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They were sitting on their beds in a hotel room in Alamosa, Colorado, going through their standard post-case celebratory ritual of drinking beer and watching whatever crappy movie caught Dean's eye on tv. Dean had wanted to hit the road right away and get back to the Bunker, but he'd taken a bit of a beating and Sam knew an eight-hour drive behind the wheel on no sleep was a bad idea. Dean had protested—of course he had—but seeing as how he was still wincing every time he raised his beer for a drink, Sam was glad he'd managed to convince Dean to stay; they'd already paid for the night anyway. Now there was just one more thing Sam had to convince Dean to let him help with.

Dean finished his beer, and Sam watched from the corner of his eye as he struggled to place the empty bottle on the bedside table. He hesitated, eyeing up the mini-fridge across the room where they'd stowed the rest of the six pack, before apparently giving it up as a bad job and setting back against the pillows with a disgruntled sigh. If Dean was feeling lousy enough that he couldn't even muster the energy to get himself another beer, then he was in worse shape than Sam had realized. He knew Dean hadn't been seriously injured—no broken skin, and no internal injuries either—but Dean had always been bitchier over strained muscles and fucked-up joints than when it came to more serious wounds.

Dean shifted, apparently trying to get comfortable to no avail, and Sam finally had enough.

"Alright, that's it," Sam declared, swinging his legs around to face Dean. "Shirt off, and face down on the bed."

Dean's eyes widened with surprise and confusion but he quickly recovered his bravado and flashed Sam a shaky grin. "Woah there, Sam, I'm not that easy. You gotta at least buy me dinner first."

Sam laughed. "Dean, you're exactly that easy, and I did buy you dinner." He nodded towards the mostly empty containers of Chinese takeout he'd picked up earlier. "Or Jerry Brown's credit card did anyway. But taking out those vamps really did a number on your neck and shoulder, and as much as I know you enjoy bearing your pain in stoic, manly silence, you should really just let me help."

"What! No, I'm fine."

Sam sighed. Of course he was fine. Dean was always fine.

"Dude, even from here I can tell your back's one giant knot. It took you like five minutes to get out of the car after we ganked that nest." Dean opened his mouth, probably to parrot the same excuse he'd given earlier about communing with his Baby but Sam barreled over him. "Dean, you're a liability right now, and we can't afford that, not with Amara and Lucifer running around out there. So get on the bed and let me help."

Dean chewed on his bottom lip, his cheeks growing pink, and Sam forced himself not to stare. His brother had always been entirely too pretty, but Sam had a lifetime of practice pretending he didn't notice.

"Um… and how does me stripping off and lying down allow you to help me?"

"Massage." Dean's eyes grew even wider—kind of like one of those anime characters in the porn he pretended he didn't watch—and Sam continued before Dean could interrupt. "It's no big deal, okay? But I got pretty good at it when I was with—" He hesitated, pushing through the awkwardness of mentioning anything about that year when Dean was in Purgatory and Sam was playing house. "With Amelia. Working on her feet all day, always looking down and hunching over to care for the animals, she had a lot of neck and shoulder pain. Obviously it's a bit different to being repeatedly thrown into a wall by a vampire—"

"Hey, not repeatedly, he only threw me once!"

"—but I think I could help ease some of the tension in your muscles, and some ibuprofen and a good night's sleep should do the rest."

Dean's face scrunched up. "I don't know, man. Seems kinda—"

Sam didn't care what it seemed like. He didn't even really care that it was probably a very bad idea for him to get his hands on Dean's naked skin. His brother was in pain. Sam could help. That was all that mattered.

"Stop being such a girl, dude, and take your shirt off. I think you'll survive me touching your bare back."

Dean's cheeks went bright red again and he muttered something unflattering under his breath, but he did as instructed. Sam hadn't ever seen somebody take off their shirt so petulantly, and he didn't bother to suppress his amusement as Dean tossed it over the side of the bed and rolled over onto his stomach with an exaggerated sigh.

"Well? Get to it."

Sam laughed. "Just a sec."

He went to the bathroom and grabbed the complimentary bottle of lotion to help make things easier. It'd be better if he had the fancy almond oil Amelia had always had him use, but it wasn't like he carried that stuff with him so cheap, watered-down hotel lotion would have to do. He opened the bottle, gave it a whiff, and snickered. Roses. Dean was gonna be pissed.

Sam paused at the edge of the mattress, allowing himself—the way he so rarely did—a moment to look and appreciate. Dean's back was bare and golden in the warm lamplight, faintly freckled and far from smooth, covered with a veritable tapestry of burns and claw-marks and scars. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, just barely concealing the round curve of his ass, the thin, grey fabric clinging in all the best places.

Dean gave a little wriggle, and Sam watched, mesmerized, as his ass jiggled and back rippled.

"Dude, what's the hold up?"

Sam's eyes flicked guiltily up to Dean's face, but there was no look of censure or disgust in his eyes, so Sam figured he hadn't realized what had left Sam so distracted.

"Well… I can do it like this, but the bed's pretty low so the angle will be awkward." He smirked a little and raised an eyebrow in tacit challenge, hoping it hid his anxiety as he continued, "If your masculinity can take it, I'd be able to get better pressure if I straddled your legs."

Dean's face went through a series of complicated and amusing expressions, clearly fighting his instinctive no reaction to that particularly suggestive position and his desire to not let Sam's impugning his maculine honor go unchallenged. Dean had to know he was being manipulated, and the best part was that Sam was pretty sure it wouldn't matter. It went against the very fabric of Dean's being to let his little brother get the best of him, even if it was a set-up.

"Fine, whatever," Dean finally spat out before purposefully turning his head the other direction. God, Dean was such a child. "Just get on with it."

"Don't act like I'm doing you any favors or anything," Sam muttered, but his heart wasn't really in it. He was too busy psyching himself up for the fact that he was about to straddle his brother's lovely bow legs, get up close and personal with his entirely too fuckable ass, before rubbing his hands up and down Dean's bare, beautiful back. And throughout all of that he needed to somehow convince his dick not to get hard and make things awkward with Dean for the rest of eternity.

No problem.

Sam kneeled up on the bed and swung a leg over Dean's thighs, flicking Dean's shoulder blade when he let out an exaggerated oof.

"Don't be a baby. I'm not even sitting on you." Sam had decided to stay up on his knees, figuring the less physical contact he had with his brother's butt, the better.

"'Yeah, yeah, I can still sense you looming, Sasquatch."

"Just for that, I'm not gonna warm up the lotion." Sam unscrewed the cap and squeezed out half the miniature bottle over Dean's back, smiling smugly when Dean let out a yelp of surprise. The sickly scent of fake roses wafted through the room, and Sam wondered if he was about to form some unfortunate associations with the sickly-sweet fragrance.

"Jesus! Where'd you get that, the fridge?"

"Like I said, you're a baby."

Sam slid his hands through the lotion, gliding it across tanned skin, trying not to get any ideas about how good the pearly white sheen looked against Dean's back. The last time he'd done this had been for Amelia, and it had almost always led to sex—not that Sam would have minded if it hadn't, he'd liked doing this for her even without the reward at the end, but his hands on her skin never failed to get them both in the mood. Even without that muscle memory, though, Dean still would have inspired the same reaction, the same stirring of want and desire deep in his veins. Hell, Dean had basically been the origin story when it came to Sam and lust. Dean was so completely entwined with Sam's sexual awakening that even when Sam was with women, with women he loved, there was a bit of Dean there, too. But Sam was well used to living with these desires, had more or less made his peace with the fact they wouldn't ever be going away. This wasn't about Sam living out a decades-old fantasy, it was about making Dean feel better. Feel good.

Beneath the freckled, scar-pocked skin, Dean's muscles were tense and knotted, just as Sam had suspected. He kept his touch light to start, mapping the topography of Dean's back, feeling out where the hard balls of rigidity were most concentrated.

"You just gonna stroke me like a damn dog all day, or are you gonna put some muscle into it?"

Just for that Sam turned his touch featherlight, dancing his fingers along Dean's sensitive sides until he flinched and shrieked out an unwilling and slightly hysterical laugh.

"You bitch! Get—off—"

Sam stopped, grinning. "I was just getting a feel for where to focus. I'm gonna start applying more pressure now, alright? I know you're a tough sonofabitch, but tell me if the pain starts to veer too far into bad-pain territory. It's gonna hurt, but it should be the kind of hurt that promises relief at the end."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Sam focused on Dean's right shoulder blade first, the side Dean had been favoring. He dug his thumbs hard into the lump of muscle knotted near the bone, wincing in sympathy as Dean let out a gasp of pain. But he trusted his brother to let him know if he went too far, so he kept at it, working the muscles along his right side, then his left, until an hour passed and Dean's faint whimpers faded into relieved moans as the knots began to ease beneath Sam's hands. As bad as it was to hear Dean gasp in pain and know he was the cause of it, being the reason for his groans of pleasure might have actually been worse. Sam's dick, which had been surprisingly well-behaved so far, gave a twitch of interest.

"How's that feel?" Sam asked, his cheeks flushing at the entirely-too-rough timbre of his voice. Thankfully Dean didn't seem to notice.

"'S good, Sammy," Dean slurred into the pillow. "Fuck, I feel amazing. Your hands are magic."

"I have been told that a time or two."

Dean let out a proud laugh. "Sam, you dog! Moves like that… damn." Dean rubbed his face against the pillow, and Sam fought the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Dean's hair. Sam cleared his throat.

"Do you, um, want me to keep going?"

"Going where?"

"Well I got most of your neck and shoulders, but there are some muscles it's hard to get to from this angle. If you wanted to flip over I could…"

It wasn't untrue, exactly, but Sam would be lying if he said he didn't have ulterior motives—anything to stretch this moment out a little longer. Other than the occasional brotherly pat on the shoulder, the brief brush of bodies that was inevitable when living out of one another's back pockets, and the obligatory "one of us is on the verge of death" hugs, there weren't a lot of occasions for them to touch one another. And though Sam was very much on board with extensive and undeniably sexual touching, mostly he just missed the closeness and intimacy of casual touch, the kind he'd only ever found in romantic relationships, or during the few close friendships he'd formed during his time at Stanford. The Winchesters were never very affectionate, or at least they weren't after Mary died, and Sam didn't expect Dean to change now, so he was going to take advantage of this rare opportunity for unfettered access to Dean as long as he could.

"Mmm, yeah, okay," Dean said, his voice still muzzy and sleepy syrup-slow. He was clearly a little out of it, because he didn't even wait for Sam to get off the bed and stop straddling his legs first, just rolled right over, knees knocking somewhat painfully against the insides of Sam's thighs. Dean wasn't exactly graceful about it, but he didn't wince or gasp with discomfort as he settled onto his back, which Sam took as further sign the massage had helped. He blinked up at Sam, seeming surprised to see him kneeling up over Dean's body, as if he'd forgotten where Sam had been this whole time.

"Uhh…" Other things seemed to be occurring to Dean as well, and his cheeks flushed a bright red as his gaze flicked down towards his groin.

Sam fought a groan as his own gaze followed, taking in the unmistakable line of Dean's hard dick distending the fabric of his sweatpants. The material clung obscenely, outlining the full thick length of him, a spot of dark grey spreading from what was undoubtedly the leaking tip. Holy fuck.

"I—uhh—"

"It's fine," Sam hurriedly assured him, though even to him the high-pitched, slightly strangled quality to his voice was far from reassuring. "Just a physiological response. Totally normal."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said with a somewhat hysterical laugh. "Normal. Right. It's just, uhh… well, it's not like the job leaves a lot of time for weekly massages, but the few times I've had one the masseuse has been… you know…"

"A busty Asian beauty?"

Dean's expression was somewhere between sheepish and shameless. He leered. "Let's just say they've all had happy endings. So it's, you know, Pavlovian."

Sam's dick was having a Pavlovian response of its own—Dean wasn't the only one whose massages had all ended quite happily. His hands itched to reach out and touch, to cup the fabric-clad length of Dean's dick and feel the fever-hot hardness beneath his palm. He settled instead for placing his hands on Dean's waist, his stomach leaping at the way Dean shivered beneath his touch, his pupils dilating and his breath hitching.

Oh. Now that was unexpected.

"Do you need a moment, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice unconsciously dipping down into the smoky-sweet register he pretty much used exclusively during sex. He'd certainly never used it on Dean before, and Dean seemed to know exactly what it meant, licking his lips as he stared up at Sam through criminally long lashes. Whatever Dean was feeling right now, it was far from disgust, his dickprint still visible beneath his sweats.

"I—" Dean broke off, licked his lips again and stared helplessly up at Sam, which was just about the hottest thing Sam had ever seen.

"I can back off if you want, let you take care of this." He ghosted a hand over Dean's cock, not quite close enough to make contact. It twitched beneath the promise of his touch and Sam's entire body caught on fire. Well, not literally—in their line of work, the space between metaphor and reality was distressingly thin.

"Or?" Dean breathed, seeming almost hypnotized as he stared up at Sam, a familiar cocky smile on his face. "Sounded like you had another option there for me, Sammy. What's behind door number two?"

"Or," Sam breathed in that same low tone, "I could help keep up your streak of happy endings. Give you a hand. Provide a real full-service treatment." He dug his thumbs into the firm muscle of Dean's stomach, rubbing them in circles and dipping just below the waistband of Dean's sweatpants.

Dean continued to stare, and shudder, and chew on his full lower lip, and basically look like every one of Sam's wet dreams come to life. Sam pushed his thumbs a little lower, until he brushed up against the edge of Dean's pubic hair, and Dean let out a shocked little moan, his eyes so open and wanting and trusting, it took everything Sam had not to bend down and kiss him. But he didn't. Whatever dreamworld Sam had entered into, he knew kissing his brother would break the spell, and he wasn't ready for that to happen, not yet.

"So, Dean, what'll it be?"

A brief moment of indecision crossed Dean's face, and Sam wondered who would win out—big Dean or not-so-little Dean—before his face set with determination, committing to his course of action with his customary zeal.

"Fuck it," Dean swore swavagely as he arched his hips and shoved down his sweats just low enough to free his dick. His dick, which was just as pretty as Sam knew it would be. He'd caught glimpses of it over the years, of course, both hard and soft, but those moments had been fleeting, no time to linger and appreciate, more an impression than anything. Now, he could look his fill, and touch, too. It was a good size, well proportioned, big enough to make a person really feel it, though not, Sam thought somewhat smugly, quite as big as Sam's. More than a handful though, even in Sam's massive palm, the skin smooth and firm beneath his fingers.

"Oh, shit," Dean moaned as Sam gave him a slow, firm stroke, Dean's gaze locked on where his dick was partially engulfed by Sam's fist. He seemed mesmerized, and Sam knew the feeling, similarly entranced by the sight of his hand wrapped tight around his big brother's cock. It was good, so fucking good, but it could be better. He scanned the mess of bed sheets until he found the half-empty bottle of lotion. Perfect.

Dean whined when Sam let go of his cock but perked up when he realized it was only so Sam could slick his hand with lotion.

"Gonna warm it up for me this time?"

"I think it'll warm up pretty quick regardless."

He took Dean in hand again, rubbing his thumb along the thick vein underneath before tracing tight circles beneath the crown. It had been years since the last time he'd done this to another man, and he'd been soulless at the time and not too prone to appreciation, but he'd been jerking his own dick for decades and he figured he knew what Winchesters liked. He teased Dean for a while, dragging it out, a feeling of possessive triumph flooding through him as he watched Dean pant and writhe just from Sam's hand on his cock. Sam's own arousal was entirely secondary; the only thing that mattered was making Dean feel good.

"Come on," Dean moaned, his hips twitching up into Sam's grasp and his hands fisted into the bedsheets as he panted, glassy-eyed and gorgeous. "I wanna come, Sammy. Make me come."

"Oh, fuck," Sam whispered as he did as instructed, powerless to disobey Dean's plea. He worked him over faster, tightening his grip and jacking Dean with the quick, firm strokes that never failed to set Sam off like a geyser when he used them on himself.

"Yeah, yes, just like that, oh fuck, oh fuck," Dean chanted, and then he was coming, shooting sticky white streaks all over his chest and Sam's fist.

Dean went boneless afterwards, his body melting back against the mattress, a satisfied smile on his face as he panted through the aftershocks. Sam gave him a few extra pumps, milking the last of his orgasm out of him before backing off, his own breathing ragged. Now that Dean had been taken care of, it was more difficult to ignore the throbbing of his own dick, hard and aching and begging for relief. But he was almost positive that whipping his cock out and jacking off over Dean's prone form would be crossing the line for Dean. Honestly, Sam was still shocked Dean had allowed Sam to go so far as to jerk him off, and knowing Dean's propensity for delayed outbursts and self-flagellation, they'd both be paying for this later. Sam didn't regret it, though, and it was enough, for now, to give him hope. Maybe this thing he'd been hungering for for as long as he could remember wasn't as impossible as he'd always believed.

But right now, he needed to get off, and he needed to do it away from Dean so his brother could pretend that what just happened between them was no big deal. Sam knew Dean needed that right now, and he didn't mind giving it to him; Sam was playing the long game. So he awkwardly pushed himself off the mattress, all thoughts of properly continuing the massage long since abandoned. Dean stayed stretched out on the bed, his eyes closed and his come cooling on his chest in glistening trails that Sam wanted nothing more than to lick up with his tongue. Instead, he grabbed the box of tissues from the bedside table and tossed it onto Dean's chest, snorting at Dean's squawk at the unexpected attack.

"Dude, what the fuck! The corner got me in the nipple!"

"Suck it up, buttercup. I thought you might want to clean yourself off before you pass out. I'm taking a shower."

Dean looked him over, his gaze lingering on the shadow of Sam's groin, as if trying to make out the line of Sam's dick, which was thankfully mostly hidden by his baggy flannel pjs. He huffed and looked up at Sam, his expression all cocky bravado as he raised an eyebrow.

"Time to give yourself a hand?"

Sam rolled his eyes, unsurprised at how quickly Dean tried to fall back into their regular brotherly banter, as if his soft dick wasn't still hanging out of his sweatpants. Sam gave it a pointed glance and Dean's cheeks returned to that lovely pink as he tried to cover himself with his hands.

"Don't look!"

"Really? Whatever. Some of us haven't gotten off yet. So I'm going to take a shower, and you're going to take the ibuprofen I left on the bedside table and then get some sleep. The massage was supposed to help, but medication and a good eight hours should do the rest. We've got a long drive back to the Bunker tomorrow."

"Yes, Mom," Dean grumbled petulantly, but he pulled some tissues out of the box and began to wipe himself clean, which meant he knew Sam was right. Sam turned and headed into the bathroom before Dean could see his grin and decide to stay up all night out of spite.

"Enjoy your shower, bitch!"

Sam laughed as he shut the door, his cock throbbing.

"Oh, I plan to."