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Sam is all doped up and giggly and dumb, and Dean just can't get over the fact that he's so goddamn cute like this. His huge little brother, reduced to a nonsensical and extra-affectionate goofball, is just sprawled there on his hospital bed, all lax muscle and loopy smile, high as a friggin' kite.
"It's okay... Because you're my brother... And I still love ya," Sam smiles and boops his big brother's nose like he's suddenly six years old again. And Dean can't help it... He really can't. It's silly at first, he just boops Sam back, loving how his younger sibling starts to giggle, the whole of his broad chest heaving with it. It's cute and bubbly and innocent and it really shouldn't make Dean's hospital pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight. But it does. God help him, it does. He's not sure why. And next thing he knows, he's booping Sam again, just basking in his reaction, savoring how pliant and vulnerable he is right now. And... Before he knows it, Dean is tucking a stray lock of hair behind Sam's ear, just feeling how soft it is and how warm his skin feels.... Maybe that's why he can't get himself to retract his hand and it ends up lingering there, softly cupping his little brother's jaw. Sam lets him, doesn't even think twice. Dean's not sure if he even registers it... He's too out of it to realize that the touch stays - only to begin traveling down the side of his neck. God, the pulse there is so strong and steady, beating away right under that gorgeous golden skin.
"I love you too," Dean hears himself say under his breath, whispers it like it's suddenly a secret. And maybe it kinda is? Sam is still just smiling dreamily, half-lidded eyes glassy and looking back at him with hopeless devotion. And that's when Dean's hand ventures lower, shaky fingertips sliding down his brother's chest. It's so firm under the white hospital tee, it's ridiculous. And shit, the tightness of Dean's pants is starting to actually hurt... He doesn't know when it happened but he's pretty sure he's sporting a wet blotch in his underwear already. It doesn't help that when he brushes the pad of his index finger over a perky nipple hiding behind the thin cotton of Sam's t-shirt, his dick practically jumps with excitement. Sam immediately giggles louder at the touch and huffs out something incoherent - only to start squirming
"Dea— nngh– that tickles!!" he bursts out and swats at his big brother's hand. The movement is clumsy and uncoordinated though, resulting in something closer to a twitch than an actual push.
"Yeah?" Dean just smiles, voice suddenly more breathy than he'd like. Hell, he sounds like he's just sprinted a mile. And, oh, God, he's so friggin' hard in his pants he could cut glass. At some point his left hand has joined the other one, and he finds himself cupping Sam's pecs, squeezing the firm flesh like he would a C-cup on one of those bar skanks he usually picks up. But this is no bar chick, this is no shady hookup in some dingy alleyway.... This is Sam. This is his baby brother, this is Sammy, and he's groping his tits like a ravenous beast. Like he's lost all inhibition, like he's suddenly completely given up on holding back altogether. And maybe that's not far from the truth. Still, Sam doesn't quite seem to understand that, doesn't realize the gravity of it. Instead, he's writhing on the bed, panting and with a rosy tint starting to spread on his cheeks.
"Quit it...!" he protests, still giggling while trying to swat his big brother's hands away and absolutely failing at it. It's adorable and Dean's heart swells in his chest, fills with a weird feeling of ownership that he's been trying to ignore for decades. He's really been trying. But how's he supposed to keep it at bay when Sam's moving like this under his fingertips, when he's looking up at him with those devoted puppy dog eyes that are just begging him for protection, for guidance... For love?
"Fuck, Sammy..." he hears himself rasp and suddenly he's straddling his little brother, a knee sinking into the mattress on each side of those narrow hips. For a moment Sam looks perplexed, eyebrows furrowing a little, and he's just staring up at Dean while a confused little noise makes it out of him. He's absolutely clueless still - even with Dean's erection tenting his pants like a friggin' teepee. It's beyond obvious, in plain sight, a line of fire against his belly. Fuck. His baby brother's just so delightfully naive, so doped up and dumb and loveable, and goddamn, if it doesn't go straight to his dick. And then, just like that, Dean bends down and plants his lips on Sammy's open mouth.
"Nnn?"
It's the only response Sam has enough brainpower left to produce, small and confused and so, so sweet. His lips feel soft against Dean's, pillowy and warm and delicate and if his big brother could bottle this feeling and savor it forever, he would. In a heartbeat, he would. He can't help the instant urge to deepen the kiss and as he delves his tongue into that beautiful pink mouth, a moan joins it. He didn't mean to let it out. But there's no way to hold it back now, no way he can restrain himself now that he's finally let go. He doesn't even know when he slipped. And Sam is still so lovely and pliant under him, mouth slack and soft and tasting like the coffee they had this morning. Fuck.
Dean's fingers pluck at his baby brother's hardened nipples through the thin cotton of his t-shirt - and this time, something like a gasp escapes Sam. It's a vulnerable sound, surprised and bewildered. At least, it isn't pained or scared, and that's good enough for Dean. And shit, by now his dick fucking hurts.
"D'nn?" Sam tries again, the name muffled and swallowed by his brother's full lips that keep devouring his mouth.
"Ssh, s'okay," Dean whispers, shaky hands now moving down Sam's chest and flat belly. And his little brother seems to believe him, the big body under him automatically relaxing at the familiar words. Once again, Dean's chest swells with that possessiveness, that proud and superior sort of triumph that usually comes with winning a fight. He should probably be worried about that. But who's he kidding? There's no room for that anymore, no time or place for it here. And even when Dean's hand slips onto Sam's pelvic bone, his little brother doesn't protest. He's still relaxed, still pliant and soft and so goddamn fuckable that Dean's going to lose his mind and do something irreversibly stupid if he doesn't get some relief soon.
With a moan escaping into Sam's mouth, he cups his little brother through the hospital pants. It's eager and it isn't quite as gentle as he'd like, but fuck, he almost blows in his own underwear right then and there. The bulge feels huge in his hand and he could swear his little brother is sporting a semi. Maybe that's wishful thinking though and in his current state any type of erection, semi or not, would quite frankly be impressive. Still, as he kneads the flesh in his hand there's a soft sound making out of Sam. It almost sounds like a moan. Almost. But it's tangled in a whimper and even though it should probably make him think twice, Dean simply doesn't have it in him at this point. He's made it this far, he's finally free of the restraint that's been weighing him down for years... He can't turn back now. He just can't.
Without giving it any further thought, he pulls Sam's pants and underwear down far enough to expose his dick. In the same breath he yanks himself out of his clothes, the damp cotton confinement finally freeing his rock-hard erection to let it slap against his belly with a wet sound. By now Sam's breathing has sped up but he's lying still, feeling so hot in Dean's hand that you'd think he's running a fever. And then, Dean tightens his fist around them both.
He's certain he feels Sam's hips buck ever so slightly, certain that there's a twitch and a stuttered breath accompanying it. There must be. There has to be. And then, he's jerking them off, stroking their shafts and rubbing them together. It's frenzied and there's little to no finesse but it still makes sparks erupt in Dean's field of vision. Fuck, it feels amazing. Even though it's too dry and Sam isn't really hard, it's better than anything he could've ever dreamt of. And he has. He has dreamt of this for at long as he can remember, has imagined what Sam would feel like ever since he hit his teens. Fuck. He's not gonna last. And Sam is panting into his mouth now, spit-slick lips slack and gasping and wonderful and shit, Dean's balls are already drawing up, tightening.
There is no more thought process, no hesitation - and quickly, Dean pulls back from his little brother's mouth a little to spit into his hand. The saliva hits his palm, warm and plentiful and full of promise - and he hurries to wrap the hand back around them. There's another little gasp, another keening sort of noise coming from his brother's throat at that. Oh, God, they're both slicked up now, slippery flesh gliding together like they're fucking made for it. It's mind-blowing. Sam's face is flushed now, rosy cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink that spreads all the way down his neck to disappear into the neck of the hospital tee. He's beautiful. Utterly beautiful. And his brows have furrowed deeper, mouth open in a slack 'o' that keeps letting out the cutest little whimpers. He's boneless. Just melting into the mattress, Dean heavily straddling him and anchoring him there. Like he fucking owns him. And he does.
There's no stopping it. The heat pooling in Dean's belly is spreading like wildfire to his loins, shooting up his spine like roaring flames. By now, he's furiously jerking them off, fist mindlessly stroking the flesh like there's no tomorrow. It almost hurts. It should hurt.
"D'nn...!" his baby brother whines, slurs his name like a prayer. Maybe it hurts him too.
"You're okay, Sammy– we're okay....!" Dean moans, fist moving faster, harder. But they're not. They're really not. They're as fucking far from okay as they can possibly get. Still, it doesn't matter. It can't. And Dean's balls tighten, draw up under him as the stars in his vision multiply.
"F-Fuck– m'gonna–" he groans, jerks his fist erratically while his hips snap forward of their own accord.
"Oh–f–"
The words stumble on themselves, get swallowed up as he crashes his lips against Sam's. It's messy and frantic, all tongue and teeth and stuttering breaths. And as his little brother whines into his mouth, high-pitched and helpless, Dean crashes headfirst into his orgasm.
It feels like his entire body seizes then. There's a jerk of his hips, a convulsive stutter and he's forgetting how to breathe. It's irrelevant, doesn't matter. There's no room for it. He's pretty sure his lips are trying to form Sammy's name, kiss it into that perfect mouth underneath him - but if there's sound, he can't hear it. Everything's just heat and want, like he's suspended in a brilliant white explosion.
It takes a while to come down. But eventually, he sucks in the breath he's been forgetting to draw, and the room reluctantly flickers back into focus. So does reality. Fuck. Sam's still slumped under him on the bed, big and limp and flushed. So fucking beautiful. Sweat is beading on their foreheads.... There's sticky wetness between their bellies now too, the cotton blend of the hospital tees soaking it up and staining the fabric. And Dean feels about as boneless as Sam.
With a shaky exhale, he draws back, pulls himself away from Sam's face. For a second a rope of saliva connects their lips - only to snap in half and fall onto their chins. They're a mess. And Sam looks absolutely wrecked, glassy eyes almost closed all the way, dazed and every muscle lax. Fucked-out and doped up. That's what he looks like. But goddamn, Dean has never seen anything prettier.
"You know I love you, right?" Dean softly asks, watches how Sam slowly blinks, tries to understand. There's a beat, a pause... Then, he weakly nods. The movement is tiny, labored, like he's fighting to get his body to obey his instructions. That's probably why he doesn't say anything either. The drugs are deep in his system now, so Dean doesn't blame him. And his eyes keep closing. It's only understandable.... And it's definitely for the best. Still, Dean finds himself wishing that his little brother would remember all of this with clarity. That he'd be lucid enough to understand. Maybe even to reciprocate. Then, maybe, he wouldn't have to come up with a story to cover up what happened just now. Because Dean is a weak man. He will not be able to bear if Sam can't handle the truth, if he decides to walk away. He can't. And he won't. So, why take the risk? No... Drug-induced fever dream, it is.
Sam's eyes are closed now. He probably didn't even realize it before sleep pulled him under. The kid's gullible like that, after all. And, God, he looks so innocent right now, so peaceful. Like an angel. His dark hair is fanned out around him, cascading down the pillow and framing his head like a halo. There's a jab in Dean's chest, a sudden guilty feeling that he's corrupting such a pristine kind of innocence... Because he can't go back from here. He'll keep craving this. Now that he's had a taste he can't not go further, can't not have his baby brother like this. It's all he ever wanted. And he'll surely go to hell for it. He knows that.
A shudder rolls down his spine at the realization. Still, he's steel-set. He knows his mission now. He probably always did, but now he's got the clarity to properly pave the way. Sam should know too. But not yet. For now, he'll keep him protected. He'll keep him safe. That's his job, right? And tomorrow, they'll get the damn wraith and get the hell out of here... And it will be like nothing really changed. Only, everything did.