Archive of Our Own

Dean has never been so proud of anything.

Well, except maybe his name being Sammy’s first word. But even saving the world, multiple times, doesn’t quite hold a candle to this.

Today, the Dean Cave becomes complete.

He stands by his new favorite thing in the universe, puts his hand on the piece of cloth covering it, and throws a look at Sam, inviting him to share his excitement.

Sam hangs back by the foosball table, arms crossed over his chest, and rolls his eyes.

“Just get on with it.” He doesn’t sound too annoyed, but his sense of excitement needs some work.

Regardless, Dean throws the cloth off and gestures at his second baby with both hands.

Sam considers the sparkling new 60-inch TV in front of him with zero awe. In fact, his eyes quickly slide from the black beauty to Dean’s face, and he has the audacity to rub his hand over his mouth.

“You look like a six-year-old who’s just built his first pillow fort.”

Dean throws the cloth on the floor.

“Like you looked any better when you were six and built your first pillow fort.” He jabs an accusing finger at Sam. “I thought you were gonna break your face with that Joker grin.”

Sam just shrugs.

“At least I was actually six years old.”

“Shut up.”

Sam shakes his head but doesn’t offer any other comments.

Dean glides a reverent hand over the top of the TV.

“Don’t mind him, Asuka.” He pats her side. “He’s just jealous.”

Sam stands up straighter and puts a hand up in front of him.

“Wait, wait, wait.” His eyebrows climb up. “You named the TV?”

Dean throws him a cold look.

“She’s family, Sam.”

If his brother doesn’t get it through his thick skull, then well, maybe Dean is going to have one less family member.

The corners of Sam’s mouth shift rapidly up and down.

“Is it Asuka from Evangelion?” He sounds like he can’t believe he’s even asking this question.

Dean doesn’t tell him that it’s Kirara Asuka from Cosplayer With a Super Body Having Most Ideal Proportions, Sex Ending in Explosions While Dressed in 6 Different Outfits. Sam would probably have an aneurysm just from the title of that classic.

“Of course you’d know the nerd anime,” he says instead, a well-deserved jab if he says so himself.

Sam spreads his fingers in the air in front of himself, like he’s trying to stop Dean from saying anything more for both their sakes.

“Dean, I literally saw you jerking off to a listing of an Asuka Langley Soryu wank pillow on eBay.”

Well, that did happen. Dean’s not ashamed of it.

“They are called dakimakuras and they are important anxiety aids,” he insists because little brother’s failing knowledge of the world must be corrected.

Sam rubs his hand over his entire face.

“You don’t have anxiety, dude.” His lips move in that exaggerated way they get when Sam thinks he’s being oh so superior. “You have a severe case of horndog.”

Dean would like it to be noted that he wasn’t the one to steer the conversation that way.

“Oh yeah?” He steps away from the TV with a parting pat on her back. “You gonna do something about it, little brother?”

Sam’s eyes turn a deep green, gliding up and down over Dean’s body.

Yeah, little brother has always been easy, just how Dean likes him.

“Do you want me to do something about it?” Sam asks, the answer already baked into the question.

Dean moves forward until he’s standing in front of the recliner on the right of the narrow stand hosting two beers and a pair of PlayStation controllers. Sam leans his hands on the back of the same recliner, eyes coming to a stop in the area of Dean’s mouth. He licks his lips, pink tongue sweet and slow.

The room gets more perfect by the minute.

Sam pats the back of the recliner and nods at the second one.

“Are these for you and me or for you and Cas?”

It’s a petty performance of jealousy so fake that Dean can’t even get annoyed about it.

“That one’s for Cas.” He motions at the other chair before reaching down to pat the armrest of the one in front of him. “And this one’s for us.”

Sam tries to hide a smirk, but he isn’t very successful.

“Us?”

Dean shoots his hand forward, gripping Sam’s shirt and hauling him in for a quick and dirty kiss. Sam’s giant mouth immediately covers Dean’s, smearing his spit everywhere, all wet and sloppy and just right.

Kissing is another art form that Dean enjoys without the slightest twinge of shame. He’s more than good at it, not in the least because he’s been practicing on his brother for years. Sam, of course, has been practicing, too, and between the two of them, they just might be the best kissers on the planet.

At the very least, their styles match, which is all that matters right now.

He drags his tongue over Sam’s teeth and guides him sideways and around the recliner until they’re pressed chest to chest, one of Sam’s hands flying up to grab Dean’s cheek.

Always a control freak, which would be worrisome if it weren’t such a turn-on.

Dean makes a half-warning sound into Sam’s mouth and tears his lips away, shoving at Sam’s chest to push him down into the chair, where Sam lands with a little oof.

“What are we doing?” Sam asks slyly, hands already dragging up and down Dean’s thighs.

“Take a wild guess.” The taste of his brother on his lips is more than enough to get Dean going, and he knows his bulge is starting to show without needing to look down.

Sam leans to the side, looking around Dean, before straightening and making the most faux-shocked face.

“With Asuka watching?” He even puts one hand on his chest, as if clutching invisible pearls.

Dean glances back and winks at the TV.

“She doesn’t mind,” he says, turning back to Sam and planting himself firmly between his brother’s knees.

Sam slides his hands into Dean’s back pockets. They mold to Dean’s ass like they were made for it.

“Well, in that case.” He plucks a condom out of Dean’s right pocket, brings it to his face, and throws it away with a haughty curl of his lips.

“Hey!” Dean shoots him a look of righteous indignation. “Littering!”

Sam squeezes Dean’s ass through the denim.

“You’ll live.”

He leans forward and rubs his nose up Dean’s fly before Dean can start a lecture on the Dean Cave rules, and okay, fine, the lecture can wait.

Besides, they really don’t need that condom, not with Sam insisting that they both get checked every three months. Playing it safe is for other people; between the two of them, no holds are barred.

“Better make it worth my while,” Dean mutters, but they both know how surrender sounds.

Sam glances up with a cheeky smirk.

“Don’t I always?”

He does, that’s the beautiful thing about them.

Dean puts his hands on his belt, unbuckling it, while Sam grips his ass like he intends to cut through the denim with his nails. They leave such delicious crescent imprints on Dean’s skin, he can’t get out of his jeans fast enough. With the belt out of the way, he pops the button, and Sam takes over, closing his teeth around the zipper slider and dragging it down.

Little brother sure knows how to make the most routine stuff hot.

He pushes his nose between the open zipper teeth and takes a deep inhale, like he’s meditating on the wonders of his brother’s dick. Which he might be—Dean wouldn’t put it past him.

Sam’s hands come around and tug on the loose waistband of Dean’s jeans, pulling them down to his mid-thighs.

“Huh.” Sam rubs the tip of his nose along the front seam of Dean’s pizza-printed boxers. “Do I smell fresh laundry?”

Well, Asuka deserves Dean at his best. Maybe Sam does, too, jury’s still out on that one.

“What, you miss my three-day-old musk?” Dean jiggles his pelvis, his dick pressing up against Sam’s nose.

Sam blows air loudly out of his mouth and leans back to give Dean a burning glare.

“No one misses your musk, dude.” He wrinkles his nose for a better effect, not that Dean believes him.

“‘Course you do,” Dean counters with a huff of superiority. “Little freak.”

Sam looks somehow both amused and unamused at the same time.

“I’m just glad you have discovered the art of washing your balls.” He slides his hand under the body part in question and squeezes it lightly in his palm.

Dean’s dick continues filling up at a rapid pace.

Being around his brother often leads to raging hard-ons, which, logically, should be inconvenient during hunts, but mostly just adds to the excitement of doing something badass.

Save some people, kill some monsters, fuck your brother stupid in the backseat.

That’s the kind of life Dean will choose over anything, anytime.

It has purpose, it has dignity, it has pure, unbridled fun. He knows who he is in it; he knows who Sam is in it. They’ve got a place in the world, hard-won, doused with blood and tears and sweat, but it’s the right one. Dean’s holding onto it for as long as he’s got something with which to hold on.

He reaches down to grip Sam’s chin, thumb rolling his bottom lip down. Sam’s tongue darts out to lick at Dean’s fingerpad, and his eyes grow dark and smoldering.

“Something on your mind, Sammy?” Dean pretends he doesn’t know what his brother’s thinking.

Sam drags his face away from Dean’s hand and settles in the chair, legs falling wide open. He puts his hands on his belt, worrying the buckle between his fingers, as if he’s still deliberating about what he wants. Dean hoists his jeans back up but doesn’t close them, lets them hang off his hips, the outline of his mostly hard dick pressing against the open fly.

“A few things,” Sam says as he works his buckle and rubs his palm over his crotch, from his balls up to the button of his jeans.

Dean licks his lips, first on a reflex, then consciously, dragging his tongue slowly from side to side and leaving his mouth open, shiny with his spit. Sam’s gaze fixes right on it, and he shifts in his seat, the curve of his spine fitting against the back of the chair.

“I’m listening.” Dean nudges Sam’s left knee with his and relishes the way his brother’s eyes go hooded.

Sam deals with the front of his jeans, movements slow and precise, like it’s a dance just for the two of them, neither in a hurry to be anywhere else. He pulls his fly open, uncovering his charcoal-gray boxers, already bulging with his half-hard dick.

Dean doesn’t need to be ordered, doesn’t even need to be prompted to know what to do next. He lowers himself to his knees, hands landing on Sam’s thighs.

“Is that my Scooby snack?” he asks with a smirk, nodding at Sam’s crotch.

Sam pushes his boxers down and drags his dick out, long and thick even in his half-mast state.

Dean’s mouth waters. Having a well-hung brother has been a gift that keeps on giving, and sometimes he thanks the stars for putting them together like this.

“As long as you don’t chew it.” Sam gives himself one long stroke before sliding his hips forward, bringing him closer to Dean’s mouth.

“I’ll think about that,” Dean says and leans in.

He swipes his tongue around Sam’s head, feeling it perk up toward him. Closing one hand around the thick base, he wraps his lips around Sam, pulling his entire growing length into his mouth. Sam groans in satisfaction above him and Dean feels his brother’s huge palm land on the back of his head. It doesn’t press, more a presence than an insistence, but Dean enjoys its weight, the reminder that they share the power between themselves: Dean’s got Sam’s dick between his teeth, Sam’s got his hand in Dean’s hair.

Sam’s taste spreads over Dean’s tongue, sandalwood shower gel mingling with sweat and musk, Dean’s favorite flavor combo. He licks and sucks and licks again as he coaxes his brother into full hardness until he can’t fit the entirety of Sam’s dick inside his mouth anymore. His throat spasms around the tip, and he pulls back, doing his best not to gag. Sam scratches at Dean’s scalp, more a soothing gesture than any kind of demand.

“C’mon,” he urges, voice all low and husky. “Up.”

Dean’s dick jumps between his legs.

He lets Sam out of his mouth with a parting swirl of his tongue and stands up, bending down to deal with his boots. His jeans and boxers end up in a hasty heap on the floor, and he climbs into his brother’s lap, precome beading at his slit.

Sam glides his hands over Dean’s bare thighs, reaching his ass and squeezing. He pulls Dean’s cheeks apart and drags his fingers down his crack, no pressure, just a hello, a happy-to-see-you. His dick rubs against Dean’s as he pulls Dean’s hips back and forth, the barely-there friction sending fireworks up Dean’s spine.

“Hey,” Sam says, taking one hand off Dean’s ass and wrapping it around both of them.

“Hey,” Dean returns and bucks into Sam’s fist.

Sam strokes them until they are both leaking hard, the heads of their dicks swollen and purple with blood. They know this, this is something purely theirs, this belongs to them and no one can take it away.

Whoever else they fuck, that’s just statistics.

This? This is the real thing.

Sam releases them, and Dean leans over toward the stand between the chairs. He slides the top drawer open and grabs a bottle of lube out of it, tossing it to Sam, who catches it with a grin.

Within seconds, his slick fingertip is pressing into Dean, like it’s been doing for ages, dearly familiar and yet somehow always new. It exhilarates Dean, it makes him want more, it sends his brain into a long, pleasant spin.

He wiggles his ass while Sam continues stuffing him with his fingers and leans down to plant a kiss on Sam’s mouth. Sam responds with the eagerness of a touch-starved labrador, and Dean lets himself get lost in the party their tongues celebrate inside each other’s mouths.

They pull apart to catch their breaths, Sam’s eyes glowing in the Cave’s muted light, and Dean traces the outline of Sam’s wet lips with his thumb.

“What’s it like, kissing a cartoon?” he asks, half-wishing they could curse Asuka into another ride into the Cool World.

“Weird.” Sam spreads three fingers inside Dean, and Dean slides his hips forward, meeting them. “But not bad. I always thought Velma was gay, though.”

“Well, you’re a girl,” Dean points out with his habitual grin, “so it tracks.”

Sam rolls his eyes, an obligatory response, and curls his probing fingers, making Dean gasp.

Little brother knows all the tricks, and Dean is proud to have taught them to him.

“Kinda wish we stayed on the other side a bit longer,” he says, letting himself daydream for a moment. “Would love to know how two-dimensional fucking works.”

Sam withdraws his fingers and pours lube over his looming dick.

“No,” he says with a deep conviction that Dean doesn’t believe, “you’re not turning me into your hentai princess.”

Dean spreads his hands over Sam’s chest.

“You got the boobs for it.” He squeezes Sam’s pecs, all the bursting glory of them. “C’mon, get’em out.” His fingers slide under Sam’s top shirt to find his perked-up nipples poking from under the thin cotton.

“Get’em out yourself,” Sam says, which is more of a call to action than a snippy retort, and Dean is happy to oblige.

He pulls the flaps of Sam’s flannel to the sides and drops his hands to the hem of Sam’s t-shirt, just as Sam guides his dick toward Dean’s rim. Both focused on their respective tasks, they move in a casual synchronicity, born out of years of adjusting to each other’s rhythms.

Dean yanks Sam’s t-shirt all the way up. Sam slides into Dean all the way to the hilt.

They moan in unison, bright, careless sounds filling the room, almost better than Led Zeppelin on vinyl.

Dean rubs his palms all over the mat of hair on Sam’s chest, soft from the same conditioner Sam uses on his head. It’s one of Sam’s more strictly guarded secrets, but Dean knows because he’s often the one to apply it, no matter how much he mocks Sam in the process.

It’s a turn-on. Leads to the best fucking shower sex.

Dean rocks his hips, letting Sam’s dick settle inside him, while he pinches Sam’s nipples with light, joking fingers. Sam tickles the edge of Dean’s stretched rim. They are both teasing each other, which is obligatory sibling behavior, whether in the middle of sex or not.

“Why Daphne?” Sam asks, his hand landing on Dean’s ass and guiding him forward.

Dean twists Sam’s right nipple, making him hiss in delight.

“Did you see those legs?” Dean gives Sam an incredulous stare. “Sailor Moon ain’t got legs like that.”

Sam chuckles and squeezes Dean’s thighs with both hands.

“That it?”

“Got a thing for redheads,” Dean admits with a light-hearted shrug.

He lifts his hips, letting most of Sam’s length slide out of him, and stops, clenching rhythmically around the head. Sam bites his lip and moans, eyelids fluttering and hands clamping over Dean’s ass.

“Rowena?” he asks, a little strained but in a good way.

“She’s cool,” Dean agrees. He likes a challenge, too.

Sam opens his eyes and throws Dean a mischievous look.

“Bet you can’t get her to fuck you.”

Dean scoffs and drops down, taking Sam back inside him in one smooth glide.

“What, you think you can?” That’d be hot, actually. Dean might even like to watch.

Sam lifts his chin, fingers digging into Dean’s ass to urge him up again.

“Maybe.” His eyes sparkle, and Dean knows Sam has thought about it. A lot.

“Selling tickets to that show?” he says with a leer, which makes Sam grin, and isn’t that a pretty sight.

“You wish.”

Sam brings one of his hands up, clasping the back of Dean’s neck and pulling him down for a long, thorough kiss. Dean pumps his hips, gliding up and dropping down, Sam’s dick splitting him in half like no other can.

They moan into each other’s mouths, both content in their skins and the way they slide against each other. Sex is fun, but it’s twice as fun when your partner is someone who knows you better than anyone, sometimes better than you do yourself. They’ve studied every dip and bump of their respective bodies, they've got this down to an art, and that art belongs in the best museum of pure, delicious porn.

Sam’s tongue pushing into Dean’s mouth is, indeed, absolutely pornographic, except it’s better because it’s real. It’s honest and eager and fully voluntary, nothing forcing them into each other’s arms. When Sam shifts his hips under Dean to change the angle, it’s because he wants to. And when Dean bites Sam’s lip, pulling it toward himself to release it with a pop, it’s because he finds it funny.

They can fuck and they can laugh and they can nail what the other wants at any given moment.

Sam pulls his lips away and goes on to plant a trail of kisses from the underside of Dean’s chin all the way down to the knot of the ascot around Dean’s neck.

“Gotta tell you something,” he says, sinking his teeth into the smooth fabric and tugging on it.

“Stop getting spit on my ascot.” Dean lifts his hand and swats lightly at Sam’s head.

Sam worries the ascot between his teeth a little more before releasing it and lifting his eyes at Dean.

“Red is not your color.”

Dean scoffs, planting his hips down against Sam’s crotch and stopping there.

“Excuse you.” He raises a finger for emphasis. “Red is absolutely my color.”

“I pity the eyes of the person who told you that.” Sam doesn’t sound like he’s feeling any pity at all.

Dean grinds his hips into Sam’s crotch, jostling Sam inside himself until Sam groans and squeezes his eyes shut.

“It looks cool,” he insists, tugging on one of the ascot’s ends.

Sam opens his eyes with a long exhale and clamps his hand over Dean’s ass, yanking him forward.

“I beg you to see the light.” Sam assumes a solemn look, or as solemn as he can manage, seated deep inside his brother and bucking up to get even deeper.

Dean brings his hands to the sides of Sam’s face, squeezing his cheeks.

“You first,” he says and dives down to kiss his brother.

His dick slaps against Sam’s bare stomach as he swings his hips back and forth, and Sam taps the head of it with his fingers, like he’s lost in thought. Dean doesn’t even try to suppress an eager moan.

Sam starts stroking him, matching the rhythm of Dean’s hips, and Dean almost loses it before alarms go off in his brain.

“Wait.” He drops a hand to grab Sam’s wrist and stop him. Sam raises an eyebrow at him, and Dean gestures at the recliner. “No getting jizz on the upholstery.”

Sam glances at the checkered fabric and nods, taking his hand away and putting it onto Dean’s shoulder instead. He pushes Dean down on himself, and Dean all but melts into their shared rhythm.

For a few hot, blissful minutes, skin slaps against skin, Sam’s forehead goes shiny with fresh sweat, and Dean’s own face feels like it’s somewhere on a warm beach, getting bathed in glorious sunlight. He bounces on his brother’s dick, their crotches meeting each other with a simple, eager joy. Later, they’ll have cases to chase, work to do, blood to shed, but for the moment, he can be with his brother, doing what they do best—fuck each other brainless.

Sam’s fingers dig into Dean’s shoulder, just this side of crushing his bones, and Dean knows little brother’s getting close. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open and panting, gorgeous chest heaving. Dean lets Sam’s hand grip his hip, yanking him down, like Sam can get even deeper if he just manhandles Dean hard enough.

He’s right there at his limit, and Dean likes being the cause of it.

Make your brother crazy—ain’t there a better feeling than that.

Sam growls, head hanging forward, forehead hovering next to Dean’s chest. Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him close, presses his face against his sternum.

“Fuck yeah, little brother,” he murmurs because he knows Sam adores being called that when he’s coming inside Dean, and this time is no exception.

“Oh God,” Sam groans, his dick shooting its load right up Dean’s insides.

Dean rides him through it, rocking Sam’s head against his chest like they are kids again and Dean’s responsible for getting Sammy ready for bed.

Sam’s heavy breaths waft over Dean’s skin as he recovers. He goes limp under Dean, his entire body all relaxed and squishy. Dean shifts his hips, just a little, and Sam moans, spent but not exhausted.

They ain’t done, and that’s awesome.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, catching Sam’s chin and lifting his head to meet his foggy eyes.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees and shoots up to kiss Dean, long and slow and steady.

Dean could do this all day. Hell, they can do this all day. They’ve done it before; surely will do it again.

That’s the great thing about living with your brother—a good fuck is always within arm’s reach.

Sam breaks the kiss and reaches for Dean’s ascot. He unties it and slides it off Dean’s neck, shaking it out. Dean raises one eyebrow as his sex-addled brain tries to figure out what Sam’s point is.

“Dude, put it back,” he demands, but he doesn’t sound too insistent.

“Got a better idea.” Sam’s eyes twinkle and he pushes Dean off himself.

In the same smooth move, he stuffs the ascot between Dean’s legs, letting it soak up his come leaking out of Dean.

“Dude!” Dean’s head clears rapidly. “Gross!”

Sam gives him a look of pure shock.

“You calling me gross? You?” He rubs the ascot all over Dean’s rim. “You’ve been shooting into my towels since you learned how to jack off.”

Well, that’s true. But Sam’s towels were just there, all soft and innocent.

“Fresh jizz is good for your hair,” Dean argues, trying not to let on that the ascot’s soft fabric actually feels nice against his thoroughly fucked ass.

Sam stares at him with almost serious eyes.

“No, Dean, it’s not.”

“Says who?”

“Literally everyone.”

Dean makes a pfft noise. Sam lets the soiled ascot fall to the floor. It’s fine; Dean will just run it through several laundry cycles. Possibly with Sam’s socks.

He sits up on his knees, putting his raging dick before Sam’s serene face. Sam blinks at him, like he’s not getting the hint.

“What?” he asks with the innocence of a non-porn nun.

Dean grabs himself and drags his leaking head across Sam’s bottom lip.

“C’mon, man.” He presses the tip into the valley between Sam’s mouth and his chin. “You know what I like.”

Sam pretends to think.

“Wet pussies for your little pug dick?” He has the audacity to sound perfectly serious despite the sparks in his eyes.

“Hey.” Dean fakes a gasp. “My dick is at least a rottweiler.”

Sam lifts his hand and brushes his fingers along Dean’s full length.

“Does it bite?”

Dean presses the tip over Sam’s lips.

“It will if you keep yapping.”

Sam sticks his tongue out and licks Dean’s precome in excruciatingly slow swipes. Dean rocks his hips forward, pushing between Sam’s lips but he hits the wall of Sam’s teeth, not that it dampens his spirit too much.

Little brother is being a little shit. Business as usual.

Sam wraps his hand around Dean’s base and squeezes it in short, rhythmic pulses. Dean lets a moan slip out, reaching out and catching Sam’s hair between his fingers. He tugs, and Sam cocks his head at him, like he’s still totally clueless.

“It’s not gonna suck itself, Sammy.”

Sam smirks and gives Dean’s head a short upward lick.

“I’d watch that show,” he says dreamily, but Dean doesn’t get to respond because Sam opens his mouth, withdraws his teeth, and swallows half of Dean’s length.

That’s some good shit right there.

Sam’s lips press tight around Dean, his mouth hot and wet and amazing, like it always is. He does know what Dean likes, and his tongue finds all the right spots, does all the right things, brings Dean to all the right places.

Dean drags his fingers through Sam’s hair, sometimes tugging, sometimes petting, depending on how hard Sam sucks him. Sam alternates between soft and filthy, like changing channels between Casa Erotica and Pound Town, which leaves Dean shaking and wanting and chasing his brother’s mouth like his life depends on it.

“Fucking blow job prodigy, little brother,” Dean gasps when Sam gives his dick a series of short, kittenish licks while holding it deep in his mouth.

Sam lets out a self-satisfied huff, sliding off Dean and grinning up at him.

“Learned from the best.” He winks, and Dean ruffles his hair, and it’s like being teens but with all the perks of adulthood, such as more control, better knowledge, and deeper understanding, both of themselves and of each other.

Sam gets Dean back into his mouth and starts bobbing his head back and forth, tongue active and lips tight. Dean clamps his fingers in Sam’s hair and drops his head, closing his eyes and not even trying to stifle his moans.

He thrusts and Sam sucks and their bodies find that perfect unison that grows only out of shared blood.

Sam puts one hand on Dean’s ass, pulling him in, taking him deeper into his throat. He swallows around Dean, and Dean’s brain rockets up onto cloud nine.

He comes in what feels like gallons, dick spurting over the root of Sam’s tongue, while his entire body shakes, every cell in it throbbing with out-of-this-world release. His blood cells do excited somersaults, his heart barely keeps up with itself, and his lungs work like bellows, pushing hot air through his system.

Sam waits for him to come down from the peak, hand stroking Dean’s ass through it. Spent, Dean eases out of Sam’s mouth, and Sam licks all the remaining drops off him before slumping back in the recliner. He throws his head back and gives Dean a loopy smile.

“All good?”

He looks so much like a proud cat, Dean almost starts sneezing.

“You know.” He reaches out to cup Sam’s cheek and bends down to lick over Sam’s lips, collecting his own taste.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees when Dean straightens back. “I do.”

Dean slides off Sam’s lap and gathers his clothes from the floor, putting them back on, sans the come-soaked ascot. Sam follows suit, and Dean sighs as Sam’s dick disappears behind cotton and denim.

“Wish you could just keep it out,” he says with a touch of wistfulness, running his hand down Sam’s closed fly.

“Pretty sure that’d get me arrested.”

Dean kisses him, quick but hard.

“Pretty sure this would, too,” he says and grins.

“Living on the edge,” Sam says with a hardened criminal’s pride.

Dean snorts and snatches one of the beers from the stand, stepping toward the other recliner and lowering himself into it. The full-body lumbar support does its thing marvelously. His ass enjoys the comfort of the top-of-the-line upholstery, and overall, he’s pretty content with his life.

Sam grabs the second bottle and they toast each other before starting on the beer. It fills Dean’s mouth with frothy, slightly bitter goodness, which mingles with the aftertaste of his brother’s dick, creating the perfect downtime experience.

“Well,” Dean starts, lifting his bottle in another toast, “chair successfully defiled.”

Sam toasts back, his dimples showing.

“We should get a stool for Cas,” he muses after they are halfway through their beers. “Or a dog mat.”

“That’s harsh,” Dean says, but he chuckles at the image.

“You’re the one who called him a talking dog.”

“Fair.”

They finish their beers and Dean turns Asuka on. She fills the room with her bright electronic light, and she’s so beautiful, he could cry.

He grabs one of the controllers and waves it in the air, nodding at the screen.

“WWE?” he suggests because there’s nothing better than a good animated wrestling match with your brother after you’ve fucked each other’s brains out.

Sam reaches for the second controller, and the game’s on.

Dean scrolls through the Legend roster, picking The Rock, like he always does. Sam takes his time, probably doing mental calculations that grossly overestimate the game’s mechanics. He finally settles on Seth Rollins because picking the guy from the cover art isn’t basic at all.

“Admit it’s the hair,” Dean says, while the game loads.

“Dude.” Sam gives him a sideways look. “It’s the record-setting sixty-five-minute gauntlet match.”

Dean snorts and guides his character toward Sam’s.

They circle each other for a moment before Dean slams the buttons and starts the fight.

“Yeah, okay, it’s the hair,” Sam admits, while the Rock holds his character in the Samoan Drop.

“Knew it.” Dean grins as he continues to wipe the floor with his little brother.

Sam doesn’t mind.

Whatever they do—to each other, with each other, for each other—it’s the foundation of their lives, their wellspring of will, their source of power. They are better when they are together, and that’s a simple truth that will never fail to warm Dean’s heart.

If it also makes his dick stir in his jeans, then it’s just a little happy bonus, which he intends to cherish for as long as he can get it up.

Something tells him Sam’s right there with him.