#sketchydean

"Perv," Dean sputters, like his heart's not turning over in his chest. Sammy.

"Takes one," Sam says, smile tucked up into the soft piled-up fold of his cheek, a dimple carved in deep. Ridiculous, Dean thinks, and watches Sam's eyes drop. He turns around, making sure the water's carving off all the soap bubbles, carrying away all that otherworld nastiness, and knows Sam's watching that, too, and how is it possible that after years of this—after, christ alive, almost twenty years of this—he can still get riled up just from how Sam looks at him.

Water off and he pushes his hair back, and when he turns around he catches the towel Sam throws into his chest. "Everybody settled?" he says, and Sam shrugs. "We're gonna have to clean out a Super Walmart of camping supplies, man. I don't think the Letters planned for a whole village to move in."

"We'll figure it out," Sam says. Relaxed, like he hasn't been in—shit. Dean can't even remember. He dries off, pricklingly aware of being watched. Bright in here. Maybe he can blame the heat in his face on the hot water. "Man. Seriously, did you burn yourself? You're like a lobster."

"Benefit of having an angel friend," Dean says, wrapping the towel around his waist. He steps out of the shower pan and the concrete's cool on his feet, the glass Sam holds out for him cooler, the whiskey inside just the right amount of burn. He licks his lips, scrapes his teeth over his lip, and up this close he can smell Sam: blood and mud, an edge like rotting forest floor. Gross, except that it's Sam. He remembers what he was saying only belatedly. "Got any burns, you can get 'em healed up, lickety-split."

"Lickety-split," Sam echoes, eyebrows pulled up like he's making fun of Dean, and he is, but Dean's found it in himself this last handful of years to be okay with that. To look forward to that. Sam doesn't make fun unless he's okay, and that little dig, that eyeroll before he takes a sip. That's Sammy, a-okay. What a miracle.

"You reek," Dean informs him, soft as a tub of mallow-fluff on the inside, and Sam wrinkles his nose, shrugs. "Yeah," he says, and hands his glass to Dean, and that means Dean gets to watch as he strips out of the unfamiliar stained sweatshirt, his undershirt below smeared with old blood, with vamp juice, with handprints Dean doesn't want to recognize. He drops them to the floor, heels off his boots, and then—belt, jeans, socks, boxers, and he's tanned and naked and whole, unmarked in any way that counts. Dean drains his own glass and sips at Sam's left-behind one, watches Sam under the shower. His eyes closed under the water. The rust-brown streaking away, uncovering the tattoo they share. His hair slicking against his skin, dark almost to black, on his skull and that patch in the center of his chest and at his crotch, his dick heavy and soft, the water limning it, dripping, a pouring river Dean could stop with his mouth, if experience didn't tell him he'd choke on it. Right now he maybe wouldn't mind, but. They got guests.

Still. "What are you doin'," Dean says, real quiet. Sam doesn't hear him over the rush of the water, there's no way, but he turns off the taps and pushes his hair off his forehead and looks at Dean anyway, and they can't, they got work to do and there's too many people around, they both know it. Still.

The Walmart's three towns down the road. Dean doesn't ask Sam to come; he comes anyway. Clean clothes that are his own, that smell like their detergent. Mom and Bobby can be in charge of all the strangers for a while. It's a pretty quick trip, especially with Dean driving as fast as he's driving, and he cranks up Appetite for Destruction and Sammy doesn't even complain, and they don't talk, and with it loud like that the guitar solo's still rattling in Dean's bones when he's moving quick around the fluorescent aisles, grabbing everything he can think of that'll fit in the car. Sam's got his own cart and they see each other on the turns and Sam grins at him, every time, basket fuller and fuller with soap and toothbrushes and pillow cases, underwear in three-packs, socks in ten-packs, bread and cheese, carrot sticks because Sam's a damn rabbit. Dean tells him so, when they pass each other with Dean on his way to the electronics section, and there behind a gondola of basketballs Sam says, "Vitamins aren't the enemy, jerk," and then like it's nothing fits his hand big around the back of Dean's neck and tugs him in for a kiss. It rings through Dean's head, bright as a brass gong. Quick, and Sam's smiling, thumbs at the corner of Dean's mouth and pushes him away and strides off with one janky cart-wheel rattling, and Dean's left in the rubbery smell of the basketballs, thinking, burner phones, but his brain's not quite operating on all cylinders. Call in the pit crew, he thinks, touching his damp lip and thinking of the store cameras, but. If Sam doesn't care then he doesn't, either. So. Burner phones.

They fill the trunk and the backseat besides, piled high enough with crap and three of their good cards burned. Dean revs the engine and Sam says, "my turn," and Dean doesn't object, and with Sam's choice of tape thumping the car body and sailing out through the open windows into the cornfields they race home, clouds scudding over the moon. Dean's never actually known what Bron-y-Aur is, but the song's great anyway, especially with Sam clapping the side of his thigh along with the beat.

At the bunker someone's built a fire in the shelter of the entrance and a few of the refugees are sitting around it, beers clutched in their hands. They stand up fast at seeing the car, fear softening out of their faces when they see that it's just them—and Dean has no compunctions about pressing them to work, either, even if Sam's mouth does a complicated thing. "Food in the kitchen, and you guys got someone who knows how to cook?" A lady scoffs, accepts a bag piled high with crap for sandwiches. "There we go. Yeah, and there's a shower down in the west hall, y'all figure that out how you want, okay? Someone tell Mary we've got some clothes for the kids, and tell Bobby Singer there's a hat in here that won't be frankly embarrassing if anyone else sees him."

"Dude," Sam says, but he's still smiling, and Dean raises his eyebrows like, who, me? Sam rolls his eyes—but then all the strangers have cleared away with all their purchases and Dean fishes out the bourbon bottle he hid up in the driver-side footwell and Sam sighs, but he's still goddamn smiling, like no other day Dean can remember in the past five hundred. He jerks his head and Sam follows him up around the hill over the back of the bunker, the narrow unused path up to the abandoned plant, and through the shouldered-open door to the huge empty cathedral-vault of the thing, and through the archway to the old control room, where there's still a used-to-be-blue couch and an electric lantern from when Dean would hide up here sometimes in rougher days, and where when Dean lights it Sam tugs him around by his hand and tilts his head up and kisses him, not like before in the linoleum-squeaky aisle but for real, like he means it, soft and full, his fingertips on the back of Dean's ear, his nose cold somehow even in the summer-spring air.

Dean breathes him, holds his bicep through the washed-soft flannel. His mouth, tasting clean. "Sammy," he says, when Sam pulls back to breathe, and Sam laughs somehow, happy-sounding. Happy, Sammy. Doesn't go together that often in Dean's experience and he doesn't even know how to countenance it. But who cares, he thinks, lifting up and biting Sam's lip. Finds himself smiling, for his own part, and hell. Who cares, if it's true.

He didn't think about glasses, but it's not the first time they've necked a bottle. They collapse onto the couch in huge poofing plumes of dust, their knees knocked together, Dean's ankle hooked over Sam's by happenstance and then by choice. "Good day?" Dean says, and Sam toasts him with the whiskey, eyes crinkling and familiar even in the blue-white blast of the lantern light.

"Had worse," he says, and sips, and hands Dean the bottle, and Dean can toast right back to that. They've had a hell of a lot worse. Any day where Sam was dead and came back to him, that's—that's a good one. Swallow goes down like fire and he takes the burn, the sting at the corner of his eyes. Sam takes it back from him, takes his hand too. Squeezes, his thumb dragging hard over the bump of Dean's palm, up to the knot of veins where his pulse feels shaky-wobbly as a kid trying out legs for the first time, and Sam’s smile goes from cocky to warm, just like that. "Name a better day."

"That time Lucinda Morris kissed you on a bet," Dean says, promptly, his heart not in it. Sam rolls his eyes. "Or, hey, how about that time with those identical twins, Callie and—uh, the other one, and they wanted—"

"Callie and Courtney," Sam says, "and I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about that."

"Could've been hot," Dean argues back, for what's probably the dozenth time, but it's not like it matters. Sam still hasn't let go of his hand, and they're not usually—it's been a while. Since it was easy, like this. He almost wants the other shoe to drop, just to get it over with, but oh man if he hasn't been owed an easy night. His heart feels full of helium, soaring up to make a lump in his throat. "Sammy, guess what." Sam's eyebrows raise, dutifully. "You took care of him."

Zero guesses, who Dean means. Sam gets it immediately and his mouth does something all kinds of complicated, his eyelids lowering. "Yeah," he says, like it's somehow sore, and Dean reaches over and grips a handful of buttons and flannel, hauls with all his strength, and Sam comes, pulled over the top of him, half-laughing in surprise, propped over Dean suddenly, his eyes right there for Dean to see. He shrugs, bites the corner of his mouth. Dissembling like it's nothing. Liar. "We don't know what happened. Jack's not talking, you notice that?"

Dean touches his throat, his neck, warm and whole, where he'd seen the lifeblood gouting out of him. "Don't care," he says, and it's true. Jack'll come around, and it doesn't—matter. Not like this does. "I hope Michael took his head off."

Sam huffs, eyes bright. His hair's haloed in blue-white. "I hope it hurt a lot more than that," he says, quiet like it's a secret, but he's smiling bright and wide again. Dean's brother, happy and a little vicious, and Dean's heart could about blow up. Sam's eyes go all over his face, his hand wide on Dean's cheek, his jaw, and Dean touches his chest, feels the swell of his breath. Watches Sam's tongue wet his lip. "That door lock?" Sam says.

Dean spreads his legs, and says, "No," grinning after, and Sam huffs again and dips and kisses him anyway, drags his mouth open, that helium spinning up and lighting through his whole head. He feels drunk, high. Sam's hot, and when he shifts over he's heavy, too, and Dean doesn't want him moving. Sam's thigh settles along his, his hand on Dean's head and his dick riding against Dean's hip, making itself known, and oh, man, it has been too long, been so many days far too long, long enough that Sam could be five feet away in their own kitchen and Dean'd be missing him, life fucking them over like it so often did and not leaving time for this. At least not time to do this right.

"Oh," Sam says, breathes. He drags his thumb over Dean's eyebrow for some reason, his other hand slipping under Dean's shirt to feel his belly. It sucks in without his say-so, tingly shock of sensation. Sam hooks an arm under his lower back, tips his weight in so Dean's dick pushes against his stomach. Dean makes a noise and Sam's mouth quirks, and Dean hits him in shoulder.

"Smug bitch," he says, and Sam says, "Oh, you haven't seen smug," like a promise, and then his brow furrows, even as he's hitching Dean up into his lap in a haul of easy muscle, a show like—like it's five years ago, longer, and Sam was in that body-building phase. Still strong, enough that Dean's seriously straining the limits of what his jeans should take. "Man. Wish we had something, I want—"

He shakes his head. His hands on Dean's ass, big, squeezing, his chin tilted up so Dean can lay kisses on his mouth, his cheekbone, holding his head still for it. Sweat's starting up at Sam's hairline, his body overheating predictable as always, and Dean smiles, presses his lips to the scratch of Sam's sideburn, smells him. "Who's your favorite brother," he says, and Sam digs fingers into his back and clutches like he always does when Dean reminds him of what they're doing—like it was ever in fucking question, like somehow he could ever forget—but then Dean plunges his hand into the super sketchy crack between couch-cushion and -back and comes up with—

"What the hell," Sam puffs out, when he looks at what Dean's pressing into his hand, and Dean shrugs, smiling down. Who's smug now. "Tell me you didn't get this from the hobo couch."

Dean smacks the back of his head. "Dumbass," he says, and Sam raises his eyebrows and smacks his ass in retaliation, light but enough to—ah, yeah. Dean shakes his head, tugs Sam's hair. "No, obviously, but uh, sometimes you need a little privacy, you know, and—look, it's not dried up, don't look a lube horse in the mouth, okay. Gratitude, Sammy."

Wrinkled nose and Sam says, "Please never say lube horse again," and yeah, that's—that's Dean's brother, and it's proved more when he's hauled around again, dumped onto his back, his head bouncing against the dusty cushion. He sneezes, spreads his legs wider, and Sam drags a hand along his thigh, hot through the denim, Dean's muscle flexing up into it without his brain being involved, his heart thudding low in the pit of his belly it feels like, his skin aching. "We don't have time," Sam says, like he's got any goddamn intention of doing a thing but what he's doing. "This is nuts."

"When are we not?" Dean says, inviting, and Sam laughs like he knew Dean was going to say that, and maybe he did, maybe after enough years they're just predictable like this, an old married couple working the same ruts and rhythms. Only—Dean doesn't think most old married couples get days like this, days of forty hours with no sleep and running on fourth winds, days of fighting and killing and saving lives, and definitely they don't get Sammy, whole and particularly, always, himself. That alone makes this something that's all theirs, and he's damn lucky, in this way if in no other, that he gets it. He bites his lip, Sam's eyes dark and watchful. "We can be quick."

Like he has to coax, with that look on Sam's face. He goes for Sam's belt first and tugs, and Sam starts unbuttoning his plaid, shucking it backwards over the edge of the couch by the time Dean's unbuttoned and -zipped, has Sam's dick full and heavy in his hand. God, he loves this thing. Feeling's mutual. Dry warm skin, the edge of pubes crinkling his fingertips when he gets a real pull in, and he tucks his fingers down, brushes Sam's balls where they're still tucked heavy into his boxer-briefs. His mouth waters. "How quick?" he says, answering his own question.

Sam snorts, touches Dean's mouth. Gets his thumb licked, sucked in, and groans for it. Yeah, Dean knows what Sam's after. "Quicker than that," Sam says, though, and dips down, replaces his thumb with his lips, opens up Dean's jeans and lets Dean take care of dragging off his boots—awkward, scraping against floor and wooden couch-edge until they strain over his heels—and then leans back and tucks his fingers in and drags boxers and jeans off all in one go, so Dean's left Donald Ducking it in the warm dusty air, his socks still on. His dick swings lazy against his thigh, his balls full and ready, wanting, and Sam cups them up, out of the way, drags his thumb into Dean's crack. "God," he says, like he didn't mean for Dean to hear, "I thought—"

—and he doesn't finish but Dean doesn't want to hear it, not right now. He knows that look on Sam's face, too, and his nuts and gut and heart all ache too hard to have to think that way. "Sam, get the lube," he says, easy demand, and Sam's eyes snap to his face, his thoughts redirected along safer lines. When Sam's thinking with his dick the easiest thing in the world is for Dean to say that he needs something and Sam—yeah, he shoves his jeans down, pulls his undershirt up out of the way, slicks his dick ready to give it to him. Shining, in the white light, the head heavy, dark with blood. Dean touches it, gets his fingers wet and watches Sam's face flinch—touches himself, between the legs, and smears slick all over, barely dipping inside. "Come on," he says, and doesn't have to playact to put the right need in it.

"Sure?" Sam says—liar, like he's gonna stop—pushing Dean's thighs open right there on the nasty couch, their mom somewhere under the dirt twenty yards below them, fuck, they haven't done this with her in the same state ever before—and it's a shove, the wet head bulling in, Dean holding the backs of his knees and tipping his head back so Sam can't see how it tears at him—but his body remembers this, it knows what it means when Sam's here, when they're together, and he breathes and feels that sticky-parting, the full open shove that means—that it's Sam—

"Oh, fuck," he says, when Sam's seated. Sam laughs again, the crazy bitch, he smears a slick hand over Dean's dick and grips the lapels of Dean's canvas shirt in both hands, tugs him down, bullies himself somehow deeper. Goddamn. "Jesus, Sam, you can't fuck my throat from that side."

His voice is all screwed up, anyway. He gives up on keeping himself open and reaches down, grips Sam's thighs through his jeans, arches his hips and feels the slick fat drag inside. When he tips his chin down Sam's hovering right over the top of him, mouth open but a smile threatening. "Can't hurt to try," he says, dark wild edge in him, and Dean laughs back, helpless, and holds on while Sam churns his hips, when he rears back and starts to fuck for real, when he knocks Dean off this axis and onto a so, so much better one.

Crazy, it's always just—crazy. Sam's body, his heat, the bigness of him that just bowled Dean over. How this made Sam into a new animal—only it didn't, really, Dean came to realize later—this Sam was just as much the normal Sam as the Sam who hunched over in libraries and got wet-eyed over widows and went prissy when Dean ordered a second burger. Dean loves them all, exactly the same. Well. Maybe sometimes he loves this one a little more. Especially like this, driving deep, curved and hitting every possible good spot, his hand on the back of Dean's neck and a grip on his thigh keeping him open, making it so all Dean has to do is hold on, arch into it, a punching up and in and through, god. He hooks one heel over the back of the couch, tries to breathe. Clutching together, Sam's sweat in his mouth, his taste at the back of Dean's tongue, his breath coming fast and quick and proof, the whole time, proof. Dean tugs him down, kisses him, his hands in Sam's hair, and his dick drags against the scratchy-soft of Sam's undershirt, Sam's jeans pressing into his ass, a sparky hot throb inside that pushes all of those considerations away—that makes it just him and Sam, and really, just him and Sam is all it ever was, and all it ever will be, and oh—fuck, does it feel good, when that's so.

He comes first. Anymore that's always how it goes. Stupid Sam. He jerks, groans, heels digging into Sam's ass, holding him inside. Sam sighs against his jaw, flexing in him. Dean strains rippling for a long held moment, drawing it out, before he relaxes, tugs, and Sam moans into his throat and hammers home. A floaty unhinged ache spreads all through Dean's body, his thighs and hips, his asshole, his throat, his fingertips for some reason, and by the time Sam unloads in him—half-shout, bitten into Dean's shirt—he realizes it's because he's holding Sam's waist so hard that Sam'll probably have ten perfect bruises, fingerprints where Dean lost his damn mind. He lets go, feels the circulation start up in his hands, while Sam jerks in him, his dick and nuts trying to do more than they can. Always makes Dean flush up, tender, stupid. He touches the back of Sam's head, traces a line down the sweat trail along his spine. Hugs his hips, between his thighs, and feels Sam's shudder, inside and out. God, he's missed this and he misses it again, already.

Sam barely rolls off of him. The couch isn't that big and Dean's not letting him go anywhere. Any other day, he'd bitch about being a pillow—and he'll bitch later, probably—but. This is Sammy. What a goddamn miracle. No matter how it came about.

"I think Mom's got a thing for Bobby," Sam says, out of nowhere.

The distant ceiling is a shadowy mystery, not giving up anything to how Dean's eyes have slammed open in horror. "Why," he says, "the fuck," he continues, while Sam starts to shake on top of him, "would you bring that up now?"

Sam's just laughing, not making any sound, his grin pressed against Dean's sweaty chest.

Dean squirms, puts an unfeigned amount of disgust in his voice. "You are the actual worst."

"I know," Sam says, eventually, breathless, and lifts up on his elbow. "Is it better if he's not really Bobby, if he's like—whatever, stranger-Bobby?"

Dean stares at him. "No!" Sam collapses down, laughing out loud this time, and Dean gives up, shoves, and Sam rolls off to land on the dirty floor with a massive thud. He says ow, but not like it hurt, and laughs some more, quieter, his arm thrown over his face. He really sounds drunk, happy drunk, when they never even made it through half the bottle. Dean rolls his eyes, slides his sticky thighs together, tips onto his side. He flicks the back of Sam's arm, and Sam drops it, shows himself all wrinkled-up eyes and dimples. "Sammy, you seriously got, like, twenty-five screws loose. Twenty-six."