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Sam never sees it coming.
Maybe Dean has to reach a specific state of mind, maybe he just can go for some time without it. Maybe he just likes it.
Is it even a kink? If it is, Sam will be damned if he can put a name to it. Truth is, he doesn’t care. Seeing Dean like this is enough.
This time, they’re both sitting in the Men of Letters library, facing each other at one of the tables. Sam is buried in the record of an old cursed object hunt, trying to decipher the tiny, washed out handwriting in the registry. Dean has had lunch, then dessert –pie- and now he’s turning the pages of a car magazine, sipping his beer. He’s silent, which is unusual. When Dean’s bored, he’s not calm or quiet. He’s loud and annoying.
And then, Sam lifts his head to crack his neck and meets Dean’s gaze, intense and unreadable…
Well, for someone who doesn’t know him, that is.
Sam lifts an eyebrow. Dean keeps looking at him and licks his lips. Twice. Slowly.
It’s like Sam doesn’t really know the man in front of him. There's no signs of the usual forehead creases, or the slightly grimacing mouth. Nothing related to Dean Winchester’s usual tired, worn-out expression. He looks young, and kind of innocent. Sam wonders if Dean goes through an actual thought process to strip himself free of defenses, or if the façade he maintains just collapses. Whatever it is, Dean has decided to channel this state for a sexual purpose. Afterward, he seems so drained and peaceful, Sam could spend hours watching him sleep.
Their usual sex life is bumpy, irregular, most of the time just that side of too rough; hand jobs exchanged in the shower after a hunt, or fucking nastily in the back seat of the Impala, a blowjob at a pit stop, angry sex whenever they fight. Usually the angrier of them tops the hell out of the other, and the morning after they have bruises and bite marks everywhere. Not that Sam is complaining. But those moments during which Dean silently asks Sam for some tenderness -he keeps them locked away in his mind, for when the world is going to hell and Dean is ready to get killed to save it, save Sam; to prove himself he may actually be worth something.
Dean smiles uneasily, almost shyly, and takes his flannel shirt off. He’s not putting out a show, but his movements are slower, more careful than usual.
“Go on,” Sam whispers, closing his book and pushing it away.
He’s always the one talking when they do this. Dean usually can’t shut up during sex, and the strings of profanity coming out of his mouth puts Sam on edge like nothing else, but Dean silent and waiting? It's just as hot, and Sam, when he speaks, always uses a quiet, low voice, like it could scare Dean off or break the spell if he did otherwise.
Dean lowers his eyes, his lashes brushing against the too-pale skin beneath them. He takes his white tee-shirt off and then unbuttons his jeans. He pushes himself away from the table and parts his legs.
“Fuck, Dean, come on,” Sam pleads in a low voice.
One of Dean’s hand brushes up his stomach and then makes his way to his right nipple, the fingers running softly over the nub. Dean shoves the other hand into his pants, under his boxers. Sam rises up from his chair, letting his upper body rest on his elbows, leaning forward on the table. He doesn’t want to miss anything.
Dean’s mouth is parted, a slight furrow of concentration wrinkling the skin of his nose. The hand taking care of his nipple shift slowly, almost lazily, shifts from one hard nub to the other. From the vee of his legs, his cock, already pink and plump, is half visible, the elastic band of his underwear still hiding the root and balls. Dean's fingers are buried in the fabric; no definite movement is visible, just small undulations underneath the cotton.
Dean lets out a very soft moan.
“Wanna see more,” Sam murmurs.
Dean’s shoulders tense, as if he had forgotten where he was, for a moment. With apparent regret, he stops playing with his nipples and lifts himself slightly, just long enough to lower his jeans and then his boxers mid-thigh. He sits back, his back arched on the chair, and takes his now-fully exposed cock in his hand again while the other starts fondling his balls.
Sam needs to see everything, to smell Dean’s sweat and arousal, to feel his heart beating in his chest.
He gets up and walks around the edge of the table and kneels, positioning himself between Dean’s legs. He grabs Dean’s calves and caresses them over the harsh fabric of his jeans, just his thumbs making small circles, and Dean shivers. A drop of precome bubbles at the slit of his now red cock -it always arouses him when Sam is gentle with him in those moments.
“You want to get yourself off?” Sam asks softly. “You wanna show me how good it can be?”
Dean bites his bottom lip. He tugs at his balls forcefully and groans in pleasure, his other hand finally picking up the pace as he starts jacking himself more intently.
It’s not always like that, with Dean getting himself off under his young brother’s encouragement. Sometimes they fuck, and on those occasions, Dean bottoms and lets himself go, let Sam take the lead; just wraps his arms around his brother’s neck and looks at him, emotions naked and raw. Or Sam plays with him, driving Dean to the edge and keeping him there. They rarely have time for this, but when Dean is in this particular mood, he lets his iron control go, and Sam fingers him endlessly, rims him, or sucks his cock oh-so softly, and Dean comes so hard he sometimes passes out, even if only for a couple of seconds.
What they do is not the important thing, because this “kink”, this state of mind s, is about Dean allowing himself to be the center of attention, to have his own needs come first -to be taken care of.
“Come on, babe,” Sam coaxes, as he feels his own cock pressing against the zipper of his jeans. “Want to see you. Want to hear you too.”
Dean moans and closes his eyes. His hand is moving fast on his cock now, without finesse, and he presses his swollen sac so hard Sam winces in sympathy. He knows Dean loves playing with his balls, almost as much as he loves his nipples being teased.
“You are getting there, aren’t you? Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Dean, gonna make me come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”
Dean’s mouth opens wider, his wet, pink lips forming a sensual “o”, and from his throat rises an non-stopping moan, soft, cut by the harsh way he breathes. There is a film of sweat covering his forehead, a deep red color staining his cheeks, and Sam knows he only needs a little something to push him over the edge.
Sam rises onto his knees and scoots forward until he can grab Dean’s face between his hands. Dean’s eyes snap open and his breath gets caught in his throat. “Let me see you lose it,” Sam whispers. “Love you so much. Come for me, Dean.”
With a dry sob, Dean tenses all over, his hips snapping up, and as much as Sam would like to see his dick swelling and releasing a string of come, he wants to watch his brother’s face even more.
The grimace of ecstasy that transforms his feature is something Sam is addicted to. Dean has always been too pretty for his own good, and this is no exception, because when he comes, he looks even more beautiful. His orgasm rips through him, and suddenly, his mouth goes slack, his eyes roll back, his nostrils flare.
Dean shakes, his hips giving another jerk. He came all over his stomach, and the come is still warm when Sam bends down to lick it, pressing his palm on the painful bulge of his cock still trapped in denim.
Dean’s stomach quivers underneath Sam's tongue, and for some reason, that’s what does it. Sam comes suddenly, like a trigger going off, his breath punched out of his lungs. He blindly wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and let his head rest on his brother’s thighs, riding out his orgasm.
After some time –it might be a second or an hour, Sam tends to lose himself in those moments- he feels his big brother’s hands resting on his head, then fingers running through his hair. He smiles, content, hears something like a hiccup and doesn’t look up.
It happens often whenever they're like this. After it’s over, it’s like Dean’s body simply gives up, finally draining itself from what they’ve been through. Dean cries. It never lasts long, and it seems to be a relief for him, because afterward he’ll sleep soundly, without the usual help of alcohol. It’s not something he’s exactly comfortable with, though, so Sam lets him take it at his own pace.
After a while, when Dean’s breath seems to have gone back to a more normal rhythm, Sam looks at him.
“You okay?” he asks.
Dean’s eyes are red-rimmed, and his cheeks are stained with tears, but he nods simply, the façade not back in place yet. That will be later. For now, he’s drained and spent, but peaceful.
“My room or your room?” Sam asks.
Dean clears his throat. “Yours.”
They’ll sleep for a while, and everything will seems good and right in the world.
For a while.