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Dean attacks him the minute he walks through the door. There’s no other word for it. Sam barely makes it down the bunker staircase before he’s pinned to a wall, Dean’s mouth devouring his. There’s not even time to set down his bags; they slip from his fingers, contents spilling everywhere, so he can cup Dean’s jaw instead, his other hand going to Dean’s waist. They make out for a good five minutes, kissing out in the open as brazen as a new couple in high school, grabbing a spare moment between the bell. In a way, it’s not totally inaccurate. This—being together—is still new. It’s barely been a month since Sam pulled Dean’s phone away from his face one afternoon and did what he’d been too frightened to do his whole life.
(Sam still couldn’t say why he chose the moment when he did, exactly; if the trigger had been defeating Chuck, he should’ve have done it almost a year ago. Instead, he waited. What he was waiting for, he couldn’t say. For all the darkness in his head to settle and dissipate? To admit what he’s already known for too long? To finally feel safe? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like to analyze it.)
The point is, it’s still a raw, this thing between them. They’re still learning about this part of each other—the only part left they don’t already know backward and forward. They can be shy, awkward even, which is truly a bizarre state of affairs for two people who’ve known each other their whole lives. If Sam didn’t know Dean would talk smack for saying so, he would say they were going slow. He can still count on two hands how many times they’ve been past first base.
Dean’s hands drift downward, where he toys with Sam’s zipper. Sam’s brain comes back online. “Woah, woah,” he says, gently guiding Dean away. It takes a moment for Dean to back up, but luckily, he doesn’t look too put out—just annoyed. “What’s all this?”
Dean doesn’t answer at first, grabbing at Sam’s hips and kissing up his neck. “Wassit look like?” he mumbles as his grip slides further back.
Sam jumps when Dean squeezes his butt. “Y-yeah, but—”
“But what?” Dean asks though he doesn’t sound too interested in the answer. “Don’t you wanna?”
Of course he wants to. There’s a little spot behind his left ear that makes his brain go pleasurably fuzzy and stupid that only one person in the entire world knows about—and Dean just became the second. Equally distracting is Dean rhythmically massaging his ass, occasionally gripping in a way that suggests something more intimate. And, of course, there’s the erection grinding against his front, which his own rapidly rises to meet. It’s almost humiliating how little it takes to get him going these days—they’re both way too old to be playing grab-ass like this in the front door of their house.
“Going kinda fast, aren’t we?” Sam gasps. He regrets the words the second they come out of his mouth. He’s also too old to be sounding like a junior on their first date. That’s good blackmail material for a few weeks, at least.
But Dean doesn’t jump on the opportunity to rib him. He’s too busy untucking Sam’s shirt from his pants. “So?”
“So? Dean—” Sam pushes Dean back, for real this time, far enough that Dean has to actually take his hands off him for a moment so they can both breathe. To his surprise, Dean’s face reddens in a way Sam knows isn’t just from arousal, fidgeting in place. “What’s going on?”
Sam tries not to go down the worst-case scenario track but it’s sort of habit by this point. Dean’s in danger. Dean’s cursed. Dean’s sick. Dean’s dying. Dean’s dying, and he’s trying to say goodbye.
Sam waits. Dean offers a weak grin. “I missed you?” he offers. Sam raises an eyebrow. True, he had been away for a pickup—very rare, very valuable lore books he negotiated away from a witch friend of Rowena’s for their library, all of which were currently dumped all over the floor—but he’d only been gone for two days, maybe two and a half. Dean, wanting no part of any “witchy nerd bullshit” opted to stay behind and run errands instead. There shouldn’t have been time or opportunity for Dean to get into anything untoward, but, well, they both have a history of failing miserably of keeping out of trouble. “C’mon, Sam, can’t we just—”
“Dean, seriously,” Sam interrupts firmly. “What’s going on?”
Dean’s face amazingly gets even redder. He scratches the back of his head and averts his gaze. “I, uh. I can’t stop thinking about it,” Dean admits.
It takes a moment for Dean’s confession to click. It. It. Three days before Sam left, he and Dean had gone all the way (gone all the way, Christ, how juvenile could he get) for the first time. It was strange. And clumsy. And they’d had to stop twice because it turns out, no, there is no such thing as too much lube. And Sam actually had to postpone his trip because sitting was such a pain and he bitched about for a good day and a half after.
And Dean couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Now Sam’s blushing too, neither able to look at each other. Sam would hardly call that his best performance. Any and all attempts to come across as sexy just became awkward when he realized the one looking at him had seen him through every (unfortunate) stage of puberty. Every noise that came out of his mouth was either too loud or too weird. And he knows he could have responded more, given Dean positive feedback during the whole thing instead of just snapping at him when he asked for the millionth time if he was okay. It’s not like it hadn’t felt good, eventually, but part of him had still been so freaked out that he when he finally came it was as much of a surprise as it was a relief. They didn’t even share a bed after, and Sam spent half the night utterly mortified, unable to sleep. He was sure it’d be a couple of weeks, maybe even a month, before they made another attempt. He didn’t want to wait that long but he couldn’t even look Dean directly in the eye right up until he left.
But now Dean’s studying his face with intense scrutiny, the embarrassment slowly fading from his own. “I was fine while you were still here but, man, the minute you walked out that door... I thought I was going nuts,” he says intently. “I kept having these flashbacks. Like, Full Technicolor Stereophonic Surround Sound.”
Sam winces. “That bad, huh?” he asks lightly. Dean shakes his head and steps a little closer.
“It’s never been that way before, you know? Not even after my first time.” Cautiously, Dean reaches out, laying a hand on Sam’s arm. “I kept thinking about... hell, I dunno, everything. How you taste, how you smell. The look on your face when I finally got naked. What you look like naked, obviously.”
There must be something on his face giving Dean the green light because he steps closer, trailing his hand up and down in a slow, soothing motion. “Jesus, you know you’re gorgeous right? And looking at you hard and knowing all of that was for me... You have no idea what that does to a guy.”
“I have some idea,” Sam manages. Now they’re back a square one, Dean pressing Sam against the wall, hands wandering up his body. Dean smirks and presses the advantage.
“The minute I saw your dick,” Dean murmurs, “I wanted to choke on it.” Sam’s mouth instantly goes dry. “I’d never gone down a guy before, and you’re so fucking huge, I was too chicken shit to go for it. But I was drooling for it the entire time. At least until I got you turned over.”
Sam’s once again losing his ability to think. Dean succeeds in pulling out his shirt. The minute he does, he goes for skin, groping and exploring; Sam gasps when he pinches a nipple.
“That ass. Fuck. I can’t believe you let me tap that,” Dean continues. To demonstrate he grabs it again, this time without disguising his intention in the slightest, digging his fingers in a spreading his cheeks as much as he can within the confines of his pants. Dean’s mouth never stops moving, whether to nip and suck at his jaw or whisper more nonsense in his ear. “Let me get you all sloppy. Working all those fingers in you, seeing you shake all over for me. Fuck.” He can’t actually reach, Sam knows he can’t through his jeans, but he still moans when Dean rubs along his crack, teasing his hole. “And when I got in you? Felt you squeezing my dick? God, I almost lost it then and there.”
Sam wishes he could hold himself open, let Dean inside again, but he’s too stupid to figure out how. All he can do is whine and grind against his brother, imagining. “Shit, I’d done anal before but it was different you, know?” Dean rumbles in his ear. “Watching myself fuck you. The way your back looked, and your sweat. And the sounds that you made... Christ. The minute you were gone, those sounds popped up in my head and I had to jerk off, right then and there.” Sam shakes his head and Dean seizes him, holding him still as he circles his hips against Sam’s. “I did. Did twice more after that. Every day you were gone. I don’t think there’s a room in here I haven’t pulled one off in now.”
“Gross,” Sam gasps, the closest thing to a coherent thought he’s had in several minutes.
Dean chuckles. “It’s true. But nothing helped. Nothing can compare. You got me obsessed, man,” he confesses. “Don’t even know how I can get hard anymore but you told me you were an hour out and I was ready to go. I fucking need you, Sammy.”
That’s it. Sam shoves Dean back and Dean stumbles, nearly tripping over the books in surprise. Now, Sam can see it— the wildness in Dean’s eyes, every inch of him oozing desperation. He’s like a cat in heat. Worse, like a junkie itching for a taste. And Sam just deprived him of a hit.
“Bedroom,” Sam insists before Dean can think he’s being rejected. That gaze grows impossibly darker, and the smile more wicked. Their first attempt might not have been the stuff of romance novels but it was enough to get Dean hooked... and Sam’s pretty sure he’s got the same addiction.