Dean hesitated, leaned against the wall so he could peer into the kitchen instead of just walking in there. The apartment was quiet, uncomfortably so, sound of running water and Sammy's rustling movements the only sounds. Dusk was closing in around them and neither had bothered to turn on any lights, seemed to prefer the shroud of dark and the abstract safety of hiding in shadows and blunting hard edges it offered.
He and Sammy bickered, sometimes argued. They grumbled over shared beds and food and clothes and space. They were competitive when they trained, running or sparring or taking target practice. But they never truly fought. Today they had. Outright screaming, Dean dragging Sammy from the car into the house, things thrown and broken and shaky aftermath fought.
Dean had been so angry, crazy see-red angry, called Sammy a stupid kid and a tail-raised slut. Sammy had called him worse in nothing more than hurt, disappointed eyes that disappeared into hunched shoulders and sullen silence.
Sammy stood at the sink, tried not to be so tall and couldn't ever hide all that gangly length of arms and knobby knees and sensitive fingers. He was washing a ruined bowl, came with the place, casualty of their fight. Dean smiled, rolled from the wall and stepped into the kitchen.
"Probably okay to pitch that one- don't think it's gonna be much good for cereal anymore." Dean hipped into the counter next to the sink, crossed his arms, smirked because that was easier than the sincerity of being afraid Sammy was still mad at him, or worse, still hurt.
The kitchen was immaculate, cleaner than when they'd moved in, nervous energy used up scrubbing while Dean had burned off his own, repacking ammo and knives in cut-leather sheaths and blessed iron pellets. Sammy huffed, let the shard of bowl drop, slammed the water off then turned away from Dean.
It was beyond Dean not to try and appease. He laid a tentative hand on Sammy's back. "Hey, Sammy-"
"Hey, how about just fucking forget it," Sammy muttered, tugged from Dean and the room, hurriedly shot down the hall towards their room.
That riled Dean, brought the anger from before flooding through him and he ran right after. "Oh no you don't," he said between his teeth, wouldn't let that little bitch lock him out of the bedroom. The couch was ratty and stiff and the floor wasn't even an option and he knew Sammy, knew this pout would last until morning if he let it.
Sammy tried to slam the door in his face but he caught it, banged it open, chased Sammy into the room and they started wrestling, grappling with something far bigger than the leftover strain of their fight. More than Sammy's humiliation and Dean's incredulous near-rage at finding him in that skank bar, flirting and trying to hustle pool and so exposed and vulnerable and spoiling for such trouble he didn't even understand.
Dean grunted when they hit the bed, and Sammy began to really struggle, almost desperate, punched wildly and tried to land a knee at Dean's groin, then he bit Dean, snapping and rough, meat of the bicep, made Dean hiss and slap Sammy's sternum and flinch.
That was enough for Sammy to escape curled into a ball, to kick at Dean and cuss and tell Dean to just go the hell away and leave him the hell alone.
"Damn Sammy, what's the matter with you?" Dean rubbed at his arm and elbowed Sammy, jostled his brother, wanted to push and do something in retaliation, finally whuffed out a harsh breath and staggered to his feet. "You know, whatever. I'm done."
He got as far as the door when Sammy sighed, "Supposed to get jealous not mad."
Dean rubbed his face with both hands and everything sagged from him, left in a rush that was almost relief, because bewildered and having to coax a few answers from Sammy was way easier and more familiar than this prickly static between them. He crossed to and dropped on the bed, slid one leg up, crooked to warm in the cradle of Sammy's bent legs, squeezed Sammy's hip and shook his head.
"You know I was right to get mad. I don't know what you were thinking, but it wasn't going end up anything but bad." Dean slipped his hand, just to his palm, beneath Sammy's shirt, liked the smooth reassurance of the touch and heat of their skins.
Sammy only curled further, arched from Dean, line of shoulder and spine and jaw all bracketed and stressed and communicated so much to Dean. Unhappiness, rebuff, disappointment. More--subtle tremors and there was something Sammy wanted to keep hidden, something particular he didn't want Dean to discover.
It'd been there all along, Dean realized with sudden, cold clarity. This morning when Sammy had been in his space and clearly wanting of his attention. After, when Sammy had stormed off to town, neglected in ways Dean didn't have time or patience to delve into besides his standard 'if you want something ask.' Then in the bar, with an additional barely leashed excitement soon as Dean had arrived, but then it hadn't been something hidden, it'd been for show.
Dean soothed his hand lower, circled it on Sammy's tummy, thought that over. He'd been so sure Sammy had been trying to prove something, old enough now or wanted out of the house or curious to try and get laid, whatever. But no. For show--that was right, that was it.
Dean's breath caught when his knuckles bumped something hot and unmistakable and- oh. "Sammy?"
"Go away go away just go away," Sammy repeated miserably. He scootched, only ended up further into Dean's hand, whimpered, stayed a moment with his cock heavy and tantalizing and nearly pushed into Dean's palm, then flopped onto his front, no grace just hurry. "Please."
"No," Dean said, quiet but so firm, and it was nearly dark now, painted them in blues and grays and he got Sammy rolled back over, levered onto both arms so he could look, really look into all the things Sammy wanted to hide. He listened this time, from the start, really listened. To his own anger--his jealousy that'd raged. Sammy hadn't just begged him to leave--Sammy had begged him not to reject this.
He worked a hand in Sammy's sweats, stroked Sammy's cock in long, easy motions, leaned in to rest their foreheads together, stutter of his hips when Sammy moaned and arched towards him. So much better than away, so good, "So good," he murmured, nipped behind Sammy's ear and down Sammy's neck, then lips and then they kissed.
Sammy jerked, frission of electricity and all that static coalesced into tension and wants of such different kinds, had Dean fumbling with his jeans and boxers, Sammy curling hands into the waistband to yank them down, had Dean lowering onto Sammy and watching as the moon lofted, gentled silver-limned lines on their skins as they licked and kissed deeper and rocked in motions all desperate and heady and so different from Sammy's attempts to fight, to get away.
"Dean, hmmmmm-- unnnnf-- Dean-" Sammy's voice warbled, broke then shed to cascade down disbelief into need and shivery delight, gathering into happiness.
He'd known all along, until today, had every idea that he'd simply outright ignored. Dean fisted both hands in Sammy's tee, rucked it up so they could touch, chin to thigh, and when he bit Sammy's shoulder in a playful, wanting echo, Sammy slithered, came, toes bunching at Dean's knees dug into the mattress, head back in gasping breaths.
Dean watched, cataloged and understood, saw everything. He'd known all along and Sammy had maybe known better, and today and his resolutely ignoring it and Sammy's insistent pushing for it didn't matter, anymore. This was right, what they both wanted, it'd be okay.
Sammy circled his cheek with an unsteady finger, watched him back, lost in a hazed blend of rosy arousal and giddy triumph and sublime awe. Dean hitched, wrapped an arm around one of Sammy's legs, pressed down hard and tight and rutted against Sammy's sticky wet skin, that sleek stretch just below Sammy's bellybutton. Came so good and complete--best he'd ever felt, everything, beyond, Sammy--it was he who admitted surrender. When he grabbed Sammy's hand in his, when he tucked into Sammy's sweaty neck, when he turned them onto their sides to stare and explore then start again, fill the night and this long-ignored need there'd be no sating now, chase lips and kisses and each other well past dawn.