🦌

John leaves for a hunt without Dean while Sam’s sick and leaves him with strict orders to watch after his little brother, despite Dean’s protests about it being stupid that he has to play babysitter. Dean’s not at all happy about it, glowering and kicking at the wall with the toe of his hunting boot.

Sam shifts on the squeaky motel bed, scrunching up his face and frowning, squinting at Dean. His whole body aches, and ne’s uncomfortably hot and cold at all once. Not to mention, his throat hurts like a bitch, and that incessant kicking Dean is doing is only making the throbbing of his head so much worse. So he’s not proud of it, but he snaps at Dean, something mumbled about shutting it and letting him sleep, the words nearly incomprehensible and garbled with exhaustion.

Sammy knows he must be out of it because Dean seems to only take a second to be standing by his bed, now glowering down at him. He’s rough as he rolls Sam onto his side, making space to join him on the mattress, and in his daze, all Sammy can think about is how Dean’s cool hands feel so good against his flushed skin.

He barely comprehends Dean pulling his boxers down, it’s all he’s wearing anyways, but he does snap to when Dean starts to push into him, his spit-slick cock splitting Sam open. His head falls slack against the pillow, his whole body loosening, pliant to his big brother.

Dean swears before he grabs Sam’s hips harder, mumbling “jesus Sammy, you’re burning up, feels so fucking good” as he buries his head in Sam’s hair, and Sam’s legs fall open a little wider. He tries to say something to Dean but his throat is all raw and achy, so instead it just comes out as a ragged moan, the sound tearing its way out painfully.

Then Dean starts fucking him, long, deep strokes that would be hard enough to shove Sam forward if Dean’s strong hands weren’t splayed over his skin, keeping him close. Dean pulls Sam against him, the cool of his skin against the hot flush of Sam’s back, and Sam’s eyes roll back in an exhausted, groggy, feverish haze.

Dean’s fingers indent his skin, and his thrusts get faster, enough that Sam chokes and tries to wriggle away from the painful rawness, even as the feeling makes his own cock harden more, swollen and leaking against his stomach. Dean fucks into him rougher, and Sammy squirms and whines, but his limbs feel like lead and his head is pounding, hammering against his skull, so all he can manage is to choke out, “De please, please, it hurts”

It’s not long before he’s fully begging Dean, tears forming hot in his eyes and spilling over his fever-flushed cheeks. His legs are shaking, maybe from exhaustion, maybe the merciless way Dean’s fucking into him, or maybe from both. And his voice is weak and almost gone, scratchy and painful enough that it leaves him choking out Dean’s name inbetween thrusts. He begs him to stop until it feels like his throat is bleeding, telling him it hurts, and it’s too rough and, “please plea-e-se De… just wanna sleep, De… De, hurts so bad please no—”.

sam just raises an eyebrow when john gives him an order. john is so mad he backhands him hard, but sam just laughs and says “you don’t own me” with a pointed glance towards dean and john fucking loses it

Finally edited again!!!! pls go support @wincestbonerr ^_^ <3

i'll never get over dean walking around wearing this too-big leather jacket cuz he's insane about his daddy and he needs to be as close to him as he can. it really is too big for him! how did anybody take him seriously?

So Sam studies first aid. John taught him what he learned in the marines and through trial and error, but Sam wants to do it right. He practices stitching on old t-shirts and holey socks until they're perfectly neat. He steals bottles of disinfectant so the older Winchesters don't resort to vodka and whiskey. He practices wrapping bandages on himself, mummification as an expression of devotion.

Dean lets Sam take care of him after hunts and it's a ritual they both hold sacred. Under the too dim or too bright lights of motel bathrooms, Sam tenderly cleans Dean's wounds, stitches him together, sets disjointed bones, and sometimes, when Dean allows, will massage stiff muscles until Dean is half asleep and making content noises that go straight to Sam's dick.

But nothing gets him hard quite like the injuries themselves.

Something is very, very wrong with Sam. He doesn't understand how he can be so sincerely concerned about Dean and also popping a boner at the sight of Dean's pretty face covered in blood. Dean just suffers so beautifully. Sam always liked the old paintings of saints in their heavenly suffering, and Dean is like his own personal Saint Sebastian.

If Dean notices, he doesn't say anything, granting Sam a little dignity. He also doesn't try to avoid Sam's help, so that must count for something.

Sam extends the favour of a blind eye. He knows it's just residual adrenaline that pitches an impressive tent in Dean's jeans, but it's hard to fully ignore when he's kneeling before him and it would be so easy to just...