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The first time that Dean rolls a blunt in front of him, Sam is mesmerized.

He had almost gotten used to the sight of Dean rolling joints using cigarette papers, the ritual of Dean pulling out that old cigar box from underneath the mangy couch that had come with their cramped apartment, plucking up pinches of the bright green buds between his fingers, the small translucent sheets winding around them, paler than the dark tobacco leaf in his fingers now, when Dean had pulled out the slender object covered in silver plastic-wrap.

“What is that?” Sam had asked, hating how naive he had sounded, but Dean had just smiled, licked his lips.

Sam had only ever smoked a few times, not really enjoying how dry it made his throat and mouth, how itchy his eyes were after.  And he didn’t think he was even getting high.  But he had loved watching how open and loose it made Dean, how his freckled cheeks stretched with smiles so blinding, Sam’s blood pulsed along a little faster.

Dean’s eyes narrow and he pulls the wrapping from it in one motion.  Sam watches transfixed as Dean reaches into his back pocket and switches open his pocketknife with a ‘snick’.  The brown leaf of the cigar is smooth and perfect until Dean brings it to his mouth, licking a broad swipe up the side with the flat of his wet, pink tongue.  Sam feels his blood pool low in his belly and he already knows that watching Dean roll a joint turns him on; this will be torture.

And it is, as Dean holds the slim cigar between his finger and thumb, dragging the sharp tip of his knife through the wet leaf, a perfect straight line.  Flicking the tip under an open flap, Dean pulls the leaf away from the dense nest of pipe tobacco.  Following that line with his finger, he loosens the dark brown matter until it falls down, scatters a little across the marked surface of their small thrift-store coffee table.  Sam swallows hard, eyes the shapes of Dean’s fingers as he caresses the tobacco leaf the way he wants it, licks his own lips as Dean sticks out his tongue and brings the leaf to it again.

The tobacco leaf is shiny with Dean’s spit for a moment after he pulls it away, and Sam’s dick stirs in his pajama pants, letting him know that everything Dean was doing was going to be his jerk-off material for weeks. Dean looks up at him then, away from the small tunnel he was reforming, and his tongue touches the bow of his top lip, licks to taste the bitter raw tobacco across his mouth and Sam is lightheaded.

Dean smiles sideways and returns to his task, taking a giant pinch of green between his fingers and spreading it along the trench of the gutted cigar. He packs the buds down with his thumbs, fingers deftly turning the leaf around itself, giving one fat end a twist that actually makes Sam’s nipples hard with want.  

Then, so suddenly that Sam fucking gasps aloud, he sticks half of it into his mouth.

Sam can’t even try to not stare as Dean pulls the cigar from his mouth, his pink lips pursing around it, saliva shiny, coating the sides.  He flips it and licks his lips again before repeating the action, slickly covering the whole thing.

His breath is rabbiting in and out of him in a way that makes his toes tingle, and forget just getting turned on, Sam can feel his dick growing half-hard in his boxers, his will losing to his 16-year-old body.

Dean smirks down at him then, and Sam has the burning need to make sure that his dick isn’t tenting up his pajama pants, but Dean’s flicking his Zippo and if the sound of the lighter opening and flaring with flame was a kink for Sam, he didn’t know that until right now.  He can’t look away as Dean passes the wet cigar quickly through the Zippo’s steady fire, drying the leaf light brown and sealing the edges of it down flat.

“This,” Dean closes the lighter with a ‘snap’, and Sam’s eyes jump up to Dean’s. “Little brother, is a blunt.”

Dean’s smile is mischievous as he hands it over to Sam.

He takes it between his finger and thumb and tests it’s weight.  It is heavier than the joints he and Dean had smoked together so far, slightly sticky and sweet-smelling when he brings it up to his nose.  “Peaches?”

Dean cackles, reaches over and takes it from Sam easily.  He opens the lighter again, and concentrates it’s flame on the twisted end.  It lights weakly and thick blue smoke curls above Dean’s fingers.  He raises the open end of the cigar to his lips, and sucks in and the glowing end burns brighter, the smoke grows denser. Sam stares at his brother’s full lips as he takes the blunt away and licks them, jaw slacking until he can exhale a steady stream of paler smoke. It smells richer, earthier than the times before, hangs lower around their heads.

Dean passes it to him, and Sam can’t help but shiver at the touch of the damp leaf to his lips, tries to taste Dean’s lingering spit. He is careful to inhale slowly like Dean had taught him, but he can’t get in half of a breath before he’s sputtering it back out again, the thicker taste sticking to his tongue.  His chest clenches, and he is coughing against the harshness of it. 

“Whoa, easy, tiger.” Dean rescues the blunt from Sam’s slack fingers and places a hand across the back of Sam’s neck.  He tries to not lean into it, but the hot brand against his skin grounds him, the tickle in his throat residing as Dean sweeps his hand down his spine. “You okay?”

Sam nods, eyes watering a little as he fixes them on his lap, staring at the frayed edge of one of Dean’s oldest t-shirts. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, croaks out, “It’s just a lot stronger.”

“Ah, shit, Sammy, I should have warned you.” Dean’s hand in his hair tilts his head up so that he can look into Sam’s eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

Blinking away tears, Sam tries to shake his head, catching his breath, “It’s okay.” He clears his throat again.

Dean looks at him hard for a long minute before taking his lower lip into his teeth and worrying at it.  “Let me,” he pauses, placing the blunt against his lips and inhaling deeply again. His hand in Sam’s hair tightens and Sam lets his toes curl with the sharp sensations before Dean chokes out a pinched, “Here…”, pulling Sam in closer.

For a heart-stopping moment, Sam is sure that Dean is going to kiss him, feels the hand in his hair steering his head, tilting him until they are almost perfectly fitted together, Sam almost closing his eyes, and opening his mouth slightly on instinct. Then, Dean stills, inches away from Sam’s lips, his heat and scent invading Sam’s senses, before exhaling out another stream of smoke. Sam starts to inhale mostly on a gasp.  The smoke is smoother, curling down Sam’s throat and out around his cheeks.  It tastes golden with peaches and the beer that Dean had after dinner.  Sam doesn’t know if he’s getting this warm because of the weed, or because of the glow in Dean’s eyes as he watches him exhale, still close enough for his heady aftershave and the lingering smell of leather to permeate the smoky space between them. 

“Better?” Dean asks him, his eyes impossibly green, suddenly so close. Sam nods, licking his lips, chasing the sweet ghost of peach, of Dean’s smoke-breath.  

“Can we do that again?” Sam surprises himself by asking, a tendril of heat snaking through his veins, and he almost wonders if he’ll get high for the first time tonight.  He squashes the thought before it can even manifest, afraid of jinxing it.  If this is the closest that he will ever get to kissing his brother, he would just have to enjoy it while he could.

Dean just smiles soft and nods.  Sam had somehow managed to forget all about Dean’s hand in his hair until Dean begins to idly stroke his fingers against Sam’s scalp, lightly dragging his short fingernails through Sam’s hair, and Sam practically purrs.  Dean chuckles around the blunt, inhaling the smoke before leaning close again, the warmth of his breath dancing across Sam’s lips.

He is more prepared for what will happen this time, and inhales as Dean exhales, trading the thick smoke.  Sam feels proud of being able to do it better, only a small curl of grey escaping from between their lips.  He lets himself wonder for a moment how it would feel to press his lips tight against Dean’s and taste the smoke on his mouth as his brother forced it into his open lungs. His dick twitches, neglected in his pants, and he has to stifle a moan as he exhales, faintly tasting his older brother on his lips.  

Dean sways away a few inches; the fragrant weed and the deep tokes he’s taking to share with Sam are catching up to him, obviously affecting him as he smiles brightly.

“Feeling good, Sammy?”

Sam takes a second to assess himself, answering Dean honestly as he nods, “Yeah.” He feels sort of weightless, his senses dulling and heightening at the same time in the most amazing way.  He licks his lips again and stares into Dean’s face unabashedly, watching the apples of his brother’s cheeks turn pinker under his crystal green eyes, the sharpness of white teeth as Dean flashes that smile at him, quick.



Sam loses track of time, of how many hits Dean has fed him, of how they’ve ended slumped together on their lumpy couch, the comfortable slide of familiar bodies until Sam’s head is pillowed on Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s hand still lazily twisting strands of Sam’s hair around his fingers. Dean no longer has to guide Sam, who is raising his chin willingly to suck the sweet tastes from his brother’s lips.  He still laments that he cannot press his lips to Dean’s and savor the pink of his mouth, but Sam is warm and happy, and so is Dean. He will take what he can get.

Besides, he is hard in his boxers, hips carefully angled and shirt pulled down to conceal the fact, but he is sure that actually touching his lips to Dean’s would be the end of him right there. He would simply implode. Letting himself relax a little further into Dean’s side, he finds himself staring at the amulet, his eyes drawn to the gold tint of it, the shadow it makes on the dark blue of Dean’s tee shirt. Sam reaches up and wraps his finger around it’s black cord before he even realized that he wanted to do it, settling the back of his hand against Dean’s chest. The amulet is warm to the touch, Dean’s heat saturating it. Sam watches the rise and fall of his hand as Dean breathes, as he raises the short stub of the blunt to his lips, inhales and holds the smoke in his lungs for Sam. He smiles, lifting his face to his brother, eyes closed, mouth ready.

The heat of Dean’s face against his own is intoxicating, and Sam can’t stop the small noise at the back of his throat as he exhales the smoke from his lungs. He is floating away on the drug, on the nearness of Dean, the way he smells, the tang of the smoke, their cheap laundry detergent, Dean’s own skin. He can feel the vapor of Dean’s breath hitting his cheek, and is suddenly aware that Dean is still close enough that if he were to simply shift his jaw, he’d be kissing him. Dean’s hand ghosts down to his neck, the wide thumb fitting into the hollow behind Sam’s ear, and Sam is sure that Dean can feel how his pulse jumps. He takes in a shuddering breath, gasping in a lungful of Deanbefore he feels the wet edge of Dean’s lower lip brushing against his own. Sam can’t control his shivers as Dean pushes forward, the barest hint of pressure, before he’s swaying away again.

Sam’s eyes snap open and Dean is smiling at him, eyes full of such love and wonder that Sam can’t breathe against his gaze.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers, sliding both hands to Sam’s face, cradling his cheeks in his wide palms. “Sammy, you have sunflowers in your eyes.”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice comes out deeper than either of them anticipate, lust and need tinting the edges of it rough, and Dean’s eyes flick to Sam’s mouth, stares as Sam licks his lips unconsciously. His blood is rushing through his body so fast, his skin is tingling. Everywhere that he is pressed against his brother burns molten, and he can’t.  He justcan’t anymore. Sam surges forward, taking Dean’s face into his fingers and pulling him closer, suddenly desperate to be kissing his brother.  Dean comes willingly, crashing against Sam, all teeth and noses and everything is just a little too harsh. Then, Dean smiles into Sam’s mouth and cards both hands through his hair, stilling him so that he can kiss him properly, with sweeps of his peach-and-smoke-tinged tongue against Sam’s lips until Sam opens on a sigh, letting Dean taste his teeth, dip further in to caress his tongue. He can’t even think beyond Dean’s name, a litany, a silent prayer in the back of his head. Waves of emotion flood through him, relief, shame, hope, fear, but the most prevalent, love. His blood pounds so loud in his ears as he raises one hand, running his fingers into Dean’s hair, and suddenly, Dean is off of him, off of the couch, in an instant.

Sam stares at the empty place in front of him where Dean had been sitting a moment ago, lips still pursed, hand still curled around air, confused. His skin is crawling, haunted by the lack of Dean’s heat.  He notices now how cold it is in their little apartment, dark outside like it gets only on the wrong side of midnight, wonders how long they’d been laying against each other, smoking, talking, kissing.  Struggling through the thick haze of the drug and arousal, he swings his eyes to the side, to see Dean standing there, brushing ash from the front of his pajama pants, the action drawing Sam’s attention to the fact that Dean’s dick is hard, pushing against the seam of fabric. And that he’s not wearing any underwear.


“Fucking hell,” Dean is saying, fingering at a small singed hole near his hip, the aftermath of a fire. Sam finally pulls his eyes away from the flash of soft skin, looks up at Dean’s face, his red cheeks.  “I fucking dropped the fucking blunt.” Dean chuckles self-depreciatively, rolling his eyes at himself.

Sam stands, reaches out to grab Dean’s face, holding him still.  He can’t believe he’d never noticed before.  “Dean, wait.” Dean’s cheeks fill his hands as he smiles before going slack, letting Sam hold him. “Your eyes are fields of clover, Dean.” His scarlet blush threw into contrast the beautiful unique green of Dean’s eyes. The realization of how gorgeous Dean is hits him so hard, his eyes prickle sharply. He had always known that his brother was attractive, one of the most gorgeous people he’d ever seen, but never before had all of his natural charm, his passion, his desire, been aimed at him like this. He watches as Dean’s eyes smile, so warmed at his words.

Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, pulling him in closer, starts to lean in for a kiss before he stops, looks down into Sam’s eyes with a question. “We’re not just doing this because we’re really stoned, right?” He runs a hand across Sam’s lower back soothingly.  “Because, damn it, Sam,” he is loosened under the drug, tongue betraying his secrets willingly, “I want you.  I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember, but if you don’t feel the same, or if this is freaking you out, we can stop. I don’t want this to be just because you’re high.” His eyes break a little, and Sam is quick to step forward, one hand cradling the back of Dean’s neck.  “I don’t want to take advantage of you, Sam.”

“You’re not, Dean.” Sam shakes his head, leaning further into Dean’s arms, almost chest against chest, but he has to make this clear to Dean before they could get lost in each other again. A tingle shoots up his spine as he realizes that he will get to kiss Dean again, gets to touch him like this, and he can’t wait for more. He knows that, even at his most inebriated, Dean doesn’t like to talk about their feelings, would rather stuff them down deep, prefers action, so he keeps it light and quick, trying to put most of how he feels into his eyes, knowing that if nothing he said got through to him, Dean would be able to read it there. “It’s okay. I want this too. Dean, I’ve never wanted anything more in all of my life. I promise.”

Dean closes his eyes and melts into Sam’s arms at his words, the amulet digging into Sam as his brother drags him close finally, chests slamming against each other.  “Sammy,” is an invocation against his lips, as he opens to Dean again, and lets him take everything he wants. He can’t help the noises in the back of his throat, moans trapped by Dean’s tongue, and he doesn’t care, finally fitting himself tight against Dean, seeking heat and friction. Dean catches on, always the quick study, and shifts them so that he can slip his knee between Sam’s thighs. The weight of Dean’s dick against his hip is so hot, his veins feel scorched.  Has to pull away to gasp against Dean’s cheek, the sensations flooding through his body simply too much. “Dean,” he chokes out broken against his brother’s skin, and at the sound of his voice, Dean growls, fitting his thigh high against Sam’s cock, and Sam can’t catch the whimper that escapes. One of Dean’s hands shoots up to take Sam’s hair again, to curl his fingers and tilt Sam’s head to the side.  His lips smear hot across Sam’s face, and Sam almost cries as Dean clamps his mouth to the joint between his neck and shoulder, teeth worrying at the edges of his skin as he sucks a bruise.

Sam can’t remember the last time he had ever been this hard, a damp patch in his boxers growing quickly, clinging the fabric to him. He can’t stop from rocking himself against the heat of Dean’s thigh, almost shaking with the intensity of it. “God, Dean.”

Answering him with a vicious bite, Dean grunts, sliding his hands to Sam’s lithe hips, thumbs finding the indentions there as though if they were made to fit, dragging them together lewdly. “Sammy, yeah.” Dean lifts Sam easily against his front, holding him as he turns them, and falls back onto the couch, settling Sam in his lap.

Oof,” Sam lands hard, hand slapping to the back of the couch next to Dean’s head for support, breath gasping out of him further as he realizes that Dean’s dick is pinned awkward and sinful-hot between his cock and Dean’s shaking belly, only separated by three layers of cloth. He curses his decision to put on these damn boxers after his shower.  But, then, he really didn’t ever expect for them to be a hindrance to being closer to Dean, closer to Dean’s cock as his older brother held his hips hard, surely leaving bruises for Sam to linger over tomorrow, trying to match his fingers to where Dean had gripped him tight.

Dean pulls him forward, shuffling under him until they finally line up together, and Sam can’t move, has to bite on his bottom lip and start counting backwards very slowly from ten, and imagine his last English teacher, the one with the weird crossed-eyes and the beginnings of a decent mustache, just to keep himself from coming against Dean, because Jesus Christ, he’d never felt anything so perfect. He manages to make it to seven before Dean ruins everything by threading his hands through Sam’s hair, drawing Sam down for a languid kiss.  

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby boy.  I’ve got you.”

It’s more of a wet heat against his lips than actual sound, but Sam hears the words all the same, lets his tongue dart out to taste them, still faintly smoke-tinged, tobacco-bitter and peach-sweet, but distinctly Dean. He knows that Dean has him, has lived his entire life with that knowledge, but a different heat still blooms in his belly at the reassurance.

Slowly, Dean starts to trail one hand away from its death-grip on Sam’s hip, letting it move up to the hem of one of Dean’s old shirts, bunching the soft folds of it up until he could trace his fingers up the knobs of Sam’s spine, the calluses and sharp whorls of Dean’s palm catching rough against the skin of his back. As electrifying as the touch is, it’s a familiar one. It is still soothing now too, calming Sam down. He lays his chest against Dean’s, still thrilling at the contact of their heated skin, one hand landing over the rapid beat of Dean’s heart, lets Dean smooth his hand down his back, until he can slip his fingertips under the loose waistband of Sam’s pants.

The brush of Dean’s fingers, whisper-light against the cleft of his ass in his most threadbare boxers has him biting at Dean’s mouth, gasping out his name.  He vehemently apologizes for having cursed the boxers out earlier, the worn, soft cotton amazing under Dean’s touch.  And as quick as his fingers grazed across the top of his ass cheek, they are gone, Dean’s wide palm curling gracefully up the lean muscles in Sam’s back, leaving Sam trembling, breath hitching loudly.

Dean mumbles nonsense and praise, voice thick with honeyed promises, dark with lust, and Sam tries to cling to the sound of it. “Dean,” he whispers, and Dean kisses him again, taking Sam’s plush lower lip between his own, nibbles at it with the edge of teeth once before releasing him.

“Sammy, my Sammy,” Dean’s other hand climbs into Sam’s hair, and holds him still as Dean stares at him. His hips press down into Dean’s instinctually under the piercing green stare, sliding their dicks together heavy.

Dean only falters for a moment, eyes falling half-lidded and clouding beautifully with arousal, before he smiles.  “My smart, sweet Sammy.”

Sam can’t really think beyond trying to concentrate on Dean’s words.  It isn’t often that Dean lets his mouth get away from him, and Sam is secretly, shamefully, pleased at the constant praise, feeling himself blush even pinker.  He rocks himself against his brother again, setting a slow, crushing rhythm that is mostly subconscious.  Sam is terrified of moving too much, of breaking this spell.

Dean just grabs the ass of Sam’s thin pajama pants, his large hands each taking over one round cheek, the heat of his fingers ghosting over the crease of his ass, holds Sam tight against him.

“So gorgeous,” Dean groans out, parting his thighs further under Sam, so that they are pressed together even harder. Sam fists both hands in Dean’s shirt, trying to keep his head above the waves of pleasure crashing through him.  It was so much more than anything he could have imagined, better because it is real.  Dean is everywhere and everything all at once now.  Everything that Sam has ever wanted, ever needed. He’s dizzy with it.

“I tried so hard, baby.” Dean is slack-jawed below him, thrusting up against Sam, pulling him forward with the hands on his ass.  “I tried so hard to stay away from you, but I couldn’t.” Sam sobs out a gasp as Dean twists his hips beneath him.  “God, Sammy. I’m so sorry, but I fucking couldn’t.” Sam shifts forward, unable to fight the desire to kiss Dean any longer. Dean’s hot words are mumbled against Sam’s lips, his confession of sins, and it’s only after Sam licks into his mouth that Dean whimpers and stops trying to speak. Sam refuses to let Dean shoulder the responsibility of their trespass alone, absolving Dean of his guilt with his tongue.  

When Dean’s fingers graze the bare skin of Sam’s ass, it makes Sam jump in surprise, a small squeak coming from the back of his throat. He had been so intent on kissing Dean that he didn’t even notice Dean’s hands leaving his ass cheeks, fingers burrowing under his clothes. Pulling away from Sam’s lips only enough to speak damply into them, Dean starts to beg, pleads that make Sam’s blood boil, just hearing them. “Please, Sam. Just want — I need to touch you, please. Feel like I’m going crazy, Sammy.”

Sam nods, ‘Yeah,” agrees to all of it, knows exactly how Dean feels. “Okay.”

Dean groans against his mouth before kissing him again, biting his bottom lip between his teeth before letting him go.  “You’re mine, Sammy, all mine.  You know that, right?”

Sam’s insides are burning, he can’t think straight against the pleasure and Dean’s words are tripping wires in his brain, his stomach clenching tight. Sam increases their rhythm, crushes his dick harder into Dean’s, feels another pearl of pre-come slide down his swollen cockhead, boxers stuck to him, wet spot starting to soak into the fabric of his pants. “I know, Dean. I know.”

Slipping his fingers down the cleft of Sam’s ass, Dean whispers his hands down the tender skin, sending Sam keening, jolting forward, then pushing back wantonly into the inquisitive press of Dean’s fingertips.

'Please, Sammy,” Dean whimpers out, suddenly sounding desperate, and Sam nods again, silently gives Dean permission to do whatever he likes. Dean sighs, deep and full of longing, before reaching and trailing one finger until the rough pad of it just catches the rim of Sam's asshole, the tight ring of muscle quivering and jumping under the tip of Dean's finger.

"Shit, Dean!" Sam shivers against his brother, that fingertip just lightly applying pressure, and Sam doesn’t even realize he’s making that noise until he has to stop to hitch his breath in hard. Dean has added another, two hot points of contact against one of the most secret parts of him, but it’s Dean, whom he trusts with his whole life, and nothing could be better. He’s sweaty and shaking and he knows that he’s going to come all over himself very soon, his cock throbbing in his pants, nestled sweetly against the heat and hard friction of Dean’s.

"Sammy," Dean’s voice is caramel-smooth, the word itself meaning so much more than just Sam’s name. It meant home and love and brother. And more, so many things that neither of them could ever put into words. Dean’s hips writhe under Sam, and Sam gasps, pulling back enough to see Dean’s face, the sharp red of his lower lip where his teeth had sunk in so hard, the lush green of his clover eyes. Those eyes so full of everything that mattered. One sharp twist of Dean’s hips, the barest nudge of those two fingers against Sam’s asshole, and before he realizes it, he’s coming, mouth opening wide on Dean’s name, a whine starting from deep in his chest as his dick pulses hot between them.

Dean huffs a rough laugh at him, praise tumbling mindlessly, breathlessly, from his lips as his hips jerk against Sam’s. Then, he’s pressing one fingertip just into the molten heat of Sam as he is still shuddering through the aftershocks, clenching unconsciously around the sweet burn of Dean inside of him. Sam feels the moment that Dean freezes beneath him, his breath climbing higher in his throat before he’s practically bellowing out, “Jesus, fucking shit, Sammy,” and shaking apart below him. Sam’s spent cock twitches feebly against Dean’s as his brother squirms under him, eyes blown wide, so verdantly green. He feels another weak dribble of come slip over his sensitive cock as Dean’s free hand clutches at Sam’s ass cheek, his lush moans of pleasure too loud in the quiet night. Sam almost feels as though he could get off again, right now, his brother pornographic beneath him.

"Goddamn, little brother." Dean whispers weakly, clears his throat finally, still spasming periodically, gasping in huge lungfuls of air. He drags Sam down with a hand in his hair, sealing their lips together sweetly as their chests heave against one another.

Sam can’t contain the two hot tears that squeeze out of the corners of his eyes as he closes them tight, simply overwhelmed with feelings he couldn’t even begin to describe. His heart feels as though it is full of bubbles, his blood zinging through his body, effervescent.

Dean’s hands are on his cheeks in an instant, pulling away from their kiss, wiping the wetness away with his thumbs. “Oh shit, Sammy. Did I hurt you?” Dean’s voice breaks, and Sam opens his eyes. Sees fear and shame in his older brother’s. “Fucking hell,” Dean starts. “I fucking knew I…”

He is quick to shake his head out of Dean’s grip before smiling, “No, Dean.” He leans forward until he can tuck his face into the side of Dean’s neck, Dean’s arms wrapping around his back to hold him close instantly. His brother’s skin is intoxicating, scent musky, damp with sweat and Sam can’t resist licking out and tasting him. He feels Dean’s shudder run through him before he dips his head and speaks against the cotton covering Dean’s collarbone. “You didn’t hurt me, you big goof. That was most definitely the best orgasm I could ever imagine having, much less actually experience.”

Dean relaxes under him, chuckling. “Oh, just wait, baby.  I’ve got so much to teach you.” His arms tighten around Sam, his voice dark with promise, before placing a tender kiss on Sam’s forehead.

Sam smiles against Dean’s shirt, sighs down, content, and molds himself to his brother’s frame, letting himself go lax. He closes his eyes and ends up falling asleep to the echo of his brother’s heartbeat, the pound of his blood in his ear.


When Sam opens his eyes around noon the next day, he is laying alone on the couch in clean boxers, covered with the afghan from Dean’s own bed. He rubs sleep from his eyes as he wakes up, and realizes that Dean must have cleaned him, changed him, wrapped them in the blanket, fallen asleep next to him, and he had just slept througheverything. He tries to not wonder where Dean is now, but in telling himself not to worry about where Dean is, he does. So, he listens to his body instead of his breaking heart and aching mind, and untangles himself reluctantly from Dean’s blanket, finally taking in one huge lungful of the scent of his brother before swinging his legs over the couch and riding the headrush as he sits up.  He is thirsty, hungry, and has to pee like a fucking racehorse. He figures he can pee and splash some water on his face at the same time in the bathroom, so he goes there first.

It is only after he’d gotten cleaned up a little and is staring into the fridge, trying to figure out if eight days past the expiration date is acceptable for milk, when he realizes it’s Saturday, and Dean has to work Saturdays. His heart swells as he realizes that Dean didn’t leave him alone that morning for all of the reasons he hadn’t been letting himself think of, but rather because he had an obligation to something else. It sinks again as he finds a new worry.  That when Dean does finally come home in 5 and a half hours, they would pretend like nothing had happened. Now that he knows the silken press of his brother’s lips against his own, Sam is sure that he could not bare never feeling it again.

He gives himself one moment of pure panic before he takes a deep breath and stops. Looks around the kitchen, into the living room beyond. Starts to form a plan.


After shoveling in a breakfast of toast and blackberry jam, Sam brushes his teeth and hair, pulls on a tee shirt and a pair of sweats, canvases the area and begins to work.  He scrounges up all of their nasty clothes, damp towels, and dingy sheets from around the apartment and loads them into one of their large laundry bags, dumps out the leftover ashes from the blunt from the old cracked ashtray Dean had stolen from that diner in Pittsburgh. They had the tendency to become slovenly since Dad had started leaving them alone for weeks at a time, so Sam also gathers all of the dirty dishes lying around the living room and Dean’s bedroom, deposits them in the kitchen for washing later, grabs their laundry detergent from the pantry, and digs into the jar of quarters there that he and Dean kept stocked for just this purpose. Finally, after fishing one of Dean’s fermenting socks from between two couch cushions, Sam hefts the laundry onto his back, takes a quick survey around the apartment and decides it looks a lot better already. Locks the door behind him and trudges down to the basement.


Once he’s through the hell of half-assedly folding the fitted sheets, Sam finds a sort of zen in the act of folding the rest of the bedding, all of their towels, and then their clothes, letting the muscle memory in his arms take over and his mind wander. At first, he won’t allow himself to think about last night, and early this morning, but eventually, telling yourself not to think about the elephant in the room will only result in pink elephants dancing around in your head. Once he gets to a pair of Dean’s black boxers, he admits defeat and lets himself remember the feeling of Dean’s lips against his own, the harshness of his breath in Sam’s ear, shared secrets sighed in the solitude of night that Dean would never admit to in the light of day. Carefully, checking the closed laundry room door to be sure that the nice old Catholic lady from the floor above their apartment wasn’t going to come crashing in through the frame, finger pointing accusingly at him, ‘Sinner!’ rasping from her lips, Sam looks down at his own hip, pinches the tee shirt material in between his finger and thumb and lifts it.

When he had woken up this morning and used the bathroom, the bruises had been only hints of faint purple smudges, matching sets of thumbprints along his hip bones. If he hadn’t been searching that area purposefully, he wouldn’t have counted them noticeable compared to some of the more vicious he had acquired over the years.

Now, they were turning an angry aubergine purple, pink around the edges. He drops his shirt and fits his own thumbs along them, having to dig under his waistbands to feel the slight swell of the skin, heat and inflammation from his body trying to heal the wound.

As he stands there, blush staining his cheeks, thumbs tucked into the warmth of his clothes, as the dryer dings the end of the last cycle behind him, he wishes he could tell himself to stop healing these bruises, to let him keep just these, the marks of his older brother’s passion branded hot on his skin.


By the time Dean is 30 minutes late, Sam is sitting on their couch, hands in his hair as he sits bent over his knees, eyes tight, trying to not fucking cry and think about how he’d cleaned up and made the beds and cooked and washed the dishes and showered and dressed in his favorite jeans for no fucking reason, or all the other horrible scenarios he could come up with about why his brother was late. The most insane one, the one that had even Sam wondering just when this lovestruck over his brother he had become, was when he was sure that Dean had come home sometime during the day, while Sam was in the basement doing the laundry, had packed a bag, and had left Sam all alone because he couldn’t even stand the sight of him to tell him goodbye.  It was the most alarming thought because Sam had all of his clothes, save the ones on his back. He had still cracked open the door to Dean’s room to check and make sure the rest of his stuff was still there.

He tries to reason with himself that Dean never really did tell him outright if he was coming home tonight, or if he was going out.  It is a Saturday night. Dean could very well be out right now.  With someone.  Maybe someone hot had seen him while he was working at the garage, sweat-sleek and musky, grease across his forehead from a swipe with the wrong end of a rag, and had asked his adorable brother out for dinner.  Maybe dancing.  Maybe he was dancing close with some beautiful brunette with limpid eyes and his brother’s hands tracing down her sides, curves for days and Sam is retching, almost bending over double with disgust when he hears Dean calling out his name.

“Sammy? What’s wrong?” Dean’s by his side in an instant, hand hot across the back of his neck and Sam gasps against the contact, shamefully feeling alive and whole for the first time since he’d woke up alone that morning. The bile in his stomach subsides that he realizes that the doe-eyed girl is a ghost, and he shakes her and the image from his head, focusing on the fact that Dean is home, and real, beside him.

Dean roughly pulls him to his feet when he apparently feels like Sam has taken far too long to answer him, “Damn it, Sam. What the hell’s wrong? Are you okay? You looked like you wanted to fucking puke and punch someone at the same damn time!”

“How long have you been home?” Sam asks him instead, idly, wondering how he’d been so wrapped up in wanting to murder a fictitious person that he completely ignored all of the training that had been ingrained into him, hadn’t even heard Dean unlocking the door, closing and locking it behind him, or walking across the hardwood floor. He’d never pegged himself for being so jealous.

Dean knits his eyebrows at him and his hands fall from their grip on Sam’s biceps to catch him loosely around his elbows. Sam can read his brother and tell that he still isn’t sure what is going on, but since Sam’s being calm enough to think, he’s trying to calm down too.

“Less than a minute, dumbass. Didn’t you hear me calling your name from the door?” One of Dean’s hands travels up, turns Sam’s chin this way and that, Dean silently making sure Sam hadn’t been visibly injured, before his hand finds its way to Sam’s hair, tangling in the damp thickness of it, and Sam is sure that Dean catches a noise in the back of this throat. “What were you thinking about, anyway?”

Sam’s brain flashes with that image of a woman in Dean’s arms and he shakes his head again, smiling at himself as all of his worries of the last half hour, hell, all fucking day, finally melt away with the pressure of Dean’s hand on the skin of his arm, his hand in his hair, the thumb idly stroking across the sensitive skin of his neck as almost an afterthought.

“Nothing,” he finally answers, smirking up at Dean. “Just the memory of a nightmare.” He still doesn’t look completely convinced, and Sam smiles before Dean can ask if he’s sure he’s okay again. “Really, Dean. I’m fine. Now.” And he is, because Dean isn’t out somewhere, with someone, or off on a deserted highway, clocking the miles between him and his fucked up little brother. He’s here, safe, with Sam, right where he needed to be for the rest of forever. Unconsciously, he leans into the heat of his brother’s hand in his hair, sighs a noise of contentment before he can stop himself.

Dean’s eyes flash down to Sam’s lips and Sam licks across them, almost invitingly before making himself quit flirting with his brother. The reassurance of Dean’s presence was enough to make him forget about the plan and flirting with his brother is definitely not a part of the plan until he knew how Dean wanted to treat last night.

The plan, he sternly reminds himself, was to clean up the house and have dinner ready for Dean when he got home, part one already implemented and grown cold on the table, and after eating said dinner, to let Dean know that they needed to talk, before either of them could get the wrong idea, and over a beer for the both of them, to keep the situation manly, they would discuss what was going to happen between them, like adults.

So, for now, Sam clears his throat, licks his lips again because his mouth is suddenly dry, and, unable to hide a soft quirk of his lips despite his brain telling his libido to stop as Dean still stares at him, he asks Dean instead, “So, why are you half an hour late to dinner?”

Chuckling at him, Dean smirks, says, “I was so excited to get home, I was halfway here before I realized I forgot to stop, but I was wondering…” before pausing and releasing Sam’s elbow to dig into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out a slender object covered in silver plastic-wrap, holds it up so that Sam can see it, rich scent of peaches clinging to it.

There is a blush high on Dean’s cheeks when Sam turns to him, wide-eyed, the fingers in Sam’s hair curling as Dean leans in a little closer to him, licking his pink tongue across his lips as his eyelids grow heavy, nostrils flaring. Dean’s eyes are on his lips again as Sam sighs unwillingly, seeing Dean look at him as though he were an object to be wanted, even desired, and the plan flies out of the fucking window as Dean leans forward and finally kisses Sam again, cradling his chin in one hand, sweeping his thumb across the paper-thin, satiny skin under his eye, before whispering against his lips,

“Can we do that again?”