#flower's stuff

“Yeah, buddy I know” Dean tries to speak sweetly, like a father, or like Sam is a dog.

It’s so cute, how Sam’s beaten face still smiles for him. see?it isn’t that bad.

It is that bad. But Dean doesn’t have regret in his new, stronger demon form, and all Sam’s puppy eyes do is get him hard.

“I’ll protect you buddy” Dean sweetens his voice “fix you right up”

“Just do one thing for me, okay?”

“I just need a little bit of your blood and for you to say a few words, alright?” Sam nods, looking young.

Four shots and two beers later, Sam’s giddy-drunk and deans getting there, tossing out “never have I ever practiced bondage (neither of them drink) Dean tosses out “never have I ever been fucked by a man” casual in how sure he is. Dean drinks.

Sam doesn’t drink.

“Really? Who? Was it that asshole in Wisconsin, Jeremy or some shit, thought you had something with him.” It’s only after this desperate weird little rant that Dean notices Sam’s face, quiet and sad. A white-hot flash of anger rushes through his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it”

“So it WAS him”

Dean thinks they’re just joking, and Sam’s face is hard to read when it’s so dark in their little cubby. But Sam’s body language is all wrong, stiff and he half-snorts, laughs to himself, leans real close and whispers. “It wasn’t him. It was lucifer”

Dean lets out this unintentional, ugly noise and sam takes it all wrong. “In the cage, of course. I wouldn’t let him- I didn’t let him do that to me he just-“

The fucking bartender walks up sheepishly and tells them they’re closing. Fuck.

Shared kisses in the motel kitchen when Castiel is just looking, so tender and soft. He’s never felt anyone like that. Castiel doesn’t crave the intimacy, but maybe he does, wants to know what is so good that humans can bear to live at all. The press of another body, close and soft.

They might tell him that they love him like a brother, but it’s like brother of the modern ages. Just a person you used to love. Love. He has never felt anything before. Now he does.

“Rough night?” The kids tone is kind, and Dean knows that he looks like shit.

“You could say that again, god I’m hungover”

“Fun night? At least?”

“My brother told me he’s in love with me” it’s almost funny, just saying it out in the cold air.

God they were shitfaced last night, no real reason for it, maybe exhaustion, ordering girl drinks just to dare the other on.

Dean has a sudden appreciation for women’s ability to hold their liquor.

“Sir?”

“Uh, yeah. God sorry I’m tired”

“What happened with your brother?”

“Told the kid to get some sleep, i already knew”

Maybe it’s the teen-salt of it, the way that they both didn’t smell the same at all, when they were younger. Maybe Sam’s just a sick fuck.

But hey, it’s Sam’s birthday, and it’s not like they didn’t grow up with their hands in each others pants.

For his birthday he wants a treat. He deserves it really, putting up with all the shit Dean gives him.

God he smells good, warm shelter between his legs, some kind of Adonis. Salty, and so human, like the stink of brothers in a hot car, like he’s done PT. Deans still unsure above him, but Sam is gone. He tastes good too, and it’s so intoxicating to have him vulnerable and hot.

Deans dick, so well known to him is straining against those pretty pink panties Sam begged him to put on, getting the satin wet and sticky.

The stupid smug-ass dick doctor that Sam dragged him out to see takes a small break from typing “Mhm, and when have the symptoms started?”

“Dude, I’m not asking for magic or anything, on-demand is fine.”

The doctor just sort of sighs

“I haven’t been able to get it up for uhh, 3 months or so” (this is, of course, a lie, it’s been longer, but he can’t admit that he waited this long.)

“And how has your mental health been recently, any major changes or stresses in your life?”

“No, listen, I’m not here for a shrink, I’m only here because my- Sam dragged me out, just get me the pills and I’ll go.”

“Are you sure there have been no recent mental health issues?”

Dad still hasn’t found out about them. He’s glad. He’s shocked sometimes, too. They weren’t exactly subtle when they were younger, ten and fourteen, exploring each others bodies in a shitty motel bed.

He doesn’t know Sam the same, now.

Sam still wants mostly the same things, hot and sweaty and life-giving. It’s just that… he isn’t the same. He doesn’t have the same devotion that Dean has now.