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Heat of the Blood

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His name is Ryan.

Dean knows that, because it’s probably the one word Sam has used the most in the past three weeks.

Dean kinda, maybe, hates Ryan’s guts.

He’d probably find it easier not to be a “snarling jackass” (Sam’s words) if they weren’t stuck in Galveston in the ass-end of July, and it wasn’t so hot that he can’t walk from the shower to his bed without sweating like a cornered nun.

The sigh of relief he’d let out had been quickly echoed by Sam; when they’d discovered that their motel had a swimming pool.

They’re on the ground floor of the old L-shaped building, so they can just hop over the little white railing with its cracked paint and rusty bolts; and they’re practically in the water. It ain’t exactly a vacation resort; the pool’s small with dead leaves bobbing on the surface, and the courtyard is all drab stone and desolate grey walls; but the air feels like it’s gonna vacuum the moisture from you; leave you a raisin between one step and the next; so Dean’s not passing up cool liquid he can dunk himself in that isn’t coming from shoddy taps or a clogged showerhead.

He would’ve thanked their dad for picking somewhere in this oversize frying pan that actually has a pool; if he weren’t convinced it’d been a total accident, or if the man was even answering his phone. Dean had wanted to go with him on the hunt, but he’d gotten a pointed look that’d flicked to Sammy and back, so he’d just deflated and accepted that it was gonna be him, Sam; and whatever skimpy amount of clothing Sam was wearing in the oppressive heat of the room.

Stupid busted air-conditioning.

July means no school for Sam; which means no homework or reading assignments or tests to study for, pretty much anything to do that isn’t sprawl on the ratty couch like a cat in a patch of sunlight; looking as if he’s got no bones and not a care in the world for the one Dean’s sporting in his shorts.

Yeah, so his baby brother is a sexy little bitch, not like he’s gonna do anything about it, jeez.


The first time Ry-an (stupid sing-song tone, even in his head, now) shows up, Dean’s parked on one of the flimsy plastic sun beds; trying to pretend he’s sleeping behind the sunglasses he’s got on; and not watching Sammy in his almost pornographically low-slung swim trunks - side-effect of dad always getting them clothes a few sizes too large, buying himself as much time as possible before he has to actually go into a store again - that’re only staying up through some cruel, taunting break in the laws of physics.

He’s so distracted tracking the droplets running down the lean expanse of Sam’s - ridiculously tanned - back; shiny beads following curves and lines of muscle, trailing down and down to that not-quite-obscene swell at the top of his ass; that it doesn’t register at first that Sam’s talkin’ to someone.

The guy - kid, really - is a few inches shorter than Sammy; with longish blonde, purposefully untidy hair; pale skin stretched over his toned body highlighted by his bright red shorts, and a wide, toothy smile on his stupid, pretty face as he says something that makes Sam laugh; head thrown back and long neck bared in the sweltering sunlight.

Dean doesn’t miss the way the kid’s eyes go to all kinds’a places they’ve got no right to.

He’s surprised he can feel hot rage in his chest that’s warmer than the air outside, but seems he can.

Sam points him out at some stage in their unnecessarily long conversation; and the other boy gives him an assessing once-over that makes Dean wanna scowl and reach for the butterfly knife in his pocket.

They spend most of that afternoon chatting and horsing around in the pool, and Dean damn near grinds his teeth down to the gums with the way this kid has his fucking hands all over Sam. But he can’t say anything without sounding like a jealous boyfriend, and he knows if he went over there he’d probably skip right past talking and go straight to throwing punches anyway.

So he sits and stews to the feel of his brain roasting in his skull; sweat sticking his shorts to his thighs and gluing his calves to the seat, and does his best to ignore the sick twisting of his stomach.


It’s only gotten worse since that first day; Sam and his new friend meet up every morning, and spend most of the day trying to stay cool in the water, while Dean pretends to chaperone (no lifeguard, after all) and not act like he’s waiting for the kid to step outta line so he can knock him on his ass. Or maybe drown him.

What’s really bugging him, though, isn’t that this kid is so obviously into Sam, it’s that Sam doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, Sam has been babbling about the oh-so-amazing Ryan from the word go.

“Ryan said…”

“Ryan told me…”

“Me and Ryan were…”

It’s gotten so bad Dean is actually hoping the kid is some kinda incubus, just so he’d be justified in ganking the little twerp.

He blames the red tint over his eyes on the scorching heat, and pointedly doesn’t think about how Sam was his first.

He knows that Sammy’s still a virgin; he’s made a game of teasing answers out of his - furiously blushing - little brother whenever he spends any amount of time near some pretty thing that’d let him over her top or under her skirt. He knows when Sam’s first kiss was - mainly ‘cos the kid’d walked around with a dopey look on his face for two full days after - he knows when a girl let him under her bra the first time, and he knows when Sammy’d gotten his first blowjob (the look after that had lasted nearly a week, and Dean had almost rubbed his cock raw thinking about it).

He’s aware he’s kinda shot himself in the foot; he taught Sam how to talk to girls, gave him the Sex Talk when Dad had given up after three fumbled attempts and half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and then the basic ins and outs (heh) of how t’get a girl’s engine runnin’. Dean’s the one who bragged about his exploits with random chicks and encouraged Sam to actually go find himself a girl and loosen the fuck up a little. He did it ’cos that’s what big brothers are for; to get their geeky, gawky, stupidly sexy younger siblings laid when they can’t stop blushing and stuttering long enough to do it themselves.

He did all that ignoring the twist of mine running though him; knowing that just because there’s this sick, broken thing in his wiring somewhere that makes him notice when Sam goes without a shirt, or when he smiles or when he tries to muffle his noises as he jerks off in the next bed, doesn’t mean it runs both ways. He wants Sam to have something that doesn’t include Dean and his band of merry issues, but this is just so unfairly out of left field he’s starting to wonder if some higher power isn’t fucking with him.

He’s never seen Sam show even the slightest bit of interest in a guy, and now he’s forced to wonder if that’s because it’s never happened before, or if Dean just couldn’t see the testosterone forest for the leggy trees; if he’s stamped down on his own gay-for-Sammy thing so hard he’s missed something obvious.

The thought of this Ryan douche getting to be Sam’s first, makes him wanna hurl and hit somethin’ and drink until he hurls some more; tight ball of energy buzzing under his skin like he‘s gonna shake apart or tear his hair out. God, he knows he’s fucked-up; even on the spectrum of Winchester fucked-upness, wanting to do stuff to your own brother that’s so filthy it’d make a five-dollar whore blush is probably in a league of its own.

Until now it’s all been moot anyway; Sammy is his brother, and Sammy doesn’t like guys; two things that don’t really lend themselves to letting Dean drop to his knees for him, or to shoving Sam over a flat surface and stuffing him so full he can’t breathe around it. If one’a those walls surrounding the City of Brotherly Lovin’ falls down, Dean isn’t sure the other one is gonna be enough.

Yeah, he’s definitely fucked-up.


They’ve been holed up in Galveston for almost a month, now - seems the ‘something’ killing people in Beaumont was actually a nest of somethin’s and “No I don’t need help Dean, just keep an eye on your brother - and Dean is seriously questioning Ryan’s story of his dad the so-called ‘travelling salesman’, who doesn’t freaking travel, judging by the way the kid’s been stuck to Sam like a limpet every damn day.

He desperately wants to find a bar; even with the temperature pressing into his skin and making it so much effort to move around; wants to drink and hit on nameless chicks and pick a fight with stupid drunks just to get rid of the restless itch under his skin, but he can’t make himself leave Sam alone with this guy. Exercise in masochism that watching them together is, the images playing behind his eyes when he can’t see them are always worse.

Dean is sitting by the poolside, legs dangling over the edge and trying to ignore how every bit of skin above the waterline is crusting with sweat, as he scrapes his knife over a whetstone - what? The motel’s practically empty, and he’s only glaring at Ryan a little as he does it - as Sam explains something about William Blake; blondie sitting almost pressed against his side, staring at him with so much rapt interest Dean’s surprised his heart isn’t doing that cartoon thing where it stretches out of his shirt with every lovestruck beat.

Dean is maybe sharpening his knife a little harder than necessary.

It’s jarring to see Sam like this; open and enthusiastic; gesturing wildly as he talks about books and literary stuff that goes so far over Dean’s head he feels like a slack-jawed yokel whittling soap in a creaky rocker. Dean’s gotten so used to Sammy and his boatload of teenage angst that seeing him happy sets him stupidly off-balance, which immediately makes him feel worse than useless that he can’t put that look there. Sam’s hair is slicked back and curling at the ends; chlorinated water drying in the sun, and there’s something starkly bare about his features without the curtain of chestnut brown he’s always hiding behind these days; high forehead and pointed noise and strong cheekbones making Dean’s eyes skip from place to place, unsure what to fixate on.

Ryan’s hand moving over onto Sam’s forearm on his far side solves that pretty freaking well.

It’s an innocent-enough gesture, but in that same way an arm dropping onto a shoulder in a darkened movie theatre is ‘innocent’. Sam’s eyes flick to the point of contact, but he doesn’t pull away or tense up like Dean’s wishing he would, just relaxes into it after a split-second moment of hesitation; eyes darting to Dean where the noise of scraping blade has gone quiet.

Dean can’t seem to make his hands work.

In fact, every muscle in his body has gone stone-still, shallow up-down of his ribcage all he can feel; rushing sound in his ears and eyes watering where he can’t make himself blink.

The little blonde flirt is leaning back next to Sam; lines of muscle tensing in his stomach, shoulders and arms flexing where they’re braced against the paving behind him, head tilted back and neck bared like an invitation to a party Sam so doesn’t have permission to go to. Even from the other side of the pool Dean can see his eyes dropping to Sam’s mouth every few beats, look of contemplation Dean would really like to wipe away.

Car wreck in slow-motion; the kid starts to lean in, head tilting, and Sam’s either frozen the same way Dean is or just waiting for the inevitable collision. Ryan is saying something; words a low and indecipherable murmur carrying over the still surface of the pool, and Sam’s eyes are going suspiciously lidded before he twitches all over, like someone’s put a current through him, and he seems to remember his brother is just sitting there watching this whole thing. His mouth works; goldfish-like; and there’s so much colour flooding into his cheeks Dean’s amazed the water on his skin isn’t sizzling. He fumbles something that sounds apologetic at Ryan, even though he’s still looking at Dean; hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression almost funny.

Except Dean isn’t laughing.

Sam makes his exit so fast Dean wants to yell about not running on a poolside, but his jaw is clenched tight enough he can’t form the words. He knows he’s giving Ryan what could - possibly - be called a murderous look, but he’d just tried to kiss Sammy, while Dean was right freaking there, so he just can’t make himself feel bad about it. It doesn’t help that the stupid kid is looking at Dean like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. In Texas. In August.

He drags himself to his feet; every sensation a distant, unimportant haze compared to Ryan kissing Sammy. Slap of his feet on wet concrete, soles burning where the sun’s been baking down on it all day, until - after what feels like miles - he reaches the side of the blonde moron who’s still just lounging there; feet kicking idly in the water and a vague smirk on his face, and it’s all making Dean so goddamned angry.

“The fuck d’you think you’re doin’, huh?” He’s faced down evil, soulless monsters that wanted to eat him and never sounded this genuinely furious.

“Not much, apparently.” Sulky, insolent tone and that fucking smirk and Dean really wants to leave him a bloody smear on the ground.

He settles for hauling the sonovabitch up by his underarms and enjoying the edge of fear on his face, as Dean leans right in and whispers; with as much deadly sincerity as he can “You ever try and touch Sam again; I’ll kill you. You so much as look at him crossways; I’ll kill you. And Ryan…” lets the pause hang there, “I know a lot of ways to kill someone.” He’ll probably feel bad about it later, but fuck if the wide-eyed pale expression isn’t like balm on the hot grating ire in his gut.

He shoves Sam’s would-be boyfriend away - not into the pool, much as he wants to - and storms back toward the room, not really thinking anything besides needing to see Sam and keep him where he can see him for the foreseeable future.


He enters the room to the sound of the shower hissing away, muffled noises of it hitting the thin plastic flooring from behind the bathroom door. It’s probably locked, but the catch is so old and worn he wouldn’t even need both hands to get in there. He could barge in, pull the curtain back and demand that Sammy tell him what the fuck he thinks he’s doin’; letting random dudes get all up in his space like that, but then he’d be faced with Sam naked and wet - Christ he might even be jerking off - and there’s no way that ends other than badly.

So he forces himself to sit on the end of one of the beds, fists his hands in the sheets like he’s gonna spin off the Earth if he doesn’t, and tries to breathe normally as he fixes his eyes on the door.

It finally opens with a rush of steam and humid air, and then he’s using every bit of willpower he has to keep his eyes on Sam’s face, and not all the long, lean lines of him that the napkin-sized towel isn’t covering.

Sam startles when he notices Dean’s stare burning holes in his forehead, and there’s that blush again.

It’s really unfair; if incest is so wrong, why does his brother have to grow-up so pretty?

A minute passes in silence; Sam trying to dress without dropping the towel or looking at where Dean is anchored to the bed.

“Whatever you’re gonna say Dean; just say it.” Tone clipped and in that I’m-so-much-more-mature-than-you voice the kid’s been using like a soundtrack since he turned sixteen.

“Do you want him?” So not what he’d meant to say, and definitely not how he’d meant to say it; sounding like a prissy prom date with a frog in his throat.

“Dean.” Name like a warning; big, bony shoulders tensing where he’s facing away, clean red tee scrunched in his disproportionately large hands.

“No, c’mon Sammy; you don’t get to just decide you’re into dudes all of a sudden and then expect me to…” Waves a hand that Sam can’t even see, doesn’t know how to finish without saying something you’re never meant to say to anyone who shares your DNA.

“Oh, so you can slut around like your dick’s going out of style, but I make one friend who tries to kiss me and you suddenly give a crap?” Bitchface going full power as he spins and aims it at Dean light a headlamp; seeming to forget he’s mostly naked and damp all over, and just how the fuck is Dean supposed to argue with his cock chubbing-up in his shorts?

“S’not the same.” It isn’t, but he can’t say why, and Sam’s looking at him now like he’s disappointed.

“Oh please, Dean. Don’t tell me that after all the real bad shit we deal with, you have a problem with gays?” He’s got the wrong end of the Incest Stick, and Dean should take the out; run with this idea of being homophobic or whatever, so Sam doesn’t figure out that’s really not the problem, here.

Seems the rest of his body’s got other ideas; way he’s up off the bed and backing Sam toward the far wall, matching him step for step like some weird kinda dance. Sam runs out of space in a few feet of questionable carpet, and the breath knocks out of him as his bare back hits the peeling wallpaper. Dean doesn’t stop though; just keeps prowling forward ‘till they’re almost nose to nose - more nose to mouth, with the extra inches Sam’s been climbing lately - and he can smell the girly conditioner his brother uses that Dean - maybe - smells while he yanks it in the shower, dick twitching in some pre-programmed response.

“That what you think? You really think I’m such a fucking lowlife that I care whether you like guys, Sam?” He sounds angry, and he is, he just wishes he knew who at.

“Then what’s your problem, Dean? You were sat out there looking like you wanted to take Ryan’s head off, so wh-”

“Don’t fucking talk about him, Sammy. I mean it.” So low and harsh it takes all his air with it, and Sam looks as confused by the outburst as anyone who doesn‘t have a brother fetish would be.

“So it’s Ryan, then? You don’t like him?” Not a question even though it’s phrased and spoken like one, and Dean can feel his facial muscles twitch into something unpleasant at the little prick’s name; sees Sam register the movement and his hazel eyes flicking between Dean’s, like every secret he’s got is spelled out in moss-green lettering.

“You don’t get it Sam. You. I don’t. He doesn’t get to.” Can’t settle on the words; doesn’t trust them. He breaks off with a growl full of frustration and ten other things it isn’t safe to think about, and slams one hand flat to the wall, right next to Sam’s head. To his credit, Sam doesn’t flinch at the slap-bang on the crappy excuse for drywall, but his eyes dart to what he can see of Dean’s wrist and forearm in his periphery, then back to Dean’s face again.

“What’s the real problem here, Dean?” Softer and more. Fuck, calculating, and Dean should’ve goddamn known better than this, Sam’s always been quick on the uptake when he’s not emo-sulking behind his hair.

“The problem Sam.” And shit he can’t stop the words, fingers clenching at nothing where they’re pressed by Sam’s face. “Is you lettin’ some creep put his fucking hands on you. Like you belong to him. Like he has the fucking right.” Shitshitshit, how long he has been holding that in? Way it comes out like treacle from his tongue; words low and wet and with too much intent.

“But I don’t belong to him, do I Dean?” Again it’s not really a question, least it better fucking not be, and Sam’s flushed again; pink from cheeks to neck, almost reaching the even pinker shade of his tight little nipples. He’s breathing harsher, and there’s something in his eyes Dean wants to drag into sunlight and wear like a fucking badge; but there’s too much heat in his groin and cotton in his head to move that far.

It’s nothing new, this possessive streak when it comes to Sam; s’not like he’s got much else to get possessive over; the few things he ‘owns’ are either his dad’s or his and Sam’s both, and are just as likely to be sold when they’re in dire need of cash as they are to be treated with any sentimentality. The Impala, his pendant, and Sam; only things he’d really care enough to throw punches over if they weren’t needed for hunts or somethin’ that might keep his family safe. Sammy is his. That’s just it, far as he’s concerned; only person with the authority to handed him Sam years ago and made him Dean’s to protect, and whatever screwed-up feelings he’s got now, that doesn’t change.

“Fucking right you don’t. You’re mine, Sammy. Think I’m lettin’ anyone else have you? I’da killed him first, Sam.” He’s not even lying, and that should scare him; does scare him, it just apparently turns him on more.

Maybe it’s not just him, eyes flicking down and cruel smirk tugging at his mouth at the way Sam’s pushing out of his towel, now.

“D-Don’t own me, Dean.” Dean’s not sure Sam’s said anything since he got pinned to this wall that he actually meant the way he said it. He leans forward from his hips, shoves the nearly-hard length of himself against Sam - and fuck he knew the kid’d grow up big - and feels the warbling little moan Sam lets go of like cool water down his sweat-soaked back.

“I think you like that idea, Sammy.” Not his voice, no way does he sound like that when it’s Sam he’s talking to; like he can see every part and piece and he’s gonna break ‘em up and rearrange ‘em however he damn well feels like. It’s a tone he uses on women in bars and diners and wherever-the-fuck-else, not on his baby brother.

His baby brother, whose hips are twitching into his like he wants it but doesn’t know what he’d do if he got it.

“Dean. Fuck, man, c’mon.” Like he’s desperate already, like he’s dying for it, and fuck Dean can feel the tattered shreds of his morals curl like burning paper as he grinds Sammy into the wall with hips and cock and listens to him whine for it.

“You know how many twisted, dirty things I could do to you, Sammy?” Like a warning; but the kind you get as a kid that always makes the dangerous stuff sound fun.

Anything, just. God, please, Dean?” He can’t help the pleased laugh at how easy it is to make the kid beg, s’gonna be his new favourite pass-time, he can tell.

“Shouldn’t promise me that, Sam. Dunno what you’re agreeing to.” Both hands on the wall either side of Sam’s flustered face, feel of moist breath panted onto his skin, and he can’t resist the urge to mark Sam up a little; leans in and plants his mouth midway up that long neck, digs his teeth in and sucks.

Sam gives up a noise like it’s his dick Dean’s got his mouth on, and he groans into smooth tanned skin at the thought of sucking Sammy off while he’s pressed against the wall, nothin’ to do but take it however Dean’ll give it to him.

He doesn’t have the patience for it now, though; too strung-out and pissed-off and every other stomach-knotting emotion Sam sparks off in him without even trying.

He fits his head into the sweet curve of Sam’s neck where it meets his shoulder; looks down between them at the shorts and towel that aren’t hiding a damn thing as he forces their cocks together harder, faster. Sam’s tight little body is trembling all over like he’s reached the aftershocks already; stomach quivering and legs not so much holding him up as getting in the way of him falling to the floor. That thought just conjures images of Sam down on his knees; wide pink mouth all filled with dick as he slurps and works his tongue, and Dean groans and suck-bites another mark into the ball of his shoulder.

He takes a thrilled note of the way his brother shudders every time Dean bruises him up; just knows there’s fun to be had there, and fuck it so figures that Sammy is the best lay he’s ever had; the one thing he was never gonna let himself have. Through all the adrenaline and blood thrumming through his body, there’s a surprising sense of right to this whole thing, like he was meant to slot into this space against this brother’s body, and vice versa. Nothing this wrong should feel this perfect, and that realisation is like a house of cards falling; every excuse and recrimination and justification why he can’t have his brother in the one way he doesn’t already seeming small and distant as Sam falls apart against him.

“C’mon baby, give it up, wanna see you fuckin’ lose it.” Lips and teeth dragging to the bolt of Sam’s jaw, hard push of hips and another bite, and Sam’s head tips back carelessly enough it smacks into the wall. Doesn’t seem enough to stop him coming though; and fuck the way he blows is like art and sin and the best thing Dean’s ever seen. His mouth hangs open on a gutted groan that ran out of air before it started; pink shiny-slick tongue and insides of cheeks like a promise as he clenches his eyes and jerks his hips and soaks through the towel.

First time in his life; Dean’s glad that motel towels only move moisture around instead of taking it in, as the musky scent of Sam’s come reaches his nose same time the tacky-white strings of it push through the towel and onto the black trunks he’s wearing, obscenely obvious against the fabric; his brother’s come right over the head of his dick and fuck that shoves him over the edge before he can stop it.

Every muscle cording and going snapped-elastic loose at once, charge running through every nerve from his toes to the tips of his fingers as he pushes his whole body against Sam’s; both of them bare-chested and sweating and it’s so fucking good it’s almost like pain.

He gathers enough strength to lick into Sam’s mouth same time as he’s spreading the two loads of come between them through ratty fabric, still pulsing weakly into his shorts as his tongue drags over Sam’s, much a claim as the marks on his skin. Sam lets out a noise like a dying animal; all high and cracked and pleading, and the kid’s gotta be oversensitive now but he’s still humping against Dean’s spent cock like it’ll get him somewhere new.

Fuck this is so gonna be a regular thing, with less clothes and more vertical action, soon as Dean’s knees turn back from papier-mâché into solid bone.

Jesus Dean.” All one long, shuddering exhale that tingles over Dean‘s skin, and yeah he’s fuckin’ proud of how wrecked Sam sounds from just rubbing off against him, and it shouldn’t make his cock twitch that it’s the same pride as when he taught Sam to ride a bike or tie his shoes, but today‘s apparently Down With Scruples Day, so fuck it.

He can’t think of words that don’t involve dangerous levels of touch-feely, so he kisses Sam again with as much meaning and promise and everything else as he can before Sam breaks the moment by trying to Talk about it.

“So, you done with the caveman routine, now?” Dean butts his head against Sam’s temple in reprimand, but honestly? The twenty seconds of post-kiss silence was more than he was expecting, anyway.

“You done kissin’ runty blonde douchebags?” Gravely warning creeping back in, makes him scrape the blunt ends of his teeth down the line of Sam’s jaw, then goes back up and does it harder when Sam shivers in the furnace of a room they’re standing in.

“Not if it gets me laid like that.” Edges of his swollen mouth turning up, and Dean slides against his body to hear the kittenish mewl he makes when his wet cock drags against the - probably painfully abrasive - towel.

“Oh Sammy, you think that was gettin’ laid? So many things I need to show you.” As much lewd suggestion as he wrap around the words rumbled into Sam’s ear, and God-bless being sixteen and being able to get hard again this fast.

“Gonna have to teach me Dean.” Fucking teasing, flirty way his voice tips, guess there is some Winchester in there after all. Gonna be a lot more soon, if Dean’s got anything to say about it.

“C’mon Sammy. Shower-time.” Tugs on the towel and Sam follows like a pet on a leash - and fuck there’s a scorching little image - and lets Sam fall bodily against him as he parts his brother’s lips with his tongue, doesn’t think there are gonna be enough hours in the day when he can be kissing Sam.

He turns toward the bathroom, every intention of getting them both into that tiny space and maybe jerking Sam off proper under the spray, when he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Sam’s wearing a slightly pained expression, and it’s amazing how fast the fuzzy edge of his orgasm can sharpen into panic at the thought that maybe Sam doesn’t actually wanna do this again, that maybe he never wanted it in the first place.

“Dean, there’s.” Dean’s trying not to hyperventilate, but he can count the number of times Sam’s been speechless on two hands. “S’just us, yeah? Nobody else?” Sounding - and looking, despite the sex-flush all over him - so damn young that Dean’s pulled back to him like they’re cuffed together at the heart.

“You can be pretty stupid sometimes, y’know that?” Any hope of evading the emotion in his answer crushed by the breathy and almost-wet way he says it, just lays his hands over Sam’s pointy hips like they were made to fit there, and kisses him again. Softest kiss Dean’s had in recent memory, maybe ever; lips parting lips, taste and breath of Sam the kind of pleasant warmth that’s almost alien in the dry, Texas heat.

When he pulls back, Sam looks more dazed than he did after his orgasm, and his cock is tenting the material of his towel again, clinging to the shape of him where it’s matted and slick with come, and maybe Dean isn’t the poster boy for monogamy, but there’s nothin’ that could beat this, anyway.

“Come shower with me, Sam.” Asked too soft and meaningful given the content of it, and Sam smiles like there’s some secret code Dean isn’t aware of.

Through the sex-fogged mess of his brain, comes the thought that Sam never once looked at Ryan that way.