Chapter Text
When Dean blinks awake a wave of disorientation crashes over him. There are a pair of strong arms wrapped around his middle, one large hand splayed possessive over his stomach, and he’s thinking no, wait, this isn’t right, and then the arms shift around him and a blunt nose finds the back of his neck and he remembers Sam, and home, and safe.
He is comfortable in a way he hasn’t been for years - except, that can’t be right, because this is his life and has been for a few months now, Sam snuffling sleep breath into his nape, their legs hooked together, sun-warmed soft skin pressed up everywhere. If he claws off the comforter and looks around, he knows, he will see their room as it always is: three tall, thin windows with cheap slatted blinds he can’t ever figure out, high, sloped ceiling, yesterday’s jeans puddled on the floor where he’d left them, one of Sam’s poncy cardigans draped over the desk chair. He can map it out in his head without looking, easy, all of it so familiar he can’t remember why he’d felt disoriented in the first place. Of course he’s happy, he’s got Sam and the house and this goddamn mindblowingly comfortable bed.
He leans his spine back into the warm curve of his brother’s chest and hips, feels his cock blood-thick and eager on the backs of his thighs. Sam makes a noise that might be his name but could also just as easily be a soup of random, sleepy consonants, and Dean decides right then he’s going to wake his brother up right.
He rolls his hips, slow and firm and edging downward until he's sliding Sam's cock between his ass cheeks, hot length of him rubbing smooth against the seam of Dean's boxers. He must've fallen asleep in them, which is a-okay, because they're nice, soft against his skin, and he remembers now - they're one of the pairs he'd gotten when they'd first moved here, after Sam'd teased him over the graying, shredded, Walmart-brand boxers he'd been wearing since his early twenties, unidentifiable now as actual underwear, and they'd gone to pick out a few packages together at the Macy's (so domestic, he'd complained). The memories bubble up sluggish in his sleep-heavy brain and he stretches a warm smile into his pillow at them as he presses back into his brother, works him gentle and easy. If he's good, if he goes slow, he'll be able to get Sam inside him before he's even all the way awake, and isn't that just a fucking incredible way to wake up, straight out of sleep and into - . Well. They'd managed that before, hadn't they? Hadn't they - ? Yeah, right, just a few weeks ago, Dean's brain tells him, early enough that the sun was still rising and the whole room was this ethereal orangey-pink color. Dean'd woken up still wet and open from the night before (when Sam'd held him close and they'd fucked forehead-to-forehead, chests and arms and legs slick with sweat and all pressed up together, lips touching but not kissing, both of them too caught up to do more than pant into each other's mouths, stare eye-to-eye in incredulous wonder), and he'd eased Sam back into him simple as breathing, ridden him careful until Sam'd woken with a whimper and pulled him into a kiss, pumped up into him fast and uncontrolled, Dean, Dean, God, yes. Always.
That isn't in the cards today, Dean's realizing, because Sam's already halfway to awake and stirring, muttering more nonsense into the vulnerable, sun-stained skin of Dean's neck, hand petting down his stomach and splaying wide just above the elastic of his boxers.
He could tilt his hips up into that big hand, squirm and wriggle until he got his own aching hard-on a little attention, but he stays where he is and lets his brother grind into him through the thin barrier of both their boxers because they've got all the time in the goddamn world and he's gonna enjoy the shit out of it, goddammit. He's content, for now, to listen to Sam purr untempered, happy little noises against his neck, to feel, rather than see, his gentle smile, the severe, untroubled slope of his brow. If this was his last day on Earth, he'd be fucking content. (His heaven, he imagines, is this moment stretched out into infinity).
He feels teeth and then wet tongue against his bare shoulder, light suction, and he shifts around until he’s face-to-face with Sam and catches his lax, gummy lips with his own. They kiss in the unhurried, simple way of a couple who've had years already to map each other’s bodies. Sam’s hand drifts down to the small of his back, begins to trace little patterns into his skin.
When he pulls away, Sam’s eyes are open, and they’re so full of love it makes Dean a little anxious.
“You taste disgusting,” he informs his brother, just to restore their equilibrium.
Sam rolls his eyes. "Good morning to you, too."
"Aw, Sammy, really?" Dean says, snaking a hand down between them. "You're gonna complain 'bout this?"
Sam still manages to look pissy, even with the head of his cock cradled in Dean's palm. "You're an - mm. An ass."
"And you're a goddamn ray of sunshine. Sam," Dean says, in between getting both his hands past the waistband of Sam's boxers, "fuck me."
Sam moans. "S'tempting, but - "
"Don't argue, c'mon, fuck. I want you in me, like, yesterday."
"No, really, Dean, I can't - "
The alarm clock goes off at that moment. Dean, seasoned hunter and veteran of at least one apocalypse, flails off the bed, his jerking knee missing his brother's balls by mere millimeters.
" - I've got work," Sam finishes, propping himself up on an elbow so he can peer over the side of the bed. "You can blow me in the shower real quick though, if you want."
"Lucky me," Dean says.
He can't believe he forgot. It's... Thursday, so Sam has work. Of course. As a, uh. A professor! Of - theology? No, anthropology. Yeah, myths and culture and shit. Kid was always destined for better things. Anyway, he's only got an hour now to get to the, the, um, the local community college! Where he teaches. Yes. That.
"'Scuse me," Sam says, stepping over him. His boxers are tented in an obscene fashion but he doesn't much seem to care. Dean grabs at his heels to trip him, but misses spectacularly.
"You coming?" Sam asks at the door to the bathroom, one eyebrow raised.
"You're such a little bitch," Dean informs him, and follows.
The shower takes twenty minutes all told (ten minutes for Sam to wash his girly hair, ten for Dean to get on his knees and blow his fucking mind), and then Dean helps him choose from the vast selection of hideous grandpa sweaters they'd somehow accumulated since moving in.
"This one's not that ugly," Dean says, offering out a moss-green number with a ring of white snowflakes knit under the breast.
"Ha ha. No, Dean, that's a Christmas sweater. S'not appropriate for the season."
"None of these are appropriate for any season. Ever. Do you pick them this gross on purpose, or - ?"
"I think they're nice. My students say they like 'em, too."
"Yeah, uh, hate to break it to you, Sammy, but they're making fun of you."
"Go fuck yourself," Sam says conversationally. "What d'you know, anyway? All you wear is plaid."
"It's functional," Dean says. "And rugged."
"Uh-huh. Okay, we're going with this one," Sam announces, whipping a maroon sweater out of the drawer like it's a magician's scarf. He wrangles it over his head.
"Ew," Dean says.
"I don't wanna hear it."
They wander into the kitchen and Dean goes about making coffee while Sam flips through a sheaf of student essays at the table. "You're such a sweet little housewife," he tells Dean, and Dean kicks a leg of the table hard enough to make the papers scatter everywhere. Sam is left to fix his own coffee.
Stuck to the refrigerator around the souvenir magnet they'd got from Illinois at the world's largest ketchup bottle attraction and the magnet advertising Singer Salvage are a number of chunky plastic alphabet magnets and, in a fit of inspiration, Dean slides them around to read BONER, and then, above it, LICK MY. Sam ignores him to scribble a huge red 62 and a lopsided frowny face at the top of one of his papers.
"These are all terrible," he says. "Listen to this: vampires are the worldwide phenomena of the world, phenomena spelled p-h-a-n-o-m-i-n-a. Every culture has a vampire myth - "
"Phenomena's spelled with a ph? Huh. And, I mean, it's bas'cly true, right? There are Chinese vampires, and Argentinian vampires, all sorts of vampires all over the place."
"Yeah, but, with the way the kid's defined vampire, might as well stick goddamn chupacabras on the list."
"Chupacabras ain't vampires."
"That's what I'm - "
Beep beep beep, says Sam's watch. He starts to gather up the papers.
"I gotta - "
"Yeah, yeah, get outta here," Dean says. "Can't keep your fans waiting."
"Ugh," Sam says, pulling on his boots. "Dunno if I can do this."
"What class've you got today?
"The Living Myth," Sam says. "A study of the trajectory of popular myth and fantasy from its earliest recorded appearances - "
"Yeah, okay, Professor," Dean says, nudging him out the door. "I get it. See you for lunch."
"Yup!" Sam says, and then pecks him on the lips, right there on the front porch.
"Uh," Dean says.
Sam gives him a fond look, turns, and ambles down the walk. Dean stares dumbly at him, watches him get into the beat-up oatmeal colored '85 Jetta coupe they'd scored for five hundred bucks and drive away, waving into the passenger window before he takes the turn off their street.
An old, familiar panic is swarming him, clogging up his airways, and he has to grip the porch railing for support to steady himself. Across the road there's an old lady watering the pink and blue flowers in her front garden, and a few doors down there's a little kid pushing around his sister in a wagon, and Dean just kissed his brother in broad daylight for all of God and country to see.
The old lady wiggles her watering can at him and he tries to smile back at her. She takes this as an invitation to cross over, as if he isn't having an existential crisis at sixty miles per hour right in front of her.
"Good morning," she says. "Lovely out, isn't it? Weather's great for petunias."
She looks vaguely familiar and Dean spends a futile moment trying to place where he's seen her before he realizes, duh, she's his next-door neighbor. Of course she looks familiar, he's been seeing her probably every morning for the past few months, her cheerful wrinkly old-person face and veiny dirt-dusted hands.
"It's so sweet of you, seeing Sam off like that in the mornings. Have I ever told you that? The two of you are so cute."
"Well," Dean says. He gets the distinct feeling he's heard her say this maybe ten or fifteen times already.
"Reminds me of Georgie, my late husband. I used to send him off every day with a kiss and a smile, up until his heart gave out."
Dean makes conciliatory noises at her.
"It was a long time ago, dear. But we were just the same, so in love with each other we couldn't hardly think straight. Oh, now, don't be embarrassed. You young men, so stoic."
"I've got to, uh. Things. Busy," Dean says, ac cutely aware that he's still in his boxers and the faded Led Zeppelin tee he'd found balled up on the sink when he'd gotten out of the shower. It has an enormous hole worn through the shoulder blades and the collar is starting to separate from the body of the shirt, and he's pretty sure he's kept it only for a) nostalgia purposes and b) because Sam fucking hates it.
"Of course! Don't let me keep you. Don't forget, you and your Sam are welcome over for dinner, any time."
"Uh. Yup. We'll totally, um, do that. Soon."
"I should hope so," she says, and he watches her wander back across the street, just to make sure she isn't nailed by a car or something. She isn't, and he retreats back into the house, probably a whole lot more off-kilter than he should be.
Everything's just felt fucking weird since he woke up, like the neighborhood's shifted over twenty degrees to the right during the night, everything familiar and exactly the same as it's always been but at the same time raw and alien, newly wrong in a way he can't quite put his finger on. The house is exactly as it's always been: single story, no basement, baby-blue and trimmed with white, third one down on the street, only his brain's warning him that it wasn't like this yesterday, that something major has swapped around when he wasn't looking, and now he can't place just what it is.
It's the lifestyle, he knows. He isn't used to staying in one place for so long, and it's messing with his head. He's all ready to pop into the Impala and drive five counties over to dig up a grave, only he's got rent and bills and a dresser with all his clothes in it, a refrigerator with groceries to last till the next month, and he can't pick up and go the way he used to.
That's okay, though. He likes it here. Right? Right. And, more importantly, Sam likes it here, too, likes knowing their neighbors by name and having colleagues and an official place of residence. He's such a damn nerd.
Dean finishes up the rest of the coffee. He should probably put some clothes on, because - ? Because, he has to get going to his own job, the thing he does to keep himself from going crazy while Sam's off professoring. He's got a little while until he's officially supposed to be there, but there's nothing to do in the house unless he wants to get started on the laundry or cleaning the bathroom which, no. That was one part of stationary living he hadn't been able to get used to right away - places to sleep that didn't come with maids to clean up after you - and it'd taken a few false starts and impressive towers of dirty dishes before he'd gotten into the swing of things. He still preferred to let Sam take care of the bulk of it, especially the weird fiddly stuff like smudged windowsills and dusty shelves.
He kicks on a pair of old oil-stained jeans, shrugs a long-sleeved button up over the holey Led Zeppelin shirt. He's just gonna put a lumpy coverall over all of it, so he hardly has to be Miss America. As long as he isn't naked, no one'll complain. He shuffles out of the house, gets in the Impala, and drives. The shop's only a couple blocks away, so he could probably walk, but he doesn't often get the chance to take his baby out for a stroll any more and he likes to spend as much time in her as he can.
There're already customers hanging out in the waiting room when he gets there. It's gonna be a busy day.
"Heya, Lou," he tells the kid at reception.
"Got a lady with a Corvette needs looking at," Lou says, chewing on a string of red licorice. He's amicable in a dorky way, and Dean likes him all right. Reminds him of a younger Sammy.
"Awesome," Dean says. "Tell Danny I'll be right up."
Lou salutes him, turns back to the pocket book of sudoku he's got open on the desk. Dean lets himself into the garage.
Corvette Lady turns out to be a bigger job than he'd anticipated - her engine's screwed up beyond belief, and her trunk's crumpled up like paper - so he spends most of the morning tinkering away in her guts, doing what he can to repair the damage and falling into a mechanically-induced haze along the way, absorbed by the puzzle under his hands. For a long while there's just birdsong and machine-heat and the smell of oil, streaks on the thighs of his coveralls where he wipes his greasy hands, and the world aligns into place perfectly, everything where it ought to be. The work makes sense in a way other pieces of his suburban life don't (like gardening, or barbecues, or sending out Christmas cards).
Danny breaks through his fugue state at around noon, banging through the door and tossing a wet sponge at Dean's head. "Your boyfriend's here to see you," he says, and leaves.
"Not my boyfriend," Dean says, but Danny's gone and doesn't hear him. Instead there's Sam's dopey head sticking through the door to the garage, bemused smile on his face.
"Thought we were gonna meet up at Lucy's," he says. "Glad I called you first, or else I'd be sitting alone in a booth right now."
"Lucy's?" Dean says (the diner, idiot, his brain supplies). "Right. Shit, sorry. I got distracted."
"Yeah, I figured. So," Sam says, picking his way over discarded car parts to come dangle a plastic takeout bag in his brother's face. "I got us subs from The Star."
"Oh, shit, man, you're the best," Dean says, grabbing at the bag. He's suddenly ravenously hungry, and no wonder - all he's got in his stomach is the shitty cup of coffee he'd had at breakfast.
"Hell yeah I am. You owe me, dude."
"You get me ham?"
"And turkey, and pepperoni."
"Ugh. I could kiss you."
He means it rhetorically (hypothetically?) but Sam takes it as an invitation and shoves the bag out of the way to press their mouths together. Dean tolerates it for a good fifteen seconds and then resumes his laser-like focus on his sandwich.
"Dean," Sam whines.
"Later. I'm starving. Mm. Oh man, that's good."
"Hey, gimme mine."
"I dunno, maybe I'll just eat both of these. Ugh, or not," Dean says, wiggling Sam's unwrapped sandwich at him. "The fuck is this?"
"It's grilled vegetables. It's good for you," Sam says, reaching for it.
"That looks like worms. And cat puke," Dean says, handing it over.
"It's onions, and eggplant, and mushroom. All delicious, not that you'd know."
"And I don't ever plan on finding out," Dean says, taking a big happy bite of his awesome artery-clogging sub. Sam rolls his eyes like the bitchy baby he is and suffers through his shitty sandwich silently. Dean makes sure to eat his extra loud just so Sam knows what he's missing.
When they finish Sam doesn't waste a moment and swoops in to capture Dean's lips again. This is strange, kissing just to kiss, but he likes it, and he leans into Sam happily, cupping his stubbly cheek in one hand and finding his waist with the other. He doesn't think he usually does this, not with anyone, let alone men - let alone Sam - and the closeness is comforting, warm, like the thing they have is more than just some roadside hookup. But, hell, of course it is, because this is Sam, Sammy, his stupid little brother, and he - Sam's important, is all. He's important.
This doesn't stop Dean from surreptitiously smearing oil on the sleeve of his sweater, though. When he pulls away he's got some smeared on the tip of his nose, too, and Dean snickers at him.
"What," Sam whines.
"Nothing," Dean tells him, and pulls him into another kiss, still gentle, hardly more than a peck. "You got anything else to do today?"
"Nah," Sam says. "I'm all yours."
Their joint schedule runs through Dean's mind like ticker tape (so weird to have a schedule, weird to have appointments and deadlines), and yeah, right, Sam's only got the one class on Thursdays, so he can come straight home after his office hours finish up at noon. It's for this reason alone that Thursdays are easily his favorite day of the week, and how could he have forgotten that? He gets to see Sam early.
"You gonna stick around?" Dean asks, and God damn him but he's struck with a little ping of joy when Sam nods yes. He'd gotten used to spending about near every hour of every day together - driving, fighting, researching - and after all that time moving as one person, being apart just seems wrong. It'd been like this when Sam'd left for college, too, all of him surrounded by the uncomfortable obvious space where his brother isn't, their distance sometimes the only thing he could focus on. He'd talk and sing and yell to himself just to keep out the quiet, drown out the silent places where there ought to be another heart beating, another set of lungs taking air in and out. Even knowing Sam's only a few miles away, the distance of a couple more hours, he can't help but feel incomplete until they're actually side-by-side.
He'd love to just sit and talk with his brother the rest of the day, maybe make out a little more, but he's gotta get this Corvette road-safe soonish so Sam leans over him and talks and watches while he fucks around with her engine. Danny should probably disapprove of this, he thinks, but his boss is nowhere to be found, and as long as no one tells him no outright he's gonna keep on keeping on.
"It's weird to talk about this shit like it isn't real, you know?" Sam's saying as Dean reconnects parts that definitely should already have been connected. "Like, wendigos are an Algonquin superstition, borne of blah blah blah. Except, I've seen one."
"And flambe'd it."
"Yeah. Not so much a superstition."
"You ever think about telling 'em?"
"What, that monsters're stalking us? Nah."
"No interest in raising the newest generation of hunters?"
"Hell no. Besides, things've been pretty quiet, huh?"
"Yeah," Dean says, swapping out his wrench for a screwdriver. "They have. You ever think that's weird?"
"Nah, why?"
"Well, I mean - wasn't there an upswing in monsters a while ago? There was that Mother of All bullshit, wasn't there? Man, that sucked ass."
"Yeah, but we took care of her. With the phoenix ash, remember?"
Yeah, he remembered. Still has the scar on his neck from where she'd bit him. Except - . "There were still a buncha monster babies running around though, weren't there? Fuckin' Jefferson Starships and shit."
"Nah, they all died with her, man."
What? No. That isn't - . "I thought - "
"Yeah, they all went up in smoke the second she did," Sam insists.
"...Oh. Yeah, no, you're right. They all... yeah."
He has to put down the screwdriver to rub at his temples. He feels foggy and congested, and a little achy around the eyes.
"You okay, man?" Sam asks.
"I'm good," Dean says. "Don't worry, I'm just, I don't know, headachey all of the sudden. Ugh."
"You wanna go home?"
"Well, yeah. But I'm - no, I'm okay. S'not worth taking a sick day over."
"If you say so," Sam says. He watches him carefully for the rest of the afternoon.
They get home at three, both in their separate cars. Dean sheds his garage-grimy shirt and jeans as soon as he gets through the door, throwing them in the general direction of the sofa ("Goddammit, Dean," Sam grumbles), and clamors into the shower focused only on removing the sticky patina of sweat and grease he'd accumulated while working. He's surprised, then, when Sam barges into the bathroom minutes after he's just gotten comfortable under the spray, sheds his own clothes, and joins him.
"Uh," Dean says, as Sam shimmies up behind him. "Hi? Can I help you?"
"Yes, actually," Sam says, shifting forward so that Dean can feel his erect cock against the cleft of his ass. "You owe me, remember?"
"Collecting already? Damn," Dean says, turning to face him.
"Nuh-uh," Sam murmurs against his earlobe, pinning him in place against the wall of the shower with a hand against the back of his shoulder. "I wanna eat you out."
"Um," Dean gasps, as Sam's other hand slides down and presses against the small of his back. "Okay."
"Hands on the wall," Sam growls, nipping at his ear. "Bend over. Let me see."
Dean complies, allowing the hand at his back to guide him. He rests his forearms and head against the shower wall, widening his stance. He can feel his cock filling between his legs, stirred by Sam's voice alone.
The hand at the small of his back slides down further, grips one ass cheek and pulls him open, and he can feel water from the spray drum against his entrance, slide down his sensitive inner thighs. He can't see it but he knows his asshole's twitching and jerking and he grinds his red face into the hinge of his elbow like he can hide from it, like maybe if he closes his eyes the shame will go away. They've done this before, he's pretty sure, but it feels like the first time - feels like the first time anyone's done anything like this, God-fucking-damn - and the intimacy is near overwhelming, knowing his brother's peering down at him when he's exposed like this.
There's hot breath on his perineum and he can't help but jerk forward a little, having lost Sam's movement in the fog of nervous desperation that's ascended over him. Sam slaps his hip, not too hard but enough to sting.
"Stay still," he commands, and Dean freezes, whines just a little. "You stay where you are."
He leans forward that last little space and tongues at the skin just underneath Dean's hole, avoiding his rim, and this time Dean really does whine, hips shifting up and down but not really going anywhere in particular, just in case Sam chooses to stop. He can feel Sam chuckle, the bastard, breathy and jittery, and his tongue flattens out and glides down, stops at the spot where his balls begin, licks back up to his hole, back and forth a few more times. It feels good but it's not enough and Sam knows it, too, knows he's being a shitty dickish tease.
"Sam, please," he says, and apparently Sam'd been waiting for him to plead, because he finally sets his mouth onto Dean's hole and sucks a filthy, wet kiss into it, tongue swirling around him behind the circle of his lips.
"Fuck, yeah, Sammy," Dean says.
The edges of Sam's lips twitch in a satisfied smirk and his tongue keeps laving back and forth across the pinched skin, wet and so fucking good. Dean grinds back against his face helplessly, trying to get more, wanting Sam inside him, filling him up heavy and warm with fingers or tongue or, God, anything, and Sam just licks and slurps and teases his rim with a probing, wet tongue. He's imprecise and eager, sloppy with enthusiasm, and Dean can't get enough of his brother's lips on his asshole, his chin wet with spit where it brushes against his balls. He takes a fold of skin between his teeth ever so gently, hardly pressing at all, and the sensation rockets bolts of pleasure up Dean's spine, his toes curling in the floor of the tub. He tries to grip the tips of his clawed fingers into the smooth tile, get a hold on something, anything, just to squeeze and shed the tension in his shoulders, but it's flat and unyielding and he scrabbles around without accomplishing anything. Sam soothes the skin with little licks, waits until Dean's gone lax, and spears his tongue forward until he squeezes past the outer ring of muscle.
"Jesuschrist," Dean yelps, shuddering all over. His dick twitches, neglected, and he brings one hand down from where it's supporting his head to reach at himself.
Sam withdraws his tongue and grabs Dean's hand before it even gets past his navel.
"Don't even think about it," he says.
"But - Sammy - ."
"You don't get to touch yourself," Sam says. "Hands on the wall."
His voice goes dangerous, threatening, and Dean jerks his hand away from his torso like it's gone red hot, slamming it back in front of himself. The words yes, Sir bubble up to his lips and he chokes them down just in time. He can't even imagine how insufferable Sam'd be if he called him Sir.
"Good boy," Sam says, and that's fuckin' humiliating, all right, but it makes Dean shiver dangerously, forces another sad little whimper out of his throat.
Sam kisses his lower back. "That right?" he says. "You gonna be a good boy for me?"
"Y-yeah," Dean says.
Sam moves away, shuffles forward and back, and Dean has to stop himself from reaching out and pulling his brother back to him. There's the click of a bottle opening and then he's taking Dean's hand, spreading it open and drizzling something over his fingers, and the smell of Sam's flowery conditioner fills the small space.
"Why don't you show me," he says. "Show me how good you are, and open yourself up for me."
"Yeah, fuck, okay," Dean says. He snakes his lubricated hand back and around him in no time flat, and the position's a little uncomfortable, but the idea of Sam standing just inches away and watching him shoves any strain right out of his mind. He massages the conditioner around on his fingers to get them coated (creamy, a little oily), and rolls the tip of his index finger around his asshole.
"Put one in," Sam says, his voice deep and sex-roughened, breath stirring the fine hair at the very top of his thigh.
He's hardly inches away, then, Dean realizes, and he lets out a little choked-off moan as he slides his finger in to just the first joint. He works it in and out, gathering up more conditioner and forcing it into himself, slicking up his insides in preparation for more. He's already a little loose and wet from Sam's tongue, the heat of the shower around him, and his finger goes in without much help, sliding up to the last knuckle with no problem. It feels good inside him, pleasant insistent pressure, but the stretch isn't much at all and he eagerly pushes in a second, gets them both as far in as he can before the webbing between his knuckles forces him to stop. He keeps them stuffed up inside himself and wriggles them from side to side, scissors them as far apart as he can before they're forced back together again. It's better but still not enough.
"Fuck, Dean, I wish you could see yourself," Sam groans behind him. "You're so - Christ. I wanna fuck you, please - can I fuck you - ?"
"Fucking hell, yes, you asshole, fuck me - "
Sam bats his hand away and places his own fucking giant ones on either side of his spread ass, both already wet with conditioner. He presses one huge thumb against his hole and slides it in easy, takes the thumb on his other hand and does the same, turns both and hooks them and pulls them out in opposite directions, tugging him open and gaping.
"Sammy!" Dean cries. "Fuck, Sam - "
Sam's breath clouds up hot on his perineum again and Dean's positive he can't take this any longer, he's gotta get Sam's dick in him right the fuck now or he might fucking die, and Sam pulls his thumbs impossibly wider and worms his tongue in between his them, deeper than he'd gotten before, lighting him up hot and slick inside.
"Ah!" Dean says, and Sam trades one thumb for an index and middle finger, torquing them around and pressing up until he's found the perfect angle, fuck, sparks shooting up his spine and short circuiting his brain with every push, tongue still wriggling around near his entrance. Both of them are panting and Dean's spilling out a litany of needy moans without pause, burning up all over, please, Sammy, fuck me, please. His cock's still as-of-yet untouched but it's still leaking from the tip, would be trailing strands of pre-come onto his thighs if it weren't for the water washing it all away too fast, hiding his desperation. He's right on edge, Sam's fingers inside him pushing him ever closer every time they graze over his prostate, tongue flexing between and keeping him on the good side of too much, so close, so fucking close, stomach tightening and twisting up to release, every movement tipping him forward just a little more - just a little more -
Sam removes his mouth and hands with a loud, sticky squeltch and Dean's left empty and bereft, hole clenching on air. He mewls pitifully, dragged back from coming by the skin of his teeth. Behind him he can hear Sam's hand slide against skin - slicking up his cock, Dean figures - and then the head of his dick's pressed up against his loose, slippery hole, and he has to clench his fists so as to not slam himself back. Sam waits, teasing himself up and down Dean's crack, head of his cock catching on his rim and almost, but not quite, dipping in.
"C'mon c'mon c'mon," Dean chants.
Sam leans over his back and reaches up with one conditioner-wet hand, finds Dean's fingers with his own and twines them together. He uses his other hand to hold himself steady and finally, achingly, eases in just the tip.
"Holy shit, you're tight,"he pants, pulling himself tortuously back out. "Gonna - "
"Yeah," says Dean. "Fuck me, please, c'mon."
Sam slides into him and Dean swallows him up, long slow dirty stretch pinning him open wide and wider. He's burning up inside, radiating heat and electric pleasure everywhere Sam touches him. Sam gives a couple experimental, jerky thrusts to work himself in deeper, hardly moving at all but the stretch is so hot and good and near fucking perfect, and Dean gives in at last and slams backwards. The pressure of his brother's cock filling him all at once is gut-wrenching, earth-turning, and the orgasm that Sam'd stolen from him earlier comes rushing forward with a vengeance, arching his back and stealing his vision, hips grinding back without his consent. He fucks himself empty on Sam's cock, come spattering onto the shower wall, totally untouched.
His knees go weak and he'd probably've fallen if it wasn't for Sam snaring him around the waist and pulling him upright, one tense, strong forearm barred across his chest. He pounds into him with abandon, hand gripping his shoulder with intent to bruise, and Dean lets his head loll back to rest against the column of his neck. The slick-slide of Sam inside him is almost too much but he urges him on anyway, clenching around him and meeting him on the upstroke. Sam's relentless. He's forgotten gentle, forgotten caring and patient, everything lost but the need to take and claim and come.
"Fuck, Dean, fuck," he whuffs, and he crushes himself in as far as he can one final time, hips stuttering. Dean can feel him come hard, shooting deep into his guts, and when he pulls away it begins to leak out of his well-used hole, trailing down his leg. It's a weird, uncomfortable feeling, having his brother's come sliding around inside him, and he'd like to clean himself out properly, only Sam doesn't feel like he's going to move any time soon - he's tightened his death grip around Dean's chest, actually, leaning into him like he's a pillar - but, he supposes, that's okay. He's comfortable underneath the warm water, Sam heavy and solid at his back, and he could stand to stay like this for just a bit longer. No skin off his back.
Sam lets his head fall down onto Dean's shoulder, resting his moist forehead against the curve of his neck. He hums happily.
"Mm," Dean agrees.
"I love -" Sam starts to say, only that's not something that Sam'd ever say, since he's a Winchester as stubborn as the rest of them. There's a feeling like a tape being rewound, the universe unspooling and reorganizing itself around him, and Sam hadn't ever said anything at all.
Dean isn't sure if this was supposed to happen, but he's also pretty sure it was one of those things he really shouldn't worry about, so he lets it go. He's stupid and complacent from orgasm and nothing about this can be wrong, not really, not when the water pressure's hot and steady and Sam's his to touch and please.
And then the water goes ice fucking cold.
"Agh," Dean says, diving out of the shower.
Sam cackles at him.
"Shut up, asshole, it's freezing," he says, wrapping himself in a towel.
"You were fine with it just a second ago."
"It wasn't fucking Antartic just a second ago."
"It was like that for a while, man," Sam says, shutting off the shower and following him out. "I think all those concussions are catching up with you."
"Not my fault ghosts have a boner for chucking me into shit. Damn, Sammy, where'd we pick up these towels? They're awesome."
"Uh," Sam says. He stares blankly into the distance for a second and then says, "Home Goods?"
"Wherever it was, let's go back and pick up, like, ten more. Damn."
"I'll add it to the shopping list."
"Fuck yeah, you will."
Sam still has about five hundred papers to grade and so he sets himself back up at the kitchen table with his red pen and folder, Dean perched next to him like an oversized, clumsy bird of prey, providing extremely helpful suggestions ("this kid's name is Zephaniah? Ew. Automatic minus ten for that") and stealing sips of Sam's lukewarm coffee, leftovers from that morning.
The telephone goes off while Sam's in the middle of puzzling through a particularly nonsensical thesis.
"Hold that thought," Dean says, snagging the phone. "Yeah?"
"Hiya, Dean. It's Sandra."
"Oh, uh - hi?" he says. He tries to place the name to a face and fails miserably. Hadn't Sam had the hots for a chick named Sandra once, way back when? No, shit - that was Sarah. Sandra's someone totally different.
"From number sixteen?" she says, and oh, yeah, right. Sandra. They'd met ages ago, at some shitty-ass welcome-to-the-neighborhood barbecue that the old lady across the street had hosted. It'd sucked majorly. Sandra was okay, though, a leggy brunette newlywed with two kids from a previous marriage and a decent sense of humor. They'd talked shit about the terrible top-forties pop hits that had been blasting out of the radio someone'd set up in the backyard and, as the party'd slumbered on around them, fallen deep into debate over gun manufacturers.
"Yeah, I know," he lies. "How're Jason and Yasmin doing?"
"That's actually what I was calling about - "
"Are they okay? Did something happen?" he says, jumping up. Sam looks at him in alarm, fumbling his pen.
"No, no, they're fine," she says. "It's just that Andy and I have reservations for a restaurant tomorrow - it's our anniversary - and Mathilde was supposed to watch the kids, except she cancelled, and Katherine and Taylor can't do it either, and Harold's out of town - "
"Yeah, I gotcha," he says, settling back down onto the table. "You need me to watch 'em?"
"I wouldn't normally ask, but we've been holding on to the reservation for months, and it's really important. I understand if you can't, it's just- ." She sighs. "Well, you're the last person I can think to ask. Everyone else is busy."
"So I'm your last choice, huh? I see how it is."
"I tried asking the guy who comes to pick up the garbage, and the hobo who hangs out behind the Seven-Eleven, but they said no, too. So here we are."
"Here we are," he agrees. "Sorry everyone flaked out on you. I'd be happy to pick up the slack, though."
"Really? It'd really be a lifesaver," she says. "Tomorrow at six okay?"
"Yeah, sure. You want me to come over there?"
"Unless you want 'em to tear around your place, yeah. You can bring Sam, too, if you want. Just make sure they don't kill each other or burn down the house and it's all fine."
"Sounds good to me. I'll see you then."
They trade farewells and hang up, and Sam turns toward him with what was that all about plastered all over his face.
"Guess who's babysitting tomorrow," he sings.
Sam's expression turns to one of alarm. "What? Why?"
"Sandra's going on a date, and she needs someone to look after her kids. Turns out I'm just the man for the job."
"Sandra? She the one with the poodle?"
"Nah, the one with the legs. Ow," he says, when Sam flicks him hard on the arm. "I'm just identifying her so's you know which one she is."
"How about, no, Sam, the one with the brown hair? Or, the short one?"
"We know a whole buncha short people. You wouldn'tve known which I meant."
"Right, since we only know, like, two people with legs. Damn neighborhood's filled with amputees."
Dean smacks him upside the head, and Sam pinches him, and it devolves from there until they're scrapping on the floor like children.
"You sure you're fit to be a babysitter?" Sam asks, trapping him in a headlock.
"Fucking ow, you asshole! I'm great with kids, and you know it."
"Yeah, 'cuz you are one. Christ, no biting! You're just proving my point, idiot."
Dean removes his teeth from Sam's arm so he can stick out his tongue. "Bitch," he says. "Lemmee go."
"No. Jerk."
"I'll bite you again."
Sam gives him one last squeeze and lets him go. "I'm not surrendering, got it? I've just got work to do."
"Yeah, sure. You tell yourself that."
"You are good with kids, though, man," Sam says, dusting himself off and sitting back into his chair. "Seriously."
Dean shrugs. "Eh, not like it's hard. You just gotta keep 'em busy and they'll love you forever."
"That's not even a little bit true. Dude, I suck at dealing with kids. Not everyone can do it."
"I'm not - whatever. It's not that special. I'm gonna start dinner," he adds, when Sam looks like he's about to say something else.
"What, you doin' something fancy?"
"Just a pot-roast. Wanna let it sit."
Dean likes cooking. He's liked it ever since he was a kid and he could make Sammy's face light up with a decent macaroni casserole and a few baked brussels sprouts, and now that he has an actual kitchen, he's found that it's still pretty enjoyable to chop shit up and make something decent for his overgrown baby brother. It isn't fun, per se, but it's relaxing, and he likes the way he can produce a result, how he can bring a bunch of random stuff together and whip up something that isn't half bad. He's still fucking awful at baking, but he figures that's just a matter of practice, same as with shooting and fighting and picking a lock. Someday he'll be able to put together a pie start-to-finish, flatten out his own crust by hand and season his own apples, create something delicious from a handful of spices and flour.
That's a long way away, though. Today, he'll focus on getting his pot-roast nice and tender.
Dinner comes out pretty okay, and they watch re-runs of Doctor Sexy on television until it's pitch-black outside, no moon or stars to be seen. Sam shuts it off at around ten, stating that he's sick of Dr. Sexy's stupid pouty face and that he has class early tomorrow, c'mon, Dean. They curl up in their soft, pillowy bed face-to-face, Dean relaxing into the fold of Sam's arms around him, and they fall asleep clung together, Dean's hand gripping the folds of his brother's worn sleep shirt. It had been, he thinks, a good day.
He dreams he's kneeling at someone's feet, stone cold and bruising underneath his folded legs. He can't look up, or stand, or move at all, and there's a stifling pressure at the back of his skull. Sam, he tries to yell, Sam, but his lips won't move and his throat doesn't work and all he can do is scream into the silence of his own mind, anonymous leather shoes inches from his bowed head, hands white-knuckled against the ground. He can't see it but he knows that there's a rift in the world just behind them both, its energy expanding and pulsing closer with every panicked breath he takes, and he wants to yell out a warning, wants to fling them both out of the way to safety but he can't -
He jolts awake. Sam's leaning over him huge and close, eyes wide and worried, his huge hands clasped on his shoulders.
"Dean?" he's saying. "Hey, man, wake up. Dean!"
Dean shakes him off, sitting up. "Ugh. What the hell - ?"
"You were having a nightmare, I think. Are you okay? You were thrashing around and yelling - "
"I'm fine, seriously. Move, so I can get back to sleep."
"You sure? You were - "
"I'm sure. Don't you have class tomorrow or something?"
Sam grumbles but shifts away so Dean can shuffle around and pull the covers back up over himself. The dream'd disturbed him a little, sure, but it's not like he hasn't had worse - he'd been dealing with Hell-o-vision for years now, thanks, and if he can deal with that, he can deal with anything - so he's able to go back to sleep with little fuss, even as Sam's tossing and fussing around next to him. They don't come back together after the interruption and when Dean wakes up to the alarm clock the following morning they've drifted to opposite sides of the bed.
Sam tries to kiss him deep and slow but Dean's still tired and a little grumpy so he doesn't really reciprocate, falls back to sleep as soon as Sam pulls off him. The next time he wakes Sam's gone and according to the clock it's nearly noon.
"Fuck," he says, and kicks the blankets off with a grunt. Danny's gonna kill him.
His cellphone isn't on the bedside table, and it's not anywhere in the kitchen, either. He has to search through the pockets of three pairs of dirty, oil-stained jeans - and since when had he owned so many goddamn pairs of jeans? - until he finds it jammed underneath a crusty tissue and a couple candy wrappers. He flips it open and calls his boss.
"Uh, hey, Danny? It's Dean Winchester. Sorry, man, I slept in - "
"What? Okay?" Danny says. There are guys yelling in the background and the screech of the lift creaking up and down, someone operating a power drill. "Sure you slept in. Why're you calling?"
"I just, uh - should I come in anyway, or - ?"
"Why would you - uh, it's Friday, right? Or did I - nah, it's Friday. You don't work on Fridays, remember?"
Dean's sure this can't be right. He'd been thinking about it yesterday, when he was trying to figure out Sam's schedule, and he'd known for sure that both of them had work all day. But, thinking back, he can't ever remember working on a Friday. Not once.
"Uh, yeah," he says, filled once again with the sensation that the world's shifted around him while he slept, and he's the only person who hasn't yet been notified of the change. "I - you're right. Sorry to bother you."
"Nn," Danny says, and hangs up on him.
He sits down on their soft bed and rests the phone in his lap, brain racing. Since yesterday, everything's been fucked up in an uncomfortable way, and he's not sure what to do. He wants to not worry about it, which is in and of itself worrying. Hadn't it been his job not to ignore these sorts of things? Hadn't he built his trade in investigating the stuff that made the average person go, well, that couldn'tve happened, so I won't think about it? Since when had he stopped concerning himself with the bizarre?
Since you purchased a house. Since you got a steady job. He was part of a different world now, one without hunting and killing and paranoia, and it was about time he dropped the hyper-attentive attitude that was a necessity for hunting but acted as more of a burden than anything else now. He saw danger in everything, ghosts in every cold spot and skinwalkers in every mangy dog, and it wasn't such a stretch to believe he was imagining it here, too, where he was safe and sound, his house and his town, his simple, retired life. It probably wasn't anything, anyway, just a weird lapse in memory. He'd never worked on Fridays. It was a stupid thing to worry about.
He smooths down his hair and sets the phone on the nightstand, laughing at himself a little. It blindsides him still, how much of a wreck he can be over the littlest things. A tree taps against the window, a chain rattles, a dog barks, and he's ready to defend himself to the death, all of his senses gone on high alert, muscles tensed in anticipation of a fight. It's dumb as hell and he knows it, knows it makes no goddamn sense out here in the suburbs, but he can't stop himself from reaching for a knife every time a glass breaks, a woman laughs meanly, someone kicks a wall.
He hasn't talked to Sam about it and he doesn't plan to, but all at once he wants so badly to see his brother it's like a physical ache in his chest. They've been apart too long and he misses him, misses him like a gaping goddamn hole in his side, and what the hell, maybe he'll go in and surprise him for lunch once he's finished up his afternoon classes. That'd be fun. You just want to check up on him, his subconscious scolds, and Dean tells it to kindly shut the fuck up. That is not why. He'd just been rude this morning, is all, and he'd like to make up for it. Maybe they can go for a quickie in the broom closet. Now, that'd be awesome.
He finds, serendipitously, they've got leftover Chinese in the refrigerator, and he wraps it up in a couple loose plastic bags and chucks it in the passenger seat of the Impala. The drive is about twenty minutes and he wants to fill up the time with his Rush mixtape (excellent driving music, in his opinion), except when he goes to pull it out of the tape box it's gone missing. Quite a few are absent, actually, some of his Lynnyrd Skynnyrd and absolutely all of his Twisted Sister tapes. He's got no idea where the fuck they could've gone, unless maybe Sam tossed them out, but he knows better than to mess with a man's music.
"Goddammit," he curses. At least he's still got his Guns N'Roses, and Led Zeppelin. He pops Houses of The Holy into the tape deck and starts to tap his fingers against the wheel as The Ocean runs through the cab of the car.
The college isn't very large, even though it's a community gig, and altogether it takes up hardly three blocks' worth of town, just six or seven cement-grey buildings and a stretch of fenced-off field, and right beyond that, the dark of the void reaching out as far as the eye can see, grass and road and hill cut off abruptly by black emptiness, no smooth transition at all, just ground and sidewalk and then, like it's been snipped away by a pair of huge scissors, nothing at all. Dean doesn't like that Sam's working so close to the void but there's not much he can do about it besides hope his brother keeps his head and stays the hell away. He parks his baby just outside the lastmost building, where he knows Sam's teaching that day, and extracts himself from the car with the bag of Chinese in hand. He wonders, for a moment, what would happen if he ran over and dropped it into the void, but he's got a hungry Sammy to feed so he shakes off the urge and wanders inside.
There are a couple kids wandering around, plain-faced and grimly silent. They ignore each other and he proceeds unheeded up three flights of stairs to the small lecture hall where Sam's stuck spending the next ten minutes. He tries to sneak in the back and take a seat but Sam totally sees him.
"Um," Sam says to the class, making a sour face at him. "Which is why, uh, we see trends of commonality between monster origin tales inside a culture, like the self-imposed transformation of the Native American creatures."
A girl in the front raises her hand. "What about Rolling Heads?"
"Well, that's, um, an exception."
Dean raises his hand, too, and doesn't wait for Sam to call on him. "What the hell's a Rolling Head?"
The class titters. Sam scowls. "It's all in the reading for tonight," he says. "We're gonna have a discussion, so - yeah. Read up. And have a good weekend."
He tucks his papers into his bag and it's clear that class is dismissed. The noise in the room reaches a warm buzz and while Dean pads down the aisles to Sam's podium, everyone else files out the door.
"What're you doing here?" Sam says. Dean plops the bag of Chinese on his chair and wiggles his eyebrows.
"Figured I'd get you fed," he says. "You don't get much of a break in between classes today, right? So, here. What is a Rolling Head, though, seriously," he adds.
Sam lifts out a container and pops it open. "'S the reanimated head of a woman who's been murdered by her husband. She rolls around and eats everyone who gets in her way."
"Ah. Cool. They real?"
"Not that I know of, but we thought vampires weren't real for a good twenty years at least, so who knows. Any chance you brought utensils?"
"Aw, shit," Dean says.
"Eh, s'okay. I'll just use my hands."
"Hey, look, you've got two pens right here," Dean says, grabbing them. "Flip 'em around, and - ta-da! Chopsticks!"
"...No," Sam says. "I am not eating with pens."
"Like eating with your hands is any better. Whatever. Hope you like getting rice stuck under your fingernails, princess."
"Dude, those aren't even my pens. I found 'em in the break room. They've got other people's germs all over 'em, probably."
Dean lifts one pen up to his lips and licks up and down it briskly. "Mmm," he says.
"Dude," Sam says. "Gross."
"You're such a baby," Dean says, flicking his tongue at the cap.
Sam's eyes are glued to his mouth. "Am not," he protests halfheartedly.
Dean gives him a long, sultry smile. "You know," he says, curling his tongue around the shaft of the pen and rolling it up and down, "if I remember right, I interrupted you this morning."
"Uh," Sam says.
"Yeah - you were kissing me, and I fell asleep on you," Dean says. "That was pretty rude of me." He sucks the pen into his mouth and purses his lips around it.
"Well, I mean - "
"I'm thinking I should make it up to you," he says around the pen, pressing it into his cheek so that it forces the skin to bulge up.
"Dean - we can't - "
"No one's here," he says, crowding Sam back until his back's against the wall, shoulder pressed up against the edge of the blackboard. "'S just you and me." His hands find Sam's hips and slide around to the front of his slacks, pressing down on the warm arch of his cock.
Sam leans his pelvis forward but shifts his mouth away when Dean goes to kiss him. "Dean," he pants. "This is a terrible idea."
"Hmm," Dean agrees, nibbling the line of his jaw. He takes the carton of Chinese out of Sam's hand and sets it on the blackboard's ledge, praying internally that it'll fucking stay there.
"Dean," Sam protests, and Dean sucks at his neck, palm rubbing at the front of his pants. "This is really - "
Dean drops to his knees, carpet drumming against his jeans, and Sam shuts the fuck up. Dean smiles to himself and nuzzles the ridge of Sam's dick where it presses hot and full against his khaki preppy-ass teacher's slacks, rubbing him against his cheek and lips. He braces his hands on either side of Sam's hips for leverage, and undoes his zip with his teeth. Sam groans.
"What've we got under here, Professor?" Dean asks. "You gonna get your button 'n let me see?"
"Yeah, I - okay," Sam says, popping it open with one shaky hand. The other comes down to cup the back of Dean's skull, pulling him in closer, and Dean lets him, tipping his chin up to mouth Sam's cock through the thin, soft material of his blue-checked boxers. Sam's hand tightens in his hair.
"Why don'tcha take that out for me," Dean says, lips forming the words right up against Sam's bulge. Sam shivers and maneuvers himself out of his boxers, thick and long and already a little wet at the tip. Dean leans right back in and licks up the slippery mess off his head, tonguing his slit playfully.
"Dean," Sam gasps.
"Mm?" Dean says.
"Fuck, Dean, just suck me, please," Sam says.
"Well, okay," he says, and envelops him in the soft heat of his mouth, lips sealed tight. He gives a few experimental strokes of his tongue, lavishing attention on the thick bottom vein and getting as much of it wet with spit as he can before beginning to bob his head, firm, steady pressure all around. He loves the way Sam feels in his mouth, hot and solid and salty, head nudging the apex of his throat, and he brings one hand down from the wall to rub himself through his own jeans where he's half-hard and getting harder. He works his lips, trying to swallow as much as he can, but there's still a good three or four inches he can't quite seem to let in. Sam's loving it anyway, hips jerking, one hand gripping the blackboard's shelf white-knuckled and the other fisting rhythmically in Dean's hair, tugging his scalp.
"Fuck - yeah, Dean, that's incredible," he says, low and amazed. "You're so - your lips, dude, fucking perfect - ."
Dean's just about found his rhythm, wet slide in, teasing sweep of tongue, gentle, even suction, and then Sam drives his hips forward hard and sharp, ramming his cock against the soft, clenched muscle of Dean's throat. It takes him totally by surprise and he has to pull off, sputtering, eyes a little wet. Sam immediately pulls back and leans down to cup his face, smoothing his rough thumbs underneath Dean's watering eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asks, brows furrowed in concern.
"Never better," Dean rasps. "Hey, I'm fine - get back up, man, I don't wanna stop - "
"I'm so sorry," Sam's saying. "Jesus, dude, if I was going too hard, you shoulda said."
"You weren't, douchebag - hey, I'm serious. Look," Dean says, gesturing toward the bulge in his jeans. "You think I'm not enjoying this? I like it when you rough me up, c'mon."
"Y-yeah?" Sam says.
"Hell yeah, you haven't noticed? I love that shit."
"Are you sure?" Sam says, straightening up. "I mean - "
"So sure. G'won, Sammy, fuck my face," Dean orders. "I want you to. Choke me, c'mon."
He opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue, and Sam groans, taking himself in hand. Dean looks up at him through his eyelashes coyly and leans in.
"You'll tell me if it's too much, right? Promise?" Sam says.
"Ugh, yes, for fuck's sake. I'll punch you in the goddamn thigh, okay? Happy?"
"Yes," says Sam, and guides his cock between his brother's lips.
Dean makes sure to keep himself relaxed and open, letting Sam slide in bit-by-bit, hand venturing down to knead at the front of his jeans.
"Take it out," Sam says. "I wanna see you stroke yourself." He begins to rock his hips in and out of Dean's mouth, hardly more than an inch in either direction, silky skin heavy on his tongue. Dean unzips himself eagerly and pulls his cock out of his boxers, settling back on his haunches to give Sam a better view.
"Slowly," Sam says, and Dean complies, running his hand open-palmed against his cock, hardly providing himself any pressure at all. He doesn't want to come until Sam's pounding into him without restraint, desperate to finish, uncaring how badly he's hurting his brother.
Sam seems to understand this because he starts speeding up, delving in deeper now. He slips the hand that had been cupping Dean's head down and around to the back of his neck, holding him in place, and thrusts in earnest, head of his cock nudging the back of Dean's throat. Dean can only hold on and take it, jaw beginning to ache at the strain, hand gliding up and down his dick faster in time with Sam's movements. Sam shoves in deep, deeper, until Jesus Christ his balls are nudging against Dean's chin and there's saliva drooling down sticky between them, and Dean's throat is spasming around him and tears are leaking down his cheeks but Sam's holding him firm and he can only stay where he is, helpless to stop it. He chokes and swallows and tries his best to breathe through his nose as Sam slams down his throat, unforgiving and careless, fingers clenched bruisingly at his neck, and Dean strips his cock madly.
"Close," Sam warns, "fuck, Dean, gonna come down your throat," and Dean yells, cock shooting hard onto the carpet, long, sticky ropes of semen pumping out of him. His brother follows soon after, cock twitching and jerking in between his lips, clogging his throat and flooding his mouth, enough of it that Dean can let some of it pour out onto his drool-slick chin, bubbling out from his lips.
Sam groans, softening cock twitching just a little in Dean's mouth. "You're gonna kill me, man. Holy shit."
Dean zips himself up, swallows, pulls himself back on his feet. "You're welcome," he says, rubbing his fluid-covered face into Sam's chest.
Sam, in his post-orgasm haze, tolerates this for about four seconds. "Ugh! No! Quit that!"
"You got me all nasty. You owe me, c'mon."
"There are tissues on the podium! Get off!"
"Ugh. Fine."
"You came on my shoe, asshole," Sam says, looking down at it with distaste. "I still got two more classes to teach."
"Yeah, and I gotta go look after some kids."
"You got plenty of time until then, who cares. You can go home and wash, but I'm stuck here with your spunk all over me in front of a buncha undergrads."
"Aw, I think it's a good look for you, Sammy. Matches the sweater."
"Fuck off. Seriously, go home. I've got like - ten minutes until the next class starts."
"Then I ain't leaving for ten minutes. C'mon, we've got Chinese food to eat."
They settle into two of the desks in the front row, food spread out over their laps, and trade containers back and forth until there isn't anything left. Dean gives up on his pens and transfers chunks of chicken into his mouth with his fingers, listening cheerfully as Sam complains about the number of questions he's gotten about Twilight-style vampire mythology ("it's not accurate anywhere, you idiots. You aren't gonna have a pretty sparkly vampire husband to knock you up"), and the influx of awful papers he's been getting. Dean sits and listens, swallows down greasy, cold noodles and thinks about how he wouldn't rather be anywhere else in the world.
They get hardly five minutes to eat before the door nudges open and a nervous, pimply-faced teenager slinks through and sets up in one of the back seats, cellphone in hand.
"Okay, man, you really gotta go now," Sam says, setting down his food. "You can't just hang out in here, and you probably don't wanna hear me lecture about Troriband garden culture anyway."
"Fine, you want me gone that bad - "
"That's not - ! You can't just sit in on a lecture! It's against the rules! You shouldn't even be in this building!"
"I'm just kidding, dork. I'll see you later." He darts in and gives Sam a peck on the cheek before he can scoot away.
Sam bats at him grumpily. "Not here! Hey!"
Dean shoots him a grin and a cheeky wink and bounces out of the room, weaving his way through the steady stream of entering students. They aren't talking or even looking at each other, and it strikes him as a little odd, but maybe they're just dreading Sam's class, the brats.
"Hey," he calls to a girl outside the classroom. "Yeah, you. C'mere."
She has thin, dirty-blonde hair, and unfocused grey eyes. She stares at a point somewhere just beyond Dean's shoulder, as if it'd take too much energy to meet his eyes. She holds her arms stiff and motionless at her sides.
"Yes?" she says, in an odd, dull tone.
"Um," he says. "You take this class with Sam - er, Professor Winchester?"
She blinks, slowly and deliberately, like she'd had to think about it first. "Yes," she says.
"Uh. You like him okay?"
"Professor Winchester is excellent," she says, as if she's reading off a card. "His course is a comprehensive study of indigenous cultures, including those in the Philippines and - "
"Got it, thanks," he says. "I'm glad you like it."
"...Yes," she says, after a moment's deliberation. "I do like his course. It is very enjoyable."
"Good to hear. I'll, um, let him know."
He waves and turns to leave, but she grasps his forearm with slender, ice-cold fingers. "You know him personally? You are Dean, are you not?"
"Yeah, that's me. How'd you know?"
"He speaks of you often."
"What, during his anthro lectures?"
"Yes," she says, dead-faced. "He cares for you very much."
"Uh. Thanks? I guess?"
"Yes," she says, turns, and walks into the classroom. The door shuts behind her and the noise rings loud in the silent hallway, empty except for Dean.
"Well, that was fuckin' weird," Dean says. "Fuckin' smartass college students."
He sees no one else in his journey back downstairs, and there's no one outside, either. He could swear that the void's creeped closer to the athletic yard, swallowing up a few feet of bush and scrub, and he drives his baby away from it in relieved hurry. As far as he knows, the thing hasn't eaten anyone yet, but he really ought to do some research, make sure Sammy's okay teaching so close to it. Probably it's nothing. Probably he should stop jumping at shadows.
He gets home pretty quick, determined to get in a shower before he has to go and watch over Sandra's kids. He's got, what, four hours until he has to meet up with her, but he doesn't want to take any chances. He wants to get his due, goddammit. His knees are achy and rubbed raw and he's pretty sure he's got dried semen in his hair. Maybe that's why that girl was being so weird - she'd spotted it and figured out the shit they'd been getting up to right before class. He really fucking hopes that isn't the case.
Sam gets home at five, parking the Jetta on their driveway (by unspoken agreement, only the Impala gets the place of honor in the garage). He greets Dean with a kiss and flops onto the sofa with a sigh, turning on the television.
"Your students seem weird to you?" Dean asks, sitting next to him and throwing his legs over his lap.
"Oof. No? Why d'you ask?"
"Just wondering. They're all so... quiet. And the one I talked to was really, I dunno, formal."
"You talked to one of them?" Sam yelps, shoving his legs off his lap.
"Hey! Sure I did, s'not illegal," Dean says, kicking them right back on. "I mean, it isn't, is it? Is it?"
"No, Dean, it's not illegal to talk to college kids. Wish it was sometimes, though," he grumbles.
"Aw, baby, tough day at the office?" Dean teases, and then they watch Wheel of Fortune until it's about time for Dean to head over to Sandra's.
"Want me to come with?" Sam offers.
"Nah, I'll do it. Don't want your clumsy ass in the way."
"Be good! And don't swear," Sam hollers after him.
It's a short walk, just a few houses down to the right. He knocks on the door, and Sandra answers right away.
"Hey, Dean," she greets him.
"Oh, wow," he says. "You look great."
She really does, lips ruby red and smiling, hair in soft curls down her shoulders, and once upon a time Dean'dve grinned at her salaciously, given her a slow once-over, but now he realizes he's got zero desire to get into her pants at all. He feels more like a fond uncle than anything else. It's a little disconcerting.
"Thanks," she says, striking a pose. "The dress is a Sherri Hill, can you believe it?"
It's sparkly and long and silver, and, uh. It sure is a dress.
"Um," he says. "No?"
"I don't get to dress up that often, so, hell, might as well splurge. I just love shit with glitter on it, don't you?"
Holy shit, Dean realizes. She's totally pegged him as the Harmless Gay Next Door Neighbor.
He's saved from answering when her husband appears over her shoulder. He's a nervous-looking guy with thick glasses and a cardigan stupid enough to rival Sam's, and he looks like he doesn't want to get too close to Dean.
"Babe, we gotta get going," he says.
"Right - Dean, bedtime's at eight-thirty. There's mac n'cheese to heat up in the refrigerator, and a little salad, if you can get 'em to eat it. There're Wii games and movies in the cabinet, and, okay, Andrew. We'll see you later."
They scram, and Dean wanders into the house, where he finds Yasmin and Jason sitting on the sofa in the living room. They both have their Mom's big brown eyes and thick lashes, and dark, tightly-curled hair that must come from their Dad. Jason's glued to the television screen, but Yasmin looks up at him when he comes in.
"You're Dean," she tells him.
"That's me," he says. "What'cha watching?"
"Ponies," she says. "Jason likes the one with the rainbow hair, but I like the pink one."
He plops down next to her. "I like the purple one better, myself," he says.
"She's boring," Yasmin says, and they have a lively debate about ponies until Dean decides he should be a responsible adult and force them to eat dinner. Yasmin declares she hates macaroni more than anything and won't eat it anymore, so they raid the cabinet together for edible dinner items and come up with tortilla chips and one can of tomato soup, extra large.
"Tortilla soup!" Dean says.
They look at him like he's nuts.
"Aw, man, you've never had tortilla soup?" he says, like it isn't a thing he'd invented when he was ten and running out of money and had to convince his crabby little brother to eat tomato soup for the sixth meal in a row. He warms up the soup on the stove and they crush a layer of tortilla chips into three little bowls, Jason warming up to him as he helps smash up the chips in his chubby little hands.
"We got any cheese?" Dean asks, pouring soup on top of the chips. Yasmin fetches him a block of cheddar from the refrigerator and he grates it over the soup, hers and Jason's and then his own, and they sit down at the table to eat. It tastes like frigid rooms in a house they aren't paying to stay in, mice in the cupboards, three sweaters at once to keep in the heat. He's glad these kids will grow up miles and miles away from all that, cared for and warm and able to refuse a dinner they don't want without the fear of going hungry. If Sandra knew how he'd grown up, he wondered, would she have let him watch her kids?
"Better than mac n'cheese?" he asks them, and they nod enthusiastically, even though he's pretty sure it's kinda gross.
They eat their soup and dump the dirty dishes in the sink, and then both kids take turn kicking his ass at something called Super Smash Brothers Brawl. Yasmin hardly clears his knee and she's wearing a sparkly pink plastic princess crown and she's absolutely vicious with a controller in her hands.
"You're bad at this," Jason informs him, sometime after his character's been dribbled offscreen and blown up probably twenty times. "Let's play Dance Dance."
"S'called Just Dance, dummy," Yasmin says.
"Hey, wouldja look at that. It's bedtime," Dean says.
"'M sleepy. Can we play Dance Dance tomorrow?" Jason says, tugging at his pants.
"Just Dance."
"Uh. Sure, buddy," Dean says. "Let's get our pajamas on, okay? Last one upstairs's a rotten egg - "
They burst off the sofa and scramble upstairs, Yasmin losing her princess crown somewhere along the way. He trudges after the both of them, twirling it in his hands. God bless little kids and their stalwart sense of competition.
"Who won?" Jason yells as his sister charges into the bathroom, shedding her pants as she goes.
"You both got up here before I did, so - both of you, I guess. Jeez. You're really fast, man."
"Miss Jocelyn says I'm the fastest in the class."
"Who's that?"
"My teacher," Jason says, the duh implied heavily in his tone. "She's really pretty."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. She has two dogs and - "
"Hey, you can tell me all about Miss Jocelyn when you get your pjs on, okay?"
"I got Batman jammies."
"Neat. Get 'em on, and lemmee see."
Yasmin bids them both good night and goes off to her room on her own, teeth freshly brushed and nightgown donned. Jason's a little more high-maintenance, and Dean sits up with him and chats for a good half-hour before the kid finally passes out. He goes down to the kitchen, washes the dishes, and fiddles around a little more with Super Smash Brothers.
Sandra returns with her husband towed behind her just after ten, both of them exhausted and vague around the edges but thoroughly happy.
"Thanks so much," Sandra says, and gives him a peck on the cheek. "I owe you one. Were they good?"
"Yeah, they were great," Dean says. "No problems at all. They wouldn't eat your macaroni, though."
"Ah, shit. Did they eat anything, or - "
"I made 'em some tomato soup, don't worry. They seemed to like that okay."
"Oh, good," she says. "Hey - I hate to just kick you out, but - "
"Nah, I totally get it. Hafta check on Sam, anyway," he says, only half-kidding.
"Aw, you two are so sweet. Tell him I said hi."
"Will do. See you round?"
"Mmyup. Have a good night."
The walk back home is dark and eerie, the silent, still road, the empty sky. He's half expecting to be blindsided by some invisible enemy, to feel teeth latch around his throat and claws dig into his chest, and he keeps his guide up the whole way, skin prickling and twitching at every rustle and rush of wind. When he finally reaches his own front door he's sweating all over, tense and ready for imagined conflict, and the feeling doesn't go away when he enters the house.
"Woah," Sam says, looking up from the sofa. "You okay?"
"'M fine," he grunts, plopping down next to him. "Just need to sit down."
"You sure, man? The hell did those kids do to you?"
"Hey, remember tortilla soup?"
"Uh. What? Dean, are you - "
"Made that shit up all on my own," Dean says over him. "Surefire way to get you to eat. Don't tell me you don't remember."
"Uh - yeah, I do, but Dean - "
"Made it for the kids tonight, s'all. They seemed to like it okay. Tasted just about the same as it did when we were little."
"Ugh - don't tell me you ate that shit," Sam says, scrunching up his face. "I still can't stomach tomato soup. Or peanut butter."
"So picky," Dean teases.
"Hey, fuck off. We had peanut butter and nothing else for, like, two weeks in a row. No one can come back from that."
"Yeah, I - . Sorry."
"What? Nah, dude, you did your best," Sam says, sliding an earnest hand onto his shoulder. "I mean, tortilla soup? That was culinary genius. And who can forget your peanut butter spaghetti?"
"Ha. If only I could."
"Yeah, that maybe wasn't so great. But in the end, we were fed, y'know? And that was all you. So don't beat yourself up, dickweed."
Dean makes a grumpy, unconciliatory sort of noise, and Sam drags him into a hug, smooshing his nose into his cheek. Dean tries to flail away but Sam just holds him tighter, stubble rough where it rubs against his face.
"I was thinking," Sam says, lips moving against his jaw, "maybe - we could go on a date?"
"Uh," says Dean, pulling out of his arms. "What?"
"We've got tomorrow off, right? And Sandra and Andrew went, so maybe - "
"Dude. I don't need to be romanced."
"No one needs to be romanced. Just thought it might be nice."
"Okay, let me rephrase that: I don't want to be romanced."
"You're no fun," Sam says, pouting.
"Holy shit, man. If you really want to fuckin' wine and dine me that bad, go ahead. You do know you already got an all-access pass, right?"
"That isn't the point. I want to, um." Sam blushes. "Just - please, Dean? Let me do this for you?"
"Fuckin' hell, fine," Dean snaps.
Sam gives him an enormous grin. "It'll be great, man, I promise. Tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, and kisses him. "Tomorrow."
That night, he dreams that he's being held up against a wall. There's something he needs to do, something about a spell, and he struggles ferociously to get free. There's a man standing in front of him with his back turned, sensible dress pants and long tan trenchcoat, messy dark hair, and Dean thinks, Cas.
"Hey," he yells. "Cas! Help!"
Castiel turns to face him, placid and unhurried. He opens his mouth, about to speak, and Dean wakes up.
"Cas," he says to Sam, who's clinging to his shoulder, worried.
"What? What about him?"
"I dunno, I just - heh," he says. "Dreaming about him. Don't think that's happened before. S'weird. Wonder how he is."
"Who, Cas?"
"Mm. Doesn't come down to chat anymore, huh?"
"He's busy in heaven, probably," Sam says. "Doing leadership stuff."
"Heaven," Dean echoes. It drudges up old memories, things Cas'd said in between battles. "Wasn't there a war or something going on?"
"I don't think so," Sam says.
"Nah, there was, wasn't there? With the Ninja Turtle angel - not Michelangelo, the other one."
"Raphael?"
"Yeah, him! Weren't they fighting?"
"Cas took care of that pretty quick, remember?"
"Um. Yeah, I - yes?"
His head feels fuzzy and odd again, his thoughts snaking sluggish through his mind. Whenever he tries to think about Raphael and angel wars his brain slows down to a crawl, skull crushing inward and bearing down on his memories. Cas'd kicked Raphael's ass, he thinks. Yeah.
"Hope Cas's okay," he murmurs, head falling back. He's asleep before it hits his pillow.