Work Text:
Dean is past drunk and well on his way to shit-faced when they finally leave the bar and head back to Sam and Jess’ apartment. He leans on them both as they stumble inside, trying not to focus on how soft Jess feels against him, and how nice she smells, and very definitely not wondering how her cunt would feel around his cock. Even if he suspects that it’d feel pretty damned nice.
Dean wasn’t all that excited about spending the night on their lumpy couch earlier, but he perks up at the sight of it now—he can lie down and jerk off to thoughts of Sam giving it to Jess in the next room and then pass out. Only instead of flopping down face first onto the cushions, he finds himself frowning blearily over his shoulder at the couch as Sam and Jess pass it by and drag him into the kitchen.
“Couch,” Dean protests. He wants to make his body lean back, maybe even turn around, but his muscles aren’t listening right now.
“Water first, rock star,” Jess says, patting him on the stomach.
Dean manages to keep from moaning at the contact, but only just.
“Maybe some coffee and some food,” Jess adds. “Don’t want to be puking on everything tomorrow.”
“Be fine,” Dean announces. It’s true, too, because he’s been way drunker than this and woken up feeling just as chipper as ever.
But Sam and Jess ignore him, dropping him into a chair and leaving him stranded there while the kitchen spins around in alarming, dizzying gyres. They have their heads together now, Sam trailing Jess around the kitchen and whispering in her ear and touching her in casual, intimate ways that tell Dean his brother’s going to be having sex soon.
Lucky bastard.
Dean looks down at the table—damned if he’s gonna torment himself by looking at what he can’t have—and then time does this weird, jumpy thing and a hand is resting on his shoulder. He moves his head up, heavy and slow, and finds his brother looking down at him. The expression on Sam’s face is weird, but Dean’s too fucked up to bother trying to figure it out.
“I’m going to go shower,” Sam says, and then pushes a steaming mug across the table in Dean’s direction. “Drink that and sober up a little, okay?”
As Dean peers dubiously at the mug, he realizes that Sam is gently massaging his shoulder, which is strange as hell, but feels too good for Dean to lodge a complaint. Instead, he shifts his eyes back up toward his brother’s face and manages a smile.
“Good birthday?” he checks. That’s why he’s here, after all; putting up with his increasingly problematic desire to fuck his brother’s girl.
“So far,” Sam agrees. There’s a glimmer in his eyes that means he’s thinking about Jess naked, and in bed, and beneath him, and Dean drops his own gaze with a shamed flinch at the heat those images pool in his belly.
Sam squeezes Dean’s shoulder one final time and then, as Dean reaches for the mug, lets his hand fall away. Dean very carefully keeps his eyes lowered and his thoughts blank as he sips the offered drink—black coffee, thick as tar and just as tasty—and when he finally chances a glance again, Sam is missing and there’s the faint but clearly audible sound of a shower running.
The coffee—nothing but dregs left now; huh, when did that happen?—has done its job, and Dean doesn’t feel quite so ready to crash. He’s still plenty muzzy enough to let his eyes come to rest on Jess’ awesome rack where she’s leaning against the counter watching him, though. Fuck, but she’s hot. And the little black halter-top she’s wearing is accentuating all the right places.
“Feeling better?” she asks.
“Mmm,” Dean agrees. He makes a brief effort to meet her eyes and then gives it up as a bad job when his attention gets caught by her lips. His mind helpfully provides him with a stutter frame of just how that mouth would look around his cock—how wet and warm it’d be in there—and his breath shallows.
“Anything else I can get for you?” Jess asks, with just a hint of tongue flirting across her lower lip, and ... wait. Is she coming on to him?
The possibility snags Dean’s attention enough to make him lift his eyes higher and yeah, she’s giving him an intent, warm look that he’s seen before. Still, he isn’t going to jump right into the deep end without checking to make sure he’s reading the signals right.
Leaning back against his chair, he gives Jess his best lazy smile and sprawls his legs wide. Inviting. Or maybe just drunk and loose if she wants to take it that way.
But she smiles at him, the turn of her lips knowing and pleased, and moves forward.
Dean’s heart kicks against his ribcage as he watches her move—those slender hips swaying, the fabric of her halter-top pulling up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned skin. Dean could almost fit his hands around her waist if he tried. Not quite as perfectly as Sam, who has grown into a yeti, but damned close to it, anyway.
Sam, he tries to remind himself at the thought of his brother.
This is Sam’s girl Dean is perving on, after all, and Dean doesn’t want to be that guy—especially not when it comes to his brother. But Jess slides in between Dean and the kitchen table and pushes the coffee mug away from him with one hand. Her eyes are locked on his: a tiny, secretive smile plays around her lips.
Fuck, Dean should be pushing away. Stumbling over to the couch, maybe. Or even just to the sink, where he can splash some water on his overheated skin and snap himself out of this very bad, very wrong thought process.
Instead, he watches Jess drag a hand up her thigh and over her stomach.
“Jess,” he groans. Her name is pulled out of him unwillingly—one final plea for her to stop this because God help him he isn’t going to be able to. He’s too drunk, or too weak, or maybe just too damn horny.
But she doesn’t stop. Instead, she inches her skirt up—damned thing was short to begin with—and whispers, “Go ahead, Dean. You can touch me.”
Dean really can’t, but his hands come up anyway and wrap around her waist, just palming her hips for a moment and getting used to the feel of her. Jess gives him a warm look—encouraging—and Dean’s mouth goes dry as he shifts his hands up, and up, and up, until they’re hovering just below the pert swell of her breasts.
If he were a good man, this is where he’d come to his senses and say, ‘No, I can’t’. He’d push Jess away, and stand up, and leave. But he isn’t a good man, and the mental images his brain is helpfully providing him show Sam hoisting Jess up onto this table and fucking her until the floor is scuffed all to hell. Dean’s got to say, that kind of thing isn’t helping his willpower any.
His only saving grace is that he can’t figure out how to take that last step, no matter how much he might want to. His hands have frozen in place just shy of the end zone, and they aren’t going any higher, perky tits or no.
As Dean hesitates, Jess’ gaze softens with something like understanding, and she wraps her hands around his wrists. Dean’s breath hitches, and he flinches inside where it doesn’t show, but he keeps his eyes locked on hers as she drags his hands up further. It’s her guidance that moves Dean’s fingertips over her nipples, which are already peaked and firm beneath the halter-top. She’s not wearing a bra, and it makes Dean’s cock jump violently enough that it hurts.
“Dean,” Jess whispers, and Dean realizes that his eyes are going dry and sore from all the staring and makes himself blink. Makes his fingers twitch too, and just like that, he remembers how to do this. Surging to his feet, he knocks over the chair he was sitting in and shoves Jess back down onto the table. He bends after her immediately, biting at her lips for a moment before abandoning her mouth to nuzzle his way down her throat to her breasts. When he gets there, he opens his own mouth wider and sucks at the nipples he can practically taste through the halter.
Jess moans, gripping Dean’s hair, and her legs part to let his body slide right where he wants to be. Dean wonders if she’s wearing panties, has to check, and pushes one hand up between her legs to find out that the answer is no.
Jesus fucking Christ, where did Sam find this girl?
But Dean doesn’t want to think of Sam right now, not when he’s driving fingers into Jess’ slick folds with one hand and working at the ties of her halter top with the other.
“Jess,” he moans as she scrapes her nails across the nape of his neck and gyrates her hips, fucking herself deeper onto his fingers.
“That’s it,” she pants. “C’mon, baby.”
Dean’s right hand, drunk or not, finally figures out the knot on Jess’ halter top and he moves back long enough to yank the top down, revealing her naked breasts. This time, when he closes his mouth on her nipple, he tastes sweat and something sweet beneath—some kind of body lotion, he thinks. Biting down on the nub, he flicks over it with his tongue and draws a sharp moan from her.
“Fuck me,” she breathes, hooking one leg around his hip. “Please, Dean.”
Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice, and he pulls his fingers free from her cunt and straightens, dragging his shirt off his head and tossing it on the floor. Jess’ hands are at his buckle before he can get it himself, opening it and then jerking his zipper down—“Watch the goods,” he mumbles—and then shoving his pants and boxers down around his knees and yanking him close. Dean gets a hand around his cock, lining up, and then gets distracted briefly by Jess’s mouth on his, hungry and demanding. He moans into the kiss, gripping her thigh with one hand and hoisting it higher around his waist.
They both shudder as he pushes inside—and fuck, she’s as wet and tight and hot as Dean always thought she would be. Like heaven (Sam) and damnation (fuck, Sammy) all at once, and hell if he’s going to stop now.
Jerking his mouth free, Dean bends down to get at Jess’ breasts again, one arm scooping beneath her back and holding her tight against his front while he snaps his hips forward, rutting in as fiercely as he can manage. God, she feels good, and Dean shuts his eyes and focuses on the sensations, letting himself sink into the rhythm of sex. He’s probably not at his best, since he’s still pretty damn drunk, but he knows he’s hitting her right from the breathy gasps she keeps making and the way her cunt keeps on fluttering around his cock.
It’s distracting as hell, but not quite distracting enough to make him miss the heavy hands that briefly settle at his waist before sliding down to massage his ass. Jess’ hands are currently busy with his hair and shoulder, so they aren’t hers, and Dean knows they aren’t his. That’s about as far as his thoughts get before he figures out that he’s being felt up by another guy—fingers too blunt and heavy for anything else—and there’s only one other guy here, and holy shit this isn’t happening.
“Mmph!” he blurts, and then realizes that isn’t going to get him anywhere and detaches his mouth from Jess’ tits (she moans in disappointment) so that he can say, “Sam.”
He doesn’t know where he means to go from there—there’s no way he can talk his way out of this, not when he quite clearly has his cock in Sam’s girl. An apology, maybe? Not that that’s going to stop Sam from kicking his ass.
“Dean,” Sam says, and he doesn’t sound angry. And the way he’s touching Dean doesn’t feel angry, either: hands trailing across his ass and down between his thighs and—holy crap!
Dean jerks forward, away from startling touch, and the instinctive flinch drives him deeper into Jess. She lets out a low, mewling noise and flexes around him, which makes Dean press his eyes shut and clench his jaw.
His heart is light-years ahead of his brain, which is only now catching up to the fact that he needs to stop what he’s doing to Jess (his brother’s girl, fuck—cock caught right there in the cookie jar) and step away from the whole, confusing situation. When he tries to ease his cock from her cunt, though, Sam pushes forward and traps Dean against the table. Inside Jess.
Dean realizes that he has a larger problem here than having gotten caught with his pants around his ankles and his dick inside his brother’s girlfriend.
“Sam,” he tries again. “What’re you—what’re you do—” The question cuts off in an indrawn hiss of breath as Sam’s huge hands grip both cheeks of his ass and pull them apart.
“You’re smart, Dean,” Sam pants into his ear. “Figure it out.”
“No,” Dean moans, making another attempt to worm away as rough fingertips run over the sensitive skin just behind his balls and getting absolutely nowhere. “You—we can’t—”
“Shh.” It’s Jess this time, reaching up from beneath Dean and hooking her hands around his neck. She drags him in for a deep, rough kiss he returns half-heartedly, and then her hands move up to card through his hair. “It’s okay, baby. Sam and I talked. We both want this. And we’ve seen the way you look at us.”
Dean jerks his neck free from her grasp, shaking his head in denial. Because yeah, maybe he’s been panting after Jess for a while now, but Sam’s—Sammy’s his little brother, Dean can’t—
“Please,” Sam whispers, and that’s Sam’s fucking mouth, wet and hot on the nape of Dean’s neck. “Please, Dean. It’s my birthday.”
Dean sags a little at that—more from the resigned understanding that he isn’t reading this situation wrong than anything else. He still can’t quite fathom it, even with the evidence panting hot and heavy against his back. Even with Sam getting bolder and rubbing his fingers up and down the crease of Dean’s ass, over his hole.
“Gonna make it feel so good,” Sam promises, mouthing at Dean’s shoulder. Something nudges between Dean’s thighs to brush against his balls and the base of his cock—Sam again; Sam slicking up his fingers with Jess’ juices.
And Dean’s never done anything like this before, but he’s opened up enough girls and seen enough porn to know where it’s going.
“Please,” he begs hoarsely. “Sammy, don’t.”
“I’ll stop,” Sam answers, even though the way he’s still pinning Dean against Jess and the table brands him a big fat liar. “If you really don’t like it, I’ll stop, okay? Just give it a chance.”
And then, before Dean has a chance to say anything else, there’s pressure against his asshole and a stinging feeling and then something pushing in. He jerks forward again, driving himself deeper into Jess, and makes a low noise that sounds more panicked than he means it to.
“Sam, baby,” Jess says, her own breathing labored as her cunt clenches around Dean’s cock. “Slow down.”
Miracle of miracles, the spreading burn in Dean’s ass stops. Sam doesn’t pull his finger out, but he isn’t pushing it in any further either, and that’s definitely a win in Dean’s book. Right now, he’s taking what he can get.
“Dean.” That’s Jess again, voice coaxing and gentle. “Honey. Look at me.”
Dean isn’t sure when he stopped watching her, actually, but now that he thinks about it, he realizes that everything has gone dark: his eyes are squeezed firmly shut, as though he can make time unwind itself if he tries hard enough. It might be a fool’s hope, but he isn’t giving up on it now, and he shakes his head no. Sam’s finger moves inside him, rubbing almost imperceptibly against his clenching muscles, and Dean hunches his shoulders and buries his face against the soft warmth of Jess’s chest. His legs tremble, weak, as he digs his own fingers into Jess’s back.
“Sam,” Jess says, more sternly this time.
“Sorry,” Sam answers, and a moment later Dean lets out a shaky, relieved breath as his brother withdraws his finger. Of course, Sam’s hands immediately both close on Dean’s hips instead, holding Dean still while he drapes himself over Dean’s back. The way he starts mouthing at Dean’s back and shoulders and neck isn’t doing much for the knots in Dean’s stomach.
“We’re not going to hurt you, baby,” Jess says, rubbing one of Dean’s arms reassuringly. “And we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to—”
The way Sam’s hands clench tighter where they’re locked around Dean’s waist, insistent, make Dean doubt whether or not his brother is actually on board with that promise.
“—but I think you should give it a try before you decide you aren’t interested. Any way you want, Dean. Just tell us what to do and we’ll do it, alright? You’re in charge.”
Dean wants to say, ‘If I’m in charge, then I want Sam to get off me’, but he’s too frightened of what will happen if Sam still doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to find out what it will feel like to have all of his options and choices stripped away like that.
Besides, this isn’t ... it doesn’t have to be as bad as he’s making it out to be in his head, right? Dean hasn’t ever been with a guy—never felt the inclination to give it a shot—but maybe he’s been missing out. And if you can’t try this shit with your brother, then who can you try it with?
Deep down, he gets how completely fucked that logic is, of course, but he twists his mind away from reality and focuses on what Jess is asking of him. If he takes Sam out of the equation—difficult to do with Sam huge and looming and doing his damnedest to ensure Dean can’t think of anything else—then what would Dean want to do? What would he maybe be curious about and yet not have done before?
“I want us both to fuck you,” Dean says. The words are out of his mouth before they’ve been properly examined, but they make Sam’s mouth hesitate where he was sucking on the side of Dean’s throat, and Dean doesn’t mind the sound of them. He could maybe get into this, as long as Jess stays firmly between them.
“Sure, honey; we can do that. Sam?”
Sam doesn’t move and for one, horrible, gut-wrenching moment, Dean’s certain that he isn’t going to. Then, with obvious reluctance, his brother steps away and lets him up.
Dean pulls free as quickly as he can, backing away from the kitchen table and covering his slick cock—still erect; damn thing doesn’t know what’s good for it—with one hand. He glances around for something to cover himself with, but then Jess is there, catching his wrist and gently easing his hand out of the way.
“Shh,” she soothes, pressing up against Dean’s side and giving his jaw an open-mouthed kiss. “Let him look.”
Dean flushes at the command, cutting his eyes around the room in search of the escape that’s looking less and less likely every second. His gaze keeps catching on Sam, who is standing still and silent by the table and watching Dean with a depth of hunger that twists his insides into new, pretzel shapes. His brother is wearing sweat pants, slung low around his hips, and nothing else.
Sam can’t be serious, can he? This is some practical joke, or maybe revenge for Dean daring to touch Jess.
Except Sam’s gaze is hot on Dean’s body, flicking over his chest and down to his stomach and then lower to his slick, full cock, and Christ, he is. He’s really serious.
For a moment, Dean hovers on the verge of running. He’d like to, erection and lack of clothes be damned, but then Sam glances up from Dean’s cock to his face. The expression in his brother’s eyes makes all the strength in Dean’s body run out like blood from a slit throat. Dizzy, he tries to look away and can’t. Not with Sam’s eyes threatening (promising?) so many things.
If Dean lets his brother have this now, he isn’t going to be able to stop Sam later, when he wants something that matters. When he wants more than just Dean’s body.
Then Sam’s expression softens—not a lot, not so much Dean doesn’t still feel like a five-course meal laid out in front of a starving man—and he realizes that it’s already later. Sam already wants more from him; he wants things that Dean can’t bring himself to name, even in the privacy of his own mind. And Sam is going to take them, he’ll take everything, and Dean isn’t going to be able to lift a finger to stop him.
Dean’s breathing speeds as the net closes more tightly around him—this must be how snared rabbits feel when they first hear the tread of the hunter—and Jess, either hearing his shallow respiration or sensing his heightened fear, rubs her naked body up against his.
“Come on,” she whispers in his ear. “Take me to bed.”
Dean has a smoking hot girl hanging off of him and begging for a good ride, but he doesn’t move. Sam hasn’t stopped looking at him yet. Hasn’t released Dean from the jagged, steel trap closed around his heart and lungs.
How long? Dean wonders, breathless. How long has Sam been wanting this—wanting him? How long has Dean been missing that terrifying, boundless yearning in his brother’s face?
He doesn’t know the answer, which shames him more than anything else—he was supposed to watch out for Sam, he should have noticed—and when Jess grips his chin, Dean lets her turn his face from his brother’s. He lets her kiss him, her lips full and soft, and after a few seconds he turns toward her more fully and catches hold of her rounded hip with one hand. She feels fragile, muscles trembling and skin hot, and the wave of arousal that washes through Dean is strong enough to make him forget there are more complex issues at play here.
He opens his mouth, surging forward to meet Jess’ tongue with his own, and she tastes like beer. Jess didn’t match him drink for drink at the bar, but she held her own and she didn’t order any of those pansy girl drinks chicks usually go for, and if Dean hadn’t already been half gone on her (never mind the fact that she’s Sam’s and therefore off limits), then that would have sold him. Now the taste isn’t doing much more than reminding him how much he drank himself, and suddenly he’s conscious of the alcohol clinging to his thoughts in amber clouds.
If he were sober, he’d be able to think his way out of this mess.
A hand brushes Dean’s chin—not Jess’, she’s hanging onto his shoulders—and he jerks back with a gasp at the tangible reminder that they aren’t alone. He doesn’t go far, though—Jess is still hanging onto him, and anyway Sam isn’t trying to touch Dean, although his eyes are holding steady enough on Dean’s face.
With deliberate slowness, Sam tilts Jess’ face around and catches her mouth with his own. The kiss starts out easy, but it gets deep and needy fast, until Sam is working Jess’ mouth with a roughness Dean never expected his kid brother was capable of. Except Dean can tell that kissing isn’t really what Sam is doing, no matter how far down her throat he’s sticking his tongue.
Sam is tasting. He’s licking from Jess’ mouth what his eyes are announcing he wants to take from Dean’s, and Dean should be backing up, he should be sprinting for the door—fuck, at the very least he should look away.
But instead, mouth dry and heart thundering in his chest, he meets his brother’s eyes while Sam has his taste. And he doesn’t jump—much—when Sam’s hand curls possessively around his hip.
Sam doesn’t say anything when he finally lifts his head again. He just looks at Dean with those dark, insistent eyes, and takes a single step back. His hand on Dean’s hip draws Dean along, and once Dean has taken the first step it’s easier to take the second—easier still with Jess nipping at his neck and staying between them the way Dean asked.
There doesn’t have to be anything weird about this. Dean’s fucked sisters before—twins, one very lucky night—and the girls hadn’t had any problems going down on each other while he watched. Dean’s Adam’s apple jumps nervously at the thought that Sam might expect the same, and he cuts his eyes away from his brother’s as Sam and Jess draw him into their bedroom.
Dean has been in here before—once when he was sick with the flu, the first time he met Jess; again when no one was home and he was poking around to make sure Sam was okay—but it looks different tonight. Maybe it’s the drunken haze Dean is seeing through. Or maybe it’s the lube and box of condoms laid out on the nightstand.
Oh god, this is really happening, isn’t it?
He can feel himself edging toward a major freak out—possibly complete with screaming and flailing of limbs—and is pathetically grateful when Sam lets go and moves away. A second later, Jess’ palm cups Dean’s face, and Dean looks over into her guileless, green eyes. He hasn’t ever been with a chick this tall before, and it’s really weird being able to meet her gaze without having to tilt his head down.
Dean doesn’t fuck tall girls. He hasn’t since Sam shot up the summer between his junior and senior year of high school.
“Hey there, champ,” Jess says softly, running her thumb over his cheekbone. “How are you doing?”
Dean lets out a hoarse laugh as his heart trips in his chest. “Oh, I’m super.”
Jess smiles and kisses him—brief and soothing—before shifting back to say, “This means a lot to him, you know. You mean a lot to him.”
Dean’s stomach flips—is that supposed to make him feel better?—and he demands, “How the fuck are you not freaking out? I mean, he’s my. We’re.”
“Because I’ve seen how you are together,” she answers, cutting through his awkward attempts to get the words out. Her lips quirk up in a sly grin. “Besides, two hot guys for the price of one? Sign me up.”
“Here.” That’s Sam again, returning and breaking the rules—just like he always does whenever it suits him—by pressing up against Dean’s back. Sam wasn’t all that dressed before, but he isn’t wearing anything now and Dean jumps, trying to twist away from what he’s sure is Sam’s cock nudging the small of his back. But Sam has an arm around Dean’s waist, holding him close, and then there’s the smooth, chill feel of a shot glass pressed against Dean’s bottom lip.
Sam tips the glass and Dean instinctively opens his mouth, letting the liquor—tequila—burn its way down his throat. He shuts his eyes as Sam lowers the glass again, licking a stray drop from his lips and trying to get hold of his breathing. The fact that Sam is still holding onto him so tightly isn’t helping.
“Don’t you think he’s had enough?” Jess asks, sounding worried.
“No,” Sam answers, echoing Dean’s unspoken thought, and a second later Dean feels another, even more familiar push at his lips. He opens, sucking in the mouth of the bottle and swallowing convulsively as Sam tips it back.
Sam lets him drink for what feels like forever and yet isn’t anywhere near long enough and then takes the bottle away again. He kisses the side of Dean’s neck, lips lingering and moist, and murmurs, “Wanted you for so long, Dean. Gonna make it good. Gonna make it so good for you.” He kisses Dean again—corner of his jaw, this time—and then continues, “We’re gonna fuck you so hard you aren’t going to remember anyone else. You’re not going to want anyone else.”
Dean shudders involuntarily, insides squirming with guilt at how much the sound of Sam’s voice—or maybe it’s the things he’s promising—is fucking him up. Sam’s hand has dropped lower on his stomach, rubbing in small circles that are coming perilously close to Dean’s cock, and when Dean feels the first brush of his brother’s fingers against his pubic hair, he gives his head a violent shake.
He can’t do this. Drink or no, Sam’s hunger or no. He just can’t.
“Get on the bed.”
Sam exhales the words directly in Dean’s ear, voice drawling and filthy, but Dean isn’t going to listen. He’s going to cut and run for the door as soon as Sam lets him go.
Only Jess is there as Sam’s arm begins to slide away, cutting in and taking Dean from his brother. She strokes his hair and catches his wrist, lifting his hand back up to her breast, and instinct takes over from there.
Bowing his head, Dean nips at the line of her throat. He thumbs her nipple—gentle but firm—and then does it again when she gasps. If Sam is still in the room, then Dean can’t sense him past Jess, who is beautiful and warm and willing in his arms. He can smell her through the sharper scent of tequila, that tang flavoring the air that says she’s ready for him, and before he knows it he’s at the bed and Jess is pushing him down. He lets himself go, same as he always does when a pretty girl shows him what she wants, and Jess immediately climbs up after him. Straddling his waist, she snags a condom out of the box on the nightstand and rips the wrapper open with her teeth.
“Classy,” Dean manages as she spits the end off onto the floor.
Jess winks at him and then, with a sudden and unexpected movement, dips down to lick a long line up his cock. Dean swears, clutching at the mattress—fuck, he didn’t know girls’ spines were meant to bend that way—and tries to blink the white flashes from his eyes while Jess chuckles and rolls the condom down into place.
It feels a little like closing the barn door after the horses have already rushed out—Dean’s already had his bare cock inside her—and he must say as much because Jess gives him a lopsided grin and says, “Heat of the moment, baby.” Wrapping her hand around his plastic-covered cock, she gives it a quick pump and adds, “You can ditch the rain jacket after you’ve been tested.”
If Dean had more brain cells to rub together right now, he might have announced that he does get himself tested, thanks—he gets himself tested once a month—but he’s too busy sucking in a harsh, hurt breath as Jess positions herself over his cock and sinks down. She feels even better this time, if that’s at all possible. Probably something to do with the way Dean’s head is spinning, leaving his whole body loose as she plants her hands on his chest and begins to rock up and down.
Dean has been ridden before, plenty of times, but the view has never been quite this good. Jess’ eyes are almond slanted and sparkling—so fucking happy, looking down at him—and her golden hair is shaking like a wind-stirred field of wheat. Her breasts bounce as she moves, pert nipples begging to be thumbed and bitten, but Dean’s surprised to realize that the most mind-blowing thing about the whole experience is how safe he feels.
He knows Jess—is halfway to being in love with her, if he wants to be honest with himself—not like those other bimbos he rolled into bed without bothering to get more than a first name and a birthday. And Sam’s here. Sam’s not going to let anything bad happen to him.
Except then Dean remembers why Sam is here, and what he wants, and he’s already tensing up before his brother has finished climbing on the bed. His brother’s knees brush against Dean’s legs—both low enough not to make Dean scramble for cover, but then Sam drops a hand on Dean’s thigh and Dean pushes his head back against the pillow and sucks in a sharp breath.
Sam isn’t even really doing anything—just rubbing his thumb back and forth over Dean’s thigh a couple of inches above his knee—but there’s enough intent there to make Dean’s skin flush hot and leave a shivery, uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. He bucks up harder, chasing after the comforting oblivion an orgasm will bring, and can’t stop focusing on the weight of his brother’s hand.
The arousal flooding his body (from Jess, that’s all; he’s on fire because he’s got his cock buried in Jess’ cunt) is mingling with the uneasy nerves in his stomach and getting all mixed up in his head. It’s fucking confusing, is what it is: being touched by Sam when he feels like this. It’s electrifying Dean’s skin, turning his blood to spiced honey and the air to some sugary, cinnamon-laced liquid.
Oh fuck, he can’t do this.
“J-Jess,” Dean gets out, grabbing her waist with both hands in a bruising grip. Still thrusting up, he hangs on desperately and prays that she’s coherent enough to recognize that for the plea for help it is.
But instead of telling Sam to back off, Jess rakes her nails down over Dean’s nipples. The slippery, hot place where his cock is buried inside of her tightens, making his rhythm stutter and driving the breath from his lungs in a grunt.
“Christ, that’s pretty,” Sam’s voice says.
Dean blinks, focusing his eyes with difficulty, and locates his brother’s face just above Jess’ left shoulder. Sam is looking back and forth from Dean to Jess’ bouncing breasts and toned stomach—like he isn’t quite sure just what (who) to concentrate on.
Before his gaze has a chance to settle, Jess twists her head around and claims his attention with a kiss. She’s still working herself up and down on Dean’s cock, rubbing her clit against the jut of his pelvis with every downward thrust, and now, as Sam’s hands slide into place over her nipples, she pushes her breasts forward to meet his touch as well.
That much coordination is nothing short of amazing in Dean’s book, but he’s still too hung up on his brother’s hands to do much more than note her skill. Sam might not be touching him anymore, but now that Dean can see the strength in his brother’s grip—the span of his fingers—that’s all he can think of. Sam’s big-ass hands caressing his stomach, parting his thighs, pinning his arms to the mattress.
The thought makes Dean’s stomach lurch in a strange, half-nervous, half-excited way that he doesn’t expect it to, and he maybe zones out a little watching his brother’s fingers pinching and kneading Jess’ tits. It isn’t until Sam stops kissing Jess and leans over to grab some lube from the nightstand that Dean’s able to blink and pull his thoughts together. Not so much, though, that he doesn’t watch the way Sam holds Jess’ hip with one hand while reaching low on her body with the other—fingers glistening and slick where he coated them before tossing the lube to the side.
Above Dean, Jess’ eyelashes flutter. Her head drops back, hair a golden cascade over her shoulders and generous lips parted. Dean shivers along with her at the muted, muffled sensation of pressure against the underside of his cock as his brother works her ass open with his fingers.
Sam’s looking down at Dean’s face while he does it—at Dean’s mouth—intently enough that Dean can almost feel himself being kissed. In his muddled head, he imagines that Sam would kiss him the way Dean’s always seen him kiss women: all gentle, sugary heat. Slow. Steady. Like he’s got all the time in the world and isn’t in a hurry to get past first base.
Something that languid and easy really shouldn’t be cooking the air in Dean’s lungs.
First Sam’s hands, now his mouth, and this isn’t just confusing, it’s fucking alarming. Dean shuts his eyes, pushing his brother out of his head and focusing on Jess. Sucking his lower lip back between his teeth, he bites down and speeds his pace, rutting up into Jess’ heat and feeling her smooth skin beneath his fingers. Been dreaming about this for fucking forever, it seems; he isn’t gonna let Sam ruin what’s turning into some of the best sex of his life.
“Kiss him.”
That’s his brother’s voice, cutting in on Dean’s thoughts, and Dean hasn’t ever heard Sam sound like this before—all leashed, violent hunger. Except there’s a tension there, riding the demand, and Dean senses that this particular leash is fraying fast.
On the flush of fresh alarm, he opens his eyes and his vision is filled with Jess’ face. Her breath sweeps across his face and then she’s seizing his mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. Dean opens his mouth, rising a little to meet her, and pretends that the moaning, little gasps she starts making have something to do with his mouth and cock, instead of what Sam’s doing with his fingers.
Right about then is when the tequila hits him—a rushing, warm flush that spreads outward from the center of his body and leaves his thoughts floating in amber. The bed spins beneath him, and he hangs on more tightly to Jess, using her waist as an anchor. Their mouths seem to melt together; he can’t get enough of her clever tongue, or the lush weight of her bottom lip, and she tastes every inch the forbidden fruit she is.
Slowly, one of his hands unlocks from her waist and creeps up to bury itself in her thick hair—silky, and slightly damp from all the sweating she’s doing, and fuck, but Dean loves the way it feels sliding between his fingers. He loves the solid weight of her body on his, and the way that there’s a hint of a smile about her mouth as they kiss, and how she smells like coconut (some kind of body lotion) and cheap cologne.
The fact that her cunt is just about the smoothest, tightest ride he’s ever had is secondary to the rest of it, to the fact that it’s her, that Jess is finally his for the having—in this small way, at least.
But there are strings attached to this permission, and Dean remembers them abruptly when Sam pushes in, making room for himself on the other side of a very thin barrier and causing Jess’ inner muscles to clench. Dean feels the slide right along with Jess—feels the way that Sam doesn’t give either of them time to catch their breaths before pulling out and fucking back in.
As alarming as the sensation is, Dean can’t deny that it also sends a diffuse, overwhelming burst of arousal through his body, and he kisses Jess more deeply as his brother works into a rhythm. She moans as she’s repeatedly filled and emptied, both of their cocks working in and out of her rapidly now, while her cunt contracts in clenching ripples around Dean’s dick.
Fuck, if he knew double-teaming a chick would feel so good, he would have tried it a long time ago.
When Sam’s fingers push between their mouths, easing Jess’ lips away from Dean’s for the second time tonight, Dean’s eyes are firmly shut. He’s concentrating on the sensations washing through him—it’s too difficult trying to see straight with his head spinning so violently. Anyway, he doesn’t think he can watch his brother taste him through Jess’ mouth again—not now, when there’s nothing but a thin wall of muscle separating them.
The ravenous, claiming mouth that descends on his takes Dean by surprise, and he’s too startled to get his own mouth shut before a tongue shoves past his unresisting lips. On the other side of Jess, Sam’s rhythm falters and his tempo slows—like something’s distracting him, and the sinking, twisting sensation in Dean’s stomach tells him exactly what that something is.
His eyes flutter open—like driving past a car wreck, he has to fucking look—and Sam is already watching him. Sam’s eyes are open and intent as he cranes past Jess to get at Dean, and from the way he’s biting and licking and sucking at Dean’s mouth, he can’t seem to decide whether this is about sex or devouring Dean whole.
“Kiss him back,” Jess pants in Dean’s ear, squirming where she’s wedged between them. “Go on, baby, kiss him.”
God help him, Dean does. He pushes back up against his brother’s mouth, opening his jaw wider to let Sam in, and Sam lets out a wrecked, desperate moan and grabs onto Dean’s hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Fucked up or not, that’s all she wrote, and Dean comes in a mind-numbing, hot rush. He makes some kind of half-hurt, half-rapturous noise that no one hears because Sam swallows the sound before it can actually emerge, and then, helplessly, fucks his cock into Jess with three or four shallow pulses of his hips.
“Oh, fuck,” Jess grunts, shaking between them, and then pants, “Sam. Sam, please.”
Dean doesn’t know what she’s asking for, but Sam’s been seeing her for almost a year and must have been fucking her almost as long. With smooth, seamless competence, he continues to kiss Dean while worming one hand between Dean’s stomach and Jess’ body. A moment later, his fingers bump slickly up against the place where Dean’s cock is disappears inside Jess’ cunt.
Dean has already figured out that Sam is way more experienced in bed than Dean was giving him credit for—and a hell of a lot less vanilla—but it’s still a little surprising to find his brother simultaneously feeling up the buried length of Dean’s cock while he rubs his girl’s clit. It’s a surreptitious grope at first—could be accidental, except for the heated flicker in Sam’s eyes—but there’s no mistaking the way that one of Sam’s fingers curls around the base of Dean’s cock before easing up into Jess’ cunt.
Dean is still painfully sensitive from his orgasm, and his hips give a helpless jerk as Sam strokes his buried length. As Sam continues to touch him, the jerk becomes a full-bodied shake and he makes a muffled, moaning noise into his brother’s mouth.
Although the friction half hurts and Dean’s stomach is quivering anxiously at how quickly Sam’s knocking over boundaries, he isn’t sure whether he means the noise as a protest.
Between them, Jess’ breathing has shallowed and accelerated—Dean can feel her heart pounding where their chests are wedged together—but it still comes as a surprise when she bites down hard on the side of his neck as she comes. The spasm that goes through her cunt this time puts all the rest to shame, and Dean’s next moan isn’t anything but pleasure.
Fuck, he hasn’t even started softening yet and he’s already thinking about taking Jess out for another spin.
Dean’s problem, really, is that doesn’t know which way is up any longer—his head is a confusion of booze and orgasm and the unrelenting tension that comes from having to deal with the fact that he’s enjoying this, that Sam is scaring the fuck out of him mostly because Dean knows he can’t have this, he can’t have what Sam is offering.
And he sure as hell can’t give what Sam is demanding from him, which is everything. Every last piece of himself, supplicant and willing and naked at Sam’s feet.
“Sam!” Jess gasps, writhing in a way that tells Dean that his brother’s continuous thrusting is starting to have an effect on her again.
Dean’s always been jealous of women and their multiple orgasms, but for the first time he’s matching one stride for stride: his own dick swells slightly as Jess’ cunt continues to squeeze him and Sam’s finger strokes him and Sam fucks in and out. It’s finally being inside Jess, or Sam’s thrusts rubbing against the underside of his cock, or else the twist of Sam’s tongue in his mouth, or maybe even the brush of Sam’s finger on his cock through the condom, but whatever the cause, Dean can feel another orgasm pulling his balls tight and hard.
It’s going to hurt because his junk wasn’t designed for this kind of rapid-fire overstimulation, but he doesn’t have a choice because the wave is coming—hard and fast and unstoppable. When his second orgasm hits him a moment later, Dean actually whites out for a while, snapped free from coherent thought by the intensity of the pleasure slicing through him.
Distantly, he hears Jess yelling out as she comes too—unrestrained this time, a primal sound. He doesn’t hear or feel Sam’s finish, but knows his brother must have shot as well, because he finally releases Dean’s mouth and the crush of bodies pressing Dean down into the bed lessens. A moment later, Jess’ weight moves away as well, leaving Dean’s softening cock to flop down against his stomach with a wet smack.
He groans as someone peels the condom off of him and then sags back against the mattress, eyes mostly shut and breath coming shallow and fast. It takes a while—familiar voices whispering around him while Jess and Sam move through the room—but eventually his heart rate slows and Dean drifts into a contented, exhausted haze.
He’s more than half asleep when moist heat engulfs his cock.
Starting back to consciousness immediately, Dean bolts half upright and looks down. Sam looks back up at him. There isn’t a trace of apology in his expression—nothing to say he’s sorry he has Dean’s dick in his mouth and is doing—oh god—obscene things with his tongue.
Dean’s dick is already doing its best to perk back up, but he summons up one last, fraying shred of self-preservation and flails out, getting hold of his brother’s hair.
“Sam,” he says tightly.
It means stop, he wants it to mean stop, but that isn’t exactly how it comes out. And his hand isn’t exactly pulling Sam off either. He seems to be drawing his brother closer, actually, and his hips are jerking up in minute pulses, driving his cock deeper into Sam’s throat.
“Please,” Dean moans. “Sammy, please.”
Sam gives his head a slight shake—almost imperceptible, but enough for Dean to get that Sam isn’t going to ease up. He isn’t going to do what Dean is clearly too weak to accomplish and stop this. A sharp, aching bolt shoots through Dean’s chest as he brings his left hand up—prays it’ll do what his right isn’t, put an end to this—and only succeeds in gaining more control over the way he rides Sam’s mouth.
He’s drunk, that’s the problem. He’s drunk off of alcohol and Jess and most of all Sammy, who’s staring up at him with this burning, worshipful look that Dean should have seen coming from a mile away but somehow missed. Missed his own miswired connections as well, never dreamed he’d be fucked up enough to let this happen—to enjoy it.
When Jess was between them before, he could still pretend it wasn’t about Sam. He could hide in the willful, lying notion that it was just Jess he was hot for: just Jess he wanted to tumble into bed. But Jess isn’t here now, and Dean isn’t even sure whether or not she’s in the room because he can’t look away from his brother.
From Sam. From Dean’s kid brother who has Dean’s dick in his mouth.
Fuck.
“Sam,” he says, and this time it comes out as a sob. “Sammy.”
Sam makes some kind of noise as Dean’s cock pushes in deep, throat muscles working, and Dean loses all pretense of control. He’s never been this frantic—is a big believer in taking his time—but he can’t stand the conflicting waves of pleasure and shame ripping through him one second longer than he has to, so he lets go and fucks Sam’s mouth with a ruthlessness he’s always reserved for his own fist.
He wants Sam to shy away from the roughness, or maybe gag so he’ll have an excuse to pull his cock out of his baby brother’s mouth, but instead Sam somehow unhinges his jaw further and works a hand beneath Dean’s ass. Dean doesn’t even have time to wonder what he’s doing before Sam’s finger is stabbing into him again—moister than the first time, which means it’s covered in lube, which means Sam was thinking about doing this before he started going down on Dean.
Dean jerks, and his hands clench in Sam’s hair, and this time he really is going to pull away, except then Sam hits some shocking, unexpected place inside of him, and instead he blurts, “Fuck!” and drops back down on the bed. Sam moves where he’s crouched between Dean’s legs, careful not to take his mouth off Dean’s cock, and with the better angle he has the leverage to force a couple more fingers in beside the first.
Dean’s pretty sure all that pressure would hurt if his muscles weren’t so lazy with drink and sex, but as it is there doesn’t seem to be much resistance at all. Sam is doing something down there, but it seems to be happening on the other end of a long tunnel, and anyway Dean can’t seem to think past the things Sam’s mouth is doing to his cock.
“Jess,” he tries, lifting his head and trying to locate her. She jerked him back from this precipice before; she can do it again. Except the room is empty, and now that Dean is focusing past Sam, he can hear the shower running.
The sudden sting of teeth—not hard enough to do any real damage, just a warning—snaps Dean’s attention back down to his brother. Sam’s eyes are umber dark and intent, and Dean understands with a sinking sensation in his gut that Jess left them alone together deliberately.
What happened before is one thing, and what may or may not come after is another. This right here, though? This is Sam tearing down all of Dean’s carefully constructed defenses and making a place for himself in the rubble. This is Sam stripping Dean’s armor away and leaving him naked and squirming. This is Sam hobbling Dean so he can’t walk, and stealing his breath so he can’t breathe. This is Sam wrapping Dean up so tight that the rest of the world might as well not exist.
Jess abandoned Dean to this, the bitch.
Dean’s body gives a minute tremor at just how well he’s been maneuvered, and he turns his head to one side, swallowing thickly while Sam continues to suck his cock and finger him loose. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, which have gone slack and fallen to the mattress to either side of his body. He does know that he doesn’t want Sam to hear the breathy, punched moans and whines the blowjob is pulling from him, though, so he does his best to keep his mouth shut. Things keep slipping out anyway, of course—especially after Sam’s fingers locate something deep inside of his body that keeps sending supernova flares of pleasure through him.
Dean flushes, embarrassed, and reaches a hand up to grip one of the slats of the headboard. He bites his lower lip, back arching as Sam pulls off enough to tongue at the slit of his cock while mercilessly rubbing his fingers against the sparking nub inside.
Dean almost sobs when his brother finally lifts his head, releasing Dean’s cock and licking his lips. Sam’s fingers have stilled deep inside of Dean, wedging him open wide enough that he doesn’t think taking a cock is going to provide much of a challenge.
Physically, anyway.
“Tell me no and I’ll stop,” Sam says. His voice is a little hoarse, and Dean’s stomach twists violently when he realizes that’s because Sam was just sucking on his cock.
He tries to get the word out—he can’t handle this; it’s too big, too much; it’s fucking wrong—but there’s a sudden blockage in his throat and he can’t say anything. He can’t move either, body rebellious and limp on the bed. Only his hand is tense, clutching the slender bar of wood as though he can drag himself out of the situation if he tries hard enough.
Slowly, Sam slides his fingers free. The absence leaves Dean’s ass with a gaping, empty sensation, and when he involuntarily tries to clench up on the air, his muscles pulse with a dull, deep-seated ache.
He watches his brother crawl up his body with casual grace—flicks his eyes down over Sam’s chest and stomach to his brother’s cock, which is flushed and full and very definitely not wearing one of Jess’ raincoats.
“What, no condom?” he rasps, grateful for the distraction.
“Are you clean?” Sam replies simply.
Dean contemplates lying for about half a second before answering, “Yeah.”
When Sam’s hands land on his thighs in response, pushing them further apart, he swallows thickly and glances away.
“I want to feel you,” Sam whispers, leaning in and nudging Dean’s cheek with his nose. “Just you. I trust you, Dean.”
“Sammy,” Dean says, groping after anything he can use to avert this train wreck. “I’m—I’m drunk. I’m so fucking wasted, man.”
Surely Sam will back off now. He’s not the type of guy to fuck a dude when he’s out of his gourd with beer and tequila.
Except Sam only nips at Dean’s jaw and says, “I know. Would’ve gotten you high too, if I thought you’d forgive me for it.”
Dean understood as soon as Jess removed herself from equation that this whole seduction act was planned, but something about the casualness of his brother’s revelation goads him into biting out, “You set me up.”
He expects Sam to get defensive—the words come out accusing enough—but instead Sam offers him a wry, fond expression and explains, “I didn’t want you to flip out and run off on me.”
Something pushes up against Dean’s ass as his brother finishes speaking, and the blunt pressure makes his stomach flip in a pleasurable, anxious way. He thinks that if Sam didn’t want him running, he should have cut Dean’s legs off above the knee, because as soon as Sam’s attention is focused on something else, he’s going to be out of here fast enough to leave one of those cartoon whiffs of dust behind.
“Last chance,” Sam says, pressing a gentle kiss to Dean’s cheek.
No, Dean thinks, and, I can’t.
But somewhere between his brain and his mouth the signals get crossed and what comes out is, “Do it.”
It hurts. Dean thought it wouldn’t, as loose and pliant as Sam got him, but Sam’s cock must be bigger than he thought because it feels like Sam’s trying to wedge a baseball bat inside of him. Dean grunts, letting go of the headboard to grip Sam’s bicep instead. He digs his fingers into Sam’s skin, tense and torn between riding it out and shoving Sam off, but Sam ignores the hold and just keeps coming, driving the burn deeper with a single, relentless push. He doesn’t stop until he’s bottomed out, buried as far inside Dean as he can go, and then he drops his forehead against Dean’s and breathes. His moist breath wafts over Dean’s parted lips.
“Dean,” Sam whispers after almost a full minute has ticked past. “I’m inside you.”
Dean shudders—it’s one thing to feel Sam’s cock filling him up, another completely to hear it spoken aloud like that. He shuts his eyes, but doesn’t try to pull away. He doesn’t tell Sam to get the fuck off him.
Sam’s thrusts are tentative at first, like he’s worried about hurting Dean, but Dean is too shell-shocked to be grateful. He’s raw inside—not just his ass, but everywhere: chest gaping open and heart exposed—and he can’t really feel the kisses Sam is peppering on his lips. He sure as fuck feels what Sam is doing to his ass, though—feels his brother’s cock easing out and then back in, claiming him, and after a few minutes he spreads his legs further apart and lifts them up so that his knees are in the air and the soles of his feet are planted on the bed.
The new angle slots Sam’s cock against the sparking place inside of him and he jerks, gasping, as his own cock fills. Sam says his name again—wondering and almost innocent, except there’s nothing innocent at all about the way Sam is moving now, revving up speed until his balls are smacking against Dean’s ass with a staccato, frantic frequency.
Dean hangs onto his brother and lets it happen. He lets Sam cover him inside and out, and thanks the alcohol for the protective barrier it’s keeping between him and his crushed, bleeding emotions.
“I love you,” Sam moans, like the words are tearing themselves out of him. “Fuck, Dean, I love you so fucking much.”
Dean can’t answer—it isn’t safe to answer, to put himself out there like that—and anyway Sam has a fucking girlfriend. He has no goddamned right screwing with Dean’s head and heart like this. Dean wants to be angry, but he’s long since come to grips with the fact that he’ll take what he can get when it comes to Sam. He might not have understood that he wanted this before tonight, but that doesn’t make the principle any less true.
So Dean is pliant while Sam fucks himself to completion, and when Jess gets back into the bed afterwards with a hesitant, hopeful expression, he manages a smile. It must be pretty convincing, because he gets a smile in return and then a lapful of damp, naked woman, and somehow he ends up fucking her while Sam slots into him again from behind. There’s a lazy daisy chain after that: Jess sucking Dean clean while Dean gets his first taste of his brother’s cock and Sam licks Jess into a shivering, moaning mess.
By the time they’re done, Dean’s head is spinning. He isn’t sure why he hasn’t passed out yet, unless it’s because he doesn’t want this to end, because he knows that tomorrow the carriage is going to turn back into a pumpkin. Tonight isn’t going to change anything between them—hasn’t altered the fact that he’s Sam’s brother, that Sam doesn’t even really seem to like him most times.
Dean’s going to go back to being the mindless toy solider that he knows his brother has always seen him as. Jess will go back to being Sam’s girl and not his. In the morning, there are going to be awkward, mumbled goodbyes on their end, and promises to come back and visit that he knows he’s never going to keep on Dean’s.
If he were capable of it, Dean would hate Sam for offering him this, when they all know he’s just going to rip it away again.
But all of that’s for tomorrow.
Tonight, Dean pulls Jess close to his chest the way she asks him to, and rests his head beside hers on the pillow. He’s tired. So very tired.
Sam is moving around the room, picking things up before he returns to bed, and Dean listens to his brother absently while the bruised, longing ache deepens in his chest.
“Is he asleep?” Sam asks finally, keeping his voice soft.
Dean isn’t, not yet, but he’s close enough that Jess isn’t far off when she answers, “I think so. We really wore him out.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. He sounds distracted. “Hey, you see any paper clips around here?”
“Paper clips?” Jess repeats. “No, why?”
Sam doesn’t answer, which is a shame because Dean would like to know too, but can’t be bothered to halt his gradual slide into unconsciousness.
A second later, the bed dips behind him. He feels Jess twist slightly in his arms, turning to look at whatever Sam is doing, and then strong fingers grip Dean’s wrist and ease it carefully up over his head. Dean groans softly and buries his nose more deeply in the cascade of Jess’ hair.
“Sam?” Jess’ voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away now, and Dean doesn’t move when the nest of hair pulls away as Jess sits up. “What the hell are you doing?”
A thin, smooth line curls around Dean’s wrist (bracelet, not a fucking girl) and a moment later there’s a soft snick. The sound is kind of familiar, but Dean’s brain isn’t working well enough anymore to figure out why. He tries to move his hand back down—vague idea of cupping Jess’ breast as he falls asleep, while he’s got the chance—and can’t get it to obey. Which is odd, and sort of annoying, but not worth stressing over when he’s already so comfortable. With a soft sigh, he drifts deeper.
“You don’t know him,” Sam’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. “He’s going to try to run.”
“So this is your solution? Handcuffing him to the bed?”
“Just until I can get it through his thick head that I mean this. I can’t. We can’t lose him, Jess. Not now that we have him.”
“Shh, baby. We won’t.”
A hand brushes through Dean’s hair, gentle and loving, and he thoughtlessly arches into the touch.
And sleeps.