Heat clings to her cheeks as she’s held before the lapping flames of her own desire, yet she can’t bring herself to drop the arm she’s using to cover her eyes. Buried in the crook of her sweat-dampened elbow, Sam’s every other sense heightens. Each pump of blood rings a resounding thud in her ears, knocks into her entire body rolling off her heart’s violent ticking. The ratty, short-trimmed carpet scratches the sensitive underbellies of her feet whenever she laxes and the meaty softness of her thighs ripple flush against toned, denim-clad ones. 

Dean’s hands, larger than hers, alternate between the tease of a feather light, skimming touch and a brand searing hold all over her scorching flesh. Sam’s other hand cramps from the brutal, clawing grip she’s latched on the chair’s plushy armrest.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean coaxes. She feels as much as she hears him, prickled by goosebumps razing along the stretch of her neck. “You gotta– I wanna see your eyes open. Want you to watch.” With no genuine force behind it, he nudges Sam a little, trying to jostle her stubbornness. 

Sam, not deliberately trying to be defiant, tilts her head back and away while keeping her arm rooted in place. She lands in an awkward position resting against the jutted curve of Dean’s shoulder, but the air whips cooler at the new angle–clearer. Warmth, uncomfortable warmth, crawls all over the rest of her like wild weedy stalks aiming to choke any struggle against the promise of pleasure. She wants to let it happen. She wants it to consume her so totally that she won’t have to figure out how to live with herself after giving in.

Dean’s chest rumbles through a lowly hummed laugh and Sam gets the sense she’s being picked on, but it’s different here and now. It’s one of those times Dean finds her antics charmingly amusing, evident mostly in the fact that she’s still sat in his lap. If he’d been any more on edge, she would’ve been shoved away and left to wonder whether her mind conjured his phantom touch from within its own dark coves. Dean breaths out against the shell of her ear, grounding Sam in the reality of this moment.

One thing Sam never hoped to expect coming from her brother was gentleness. But Dean surprises her with his heedful, nearly devout handling. Accepting her shyness for the time being, he scoops Sam closer to him like he wants every limb, every Mile of Sammy squeezed as close as possible and still, he refuses to be rough about it.

Sam allows herself to relax into the maneuvering, limp as a ragdoll. Dean hoists her up like nothing until she’s situated marginally higher, and her ass scoots over to just one of Dean’s thighs. This way, it’s an increasing test of Sam’ strength to keep her arm held up which must be part of Dean’s motive, so she resolves to drop the appendage by her side and trust she can keep her eyes clenched shut. Terribly on edge already, her imagination stirs up all sorts of scenarios. They flash through as salacious snapshots of what Dean might do to her, where he’ll touch her, how it’ll make her jerk and squirm. She works herself close to panting, barely registering that Dean hasn’t even done anything yet.

It’s also sort of weird neither of them are talking much, Sam notes dimly. She’s always had this intrusive idea that Dean could talk enough for himself and the girls he hooks up with, running his mouth on autopilot and slewing dirty words. The lack makes Sam question if there are a lot of things he’s changed up about his regular routine going into this with her–aside from the fact she’s his little sister. She blushes crimson all over again. 

Caught on a hook and lured away from her distracting thoughts, Dean finally starts feeling on Sam again. He glides hunter-calloused hands up her bare and downy legs, their svelte build on display more and more as midsummer swarms. Stopping at the frilly ends of her paled yellow sundress, he teases a single finger under its trim, his path a whisper of touch winding down toward the inner seam where she squeezes her thighs together reflexively. Dean lingers for a breath-hitching moment and Sam waits for it, the instant he gets fed up her being such a baby about everything and pushes her into his cruder, self-fulfilling ministrations.

What Dean does instead contradicts her anticipation. He simply moves on to her arm, beginning just shy of the joint between neck and shoulder, and skates his thumbpad down the line from there. He swirls invisible rings across the flatter plane of warm skin below her collarbone and Sam’s spaghetti strap falls out of place, loosely draped over her slimmed bicep. She’s so responsive, and her mental tension draws tighter and tighter as the seconds pulse by, but Dean’s attentive caresses ooze the strain out of her body. It feels pristinely sublime for a moment, as though in another life Dean might’ve been the kind of brother to deploy such a soothing tactic when trying to get his little tyke sister down for a nap. Sam can almost see it for how things could’ve been: cartoons on the TV, her cheeks smushed against Dean’s arm while trying not to doze off. As it stands, as Dean continues on touching her she grows feverish, aching for an unutterable thing that’s going to give her more.

When Dean’s soft-padded touch brushes the inside of her wrist, Sam cracks and lets loose a breathy giggle. She knew she’d be helpless to tame it, it’s almost euphoric how the spot elicits and overwhelming and ticklish delirium, always toeing the line between just right and too much. Her free hand circles around Dean’s with the instinctual goal to stop him, and Dean just lets her. With her eyes still closed, she takes stock of the physical tells that Dean’s shifting again. He pulls free of her grip gingerly and moves up, up, up until he’s tucking long strands of her hair behind her back and pressing heat-chapped lips against her ear.

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