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Somewhere south of Saginaw, Michigan, the sun setting low and pink, Sam leans over in the passenger seat and turns down the music. Dean spins on him, mouth open, ready to hurl insults at the little bitch when Sam sighs back into the seat, crossing his arms, resting his head against the soft leather of the Impala, watching Dean drive. Dean's protests die in his throat as he takes in the dark circles under Sam's eyes, lit eerily by the low light. Sam speaks. "Tonight, can we order in some pizza, and watch horrible movies on TV?"

Dean glances away from the road to look at his brother, notices how Sam's eyes are watching him, waiting. They do deserve a night off, after all. They'd traveled across three states in only a few days, following cases back to back to back. Watching crappy movies and eating crappy food sounded perfect. Besides, Dean never really could tell Sam 'No'.

"Sure, Sammy."

Sam's smile is quiet, but Dean can feel how pleased he is. He knocks his knuckles against Sam's knee, careful to keep the gesture simple, innocent.


Less than an hour later, Dean pulls the Impala into the parking lot of a dreary looking motel, nowhere near their seediest, but Dean still locks up his baby's doors, patting her as he walks past, into the office. He leaves Sam behind, punching information into his phone, probably looking for a pizza place nearby. Dean taps the bell on the desk, looks around for the manager, then turns back to watch Sam scowl at his phone, long finger sliding up and down the screen. He turns away briefly as the manager appears, closing a door behind him, and Dean smiles, going for his wallet automatically. He only pays half attention to the transaction, to the manager's tattering, watching as Sam looks up from his phone, blue light casting strange shadows around his eyes. Sam doesn't seem to see Dean watching him, instead turning and looking out of the back window of the car.

"Mr. Young?" The manager, Jon according to his name tag, calls Dean again, holding out the credit card, receipt, and the door key. Dean shakes himself, tearing his eyes away from the back of Sam's head. "Thanks," he mutters, rushing out of the office. He has to get himself under better control, has to stop staring at his little brother. 'I'm just tired,' he tells himself, pushing open the door hard and stepping into the night.

Sam is unfolding his long legs from the black car as Dean stands on the sidewalk, shoving the card and receipt into a pocket of his jeans. "There's a pizzeria," Sam locks the door and closes it behind him. "About a block south from here. It's gotten some pretty decent reviews, and I can just walk there." Sam rakes his hand through his hair, and Dean makes himself look away from the sweet curve of Sam's cheek, a streetlight bathing it in weak orange light. Sam is watching him now, waiting, not so much for permission, more for acknowledgement.

"Sure, we're in 114." Dean looks down at the key in his hand, holds it up for Sam to see the number on the plastic tag.

Sam nods before sticking his large hands in the pockets of his jacket and turning on his heel. He glances sideways at Dean as he asks, "The usual? Right?" He doesn't wait for an answer, and Dean doesn't give him one, preferring instead to watch Sam's ass as he walks away.


Dean showers as fast as he can, not taking the chance of giving himself enough time under the water's hot spray to think about his baby brother. He already knows how that will go, and as much as he aches for it, half-hard just thinking about thinking about it, he won't let himself give in. He can't. So, he is showered and dressed, attempting to lounge casually on the bed closest to the door, when Sam walks in, large pizza box in one hand, and a plastic bag in the other.

"About time, dude. I'm starving." Dean complains as he gets up, reaching for the plastic bag first, because it looks like it may contain a six-pack of beer. It does. Dean clutches it to his chest as he removes it from the bag. "Oh, never mind. All is forgiven," he crows, pulling the first bottle from the case and cracking it open with the handle of his pocket knife.

"Yeah, yeah. Bring home beer, and I'm the best little brother in the world. Wake you up when you tell me to, and all of a sudden, I'm the devil spawn."

"There is your mistake, Sammy. Next time, wake me up with the beer."

Sam shakes his head, smiling despite himself, as he puts the pizza pie on their small table, and slides into one of the uncomfortable chairs. He flips open the cardboard, and motions Dean to the table. "Dean, you've got to come smell this."

Dean pulls the other uncomfortable chair out from the table and drops into it, leaning over the pizza, letting it's heat hit him in the face. It did smell pretty incredible.

Sam scoops one big hand under a slice, pulling it up and away. Mozzarella stretches between the slice and the pie, and Sam huffs out a laugh. "That's how you know it's good pizza, right?"

Dean knows that he is staring. Knows that if he had any brains, he'd pull his eyes away from the pink of Sam's lips, still smiling, wrapped around one long finger, sucking savory marinara sauce from the tip. Knows this, really, but still can't look away. That innocent action, and Dean's mind is full of the image of Sam, naked, walking to the bathroom in some shady motel. He never lets himself remember that night, and he tries hard once again, to slam the door on those memories. Almost succeeds.

When he had no other choice but to ask his baby brother to help him find their father, Dean knew that Sam would be changed. Would have grown into his own man, once he was out from under John's wing. Out from under Dean's. He had expected certain things to be different. He hadn't expected that Sam would now prefer to sleep in the nude. And would have no qualms about continuing this practice even after rejoining Dean on the hunt.

He wishes he could remember it better, to be honest, but it had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that Dean barely had time to register what had happened until it was half over. He couldn't remember what state they were in, what month it was, but he could remember the way that the light from the bathroom slashed across his eyes and woke him enough to see Sam's naked body silhouetted in the frame of the door. He stumbled his way into the room, and disappeared from Dean's line of sight. He heard familiar sounds, the flush of a toilet, the sink splashing water for a moment, then Sam was in the doorway again, light wrapping itself around the lines of his hips, teasing along his ribs, and Dean couldn't breathe. The weight of the knowledge that he found his little brother sexy sat heavy on Dean's chest, tingled through his veins.

He had always known that Sam was beautiful. It was one of those simple truths in life. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Sammy is beautiful. But in that moment, Dean had wanted Sam. Had wanted his little brother so fervently, so feverishly, that it scared the shit out of him. And if he were ever to be honest with himself, it hadn't been the first time.

"Dean?" Sam is waving his wide palm in Dean's face, eyebrows knit in concern.

"What?" Dean's voice is rough, and he glares at Sam, suddenly frustrated and letting it turn into anger. At himself, at Sam, he doesn't know. But as quick as it appears, it dissipates, and he can't be mad at Sam. Not really. He scrubs a hand across his face, telling himself again that he's simply overtired. They have been working their asses off, that's all. "Sorry, Sammy. Just tired." He covers his embarrassment with a quick smile, and digs into the pizza, letting the melting cheeses and warm marinara invade his senses. He pushes his memories back into their room. For now.

Dinner demolished, and two empty beer bottles in front of him, Dean waves Sam off when he says he's going to go and hit the shower. It is best if Dean doesn't think too hard about that statement, really, and instead, busies himself with cleaning up after them. He trashes the empty pizza box and his two empties before grabbing a fresh one and heading to his bed. Kicking his feet up and grabbing the remote, he takes that first delicious sip of cold beer and channel surfs mindlessly until Sam comes out of the bathroom, dressed, with socked feet, steam billowing out from behind him. His damp hair is tousled and the neck of his shirt dips low past his collarbones and Dean looks away. Changes the channel.

They argue half-heartedly between The Breakfast Club and Clueless, because The Breakfast Club always wins, and it almost feels normal.


Dean's blood pounds in his ears, and his eyes strain in the dark, as though staring harder at the ceiling will make him hear better. He feels slightly sick, waiting for it, knowing that it will happen. Finally, after his fingernails have bitten into the flesh of his palms, he hears it. The soft rustling as Sam negotiates the sheets, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it onto the floor next to the bed. Dean waits, hardly breathing. He takes a chance, and turns onto his stomach, being sure to sigh deeply once his face hits the pillow, as though he were simply readjusting in his sleep. He cracks one eye open, half-lidded, and watches as his brother strips off his sweatpants, sees them hit the floor on the other side of the bed. There is one thing left, and Dean bites his lip to keep his breath from rabbiting in and out and giving himself away. Sam is digging under the covers again, and Dean dares to open both eyes, watching Sam's shoulders as he works. He follows the line of a scar, a slender one from the graze of a knife, where it glows paler than the rest of Sam's skin. Silver in the sliver of bright moonlight that snuck past the cheap curtains. Sam's hand snakes out from under the blankets, clutching a wad of black fabric, his underwear, and Dean feels his cock twitch with the simple knowledge that his brother was laying four feet away from him. Naked.

Sam doesn't drop the boxer briefs onto the floor. Instead, he rests his hand on top of the blanket, black underwear stark against the cream of his skin. He looks at Dean.

Dean slams his eyes closed as quickly as he can, pulse rocketing, sending a flush of blood to his face. He hopes and prays to whatever he has to that his little brother didn't just catch him watching him undress. He mentally berates himself before schooling his breathing, throwing in a fake snore, snuffling his face closer to the pillow. After a few moments of tense quiet, he faintly hears movement from the other bed, something sliding. Dean wants desperately to open his eyes, and see what Sam is doing. Wants to see if Sam is watching him.

There are more sounds. The springs in the hotel mattress groaning under Sam's weight as he shifts it, the swish of sheets as he moves. Then, suddenly loud in the quiet room, a low moan.

Dean unconsciously digs his hips into the mattress beneath him, slides one eye open cautiously, then the other. Sam's head is thrown back on the pillows, long dark hair like satin ribbons against the moonlight, as he bites his bottom lip so hard, it looks like it hurts. 'He is so beautiful,' Dean thinks, watching reverently as Sam screws his eyes up tight, and lets his mouth fall open on a harsh sigh. That's when Dean finally looks down. Sam's long legs are spread, one knee up, other fallen to the side. The blanket is moving in a telltale way, and Dean has to trap his lip between his teeth before he makes a sound, his hips shuddering against the mattress. Dean snaps his eyes closed, taking a steadying breath. This has never happened before, in front of him like this, where he could see, and he struggles for a moment to decide if he is going to be perverted enough to watch his brother touch himself in the dark. He opens his eyes, caressing them along Sam's body, back to his face.

There are two bright pink spots on Sam's cheeks, a sheen of sweat breaking on his brow. Dean follows the movement of Sam's tongue as it licks across his red lips, as a muted noise tumbles from them. He starts moving his hips slowly against the mattress, watching as his brother arches his back, muscles along his arm bunching. Sam stops suddenly, bringing both hands up to push at the comforter, leaving only the sheer sheet in it's wake. Dean can just make out a flush of pink across Sam's chest, the deeper blush of his heavy cock. Dean licks his lips as Sam lies back, and the head of it bounces up, leaving a dark mark of wetness against the white white sheet.

Sam drops one hand to his chest, trailing his fingers under the sheet, down from his collar bone to one dusky nipple. He takes the yielding flesh between his fingers, and pinches. Dean watches as Sam's breath quickens, watches as his mouth opens on a silent moan. Sam's hips lift from the mattress, and Dean digs his in harder.

Slowly, Sam slides his hand down his flat stomach, idly plucking at the fine hairs leading down his abdomen. 'Too fucking slow', Dean decides. Sam takes a decade to explore the skin of his stomach, skim along the planes of his hips, before taking ahold of himself again, wrapping long fingers around the shaft, sweeping the thumb across the head. Dean can see him shaking with the sensations, can hear the faint gasps as they escape. He gets rougher now, stroking from base to tip with a tight grip, other hand grasping at the sheets. He pulls them taut across his body, outlining the shape of his large hand around his large dick in detail. Dean lets out a deep breath, toes curling as he glides his hips across the mattress, rubbing himself lewdly on the thin hotel sheets.

Sam's breath is short audible bursts, and the clench of his thighs under the sheet is driving Dean crazy. He is obviously close, hips bucking up into his own fist, head rolling back and forth on the pillow. Dean watches as his hair gets tangled, has the sudden desire to run his hands through it, and he has to bite down a low moan. Thankfully, Sam is so far gone, the small noise that does escape gets lost in Sam's whimpers. Sam drops his knee to the mattress, so that his long legs are thrown wide apart. The sheet settles into a tent over his hand, and Sam lets it go in favor of reaching, sliding the other hand down low. Instantly, Sam's back arches, tight as a bow, thrumming with pleasure. Dean can only imagine what he has done to himself, and his dirty mind does not disappoint.

It is almost as if Sam has stopped trying to be quiet, the way his bitten-off noises are flowing from his mouth and directly into Dean's brain. He risks digging his dick against the mattress harder, faster, nearly matching Sam's desperate rhythm, his bottom lip caught between his teeth so hard, he can almost taste blood. He watches as Sam stutters, hips twitching against the sheet, inhaling shakily. Then Sam comes, sighing deep and full and luscious, hands slowly dragging out each delicious shiver as his mouth drops, lets out a litany of whispered swears, and this is where Dean loses it. Sam's whispered words, his voice so ragged and wrecked, knocks Dean over the edge, his orgasm exploding from his toes upwards, flashing hot through his veins so fast, he feels burned.

When Dean's vision clears and he can see again, he watches as Sam collects himself, still trembling with aftershocks. Sighing, Sam peels the sheet from his torso, reaching over the bed to grab at his fallen underwear. His back gleams in the moonlight, slick with the sweat Dean wishes he could lick off, trace it's ambling path down Sam's shoulder. Lying back, Sam brings the boxers to his messy hand, cleaning the sticky come from his fingers. Dean sees it glistening white against the black fabric, and his cock twitches feebly. His own come is pooling grossly under him, sticking his sweatpants to him, but he can not risk even trying to move right now. Sam drops the underwear to the floor again, and stretches his long arms over his head, sighing, satisfied, before reaching down to cover himself to the hips with the comforter. He turns, eyes closed, facing Dean in the dark, the room suddenly full of heavy silence.

Dean watches as his little brother settles himself, tucking one hand up under his chin. Dean watches as he yawns wide, and as his breathing falls even. Watches as sleep takes him.



In the morning, Dean wakes up alone and hungry. He takes a quick assessment of the room, and can tell that Sam has been up and gone for a while. He has two seconds to wonder where Sam is when he hears metal jingling outside the door, a muttered curse as Sam drops the key on the pavement.

Dean shakes sleep from his head, and drags his ass from the bed, still sticky-eyed and groggy. He opens the door, squinting in the early sun, as Sam stands upright, two coffees juggled precariously in one huge hand, a greasy-bottomed bag and a small box clutched tightly in the other arm, key dangling uselessly from Sam's pinky. "Morning, Sunshine," he laughs at Dean, wide grin spreading across his face. He starts to take a step into the room, past Dean, but stops when Dean grabs his arm, jostling the coffees enough that some hot liquid splashes from one of them. Neither of them notices.

"Sam?" Dean is so confused. He didn't tell himself to grab his brother, glances down at where his hand on Sam's bicep kept him caught. He wonders when he had gotten so close, close enough to smell the pastries, to smell the softly vanilla-tinged scent that followed Sam everywhere, part crumbling, ancient libraries, part cheap hotel soap, part Sam's own delectable sweetness. Sam's breath was bitter with the coffee and warm on his face, and Dean can't help but think of how gorgeous Sam really is. Here, in the morning brightness, his hair is glowing caramel, smooth and silken, his eyes clear and laughing. Unconsciously, Dean squeezes Sam's bicep, and is taken by surprise when Sam's eyes change, the light behind them growing darker, his lids sliding low. Dean watches, watches as his brother's chapped lips part, as he takes the barest step forward. 'I must be sleeping still,' he thinks dully. 'This has to be a dream.' But it is the best one Dean has ever had, better than even the most graphic, because there is something real bubbling in his stomach, and his face flushes hot. Sam tilts his head to one side, his body so close that Dean can feel the heat of him through his sweatpants. Dean leans forward, tilting up so slowly, head filled with fog, and somewhere, a small voice screaming that this is wrong, that Sam doesn't love him like this.

It's Sam who surges forward in the end, impatient as usual, and fits his lips over Dean's and the world is suddenly in technicolor. Dean's blood races through his body, tingling in his feet, his heart weightless in his chest. Sam is kissing him. He kisses Sam back hard, too forcefully as the realization of what they are doing hits him. He is kissing Sam. Dean has to tear himself away, and take Sam's face into his hands. He gazes at Sam in wonder as a small, helpless sound escapes his lips.

"Sammy?", he whispers, tracing the line of Sam's bottom lip with the side of his thumb. Sam nods, his breath catching, and Dean is grabbing him by the fistful, finally carding his hand into Sam's velvet hair, and clutching to him tight as he claims his lips again. It's better than anything he's even come close to fantasizing about, the molten caress of Sam's tongue against his, chasing the sharp taste of coffee and Sam moaning into his mouth. He feels Sam's arms wrapping awkwardly around him, pulling him closer, the pastries crushed between their chests, and Dean is making out with his brother in broad daylight. No one was around, but Dean still steps back enough to drag Sam with him into the room. He can't let Sam go long enough to do it smoothly, but they still manage to get inside, Sam kicking the door closed behind him, and Dean eventually has to let go to get the coffees and breakfast and shove them precariously on their table. Dean looks up at Sam, watches as he steps closer. He can't believe that this is even happening. He could not really remember the exact moment in his life that he realized that he was in love with Sam, but he could not remember a time when he wasn't either.

At first, Dean loved Sam because Sam was his little brother, and that is just how it is. It was ingrained into him, to love his brother, to take care of Sam. Dean only realized that something was different in his heart for Sammy when he was in some anonymous middle school, in some anonymous city, and he kicked Ricky Morrow in the stomach until he spat vivid red for calling Sam a faggot and insinuating that his mother had left them because of it. Part of the beating was for Mom, the rage in Dean so harsh that it came from his heart, his limbs answering by throwing swings into whatever he could hit. Part of it was for Sam, for the surprise and terror in his face that told Dean that Sam had thought the exact same thing. Not that she had left, of course, but that the demon had taken her because of how dirty he was. And part of it was for Dean. Because no one hurts Sammy, and getting to crumple anything that tries to under his boot and listen to it wheeze for breath as it pleads for mercy is fine with Dean.

Sam crowds against Dean, catches his eyes. "You good, Dean?" Sam whispers, skates his arms up Dean's forearms, ghosting over the skin. Dean's skin breaks into goosebumps, and he can't control a shiver as he nods, leaning into Sam's warmth. He looks up in his baby brother's eyes, can see something intense and lost, and decides. Decides to throw open the door in his mind that he's kept locked since he figured out that not everyone loved their brother the way that Dean loves Sam. When he found out that he was supposed to feel ashamed for loving him like he did.

"Yeah," Dean sighs out on a breath before leaning up and kissing Sam, softer than before, deciding that he can take care of Sammy like this too.

Sam turns out to be an even better kisser than Dean had guessed, and in no time, he is breathless, clinging to his brother’s shoulders and shifting restlessly against his tight thigh. Sam wraps his arms around Dean and lifts him off his feet, carrying him against his front toward the closest bed as though Dean weighed nothing, and he had to admit that being manhandled like this was kind of hot. Sam walks them to the bed as smoothly as possible, only jostling Dean when the backs of his knees hit the rough comforter. Dean sinks down into the bed instinctually, Sam leaning over him to continue a line of kisses down his neck, across Dean’s collarbone. Dean nuzzles into the kisses for a moment before scooting himself back against the bed, pulling Sam on behind him, eager to have his brother looming over him, holding him down. Sam obliges, shifting long enough to pull his flannel off. He is wearing a thin shirt that Dean starts to dig his fingers under, skating his fingers around the sharp points of Sam’s hips where they poked out of his jeans. Sam’s hair teased Dean’s face as he kisses him on the mouth, the dark curtain of hair hiding them from the rest of the world. That suits Dean just fine. It tickles as it slides across his face, down his neck, following the lurid trail of Sam’s lips.

Sam sits up suddenly and Dean reaches for him, wanting to pull Sam back down, to feel the heat of him against his front again. Sam chuckles and bats Dean’s hands away, instead grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it off with one smooth motion. Dean knew that Sam was sexy, but having him straddling him, half-naked, was just about too much. Dean’s hands find skin, grasping Sam’s sides, skating around to touch his chest, frantic to feel every inch of Sam under his hands, now that he finally could.

“Up,” Sam barks, and Dean lets him know that he kind of likes the authoritative tone to his voice with a sharp twist of his hips. Sam smiles darkly, a knowing smirk crossing his face. “Up, Dean,” he says again, smiling sweeter now, pulling Dean up until he’s sitting enough for Sam to get his hands on Dean’s shirt and tug it over his head. “Good boy,” Sam whispers into Dean’s ear, close enough for Dean to feel the heat of his words and he shivers. Sam pushes him back, leaning over Dean again. He slides his hands up Dean’s chest, pauses for a brief moment over the caged thump of Dean’s heart. Dean watches him, as Sam touches him, as his eyes grow heavy along with the weight of his dick against Dean’s thigh, and when Sam’s hands land on his wrists and pull them up over his head, Dean doesn’t resist.

He trusts Sammy, and the grind of his wrist bones under the crush of one of Sam’s massive hands has him fully hard and aching in moments.

Sam laughs down at him when Dean’s hips twitch under him, desperate for some kind of friction, anything. “You like me holding you down, Dean? Hmm?”

Dean can barely breathe with the desire flooding through him, can’t try to form words, and nods shakily.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam twists the hand holding Dean down, “But I didn’t hear you.”

Gasping in pain spiked with prickling pleasure, Dean sobs out a pathetic, “Yes.” After all, he can never really tell Sammy “No.”

Sam’s smile is sharp, and he leans over Dean predatorily, as though he is going to eat him alive, and breathes out, “Good,” across Dean’s collarbone as he dips low enough to place an open-mouthed kiss on Dean’s tattoo, to slip his tongue around a nipple, chuckling darkly as Dean cries out, cursing.

“I always knew you’d be noisy,” Sam remarks, wrapping two of his free fingers around the wet nipple, pinches it harshly. “I’ve heard you before, you know?” He skates his fingertips whisper soft along Dean’s ribs, the skin shivering into goosebumps under his touch. “Even when you know you should be quiet, you just can’t keep your beautiful mouth shut.” Sam rocks up into Dean’s hips as he claims the pink of bitten lips.

Dean is breathless when Sam relents, gasping against the stubble of his brother’s cheek. He can feel the swollen curve of Sam’s dick nestled in the ridge of one hip, his own trapped under Sam’s stomach, the rasp of his jeans chaffing in the most tantalizing ways. Sam is still moving against him, one hand still holding Dean’s wrists so tight above his head that Dean can feel the ache in his bones, but he doesn’t care. He would never dream of asking to be let go.

Sam snakes one hand down Dean’s quivering side, smiling as Dean gasps, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his touch. He plucks idly at the elastic of Dean’s sweats with finger and thumb. “What do you say we get a little more comfortable?”

Then, Sam is off of him, sudden and cold. Dean whimpers in protest and Sam is laughing at him from the end of the bed before he reaches down and starts to slide his long fingers under the waistband of Dean’s pants. He tugs, and Dean obediently lifts his hips, watching as Sam’s pupils dilate even more, making his eyes look black, with the thinnest trace of caramel gold around the edges. Dean takes in a deep breath, falling even more in love with his gorgeous brother.

Embarrassingly hard, Dean’s cock springs free from his pants, red and leaking pearly drops onto his trembling stomach, and he can’t stop staring as Sam devours him with ravenous eyes. His smile dark and heavy, Sam undoes his jeans and shimmies his slim hips from the fabric. Dean is shocked to see that he is not wearing underwear, and he doesn’t try to stop the low moan that escapes when he realizes that this is really Sam, naked at the foot of his bed, cock standing proud in front of him, the long lines of his body thrumming with arousal so rich, Dean can smell it. He stares hungrily at Sam, a thrill up his spine. This is unlike any other time he had seen Sam naked before, because sure, he had seen Sam naked before, but here, now, Sam is giving him the silent permission to unabashedly stare. He drinks in the sight of his little brother’s flushed skin, the swells and planes of his body glistening. Sam, as always, is stunning.

Dean holds a shaky hand out to him, and Sam obeys, crawling onto the bed on his knees, straddling Dean’s thighs. He takes Dean’s face in his large hands, the thumbs sweeping across the freckles on his cheeks. The kiss is softer, sweeter and tender. Sam licks his way into Dean’s mouth, and he opens it with a wordless sound. He is breathless, liquid, under his brother’s touch. Then, Sam’s chest is hot against his, the heat of skin against skin making Dean’s head spin. And Sam’s hands are everywhere at once, brazen, tracing lines across his body, growing desperate. He shifts his weight, brings his hips up, and Dean moans into Sam's mouth at the first searing glance of their cocks rubbing together, awkward.

Sam breaks away from Dean, hissing into his ear wetly, bending and taking the lobe into his mouth. The soft flesh yields under the sharp bite of his brother’s teeth, and Dean squirms with the pain. Sam’s tongue sweetly smooths away the worst of it, and Dean is grabbing at Sam, pulling him forward, closer with scrabbling hands.

As usual, the little bitch does the opposite of whatever it is that Dean wants, and Sam lifts himself over Dean, bracing himself up on his elbows. Dean whines up at him, completely over the fact that it makes him sound like the most cock-hungry slut in the world. Then, Sam shifts, locks eyes with Dean, and rocks his hips up deliberately.

Dean’s vision whites out for a moment, blown away by the intensity of the hot grind of Sam’s damp flesh against his own. He throws his head back unconsciously. When he can see again, he looks down, and Sam is staring at him. He makes sure he has Dean’s eyes on his own before rocking again, sweat crawling it’s way down his temple. Dean leans up trembling, licks it away.

Sam shudders and drops his weight heavily onto Dean, crushing him to the mattress. grabbing fistfuls of whatever he can reach, and setting a painful, awkward rhythm. It is perfect, and Dean hugs Sam closer, tighter, moving his hips in time.

When Dean had let himself fantasize about being with his little brother, he had always imagined the smooth moves he would use, all of the ways that he would undo Sam beneath his fingers. And now, he finally has his hands on Sam, everything flies out of the window, and it is over embarrassingly soon, Sam coming first, rutting against him, whispering those sweet curses into Dean’s ear, and Dean stutters as he comes hot against Sam’s hip.

When Dean can breathe again, Sam is still against him, breath gasping damp against the crook of Dean’s neck and Dean can’t function enough to feel anything but amazing. His toes are tingling and the base of his spine is sparkling with leftover sensation, his brother pinning him to the bed, and he feels awesome.

Sam rolls away from him wetly, heavily. Dean whines at the cold and grasps at Sam’s elbow, tugging him back. Sam turns to look at him, and his eyes are so soft and sweet that Dean’s breath catches and he can feel his face heat up, blushing.

“I’ll be right back.” Sam smiles, and Dean nods, lets his hand fall back to the bed.

Moments later, Sam wipes down his stomach with a wet, scratchy motel wash cloth, bottom lip stuck between his teeth like it took some concentration. He finally climbs back into bed, and tucks Dean back close, pulls his head into his chest, and wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders. Dean sighs, starts to relax into the sounds of his brother’s heartbeat, his noise of contentment, the rush of his blood in his ear. Then, Sam is laughing above him.

Dean tries to slide away from Sam, to look him in the eye, but Sam’s strong forearms won’t let him budge. “What, Sam?” His question is muffled in Sam’s neck, hidden in his hair, and Sam laughs harder. And Dean can only take so much of Sam being a bitch before he retaliates, pinching down hard on the bit of fleshy underside on Sam’s upper arm.

“Ouch, Dean! Fuck!” Sam hisses, pulling away from him.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Dean demands, feeling a little bit like an asshole as he watches Sam tenderly touch his fingers to the growing bruise. Fuck.

Sam looks up at him, and even through the anger and pain, he smiles wickedly at Dean, the little fucker. “Oh, I was just laughing at the fact that I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me after last night.”

Realization flashes through Dean, and everything clicks into place, and he flushes so hot, his cheeks must be red. “God, Sammy,” Dean starts to raise his hands to his face, to hide behind something because Sam did see him last night, and he is such a pervert, but Sam just grabs his hands, and gathers him close again.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Sam wraps one long arm around Dean, the other landing to run the length of his side, resting at his hip. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t turn me on, you over here watching me. It got me so hot.”

Dean hides his face in Sam’s neck, and waits for the blood to stop rushing to his head. “But, what about...” he mumbles, because he isn’t sure what he is trying to ask.

“About what, Dean?” Sam asks, tracing his thumb across the ridge of Dean’s hip, his voice soft as he hums, “Hmm? What about the fact that we’re brothers?” He waits for Dean to nod against his neck before continuing. “I don’t know, Dean. I’ve always loved you more than everyone says I should have. I don’t think I would know what it feels like to not be in love with you.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispers across Sam’s neck, totally over the fact that he sounds like a love-struck chick, because his brother loves him. Loves him back as fiercely and as completely and as complicated.

“You’re really fucking dense, you know that?” Sam chuckled at him, tightening his arms around Dean. “I don’t know how much more obvious I could have been. I mean, I pretty much started sleeping naked around you just so that you’d look at me as more than your brother, because I already knew you felt the same way, but --”

“Wait.” Dean interrupts Sam’s rambling, pulls away a bit from Sam, enough to meet his eyes. “Started?”

Sam looks down at him darkly, “Yes, Dean. I started sleeping naked for you.”

“I just thought that you started that at Stanford...” Dean trails off, hides his head against Sam’s chest because his dick is becoming increasingly interested in this line of thought, the dark places in his mind piqued with the idea of Sam undressing for him, walking around naked, for him.

Sweeping one large hand from the base of Dean’s neck to the dip in his lower back, fingers splayed wide across the skin, Sam continues. “That’s when I figured it would take something drastic to pull you out of your fucking head and make you realize that I love you too. You jerk.” His voice is affectionate and he places his lips over Dean’s temple in a soft kiss.

The sun is high in the sky, the ratty curtains barely muting the light that spills through the window. But Sam holds Dean as tightly as he can, and Dean curls himself against Sam’s chest and together, they sleep.


Hours will pass. The sun will be setting, casting strange shadows across their room, and Dean will wake up, still hungry, and nudge at Sam until he’s awake too. Sam will slap at Dean’s hands clumsily, but get up anyway. Will walk to the table, and retrieve the small box he had brought in with him earlier, before the world flipped upside down, then right side up again.

Dean will scoot up in the bed, propping himself up on two pillows, knuckling sleep from his eyes when Sam brings him the box, and a fork. Sam will crawl back into bed before handing over the box, warning Dean not to make a mess all over the sheets. Dean will wave him off, hardly listening, because he will smell cinnamon and buttery crusts, and he will be pretty sure that there is pie in that box.

There will be. A miniature apple pie, fragrant with spices and the sweet smell of ripe fruit. Dean will look down into the box, and stop. Because in the middle of the flaky, golden brown crust, there will be a heart.

Sam will be smiling next to him, and Dean will decide that the pie can wait.

He will have far sweeter things to put in his mouth.