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Dean still remembers the way Sam had smelled as a baby. Their mother held a little blue bundle in her arms the day she came home from the hospital, and Dean peered down into his new brother’s face with wonder in his eyes. Mary held Sammy close, kissed his sleeping forehead and breathed in deep. “Mmm,” she’d hummed. “I’ll never get enough of that new baby smell.”
Dean tilted his head to the side, curious. “Can I smell?” he asked, and Mary’s expression was soft when she lowered the new baby to Dean’s lap. He bent low over Sam and closed his eyes. The baby’s skin was like warm silk as it brushed over his nose. His mom was right; it was subtle, just the gentle hint of brand new skin and milk and sleep radiating off Sam's little head. Dean smiled, kissed his baby on the cheek, and let Mary take him back into her arms. “You’re right, Mommy,” he said, “he smells good.”
The quality of it changed over time as Sam grew, but the scent of his kid brother never left; it lived inside Dean’s lungs right beside gun solvent and motor oil and their dad’s cigarettes. Sam smelled sharp, like early morning sun and grass stains. He smelled like delicate skin and like the anger that seeped through his pores and made Dean’s jaw clench. He smelled like soap and toothpaste and teenage b.o. and morning breath. Nobody else smelled like Dean’s little brother, and Dean never noticed how completely that knowledge had threaded itself through his perception of the world until the day it vanished.
Once Sam was gone, Dean missed him in a way that was all-consuming, all the way down – so deep in his bones that he shook with loneliness some nights. And it was the familiar scent of his brother’s hair where it tangled warm against the pillows, his pulse beating under his skin and sending the fear of the hunt wafting off of him in waves that Dean struggled to hold onto the hardest.
Sam had left a few shirts behind—a single dirty one shoved down into the bottom of Dean’s duffel instead of his own—and Dean brought it out every chance he could for months, held it to his face and let the scent of his brother pull him into a haze of memory and emotion. But that had faded over time, too: remnants of Sam’s deodorant losing intensity until all Dean could pick up was the smell of his own breath as he held his mouth open against the thin cotton.
He’d cried that night, not that he would ever admit it, and then he’d thrown the shirt in the trash the next day. It wasn’t Sam’s anymore. It was just a pointless rag.
When Dean first cracked the window into Sam’s apartment that night last October, the familiar smell of it almost bowled him over. It was like his brother was a physical presence in the room as Dean moved around in the dark. He could smell other things, too—the subtle tinge of a floral perfume, coffee and leftovers and cleaning supplies—but that vital, unmistakable scent of Sam rolled off every surface. Dean almost stopped to press his face into the throw pillows on the couch just to bring it in closer. It was like a drug he’d once been addicted to and he was being reminded of the rush.
But then Sam appeared out of the darkness and Dean went to him, got his hands all over, got his brother’s blood up enough that he could smell the exertion reeking off of him, and it was like the world righted itself again, placing him back on solid ground. He breathed in Sam’s air, stole the breath right out of his lungs as Sam panted under him, and he grinned.
They’re in the car again between hunts. Sam’s been bitchy, not used to being cooped up for so long anymore. But Dean likes it; his nerves buzz with their proximity through city after city and along endless stretches of farmland. Sam has changed in so many ways over the last two years, but that subtle draw of his skin is just the same as Dean remembers. Now that Dean has it again, he can’t get enough; he keeps offering to do their laundry so he can hold Sam's clothes up to his face in the empty laundromat and breathe it in. It’s sick, no doubt about it. He’s completely unhinged – finds it hard to meet Sam’s eyes after he jerks off in the shower to the memory of his dirty underwear with the spin cycle of the machine whirring away behind his eyelids.
There is something deeply cracked in Dean’s head, but Sam has always driven him crazy one way or another. This isn’t really all that different, just new. He just won’t allow himself to think about it too hard and everything will be fine. It’s not his fault he’s addicted, anyway; there’s something in Sam’s DNA that bypasses all his circuits and thrums right through Dean’s body and into his blood. He’d bottle it if he could, wear an amulet of Sam’s sweat around his neck right next to the idol. He bites his lip and turns the music up, tries to stop this train of thought before he’s hard in the driver’s seat with hours to go before he can be alone with his fucked up thoughts.
It was never like this before Sam left: sexual. He’d always just found comfort in it when Sam bled and cried and slept beside him, in that knowledge that there was someone in the backseat who Dean could close his eyes and still know anywhere. He could be rendered blind, or deaf, lose his sense of touch, and still know when it was his kid brother in front of him.
When Sam hit puberty, Dean had started noticing something else – the low reek of testosterone, teenage hormones roiling like a heatwave off his brother, and yeah, okay, maybe he’d thought about it then, too. When he’d woken in the morning and the room smelled like come that wasn’t his, his brother embarrassed and blushing as he rushed to the bathroom and took a long shower. Dean hadn’t gone to Sam’s bed and pressed his face into the wet spot Sam had left behind. He hadn’t even thought about it. Not for a second.
But now, he can’t help it. Sam’s bigger, broader, more masculine. When he sweats, he sweats hard. Sam has always run hot, but now it’s like his skin is on fire. Sometimes, Dean leans over the back of his brother’s chair while Sam does research at his laptop, and the smell of the shampoo in his hair works its way so deep up into Dean’s sinuses that he can’t breathe. Everything about Sam is like a beacon made specifically to lure Dean in, make him drool. He wants to rub his mouth all over Sam, to taste him, to let himself be so completely invaded that he can never lose any of it ever again. He wants to let Sam take him over until he becomes his own brother and he loses the pain he’s carried around with him like a phantom limb since Sam left.
He’s hard now – impossible not to be. He wonders if Sam smells it on him the way he thinks he can with Sam, sometimes – if Sam can tell that the perspiration that’s beading on Dean’s upper lip is for him. He licks it away and tastes salt.
“Okay,” he says at last, and his voice is thick. “How about we find a place to stay for the night? I’m tired of driving.”
“Dean Winchester, tired of driving,” Sam says. His tone is acerbic, frustrated. “Miracle of miracles.”
Dean snorts. “Hey, we can go all night if you want, Sammy.” He’d meant it to sound playful. It doesn’t; it sounds hungry.
Sam rolls his eyes, doesn’t seem to notice. “Nah, let’s stop. I need to stretch my legs.”
They roll up to the parking lot of a faded ‘70s-retro motel outside Branson with the sun still high in the sky. It’s almost unheard of, stopping early enough that there are hours of daylight left, and once he’s out in the open air his head clears. He realizes that Sam’s been by his side long enough that the car is starting to smell like him again. The knowledge works over Dean’s throat, makes him swallow.
It’s nice out, just this side of too warm, so he decides to take advantage of the sunlight and give his Baby a once-over and a wash. It’ll help take the edge off all the rest of it, too. Working with his hands has always gotten Dean out of his head, and he needs that more than ever after the long, aching ride he’d just shared with his brother.
Sam gets their room key and goes inside while Dean lets Baby tick down under his hands. He’s got her hood popped and he’s checking the oil level when Sam comes back out wearing a fresh t-shirt and a pair of sweats. “Gonna go for a run,” he says, already jogging in place.
Dean wipes the dipstick on a rag, then shoves the oil-smeared fabric into his back pocket. He snorts. “College changed you, dude.” He means it, but this particular rib is gentle. “Wanna play a game of pick-up basketball after? Grab a couple brewskis and catch the playoffs?”
Sam rolls his eyes and starts to jog off. “People other than frat boys run, Dean,” he calls over his shoulder. And then Dean is alone in the parking lot again.
He putters around under the hood for a while, checks the tire pressure, resets the odometer. The clothes Sam had been wearing are inside, probably in a pile on top of his duffel, lying right there out in the open. Dean groans at himself and the fucking Pavlovian response of saliva pooling in his mouth. His dick starts to fill in his jeans again.
He stands over the engine for a long time, trying desperately to curb the desire to go inside and do exactly the thing he’d been trying to distract himself from. He lets out a frustrated sigh, closes the hood, and slams the door to the empty motel room open.
It’s cool and still inside; the curtains are drawn closed over the window, and the lights are off. Dean blinks in the darkness, lets his vision adjust with his back against the solid door, heart beating hard behind his ribs. Sam’s duffel sits open at the foot of his bed; the shirt and jeans he’d been wearing are balled into a crumpled heap right on top just like he knew they’d be.
Dean pushes away from the door. He has time; Sam just left.
He walks to his brother’s bed on shaky legs and sits down. The springs creak under him like an accusation. He takes a deep breath just to calm himself, but he can already smell it, the faint scent of his baby brother already seeping out into the room around him, making this place Sam’s for the night – changing the composition of the air in a way that’s almost arcane.
Dean’s hand comes up over the rumpled fabric, and he squeezes it between his fingers, hand balling into a tight fist. He sits there for a long, long time, afraid to move, aching and hard in his jeans. He’s never … he’s never taken it this far. It’s always only existed in the imagined spaces at the back of his head, in the shower or late at night. He’s never dared to drag that scent into his lungs, hold it there like smoke, and touch himself.
He swallows. Right now, he still exists in the space of plausible deniability. A laundromat is liminal; it doesn’t exist in the way a bedroom does. He could hold Sam’s sweat-stained shirts to his face in the stark, clinical white of whirring machines, and the action would cease to exist in any real way once he stepped back outside its confines. But here, one hand tangled in his brother’s clothes and the other sliding inch by frightened inch up his own thigh, he risks crossing a threshold he can’t walk back from.
He presses the heel of his hand into the aching strain of his erection and shivers. The image of Sam pounds in his head: his hands, his broad shoulders, the shine of his hair in the sun. Dean’s fingers in his brother’s shirt twist harder.
He folds sideways with a desperate groan, damning himself. He buries his face in the fabric of Sam's dirty clothes and presses hard against his dick. The shirt is still warm, smells so good that Dean’s eyelids flutter against his cheeks. He rolls his neck, lets the cotton slide over his skin. The position is awkward, slumped to the side like this, cock pushing insistently against the tight trap of his jeans as he palms himself, humping up into his own hand with a sick hiss of guilty pleasure. He wants to roll around in this smell, rub it over his skin until he fades and all that's left is Sam, Sam, Sammy.
He noses over Sam’s shirt, chasing that place where the smell lingers strongest, the place where the fabric is just barely damp from his brother’s perspiration. The clean scent of deodorant mixes with the deeper, darker pull of skin and sweat and something so indefinably masculine that when his mouth pushes into it, he lets himself cry out, muffles his sin in the bunched cotton like a gag. A current of hot jealousy suddenly pools deep down in his gut. He’s fucking jealous of Sam’s clothes – envious that these inanimate scraps of cloth can drape themselves across his brother’s body, absorb him and retain his essence even when they’re empty. That’s what Dean wants. He wants to be closer than Sam’s clothes, closer than his skin. He desperately wants to consume Sam from the inside like a fever. He rocks his hips, leaves a humid spot on the armpit of Sam’s shirt with his open mouth.
The motel door opens, and the world ends.
Dean jerks up like a frightened rabbit, eyes wide, hand still over his dick. “Fuck,” he hisses so hard that it tears out of him and leaves his throat raw.
Sam is standing in the doorway, silhouetted by a sun that’s finally begun to set. He’s as still and as beautiful as a marble statue. “Dean?” he asks; his voice is high, alarmed.
Dean’s hand falls from where it’s gone weak and shaky over his dick back down to the bed by his side. He feels the shame of knowing that he can’t deny how fucking hard he is, how obvious it will be to Sam now. All the remaining blood in his body rushes into his face.
He still can't bring himself to move, like maybe Sam will forget he’s there—that he just had his hand on his crotch and his face in Sam’s dirty clothes—if he wills it hard enough. Sam shuts the motel door behind him and he’s standing on the wrong side of it, still in the room, breathing fast from his run and probably from something else. His hair is wet at the ends and around the temples. Dean wants to put his nose in it and the thought makes his stomach turn over in a sick jumble of desire and humiliation.
“Dean,” his brother says again. “What—?”
Dean stands up suddenly, propels himself off the bed like it's on fire, and Sam falls silent. Dean takes a single, hesitant step towards his brother and then stops, caught between fight and flight responses, shame burning all the way down into his toes and making them curl in his boots. He takes a shaky breath in through his mouth, tries to calm his racing heart, but he pulls Sam in with all the rest – the hot presence of his brother’s blood pounding under his skin. Sam’s shirt is dark under the arms. Dean swallows. He’s so far gone, so utterly, completely fucked.
He crosses the room to Sam in silence. Sam watches him approach, concern and confusion written plainly over his features. Not repulsion, Dean thinks. But if he had seen disgust in his brother’s eyes, would even that have stopped him?
He stands in front of Sam and the heat that wafts off him—skin baked warm by the sun and the asphalt under his feet—is like a third man in the room with them, hovering between them, inviting Dean closer. Sam is still standing in front of the door, no space behind him to retreat, and he’s motionless, eyes wide and unsure. His mouth is half-open in question, and Dean feels his brother’s shaking breath ghost over his face.
He closes his eyes—feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff he can’t back away from, knows he’s about to break apart on the rocks below—and drops to his knees in front of Sam.
Sam’s breath rushes from him in a sharp, startled gasp. He shifts back and falls against the door. His voice is uneven as it pulls from his lungs. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Dean just leans in, knows he’ll never be able to explain in a million years. He shakes his head a fraction of an inch and foolishly hopes that Sam might understand through action alone. His eyes are still closed, terrified by what he might see if he looks. He tilts forward until his forehead settles against the thick, warm cotton over Sam’s thigh. The smell is so much stronger here, pounding out from the pulse point in Sam’s groin. His brother’s blood is close to the surface, testosterone coursing through him from the run, from the fear he’s probably barely holding back. Dean slides his face over Sam’s thigh, nose brushing along the fabric, almost worshipful.
Sam is frozen above him, makes no move to get away. Dean can almost hear the rush of blood through Sam’s arteries – almost feel the frantic rhythm of his heart. He slides his face up and in until his nose runs along the joint at the inside of Sam’s hip. It’s his turn to go still; he can’t bear to open his eyes. He waits for the proverbial hammer to fall, but it doesn’t come.
He presses his face into his brother's body and breathes deep.
It’s intoxicating, this pure, undiluted essence of his brother. His senses swim with it, sweat and fabric softener and something below it all that’s sharp and earthy and sends Dean into a tailspin of need. Sam smells so fucking good, so vital, so masculine and alive. This is his brother, his skin, his body – right here.
Sam lets out a sound like a trapped animal, and Dean feels his brother’s hips jerk forward against his face. Dean pulls the scent in deeper, nuzzles in against the pounding heat of Sam’s pulse. He lets his mouth go wide and soft and he drags his lips over the fabric. It’s wet, languid.
Sam’s dick is half-hard when he finally presses his lips against it, and Dean’s eyes snap open in surprise. He can’t bear to pull away even an inch, so he keeps breathing, humid and desperate, over Sam’s body when he finally glances up at his baby brother.
Sam looks as blasted open as Dean feels. His eyelids are heavy, mouth slack. His gaze is glassy and unfocused as he looks down at Dean. He’s panting, and Dean knows it’s from more than just exercise. “Jesus,” Sam says, like it’s the only word he can recall. Dean knows the feeling.
Dean mouths at Sam’s cock through his sweats, feels it respond to him, fill hot and heavy against his tongue. He sucks through the fabric, gets the smell down his throat and up his nose and almost chokes with it. He growls from somewhere low and feral in his chest and it vibrates out of him; Sam lets out a strangled, hitching sob in response.
Dean is gone. He’s lost in a haze of sick desire. The word incest rings inside his head and it only makes him harder. You’re fucking sick, he thinks, you’re on your knees with your little brother’s cock in your mouth, you’re getting off on the way he stinks, you’re disgusting, they should put you down for this. He groans obscenely, opens his mouth wider for it.
Sam’s body stutters forward, presses into the wet heat of Dean’s mouth. The fabric under his tongue is soaked through; he can almost taste Sam’s skin through it, but it’s not enough. He slides his hands up his brother’s thighs and tucks the tips of his fingers under the elastic of his waistband, touches the bare skin over Sam’s hips. Sam is almost sobbing, back pressed flush against the door, knees trembling.
Finally, finally, Dean pulls back, gives himself some distance, tries to clear his head. He’s stupid and slack-jawed and drooling like a bloodhound. He leans back on his knees, breathing hard. “What the fuck am I doing?” he whispers, more to himself than to Sam. “Tell me to stop, Sam. Fuck. Fuck.” Incest, wanna fuck your kid brother, make him fucked in the head like you, put a bullet in your brain. It’s incest. Incest. Incest.
They stay suspended like that, both breathing hard. Dean doesn’t pull his hands away from Sam’s waist, just feels sick and desperate and so fucking aroused that it hurts. It’s too late to go back. He’s ruined everything.
“No,” Sam breathes, and he sounds surprised to hear the words escape his lips. “No,” he says again, and his hand comes out. He looks like he wants to touch Dean—his hair, or his face—but his fingers only hang in the air for a second before his hand falls back to his side. “I don’t want you to stop,” he says. He sounds terrified.
Dean wonders if Sam’s thinking about Jess, and a simmering rage shoots through him at the thought, followed by a roiling wave of nausea. But then he’s pulling Sam’s sweats down and fuck his cock is right there, flushed and heavy and—incest, incest—slicked wet at the end with precome.
Dean’s suddenly starving for it, could never have imagined it would be like this. He rushes forward on his knees and presses his face against Sam’s bare skin. It’s like dying; it’s like coming home. Sam is so fucking hot under him, musky and sour with sweat, and he just noses into it, opens his mouth against the base of Sam’s perfect cock, and slides his tongue out – finally tastes the dark, secret salt of his skin.
“Oh my God.” Sam shudders against the slick drag of Dean’s mouth, and then his hand does come out, tangles in the hair at the crown of Dean’s head. Dean slides his tongue up along the underside of Sam’s cock and the world has ended. The motel falls away around them and Dean is rooted to the spot – the point of contact between his greedy mouth and Sam’s velvet cock the only thing that has ever existed. He wraps his lips around the head and presses his tongue hard against Sam’s slit, laps desperately at the thick bead of precome that pools on his tongue. His little brother is a man—leaking obscenely against his tongue—smelling like sin and exertion around him. He wants more, wants to swallow Sam down and breathe him in, won’t ever be satisfied; it’ll never, ever be enough with Sammy. He feels a bone-deep pull to devour.
He pushes his wet mouth down over Sam’s cock, saliva and precome slick already on his lips. Sam is huge, cock long and thick, just like the rest of him. Dean takes it to the back of his tongue and gags, eyes watering. He needs to get closer, to feel more. He pushes deep in a slow, choking slide, feels the head of Sam’s cock nudge against his soft palate and even further back, down into the tight tunnel of his throat.
His nose presses against Sam’s skin at last, right into the thick, curling hair at the base of his cock. He’s suffocating, can't breathe, but the heady mixture of his brother’s need and fear rushes up his sinuses all the same. He could die like this, his whole existence narrowed down to a pinpoint of nothing but his baby brother—close as he can take him—fucking down his throat, little gasps of aching pleasure breaking out of him with every shallow thrust. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head.
He will die, he thinks, maybe he deserves it. He almost definitely does. But Sam pulls back, slides his cock from between Dean’s lips with a whimper, and just lets the head of it rest heavy on Dean’s plush bottom lip while Dean gasps, blinking, spit slick all over his ruined mouth. “Dean,” Sam chokes out again. “What the fuck are we doing?” His whole body is shaking. He keeps rubbing his dick over Dean’s lips, gentle slides in time with the rocking of his hips. It’s driving Dean wild.
Dean flicks his tongue out and curls it against Sam’s skin. “I have no goddamned idea,” he whispers, and his breath makes Sam shiver. “But I don’t want to stop.” His cock is throbbing in his jeans, edging towards pain. He looks up at Sam and searches his face. “Please, Sammy. Don’t make me.”
Sam shifts, and for a second Dean thinks he’s going to pull away, but he just bends down and hefts Dean up until he’s boneless in Sam’s arms, pressing his body back into the door. They stare at each other, sharing breath in the scant space between them. Still, all Dean can smell is Sam’s arousal. “Do you want to kiss me?” Sam asks him.
Dean’s hips jerk forward at the thought, and just the pressure of Sam’s body against his cock makes him writhe and bite back a low sob. He nods, totally at a loss for words, terrified of being denied. Sam leans in, barely ghosts his lips over Dean’s, and his eyelids flutter closed. His voice is strained when he says, “God, I can smell myself on you,” and Dean’s answering groan is cut short as Sam shoves his tongue into Dean’s mouth, chases the taste of it down Dean’s throat.
His brother’s mouth is eager – hot as the rest of him. Dean is delirious; he feels almost faint as Sam licks into him, sucks Dean’s tongue into his mouth, and it’s like Sam can sense it because the next second he’s being guided backwards with Sam’s strong arms around him. His brother’s hands run up and down his back as they shift, fingers biting hard into the flesh of his ass. Sam pushes Dean back onto the mattress of Dean’s bed and stands there, broad shoulders heaving, staring down at Dean with a dangerous look in his eyes. “How long?” he asks.
Dean raises up on his elbows, winded and wild and overwhelmed. “C’mon, Sammy—”
“No, Dean.” He steps forward, right up between Dean’s legs. “How fucking long?”
Dean closes his eyes and swallows. He can’t bring himself to look at Sam, whose dick is still hanging heavy between his legs over the top of his sweatpants. Dean feels himself blushing again. “I don’t know how to answer that, Sam – since you were a teenager, since you came back, forever, all of the above,” he breathes out. “I’ve been fucked up about you since you were born.”
Sam’s breath hitches above him, and when Dean finally musters the courage to look back up at his brother, Sam is leaning over him, crowding him on all fours back up the bed. He’s still wearing his boots. Sam’s still wearing his running shoes; something about it makes Dean’s belly clench low down and molten-hot – how desperate they are that they can’t even stop to take their shoes off. Sam is all over him, his big, heavy body caging Dean in, enveloping him in his heat, in the smell of him. Dean wants to melt into it. Sam bites into Dean’s mouth, almost mean about it, pulls Dean’s bottom lip up hard between his teeth then lets it go. “And how long have you been going through my dirty laundry?” His tongue is hot against Dean’s ear. He grinds his cock down over Dean’s, lets it drag over the rough denim.
“Fuck, Sammy,” he gasps. He ruts up against his brother, slides his hands down Sam’s body until he’s gripping Sam’s hips. “Since—” a desperate groan escapes him, full of shame. “Since Stanford.” Sam fucks down against him with a growl and Dean is coming apart at the seams. You made your little brother sick like you, are you proud of yourself? You gave him your disease. “Please, Sam,” he whines.
Sam’s mouth is hot and insistent against his neck, sucking and biting like he’s trying to tear Dean open and expose the raw nerve underneath. He gets his arms under Dean and flips them in a single, gasping heave until Dean is straddling his lap. Sam looks up at his brother with pupils blown wide open. “Take it out,” he says. “Let me see it.” He sounds unhinged. His cock is leaking where it hovers over his belly; Dean watches as a bead of precome collects on the tip and drips slow and filthy onto the hem of Sam’s shirt. His mouth waters like he’s a starving stray with a bone. You’re a dog, you’re a dog, rabies is contagious.
He unbuttons his jeans in a haze with shaking fingers, slides the zipper open, and pushes his briefs down with the denim until he’s as exposed as Sam, cock standing out firm and pink. He watches Sam carefully, nerves jangling just under his skin, still waiting for his brother to bolt. “Come here,” Sam says, instead. He bites his bottom lip, and Dean folds down on top of him until they’re pressed flush together on the bed. Dean’s cock lies alongside Sam’s, slides against his hip.
Sam kisses him again desperately. He’s all tongue and teeth and heaving lungs. He fucks up against Dean, shifts his hips, and their cocks drag together on the downstroke. They both gasp into each other’s mouths, flayed open with need. Sam gets his hand down between them and wraps his long fingers around both of their cocks. Dean shudders, hips jerking forward wildly, but Sam holds him in place with his tight, punishing grip, showing Dean exactly how he likes it. “You like how I smell?” Sam asks him, sliding his tongue in a messy trail from Dean’s mouth to the hinge of his jaw.
“God, yeah,” Dean bites out, and his eyes snap shut again as Sam adjusts his grip, slides his hand over them while they roll their hips into his touch. “I like everything about you, Sammy,” he says, burrowing his nose into Sam’s sweaty hair, can smell more of that same masculine heat coming from his brother’s scalp. “You drive me fucking crazy.” He slips one of his hands under Sam’s shirt, heart hammering even harder when his fingers glide over the thin sheen of sweat that coats Sam’s chest.
Sam’s eyes close and he drops his head to the pillow, hair fanning out around him. “You, too,” he admits, voice so raw and vulnerable it almost makes Dean stop. Almost. “Thought about fucking you,” Sam says. “Never— God, never thought you’d— Jesus, Dean, I’m gonna come.”
Dean drops his head, slides his thumb over one of Sam’s nipples, presses against it hard. Sam’s back arches off the bed and Dean brings his face down to that damp patch under Sam’s arm. “Fuck, Sammy,” he mouths into the fabric. “Yeah, me too, holy shit.” He buries himself in the smell of his brother, bathes in it, opens his mouth against it and tastes the salt of Sam’s sweat. He drags the pad of his thumb over Sam’s nipple and shudders when Sam breaks apart underneath him, cock pulsing hot against Dean’s and shooting long stripes of come over his own hand. Dean rolls his hips, lets Sam pump them through it, fingers sliding slick over the heads of their cocks. Then Dean is losing it too, clenching against the violent waves of his orgasm as he spills all over Sam’s fist and his come mixes with Sam’s on the mess of his t-shirt.
They’re both breathing hard, and Dean allows himself to relax on top of Sam’s body for a moment before he pushes himself back and looks down at his ruined little brother, lips pink and swollen, stomach covered in come. Dean reaches out, lets his hand hover over the mess. Sam’s intake of breath makes him look up, and he pauses. Sam’s eyes are wide, nervous; the high of his arousal is fading. You ruined the only good thing you have. He’s going to leave. He hates what you’ve done to him. But Sam’s hand touches Dean’s gently. He pushes both their hands down until Dean feels the slick warmth of it under his fingertips. Sam drags them both through it—smearing it over the fabric of his shirt—and then he brings their hands to Dean’s mouth. “Do it,” he says, and Dean doesn’t need any more permission. He slips both of their pointer fingers into his mouth and lets their come coat his tongue. He moans at the taste, bitter and primal and human – can’t help himself.
“You’re a freak,” Sam says, even as he watches, bottom lip sucked between his teeth.
Dean takes his own finger from his mouth and wraps his hand around Sam’s. He kisses the tip of Sam’s pointer finger, tender despite the racing of his heart. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he says.
Sam snorts, and the noise surprises Dean. He looks at his brother, and Sam is blushing. “Yeah, well,” Sam says, “what does that make me? I like it.”
A balloon swells in Dean’s chest, buoyed so high by Sam’s admission that he might never come down. He finally tips to the side and falls against the mattress on his back next to his brother. “We’re so fucked,” he says to the ceiling.
“That’s just occurring to you now?” Sam asks. He laughs. “When, in the history of our entire lives, have we ever not been fucked?”
Dean turns his head to the side, and Sam is watching him. Dean frowns in consideration. “You might have a point.”
Sam sits up, slides his feet onto the floor. He pulls his ruined shirt over his head. “But can you promise to stop sniffing my jocks like a fucking creep?” His tone is warmly annoyed. Dean cracks an embarrassed smile.
“Only if you promise to stop drinking the last of the milk and leaving the carton in the fridge like a caveman.”
His brother turns to look at him, and rolls his eyes. “Some things don’t ever change, do they?”
Dean contemplates the question for a minute. The room around them smells good – like sex and sweat. Most importantly, it smells like Sam. “No,” he says, “I guess they don’t.”