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Dean takes another swig of whiskey as Sam stitches the cut on his stomach. They’re both laying on the stiff motel bed, Dean slightly propped against the headboard and Sam laying on his stomach between Dean’s legs.
“Almost done,” Sam says quietly, mostly to himself. He ties one last knot, trims the end, then– “Alright. You’re good.”
“Thanks,” Dean says in a near-whisper after he’s capped his flask and put it back on the nightstand. He looks over at Sam, who’s now laying beside him, wearing an expression Dean can’t quite place. He speaks again, “I need a shower.”
Sam grabs his hand, soaks in its warmth for a moment and then brings it to his lips; he presses a kiss to Dean’s bruised knuckles and interlaces their fingers as he pulls them away. “Yeah, we both do,” he agrees. “Should probably wait a few minutes though, let your body rest for a bit before you try to get up and do that,”
Dean doesn’t have the energy to protest and he knows Sam is probably right anyways, so he just nods in agreement.
***
Dean zones out or falls asleep, one of the two; either way, when he’s aware of his surroundings again, they’re still laying side by side on the bed, facing each other. Dean turns Sam’s hand in his own, stares at their connected hands in an attempt to avoid Sam’s worried gaze. He’s barely talked since they got back to their motel room. Granted, it was a difficult hunt; they couldn’t save the last victim, and Dean was hurt. Still, the extenuating circumstances didn’t make him feel any better about seeing his brother like this.
He lays a hand on the side of Dean’s face, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over his cheekbone. “What can I do, Dean?” he asks softly. “What do you need?”
Dean shrugs noncommittally. “I dunno,” he mumbles.
But Sam knows. Sam knows what he needs, knows what he always needs after things like this happen– for someone to take care of him. He was just hoping Dean could finally bring himself to say it, to ask for what he wants without Sam having to pull it out of him. Sam sighs quietly at Dean’s resistance to open up, but resigns himself to working on that another day. Right now Dean needs his brother, not a lesson in using his words.
“Alright,” Sam says, running his hand through Dean’s hair again. “I’m gonna order us some food– and don’t tell me you’re not hungry, we both need to eat. Can you go start in the shower while I do that?”
When Dean nods in response, Sam kisses his forehead and says, “okay,” before letting him go and pulling out his phone to order delivery.
He settles on Waffle House; two waffles, two orders of hashbrowns, and a slice of pie for Dean. The app says it’ll be there in forty-five minutes.
In the bathroom, Dean starts a stream of water and strips down while it warms up. He piles his clothes into a corner so they can be bagged up later: the sports bra he wears on hunts, a t-shirt, boxers, and jeans. His flannel and jacket are tossed over a chair, having been flung off along with his socks and shoes the minute they got in the room.
Once the water is no longer ice cold, he steps in and begins rinsing off, soaking his hair and lathering shampoo into it. It’s not the free motel stuff; it’s one Sam had bought a while back and practically begged Dean to use (“the stuff in those little motel soaps is horrible for your hair, Dean”). He caved eventually and started using the stuff, but he still shoved the little bottles in his bag before they check out of their rooms, “just in case.”
Dean pauses his movements when the shower curtain opens and Sam steps in. Dean relaxes at the sight of his brother, lets his forehead fall forward onto Sam’s chest.
“Food’ll be here in about forty-five minutes,” he says, cradling the back of Dean’s head.
Dean tilts his head up so his chin is resting on Sam’s chest now and quietly says, “Thank you.”
Sam smiles in response, brushes the soapy hair out of Dean’s face. He walks forward, guiding Dean back under the warm shower, and shields his eyes with one hand while he rinses the soap out of his hair with the other.
When he’s done, he turns them around so he can wash his own hair, and he chuckles a little when Dean leans right back against him. “Tired?” he asks.
“Just a lil’ bit,” Dean responds.
By the time he’s finished, the water is starting to cool down, so Sam gives them both a cursory wash with a scratchy motel rag and turns the water off. He squeezes the water out of his hair, then Dean’s, and wraps towels around the both of them before the cool air of the motel overpowers the warm steam surrounding them.
Sam brushes his teeth and convinces Dean to as well despite his “we’re about to eat” protests (“you’re not going to want to do it later, Dean, I know you”).
Dean turns to him after they’ve both wished with water. “Happy now?”
“Yes. Very,” Sam says.
Dean leans up and kisses him, effectively wiping the self-satisfied smirk off Sam’s face. “Come on, let’s get dressed. Food will be here soon and I’m cold,” Dean says, pulling away and walking out of the bathroom.
Dean pulls on a pair of boxers and a wifebeater, and as he sits on the bed waiting for Sam to finish getting dressed, he stares longingly at his duffel, which, among other things, holds his binder. Like always, Sam seems to read his mind as he stands in front of him, holds his face, and says, “No. You know the rules. No binding after a hunt, especially when you’re injured.”
“But–”
“But nothing.” He turns around and rummages in his own bag for a moment, pulling something from it and facing Dean again. “Here. You want to wear this? It’s mine, so it’ll be loose on you.” Sam holds out a hoodie– it’s red, though Dean suspects it was more of a burgundy or maroon at some point; the drawstrings are frayed, and across the front of it is lettering which reads, “STANFORD.”
Dean silently takes it and slips it on over his tanktop. He says a quiet “thank you” and relaxes a little more, losing himself in the warmth of the fabric, the smell of it, which is something so utterly Sam; the familiar softness of it which can’t be replicated and only comes in worn down clothes put through years of wear and tear.
Sam has taken back his spot on the bed, this time sitting up against the headboard with his legs stretched out. When he pulls Dean toward him, he falls back easily and lets his head land in Sam’s lap. Dean shuffles minutely, curling into the fabric of the sweatpants and t-shirt Sam is wearing. He lets out a content sigh at the feeling of Sam’s fingers back on his head, carding through his hair. Dean thinks that he’d stay like this forever if he could; no responsibilities, no monsters, no new apocalypse to stop every other week. Just him and Sam in their own little bubble. Somewhere through the fog in his mind, Dean can hear Sam say their dinner is ten minutes away now– he nods against Sam’s leg but otherwise is uninterrupted until there’s a knock at the door and Sam stands up to answer it. He gently moves Dean into a sitting position and says, “I’ll be right back.”
It’s stupid, Dean thinks. How quickly he managed to make a mess of himself again when Sam stood up and left him on the bed. His thoughts were racing while simultaneously moving at a snail’s pace; it was like trying to walk when you have hundred mile per hour winds trying to blow you in the opposite direction.
He distantly hears Sam say something about pie, sees him set the bag of food down out of the corner of his eye. The bed dips, and there’s hands holding his face, a forehead pressing against his.
Dean blinks a few times, tries to focus on the feeling of Sam around him, the sound of his voice whispering reassurances. He lifts his hand to rest atop Sam’s and lets out an involuntary whimper. His other hand tugs at Sam’s shirt with no real goal in mind and he can’t help the desperate pleas of “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” that escape his lips, his voice thick with tears.
“I’m here,” Sam shushes, pulling him close. “I’m here.”
“Don’t leave,” Dean mumbles, “Don’t leave me, please.”
His voice is pitiful, and Sam understands. This comes up again every once in a while, Dean’s fear of Sam leaving him. The night he left for Stanford was bad enough for Dean, but with how many times they’ve been separated since it’s no wonder it comes up again on nights like this. “I won’t. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dean’s sobs die down over a few minutes, leaving him just slightly shaky in Sam’s arms. “Sorry,” he says quietly.
“For what?” Sam asks. “It’s okay that you got upset. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dean shrugs, poking his head up a little but still not looking his brother in the eye. “Long day, I guess.”
Sam nods. “You want to eat?” he asks, nodding towards the food sitting on the nightstand. He knows he won’t get anything out of Dean now, so he saves that discussion for tomorrow.
Dean hums in response and grabs the bag, sitting across from Sam on the bed and pulling their food out.
They eat mostly in silence, save for a few playful jabs from Dean about the way Sam prepares his food (“you don’t have to use that damn plastic knife to cut your waffle, Sammy, just rip it up with your hands”).
When they’re done, Sam gathers all their trash into the bag their food was delivered in and leaves it on the floor to take care of later.
He sits back down across from Dean, who scoots closer so he’s almost sitting in Sam’s lap. He looks up at his little brother. “You good?” he asks.
“I’m good,” Sam answers. “But I feel like I should probably be asking you that.”
“I’m good,” Dean mirrors. And when Sam raises his eyebrows in doubt, “Really. And if I’m not tomorrow then we deal with it then. But I’ve had enough of the chick-flick crap for now.”
“Everything is chick-flick crap to you.”
Dean playfully punches him. “Oh shut the hell up.”
Sam laughs. “Will not.”
Dean wipes the smirk off Sam’s face with a kiss, shifts so he’s straddling his thigh and presses their foreheads together. He tilts Sam’s head up again to press a kiss to his lips, short at first, lingering when he leans in a second time. Sam’s tongue swipes over his chapped lips and the sweet taste of maple syrup lingers in Sam’s mouth when Dean licks into it.
They stay like that for a while, messily making out, Dean trying to show his gratitude to his brother for helping him tonight with the way his arms drape over his shoulders and pull him closer. He’s never been good with words.
There was nothing overtly sexual to it up to this point, just the two of them being better at showing rather than telling. But their closeness mixed with emotions running high has Dean feeling needy, and he grinds into Sam’s leg, breathing more heavily into his mouth. When Sam pulls away for a moment to look at him, Dean stutters out, pulling at Sam’s shirt, “Can we– please– need to blow off some steam.”
Sam laughs a little, amused at how easily his brother comes apart for him, and pulls him into another kiss. He pulls back after a minute, settling his hands on Dean’s hips, which is met with a whine of protest.
Sam says, “you can get yourself off, but no more than just this. I don’t want you popping your stitches.”
“Come onnn,” Dean says, “we’ll be careful.”
Sam leans in so their noses are touching and smiles. “I love you, but begging isn’t gonna get you anywhere right now. You’re hurt, end of story.”
Dean narrows his eyes at Sam as if trying to decide if the offer is good enough– Sam knows it’s a show though, they both do. Dean will take whatever Sam wants to give him.
“You just wanna watch me do it myself, don’t you?” he asks.
“Maybe,” Sam replies.
“Fine,” he says, kissing him again, more heated this time.
His hands move up to tangle in Sam’s hair, Sam’s still holding Dean’s hips and guiding him to rock against his thigh. There was already a small wet patch in Dean’s boxers, and he grunts as he further hardens from the friction. He can feel Sam hard against his knee that’s still settled between his legs, and he angles himself to rub against him more easily, making Sam groan.
“God, you should see yourself, so hot wearing my clothes,” Sam says against his jaw. He mouths at Dean’s stubble until they’re facing each other again and mumbles almost incoherently into his mouth. “Shit, Dean, gonna make me come if you keep doin’ that, god yeah, right there.”
“Mm-hm– Sammy, God,” he moans, seemingly having found a good angle.
Sam’s hands run up and down Dean’s sides while he holds him up and helps him keep his pace. “There you go,” he encourages. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Dean whimpers at the praise and lets his head fall forward onto Sam’s shoulder, panting into his neck. Sam is coming before he realises it, hazy and distracted from watching Dean, who’s pushed over the edge by the feeling of his brother’s cum through his boxers, and stutters out, “Sam– ‘m close, gonna–”
Dean shudders and locks up for a moment as he comes, legs shaking and breath coming out hot and quick against Sam’s skin with a string of curses. Sam continues coaxing him through it, lets him chase the last remnants of his orgasm before he slumps against Sam’s chest, spent.
Sam gently rubs up and down Dean’s back, soothing the occasional aftershock that makes his leg twitch.
He carefully lifts his hips after a moment to pull his boxers off and Dean caches on, shifting so he can take his off too. Sam cleans them both off as best he can without having to get up and tosses their boxers over the side of the bed to deal with in the morning.
“You should wear that hoodie more often. Looks good on you,” he says.
“Mmm, I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean agrees, nearly asleep, “Night, Sammy.”
Sam smiles and pulls the blankets over them. “Goodnight, Dean."