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“You did good, little brother. Did so good.”
Pills press against Sam’s lips. The rim of a cup.
“Gonna be okay, Sammy. I got you.”
Darkness.
Dean’s jacket. Steaming. Iron dagger clatters. Instinct. Get off my brother! Searing. Sleeves on fire. Dean’s voice. Phoenix crumbles like a movie vamp but –
“Hey…” Breath on his face. “Wake up, man. Wake up. Shh… It’s okay… We ganked that fucker.”
Try to push up. Palms scream.
Dean, one hand behind Sam’s neck, one grips his shoulder. Hauls him up. “Here. Drink this.”
Plastic cup of FD&C Blue No. 1. It’s what plants crave! Straw. Useless fucking bandaged hands. Dean saves a spill.
“Think you can eat?”
Sam croaks, “Yeah.”
Microwave beeps. Coffee mug, chicken and stars. Dean perches on the bed’s edge. Tips up the mug. “Sip.”
Hot salt soothes, pasta fortifies. “Thank you.”
“Shut up.” Dean ruffles his hair, winces. “You’re pretty gross, dude. You finish this, we’ll get you cleaned up, huh?”
Towel and washcloth, steaming trashcan. Barbasol and Bic disposable.
Dean soaks the cloth and wrings it out. Lays it across Sam’s chin and jaw. Rolls the towel and tucks it against his neck.
“Hold still, now.” Lips twitch. “Wouldn’t want me to slip up and shave your whole head.”
“Fuck off.”
Feather soft fingers circle foam. Calluses catch on two days’ growth. Goosebumps bloom. Cool razor below Sam’s sideburn. Shallow breaths, long slow strokes. Dean squints, concentrates. Tongue peeks between his teeth. Intimacy like oxygen flares familiar longing. Eyes fall closed.
Palm against Sam’s fresh-smooth cheek, Dean tilts his head. Slips the blade along his jaw. Quick gentle scraping under his chin, scritch-scritch. Delicate patience over his Adam’s apple.
“Want me to leave you a ‘stache?”
Frosty stare meets snickering shoulders. “Dick.”
“Don’t backtalk the guy with the razor, Sammy.” Eyebrow arch. Fond smile.
Hot cloth clears off lingering foam. Dean even digs up the lotion he gives Sam so much shit for. Massages it in. Careful fingers crackle across tender skin.
“All right, so-ahh…” Averted gaze. “How you wanna do this? Can’t just toss you in the shower, man. Don’t wanna get those burns wet.”
“No shit.”
“Think you’ll fit in the tub?”
“I’ll make it work.”
Sam manages his t-shirt. Goes for his jeans. All thumbs turns literal.
Dean steps in his space. “Here.” Slips open the button. Draws down the zip.
Sam’s blood mutinies, dick twitches, face flushes. Same old storm rages across his brother’s face. Their worst kept secret. Strangers’ nonchalance screams into their unsworn silence. Teeth clenched, he kicks off his jeans.
Dean empties and rinses the trashcan. Refills it hot. Sam makes for the tub.
“You gonna leave your boxers on?” Dean’s smirk burns almost as bad as the phoenix. “C’mon, Queen Victoria. Nothin’ I ain’t seen before.”
Half-hard and blushing Sam pushes his underwear down. Curls in on himself in the tub. Dean ditches his shirt, kneels on the ragged bath mat. Scoops a cup of water. Slips a hand behind Sam’s neck.
“Head back.”
Water just this side of scalding cascades black with ash from Sam’s hair. Cup by cup Dean rinses it clear. Naked chest drags across his back as Dean grabs the shampoo. Citrus-smelling suds slide down his shoulders. Nimble fingers tingle over his scalp.
A moan slips out. Mortified, but Dean chuckles. Tips Sam’s head and pours more cupfuls. Carefully keeps soap clear of his eyes.
Sam can’t remember, but imagines this scene playing out in motel tubs in innocence. Dean, barely more than a baby himself, babying his baby brother. No More Tears no doubt a luxury. Even then, he’s sure as sunrise, Dean would never make him cry.
Water stops. Soft ripping as Dean peels open the complimentary soap sliver. Starts with Sam’s neck, cleans away caked soot and sweat. Rinses graying terrycloth in the sink.
“Arms up.”
Sam shudders. Tickle reflex kicks against Dean scrubbing his pits.
“Quit bein’ a pussy.” Big brother reflex dictates a poke to Sam’s ribs. “You’re almost done.” Deep breath. “Lay back, okay?”
“Dean.” Voice thin but thick with warning.
“It’s okay, man.” Liar. Dean’s tongue smacks against his lips.
He washes Sam’s chest. Sam focuses on holding his arms up, willing his dick down. Not that it does any good. Not when Dean drifts, drags lower. Circles his belly button. Knuckles bump his head and he hisses. Dick jumps. Leaks a streak across Dean’s hand.
“Just rinse me off, okay?” he chokes. “I’m good.”
“Sam?”
He’s gotta be imagining the tremor in his brother’s voice. Dean’s facing the sink, rinsing and wringing that rag like it insulted Dad.
“How long’s it been? Since you… with someone else, I mean.” Lewd grin falls flat under flaring nostrils, dilated eyes.
Sam hesitates. “Three years,” he breathes. Sees Dean do the math.
“So dog girl.”
Bristle. “Amelia. Her name was Amelia.”
“Right.” Dean lathers the washcloth, turns for the tub.
Sam’s got no words for his brother’s expression.
“’S too long, man. Gonna get cancer or somethin’.”
“Dean.” Voice cracks like a teenager. “I don’t – you don’t – ”
“Too fuckin’ long.” Barely audible.
Slick soap and rough cloth and Dean’s firm grip and Sam’s eyes roll back. Hips buck.
“That’s it, Sammy.” Slow and solid. Half a twist. “Lemme see you.” Fingers spread and seek out sweet spots, stroke Sam’s shaft, squeeze the crown.
Dean’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Face flushed, pupils wide, jaw slack. Pressure builds. Low in his groin, yeah, but up in his chest too. Bit by bit Dean’s pace picks up. Other hand rolls, cups his balls. “C’mon, Sammy.” Barely a whisper. “Come for me. Let go.”
Supernovas got nothing on the blast that rips Sam open as he roars his brother’s name. Bangs his knee on the tiles and his heels on the porcelain. Eyes squeeze shut. Tears leak.
Dean’s still stroking, murmuring while Sam collects his wits.
“So fuckin’ good, little brother. Did so good.”
He lunges at Dean, bandaged hands on stubbled cheeks. He crashes their mouths together. Teeth and tongues and twenty years collide. Dean’s thumbs brush his eyes dry.
“C’mon man.” Dean pulls away. “Let’s get you rinsed.”
He grabs the trashcan. Sam stretches his arms up high while his brother trickles still-warm water over his chest. When it’s done he wraps Sam in a towel.
“We should talk about this,” Sam says.
“Yeah.” Dean sounds resigned, but a little amused too. “Guess we should.” He bundles Sam into bed. Tucks him in. “But you gotta rest now.” More pills. “Here.”
“I didn’t – ” Sam grunts as Dean shoves painkillers in his mouth, fingers and all. “What about you? Shouldn’t I-uh…” Nods at his brother’s jeans.
“Nah, man.” Dean feeds him more Gatorade. “It’s cool. Plenty of time to make it up to me after you’re healed.” This lewd grin lights Dean’s entire body. Lights Sam’s pretty thoroughly too.
“Go to sleep, kiddo. I’ll be right here.”