Sam held up a piece of paper with neat block letters printed on it, so Dean wouldn’t have any excuse for misunderstanding. “GARTH SAYS WILL LAST TWO WEEKS MAX.”
Dean grimaced. “Is this fucking sound gonna be sticking nails through my head the entire time?” he not-quite-yelled—he couldn’t seem to remember that not everyone around him was hearing the apparently screechily awful whine that was now stuck in his head.
Sam shrugged, which pulled painfully at his stitches; he wasn’t at all indifferent to Dean’s suffering, but he didn’t know how else to communicate lack of knowledge with the swiftness Dean would demand.
Dean rolled his eyes, managing to indicate both that he considered this answer par for the course of their sub-par lives and that he was sure that Bobby would’ve known a real timeline.
“I’m gonna clean the car!” Dean said, louder this time, and stomped off, which was relatively polite of him, considering how bitchy he was likely to be until the curse-induced deafness wore off.
Sam wasn’t too sad about having to take a break from hunting and hang out in the bunker while they both recovered. There was always cataloging to do, moving the ancient organization of the MoL system (Busty Asian Beauties was probably the least racially offensive term in use in those old files) to something more modern and digitized, and adding in all the lore they’d picked up along the way, since the whole hunter/MoL mutual disrespect thing hadn’t worked out all that well in the end.
Dean, too, seemed happy enough to putter around, organizing the weapons and occasionally sharpening them; cleaning the rooms where the dust-deterring spells had been broken by other activities; and fixing the odd wobbly chair and sticky cupboard door. He didn’t know it, but he’d started to hum pretty much constantly. Whether this was tolerable or not depended a lot on how much Sam had already heard from him that day, so Sam tried to moderate his exposure. Metallica did not get better hummed, that was for sure.
And then, in between bouts of humming, he started to talk out loud, like he had just forgotten that there was a difference between thinking and speaking, since as far as he could tell no one could hear either. Cooing to the Impala was standard, and Sam thought nothing of it when he came to drag Dean to lunch. And talking to dinner as it cooked on the stove, that was only a step beyond (though hearing Dean confide to the black beans about how much the cinnamon improved them was going into the endless list of things Sam could mock him about). But then Sam heard Dean explain to a knife that he was sure it was good at its job, it just reminded him too much of one he’d had to use in Hell, so it was going in the box and not on the wall.
Okay, that was weird.
He spent the rest of the day lurking, trying to find out what was going on in Dean’s head. Sam had never been under the illusion that Dean was incapable of serious thought, not including the flashes of genius that usually ended in violent death for something bad. But he’d assumed that Dean didn’t bother most of the time, as long as he didn’t have to.
Dean wasn’t an abstract thinker, that much was true. But every minute seemed to bring an observation about something different, often a thought Sam would never have come up with in a hundred tries. Dean rehearsed what he’d do if a vampire burst into the room (boot knife, chair spindle would snap out in a few seconds and serve as a stake, get some cover behind the tool chest). He described the perfect tits. (Spoiler: any tits attached to a woman willing to let him feel them up.) He noted that, however, Sam’s pecs were also more than adequate, especially after Dean had sucked on the nipples for a while and made them all tender. He daydreamed about a supercharged engine for the Impala, and reassured her that she was perfect the way she was, not that he’d turn down a ride on a good Harley but he’d always come back home.
He added up Sam’s hours running this week, checking to see if they were up or down from last week’s tally, and debated whether he ought to get a set of kettlebells for the weight room; Sam (he said) liked variety even though Dean was fine with the same old equipment when he bothered to exercise. (That last bit of commentary was not in fact Dean’s.) He thought about whether he could make better sauteed onions than last night’s batch, maybe if he used a different pan. He muttered about how he’d forgotten to fix that one button on his favorite plaid shirt, and about how Sam would eventually get fed up and fold the shirts if Dean left them in the laundry room long enough. He mused about old hunts, what worked and what didn’t, whether Dad would’ve done better, whether he could’ve taken the monster out without Sam. He remembered Lisa’s favorite color and Cassie’s favorite coffee and the burning sensation of the STD he’d gotten from a waitress when he was sixteen.
Radio Dean was broadcasting constantly. Though Sam would’ve committed murder-suicide ten years ago if this was Dean’s normal behavior, as a temporary feature it was fascinating.
Dean mostly shut himself down when he was aware of Sam’s presence, though the humming in particular did start to creep back out as the days went by.
Obviously, there was only one thing to do: see what happened when they fucked.
Sam had it all figured out. Maybe Dean would just repeat filthy words, maybe he’d actually tell Sam what he wanted for once, but Dean would spill everything. Dean was as physically responsive a lover as Sam had ever been with, and not shy about taking control when there was something he wanted. Still, Dean wasn’t a talker, and sometimes Sam missed that.
That night, he got Dean to cut the remaining threads of the stitches on his side; the wound was healing nicely, and with a few adhesive strips he was confident that semi-athletic sex was possible again—and he could see in Dean’s dilating eyes that Dean was more than willing. He didn’t bother to put his shirt back on.
“Your place or mine?” he asked, even though Dean couldn’t hear him.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean boomed, waggling his eyebrows in a way that was ludicrous even though Sam knew it meant he was going to get laid. “You wanna warm up the bed?”
Dean’s mattress was nicer than his. Sam kept meaning to get a new one of his own, but somehow he just found himself coming into Dean’s room in the middle of the night to catch a few hours of sleep, even when they hadn’t had sex, and he couldn’t say he hated that. Even when Dean didn’t seem to twitch, and even though he got up for his run before Dean even stirred, there was always fresh coffee when he got back, with milk and sugar and a little shaker of cinnamon that Dean just “accidentally” found and kept filled.
“Sure,” he said, but Dean had already turned away, confident in his own power to bend Sam to his will.
Sam stripped before he got into the bed, leaving his clothes in a pile on Dean’s desk chair to cut down on Dean’s bitching about tidiness. He was too horny to read, even though he’d been meaning to get around to Wolf Hall and there it was on the side table, a dollar bill stuck in halfway through as a bookmark.
Dean could be efficient when sex was on offer, and it wasn’t long before he was coming through the door, towel wrapped like a turban around his head and terrycloth robe tied loosely enough around his waist that a long V of chest showed, including a hint of his tattoo. Sam didn’t try to hide his appreciative once-over. (Even if the turban thing was silly as fuck.)
Dean sniggered at him and shrugged off the robe. Apparently dropping clothes on the floor was okay when Dean did it, but there was no point in bitching right now, especially since the towel was coming off too, and Dean was already half-hard, stalking towards him all powerful thighs and broad chest and blinding grin.
Sam sat up and grabbed Dean’s hips before Dean could join him on the bed, his mouth seeking out Dean’s dick. Flushed and damp from the shower, and still soft enough that he could take it all with ease, it was all he wanted in that moment—and then Dean started to talk.
“I love this,” Dean said, not loudly but with conviction. “So good for me,” as Sam pulled him closer and his fingers skidded along Dean’s humid skin; Sam had a few awkward moments as he stretched himself out along the bed to get a better angle, but Dean didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, yeah,” Dean enthused as he hardened, holding still to let Sam work to accommodate him. His hand patted Sam’s hair.
“This is the best,” Dean continued, sounding drunk on it, nothing like Dean’s maudlin tones when he was really drinking. “That mouth, baby, suck me so good—” His hips were pulsing now, small movements that Sam could take easily, not yet out of control.
“Oh, Rhonda,” Dean moaned.
Sam’s head came up so fast he scraped his teeth along the head of Dean’s dick, earning a well-deserved hiss from Dean, who still managed to be laughing while he looked down at Sam.
“When I get my hearing back, we gotta have a conversation about how you ain’t nearly as sneaky as you think you are,” Dean said between chuckles. “You know what they say about eavesdroppers, Sammy, you might hear somethin’ you don’t wanna.”
Sam knew that his murderous expression was enough to get most men to take a step backwards, but Dean only smirked. Then his face changed, smile fading into something tender and achingly sincere. Ignoring his erection, Dean reached his hand down and cupped Sam’s cheek. “I can try and talk more if that’s what you want,” Dean said, and the extra loudness made him sound like he was announcing himself to the world. “I just figure, you know me, Sam.”
Sam let that sink in for a minute. The truth was, he did know. When Dean was so aroused he was only chasing his own orgasm, the tremble of his thighs was more eloquent than any warning could’ve been. When Dean was overwhelmed with affection and wanted Sam to feel safe, he’d turn his back to Sam and make himself the little spoon, his hands drifting down over Sam’s where they wrapped around his waist. When Dean really just wanted a quick fuck so they could get to sleep, he’d straddle Sam and jerk them both off until Sam couldn’t stand it any more and flipped them, pushing Dean’s knees up to his chest so that Sam could almost feel the near-painful stretch in sympathy with Dean’s groan as he shoved himself balls-deep in Dean’s ever-welcoming heat. When Dean wanted to reassure himself that Sam was okay, he’d wrap his legs around Sam’s hips and brace his hands on Sam’s shoulders, keeping their bodies just a few inches apart so that he could watch Sam’s eyes as Sam got closer and closer to his own orgasm.
And when Dean’s cheeks flushed like they were now, he was thrilled by Sam’s own never-ending desire for him, and he really wanted to get fucked. Sam closed his eyes for a few seconds, breathing in deeply as he got himself under control.
He pulled back just far enough that he could get his hand on Dean’s hip, pulling Dean onto the bed, on his hands and knees. Dean wasn’t teasing any more, rolling with him. Completely in sync.
“Just for that,” Sam said, and he spread the cheeks of Dean’s ass to get a better view.
“Aw baby, you know I don’t like you for your—” Dean’s terrible joke, whatever it would have been, turned into a gasp when Sam licked wetly from Dean’s taint to the top of his furled hole. With Dean shut up, Sam turned to his task in earnest, using his thumbs to stretch Dean even further as his tongue made Dean grunt and curse and try to smother Sam by pushing back onto his face, even though that was very contrary to Dean’s own interests. Dean’s skin was warm under Sam’s hands, smooth even where the freckles dotted it. His fingertips reached far enough that he could feel Dean’s hipbones, hard underneath the yielding softness of Dean’s flesh.
When Dean’s noises started to get more frantic than pleasured, Sam pulled back. He was still a little pissed about Dean’s prank, and Dean was already opened up some, so he spat into his hand and slicked the head of his cock with the saliva.
He pushed into Dean slowly, and even if Dean was aware of what he was saying, the sound of Dean groaning loud and uninhibited was a further turn-on. Dean was snug around him, blood-hot, his back arching and his shoulders bunching as he fisted his hands in the sheets and let Sam have him. Sam’s fingers clutched on the meat of Dean’s hips. His skin prickled with sweat and the matching sheen on Dean’s back was so tempting that he pushed forward, seating himself balls-deep in a rush so that he could lean down and bite the salt off the back of Dean’s neck.
Dean’s muscled thighs were strong and solid when he slammed into them, matching his every thrust with a push back. The rounded muscles of his shoulders trembled under Sam’s grip as Sam let Dean take the weight of both of them, pulsing his hips so that he could hit just the right angle with every thrust. Dean rewarded him with a growl low in his throat, losing coherence as Sam managed to let go long enough to reach around and curl his fingers around Dean’s stiff dick, hot and thick and as familiar in his hand as any of his knives. He ran his thumb over the ridge, the delicate shape of the flared head where the skin was so thin and smooth that it was like touching Dean’s heartbeat.
Dean yelled out one last time and his cock pulsed again and again, a buzz against Sam’s palm in time with the sweet clench of his ass. Sam grunted and tried to push himself even further inside Dean as he gave in to his own orgasm, bright pulses of pleasure that speared him open and left him panting.
When he could see again, he was plastered against Dean’s back, one arm trapped beneath Dean and the other draped over his hip. Dean was breathing hard, contentedly, and their legs were entwined.
“I love you,” he said, his breath hot and wet in the small space between his mouth and Dean’s shoulder.
Dean hummed sleepily. He tugged Sam’s hand up, until it was over his own heart, their fingers laced together. “I heard that,” he said.