn’t believe him.
“I’m asking, Sam,” Dean murmurs, and flexes his hand where it’s pressed down on Sam’s cock. Sam’s hips twitch up without his permission. He doesn’t know who he’s more pissed at: Dean for waiting until now to spring this on him, or himself for wanting to take Dean up on it and consequences be damned.
“Sex could kill you,” he insists.
“It won’t,” Dean answers, and moves his hand again in a way that makes Sam realize that his hold on his brother’s wrist has gone slack. “We’ll go slow, and I’ll tell you if anything feels wrong.” His lips lift in a wry smile. “Well, worse than normal, anyway.”
“Dean,” Sam says. It’s supposed to be a protest, but it sounds more like surrender.
Stupid, he tells himself. God, this is so fucking stupid and if you go through with it, you’re gonna finish tonight at the hospital if you’re lucky. The morgue if you aren’t.
But then Dean leans in again and this time Sam opens for him. The kiss falters, as though Dean wasn’t expecting Sam’s sudden capitulation, and then steadies. Dean dips inside Sam’s mouth with teasing slowness, finding Sam’s tongue with his own and coaxing him into action. Dean’s talented mouth draws Sam forward until he’s the one leading: until he’s pushing up and over so that Dean can lie down on his back.
Concern still nips at Sam when he finally breaks the kiss, but it’s distant. He trusts his brother to know his own limits, and if Dean says this is going to be fine, then it will be.
Dean’s hand isn’t cupping his cock anymore. Instead, it’s resting lightly on Sam’s upturned hip. His grip is tenuous and uncertain, like he isn’t sure that he’s allowed to touch, and when Sam sweeps his gaze across his brother’s face, Dean looks nervous.
Although he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer, Sam asks, “Have you ever—?”
Sure enough, Dean flushes.
“That’s okay,” Sam promises, laying a gentle kiss on his brother’s cheek. “I’ll make it good.”
He expects some kind of quip, but Dean is anxious enough that he only nods and says, “Okay. How do you—how do you want me?”
The simplest—and safest—thing would be to limit themselves to hand jobs, but Dean is asking for more than that, and he’ll be pissed if Sam tries to ‘baby’ him. Besides, this might (it won’t, I’ll save him) be their only chance to do anything. Sam thinks about getting Dean up on his hands and knees for all of two seconds before abandoning the idea. That might be the easiest position for someone’s first time, but Dean isn’t strong enough to manage it.
After considering several other possibilities, Sam finally says, “Roll over on your side.”
Dean complies without arguing, although he doesn’t quite move quickly enough to hide the twitch of relief on his face. Sam wonders whether his brother actually thought he was going to make him do something strenuous, or if he was maybe worried that Sam didn’t know what he was doing either, and then gets distracted by the fact that Dean’s bare shoulder is now at the same level as his mouth. Kissing the sweeping curve of bone and muscle, he pulls down the sheets to see if he needs to strip his brother further.
Turns out he doesn’t, and at the sight of all that bare skin, Sam can’t resist sliding his hand down Dean’s side and onto his hip. Dean shifts at the caress.
“Ticklish?” Sam asks, nuzzling at his brother’s neck.
He expects a ‘fuck you’, but instead Dean stutters, “Y-yes,” in an odd, breathy voice.
“Your heart okay?” Sam asks, frowning.
“Fine,” Dean answers immediately, and his voice sounds steadier. “Just. This is. Kinda intense.”
They haven’t done anything yet, not really, but Sam knows what Dean means.
“Yeah,” he sighs. He curls his fingers forward around Dean’s hip, wanting to feel the hard, heavy weight of his brother against his hand, and Dean’s breath hitches.
“Please, Sam,” he says, halting Sam’s exploration. “Can we—I want you to fuck me, and I’m not going t-to last.”
Fuck, Sam thinks, and has to release Dean in order to grab himself through his sweats. He’s been waiting to hear those words from his brother for years, has been waiting for Dean to want him back, and now that it’s finally happening, it’s even hotter than he ever imagined.
“Lube,” he pants when he can talk again. “We need lube.” Condoms too, probably, considering Dean’s past, but Sam doesn’t care, and he isn’t going to use one unless Dean asks.
“H-here,” Dean says. He reaches a trembling arm over to the nightstand and then holds the small tube over his shoulder without turning around.
It’s a brand new tube, which means that Dean planned this—probably bought it (or maybe just swiped it) on his way to the motel from the hospital—and Sam’s chest swells with some nameless, immense emotion.
“I love you,” he whispers, and kisses Dean’s shoulder again. What he really wants is his brother’s mouth, but they’re at the wrong angle for that, and he isn’t going to ask Dean to twist himself into uncomfortable shapes when he’s this hurt.
“Love you too,” Dean sighs, soft and genuine. Then, predictably, he ruins the moment by adding, “Now shove your dick in my ass already.”
Sam can’t find it in himself to be annoyed: he’s too relieved to catch a glimpse of the brother he knows so well in the midst of all this strangeness. Uncapping the tube, he squirts a generous amount on his fingers.
“Roll forward a little more on your stomach and bring your right leg up.”
“This good?” Dean asks.
Sam can’t answer because Dean is obeying him—no question, no hesitation—and now Sam can see the place his cock is going to go. He stares at the tiny indentation for a few moments and then pulls his focus back so that he can see the whole picture and stares at that as well. He stares at his brother, spread out alongside him and impossibly beautiful as he displays himself for Sam. Dean’s muscles are tense and twitching: he looks deceptively strong. Looks healthy.
“Sam?” Dean prods, his voice thready with nerves. He jumps when Sam touches his hip with lube-slick fingers.
“Shh,” Sam soothes, trailing his fingers down to the small of Dean’s back and leaving a mesmerizing sheen in their wake. “Gonna finger you slow: make you nice and open for me so I can slide right in.”
He doesn’t know what’s come over him. He never talked like this with Jess or any of the other people he’s been with. But this is Dean—finally—and that seems to be making all the difference.
Dean seems to appreciate the words, at least, because he shivers and chokes out, “Jesus.”
Sam permits himself a smirk and traces his fingers down between Dean’s cheeks until he’s touching that small, puckered indentation. He can only see a tiny sliver of Dean’s face—can’t make out his brother’s expression at all—and he desperately wishes he could.
“When you’re better,” he whispers. “We’re going to do this face to face so I can see you.”
He pushes his finger inside and Dean’s entire body jerks. Dean’s breath is coming far too fast and shallow for Sam’s peace of mind and he stops. Putting his free hand on his brother’s thigh, he rubs small circles into his skin.
“F-fine,” Dean grinds out in a weak, but nevertheless stubborn, voice. “Keep going.”
Hesitantly, Sam eases his finger deeper until Dean’s body is gripping him up to the second knuckle. Then, just as carefully, he pulls it back out. With a muffled grunt of effort, Dean hitches his raised leg even closer to his chest, giving Sam more room to work.
Sam watches his brother’s muscles bunch and flex for a few more slow works of his finger and then starts, “You’ll tell me if your heart—”
“Yes,” Dean bites out. Although his body is still tense, he’s starting to loosen a little inside. “S-said I w-would.”
Sam doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t say anything, actually: too enthralled by how compliant his brother’s body is to his demands. Dean takes two fingers, and then three, and Sam has to remind himself that the goal is to keep this as adrenaline-free as possible to keep from trying for four (or five), although that’s definitely on the list for later.
When Dean is nice and loose and glistening even in the shadowed room, Sam pulls his fingers free. Dean hisses, hips rolling, and Sam almost tears his sweats in his haste to get them off. Tossing the fabric, damp with both sweat and precome, onto the floor, he pours the rest of the lube over his cock and gives himself a few quick jerks. Then he curls close along his brother’s back and slides his leg up and over Dean’s, getting into position.
“Tell me again,” he begs, nipping the nape of his brother’s neck. “Tell me you want this.”
Dean’s quiet for a few seconds and then he rasps, “I want this.”
Sam squirms a hand between them and lines his cock up. “Relax,” he breathes, and then starts to push in.
It can’t be painless. Sam did the best he could, and he used enough lube that his cock keeps slipping in the circle of his fingers, but Dean is still amazingly tight. Sam pauses halfway in, stroking his brother’s hip and waiting for him to adjust to the intrusion.
Just me, he thinks, dazed. I’m the first. The only. The thought makes his pulse speed even further and his heart beats out a frantic tattoo against Dean’s back. Digging his fingers into his brother’s skin, he strains to force himself deeper.
Dean lets out a grunt and his hips start to edge forward, away from Sam. Without thinking—he left rational thought behind right around the time he woke up with his naked brother in his bed—Sam tightens his grip and holds Dean still.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice is wrecked: desperate.
“Shh, baby,” Sam murmurs. “Almost there. Almost …”
He pushes forward again and slots in with an abruptness that makes Dean’s body shudder.
“Fuck!” Dean blurts. His whole body is a line of tension, but he doesn’t try to move away.
In between dragging in shocked gulps of air—God, Dean is so warm inside, and tight, and perfect—Sam somehow manages to gasp out, “You okay?”
Dean is silent long enough that the sharp, almost too intense pleasure begins to ebb before a rising wave of concern.
“Dean?” Sam tries again, steeling himself to pull out if Dean needs him to.
This time, though, Dean answers, “Dude, Mister Ed called. He wants his cock back.”
The uneasy tension evaporates as Sam laughs and bites his brother’s shoulder. “You love it. Jerk.”
“Bitey bitch,” Dean responds and then hisses as Sam starts to move.
“Too fast?” Sam asks, stilling.
“No. No, I just—wasn’t expecting it. Go ahead.”
Despite the reassurance, Sam’s first slides are as gentle as he can make them. He manages to remain a gentleman for all of a minute before his brain checks out and his body takes over, speeding his thrusts.
It’s an amazing sensation, the feel of his brother’s body giving way before him: submitting to him. And though Sam doesn’t think he’s moving at the right angle for Dean’s prostate, Dean seems to be enjoying it as well because he keeps pumping his hips back in an attempt to take Sam deeper. The slap of their bodies colliding is overly loud in the dark room: Sam can’t get enough air to talk, and Dean is mostly silent as their pace speeds. It’s odd: Sam always figured that his brother would be noisy in bed, but the only sounds that Dean makes are soft, punched grunts.
Hungry for his brother’s voice, Sam buries his face against the side of Dean’s neck and bites down. Dean’s grunts crescendo into a pained groan, and he sobs out, “Sam,” and then Sam is coming in hard, blinding spurts. His hand tightens on Dean’s hip, yanking him even closer, and he shoves in one last time, deep, before collapsing onto the bed.
“Holy fuck,” he pants as soon as he can make his voice work.
Dean doesn’t respond, but Sam can feel him breathing, so that’s all good. He eases himself out carefully, his softening cock slick and warm in his hand, and then lightly brushes his fingers over Dean’s gaping, reddened hole.
Dean shifts forward like that light touch hurt. As raw as his ass looks, it probably did. “Dude,” he mutters, protesting.
Sam flushes. “Sorry.”
After lying there quietly for a moment, he realizes with a pang of guilt that he never bothered with a reach around. He really doesn’t know what the hell came over him: he’s normally very considerate in bed. But he was so damned ravenous for his brother that the thought never even crossed his mind.
“Sorry,” he says again, leaning up on one elbow and reaching around his brother’s body. “I can—huh.” He shifts his fingers and Dean’s cock—flaccid—slips in his grip. “You already came?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and then pushes Sam’s hand off of him and slowly climbs out of the bed. His head is averted, eyes down, but Sam doesn’t need to see his face to see the blush painting his entire body.
“No need to be embarrassed,” he says lightly as he slides free of the sheets himself and gets up to help Dean wherever he’s going—the bathroom probably. “I’m just that good.”
Dean utters this small, disbelieving laugh and glances at Sam as Sam slides an arm around his waist. He does look embarrassed, and awkward, and a little sad. Sam’s afterglow slips and he brushes his free hand through his brother’s hair. Shutting his eyes, Dean swallows and leans into the touch.
“You’re not dying,” Sam tells him again, and steals a kiss. “Promise.”