Reno ♡

Sammy, happy birthday! Thank you for teaching us that even in pitch darkness, you can still be a person with a huge heart.

«The best girl»

This happened at night, after another hunt. Dean came back angry, exhausted, but with something new in his black eyes — a resolve that Sam couldn’t read. He didn’t, as usual, immediately grab his wife, throw her onto the bed, and take her roughly with a growl, sating an animal need. Instead, he silently walked over to Sam, who was kneeling by the door, and ran his fingers along his cheek almost gently.

“Get up,” he ordered quietly. “Go to the bedroom. Lie on your back.”

Sam obeyed, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. Something was wrong. Dean had never asked him to lie on his back — usually, he took Sam from behind, like a dog, like a wife he didn’t need to look in the eyes. But tonight, Dean walked into the bedroom holding a small ritual knife, and Sam froze, staring at the blade.

“Dean?” His voice wavered.

“Quiet. Trust me.”

Dean knelt beside the bed, took Sam’s hand, and slashed the knife across his wrist — not deep, but enough to make blood gush out in a stream. Sam cried out in surprise, but Dean was already cutting his own wrist, pressing his wound to Sam’s, mixing their blood.

“Drink,” Dean ordered, bringing his wrist to Sam’s lips. “Drink my blood, Sammy. All of it. It will make you immortal. Nothing and no one will ever take you from me again.”

Sam looked into Dean’s black eyes and drank. The blood was hot, salty, with a metallic tang, but he drank obediently, pulling it in with his lips, swallowing, feeling it spread through his veins like fire. Dean watched him with the satisfaction of a predator who had finally marked his territory forever.

When Sam had drunk enough, Dean pulled back and licked the wounds on both their wrists — with his tongue, rough as a cat’s. Sam felt the skin pull together, heal, leaving no scar. And then something strange began.

He felt his body go numb, his bones start to itch, his skin burn. He wanted to scream, but Dean clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Bear it,” he whispered. “It’ll pass soon. You’re just changing. Become what I want you to be.”

Sam closed his eyes, feeling time reverse. The scars that hadn’t been there before disappeared. The wrinkles around his eyes faded. The exhaustion built up over years of hunting vanished. When he opened his eyes again and looked at the mirror on the opposite wall, he didn’t recognize himself.

Twenty-two. Twenty-two again. Smooth skin, soft features, youthful thinness — from that autumn of 2005 when Dean came for him at Stanford, shattered his orderly life, and dragged him back to hunting.

“There,” Dean whispered, staring at him with burning eyes. “That’s how I want you. The way you were when I knew I would never let you go.”

Sam raised his hands, examining them — free of scars, calluses, the marks left by years of gripping weapons. He felt light, almost weightless. And strangely… free.

“I’m… I’m young again,” he breathed.

“And immortal,” Dean added, looming over him. “Now you won’t age. Won’t die. You’ll be my eternal wife, Sammy. And you’ll look exactly how I want you to.”

He ran his fingers along Sam’s cheek — that young, smooth cheek — and his eyes darkened even more.

“You know what I want to do with this new body?”

Sam swallowed, feeling arousal rise somewhere in his belly, mixing with the remnants of Dean’s blood in his veins.

“What, Dean?”

“I want to fuck you like the first time. Again. Make you my wife all over again. Slowly, so you remember this moment forever.”

He pulled off Sam’s underwear — the same lace ones that looked even more obscene on his new body — and spread his thighs, staring at the hole that looked younger, tighter, not so worn out.

“Perfect,” Dean whispered. “You’re a virgin again, Sammy. At least you look like one. And I want to be the first. Again.”

He leaned down and licked the hole — once, slowly, savoring it. Sam arched up, feeling Dean’s tongue glide over the folds, preparing, teasing.

“Dean…” he whispered.

“Shut up. Don’t say anything tonight. Just feel.”

Dean entered slowly — with a finger, testing how tight it was. Sam moaned, feeling the walls clench around the intrusion. Dean smirked, added a second finger, stretching, preparing.

“You’re like new,” he murmured, moving his fingers. “You’re clenching so hard, like you forgot how to take my cock. Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.”

He pulled his fingers out, poured lube directly onto the hole, running his cock over it, teasing. Sam looked up at Dean — with his young, green eyes — and felt his heart burst with love and desire.

“Go inside,” he asked quietly. “Please, Dean. Make me yours. Again.”

Dean entered in one thrust — slowly, but deeply, filling Sam completely. Sam cried out, feeling Dean’s cock spread him from the inside, the hole throbbing as it accepted, adjusted.

“Mine,” Dean growled, beginning to move. “My little, young, immortal wife. I’m going to fuck you for eternity, Sammy. Every night. Every day. Until you forget you ever looked any different.”

He sped up, slamming into Sam roughly, almost cruelly, but Sam took it joyfully. His young body responded to every movement, his new skin burned at Dean’s touch, his hole clenched and opened in rhythm with the thrusts.

They came at the same time — Sam from the feel of Dean’s cock pressing against his prostate, and Dean spilling deep inside, marking his wife’s renewed body.

When it was over, Dean collapsed onto Sam, breathing heavily, and kissed his neck — gently, almost reverently.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to make you like this,” he whispered. “Young. Beautiful. Mine forever.”

Sam hugged him, feeling the semen leak from his hole, sticky and hot, mixing with the lube.

“I’m yours,” he said simply. “I was, I am, and I always will be.”

Dean smirked and buried his nose in Sam’s hair.

“I know. And now no one can ever change that. Not time, not bullets, not death. Only me.”

«The best girl»

There were nights when Dean came back too exhausted even to just lie down. Not that he didn’t want Sam — he wanted him always, every second, every moment. But sometimes something darker, lazier burned in his black eyes. Not a desire to take, to fuck, to make Sam scream from being overwhelmed, but simply… to use him. Like an object. Like a toy needed not for deep penetration, but for something more primitive, almost animal.

On such evenings, Dean didn’t even undress Sam completely. He walked into the bedroom, saw his wife already lying on his stomach, waiting — because Sam always waited, always was ready — and just lay down on top of him. Heavy, hot, smelling of blood and sulfur.

“Don’t move,” he ordered hoarsely. “Just lie still. Let me do what I want.”

Sam froze, feeling Dean’s cock slide between his asscheeks, not trying to enter. The head pressed against his hole, pushed, teased, but didn’t penetrate — just rubbed against the wet entrance, smearing pre-cum over his skin. Dean moved his hips slowly, almost lazily, letting his cock glide along Sam’s perineum, brushing his own cock, his balls, and then returning to the hole.

“You feel that?” Dean whispered into the back of Sam’s head, his voice vibrating, sending shivers down his spine. “I’m not even inside you, and you’re already wet. Your little hole is squeezing around nothing. It needs my cock, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sam exhaled, burying his face in the pillow. “Please, Dean, just go inside…”

“No.”

Dean sped up just a little, rubbing his cock against Sam’s hole and feeling it pulse under the head. He could have entered — easily, in one thrust, filled Sam to the hilt, made him scream. But not tonight. Tonight he loved this friction, this closeness without penetration, this feeling that he could take Sam any moment, but chose not to.

“I want to come on you,” Dean said, and his voice held almost reverence. “I want to coat your little hole with my cum. I want to watch it run down your asscheeks without even going inside.”

Sam moaned — from frustration, from arousal, from how those words made his own cock throb. Dean kept rubbing, sometimes pressing harder, almost entering, but pulling away at the last second. The head of his cock slid across Sam’s sphincter, parting it for a second, but no more.

“Dean, please…” Sam whispered, feeling tears welling up from the tension.

“Quiet, wife. You’ll get it when I decide.”

Dean bit Sam’s earlobe and thrust his hips at the same time, rubbing his cock against Sam’s hole again and again. The rhythm grew faster, Dean’s breath heavier. He came suddenly, with a low growl, and Sam felt hot streams hit his hole, coat it, drip down his asscheeks onto the sheets.

Dean froze for a few seconds, breathing hard, then pulled back to look at the result. Cum spread in white streaks over Sam’s red, irritated hole, mixing with slick and moisture. Dean ran a finger through the mess, gathering the cum, and pushed the finger into Sam’s mouth.

“Taste it,” he ordered. “It’s yours. All yours.”

Sam obediently licked the finger, tasting the saltiness. Dean smiled in satisfaction and lay down beside him, pulling his wife close.

“Next time, I’ll go inside,” he promised as he fell asleep. “But tonight, I just needed to feel you. Your hole under my cock. Your warmth.”

Sam pressed against him, feeling Dean’s cum dry on his skin, sticky and hot. His own erection remained unsatisfied — Dean hadn’t touched it, hadn’t even looked at it. But Sam didn’t complain.

«The best girl»

The rare mornings when Dean woke up not with a hungry, animalistic urge to simply take what was his, but with something softer — almost tender — were the sweetest of surprises for Sam. Usually, his husband would wake him with a rough shove, mounting him while he was still half-asleep, taking advantage of the fact that Sam always slept naked and ready. But sometimes — maybe after a particularly bloody hunt, maybe simply because his mood had shifted into a strange, unfamiliar gentleness — Dean would wake up first and wake Sam in a completely different way.

Sam could feel it through his sleep — a warm, wet touch between his legs. At first, he thought he was dreaming something obscene, something too good to be true. But the tongue slid deeper, and Sam arched his back, letting out a soft moan as he fully woke.

"D-Dean?" His voice was hoarse with sleep, unsteady.

Dean didn't answer — he was busy. He lay between Sam's spread thighs, Sam's legs draped over his shoulders, and slowly, unhurriedly, he was licking his hole. Not the way he sometimes did before the main act — quick, rough, just to wet it with saliva. This time, he was doing it as if he had all day ahead of him and nowhere to be.

Dean's tongue was hot, wet, skillful. It glided over the folds, circled them, sucked them between his lips before letting go. Sometimes he pushed inside — shallowly, teasingly — and Sam could feel the walls of his hole clenching around the intrusion, begging for more.

"Shh," Dean murmured, not pausing in what he was doing. His voice vibrated, sending waves of pleasure up Sam's spine. "Just lie still. Let me make you feel good."

Sam bit his lip to keep from crying out. It was almost too much — waking up to his husband licking him from behind with such care, such patience. Sam's fingers clutched the sheets, his legs trembling on Dean's shoulders. He felt small, defenseless, completely surrendered to the power of Dean's tongue.

And Dean, it seemed, was savoring every moment. He licked Sam's hole as if it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted in his demonic life. Broad strokes of his tongue — bottom to top, from perineum to tailbone — then pinpoint precision with the tip, pressing against the most sensitive spot at the entrance. Lube and saliva mixed, dripping down Sam's ass cheeks onto the sheets, the wet, obscene sound filling the silent bedroom.

"Dean, I'm… I'm close," Sam gasped, feeling the tension in his lower abdomen reach its peak.

Dean pulled back for a second, licking his lips, shiny with saliva.

"No. Not yet. I want you to come when I tell you."

And he returned to it, but differently this time. He started sucking. His lips sealed around Sam's hole, drawing it in, creating a vacuum, while his tongue kept moving inside, teasing, pressing. Sam cried out — from the surprise, from how intense it felt. Sucking his hole was something forbidden, something he usually did for Dean, not the other way around.

"You like that?" Dean's voice was muffled, but there was a smirk in it. "You like it when your husband eats your little ass for breakfast?"

"Yes," Sam moaned, arching his back. "Yes, Dean, please…"

Dean chuckled and pulled the hole back into his mouth, sucking, stroking it with his tongue. One of his hands slid up, gripping Sam's ass cheek, fingers digging into the skin, holding him in place. With the other hand, he reached for Sam's cock but didn't squeeze — just traced his finger around the head, not touching the most sensitive spot.

"I want you to come from me licking you," Dean whispered, pulling away for a moment. "Just from my tongue. No hands. Can you do that?"

Sam nodded, unable to speak. Dean returned to his task with doubled effort — his tongue pushing deeper, his lips sucking harder, the rhythm faster, more insistent. Sam felt his entire body turn into one single point of pleasure, centered right where Dean's tongue touched his hole. He came with a hoarse cry, without touching himself, spilling come across his own stomach and chest, shuddering all over to the rhythmic movements of Dean's tongue.

Dean didn't stop — he kept licking through the orgasm, prolonging it, making Sam twitch with every touch. Only when Sam went limp, reduced to a wet, trembling mess, did Dean pull back and prop himself up on his elbows, looking down at him.

"Good morning, wife," he said, his lips glistening with Sam's moisture.

Sam looked up at him with hazy eyes, still breathing heavily. Dean leaned down and kissed him — deep and wet, letting Sam taste himself on his lips.

"You're making me breakfast today," Dean said, pulling back. "And while you do that, I'll think about what else I can do to please my little wife before I leave."

He got out of bed, completely naked and hard, but not demanding immediate release. Today, he wanted to play differently. Sam, still trembling from his orgasm, watched Dean head for the bathroom, and smiled.

«The best girl»

Sometimes, when Dean came back from a hunt not so hungry, not so desperate for rough, immediate sex, he liked to draw out the pleasure. He liked to watch Sam melt under his fingers, to watch him turn into a trembling, whimpering thing that had forgotten its own pride.

On those evenings, Dean wouldn't even unzip his jeans. He'd just come into the house, find Sam — usually in the kitchen by the stove, wearing one of those stupid lace aprons Dean had made him wear — and silently come up behind him. His hands would settle on Sam's waist, his lips on his neck, a light bite — and Sam would already freeze, feeling his knees go weak.

"Go to the bedroom," Dean would order in a low voice. "On all fours. Wait."

Sam never argued. He'd turn off the stove, move the pot to a cool burner, and walk off, feeling Dean's gaze on his back. In the bedroom, he'd kneel on the bed, resting on his elbows, presenting himself — the pose of total availability, the pose Dean loved most.

Dean would come in slowly, taking his time. He'd sit on the edge of the bed next to him, run his palm over Sam's ass, up his back, tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Only fingers tonight, Sammy. I want to watch you lose your mind without my cock."

Sam would flinch at those words, but he wouldn't object. He had learned to accept everything Dean gave him: the roughness, the tenderness, and this agonizing, sweet torture.

Dean poured lube onto his fingers — a lot, generously, just to hear the wet, obscene sounds. His palm rested against Sam's hole, just lying there, warming it, and Sam froze, feeling himself clench in anticipation.

"Relax," Dean commanded, and his thumb began making slow, lazy circles over Sam's sphincter. "I'm in no hurry. We can do this all night."

He didn't penetrate. Just stroked — with his thumb, then his index finger, gently pressing on the edges, stretching, but not entering. Sam moaned, his hips jerking back involuntarily, trying to impale himself on the fingers, but Dean moved his hand away.

"No. Don't rush. My toy doesn't give the orders."

Sam exhaled, biting his lip to keep from begging. Dean returned to the caresses — now with two fingers, tracing the folds, squeezing them, pulling them before letting go. Every movement was calculated, teasing. Sam could feel the lube mixing with his own slickness, feel his hole pulsing, opening, demanding more.

"Please," he whispered, unable to take it anymore.

Dean chuckled, and the sound made Sam clench even tighter.

"Please what? Say it clearly."

"Fingers. Inside. Please."

"Good girl."

Dean pushed in — one finger, slowly, to the second knuckle. Sam arched his back, gasping for air. The feeling was deceptively insufficient — not a cock, not a stretch, just a thin, sharp presence inside. Dean moved his finger unhurriedly, almost lazily, occasionally curling it, pressing against Sam's prostate, making his whole body jolt.

"You feel that? Just one finger, and you're already sweating. What a sensitive wife I got."

He added a second — slowly, carefully, stretching the ring of muscle. Sam moaned louder, burying his face in the sheets. Two fingers inside moved in different rhythms: one sliding deep, the other teasing the entrance, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. The lube squelched with every movement, mixing with Sam's natural slickness, and the sound seemed deafening in the silence of the bedroom.

"Look at yourself," Dean whispered, leaning closer. "Soaked through. Melting over my fingers like butter. And I haven't even pulled out my cock."

Sam couldn't answer — his voice stuck in his throat, turning into a whine. He could feel every movement Dean made, every inch of his fingers inside him. His hole would clench, trying to hold them as they pulled out, and then open again, letting them back in. It was agonizing — close to orgasm, but not enough. So close it made his head spin, but Dean wouldn't let him tip over the edge.

"You want to come?" Dean asked, his voice almost casual, as if he were asking about the weather.

"Yes," Sam exhaled, feeling tears prick his eyes from the strain. "Please, Dean. Let me."

"No."

Dean pulled his fingers out, and Sam cried out — from the emptiness, the loss, the way his hole clenched around nothing. Dean slapped his ass, not hard, more to get his attention.

"Quiet. I'm not done."

He ran his fingers along Sam's perineum again, gathering lube and slick, and began to stroke — just stroking with his palm, the whole surface, pressing against Sam's hole but not penetrating. Circular motions, soft, insistent. Sam froze, not understanding what was happening, and then it hit him — Dean's fingers weren't entering, but the friction was so intense, so hot, that every nerve inside was screaming.

"You see?" Dean whispered, increasing the pressure. "I can make you come even like this. No penetration. Just stroking that little, hungry hole of yours."

Sam tried to answer, but instead he cried out — the orgasm crashed over him suddenly, without warning, wringing his entire body in a spasm. He came all over the sheets without even touching himself — came from the way Dean's fingers massaged him from the outside, pressing against his pulsing entrance.

Dean kept stroking him through the orgasm until Sam went limp, a trembling, soaked mess. Then he pulled his hand away and lay down beside him, pulling Sam against him.

"Good wife," he murmured into the back of Sam's head. "Even when I'm not fucking you, you still come like a whore."

Sam sniffled, pressing closer. He knew Dean hadn't come yet tonight, that in the morning or in an hour he'd wake him up with a rough thrust of his cock. But right now, in this moment, he just lay in his husband's arms, feeling his hole pulse in time with his heart.

«The best girl»

The door burst open from a rough shove, and the smell of blood, steel, and something else—something primal, wild that stole Sam’s breath—flooded the hallway. Dean. His demon. His husband. He didn’t lift his head, frozen on his knees by the threshold, hands behind his back, head bowed—the posture of an obedient wife he’d perfected over the past few months.

Dean’s boots thudded heavily on the floorboards as he approached. Sam felt each step as a vibration in his knees, his spine, in that place between his legs that had already begun to ache in anticipation. Dean’s fingers gripped his hair, yanking his head back sharply. Black eyes glinted in the dim light, something hungry and inhuman swimming in them.

“Been waiting for me, Sammy?”

His voice was low, rough—after a hunt, Dean always became coarser, more impatient. Sam nodded, licking his dry lips. His own erection was already pulsing inside his tight underwear—the very same lace ones Dean had picked out for him last week.

“Always,” Sam breathed, and there was so much submission in that word that Dean smirked with satisfaction.

He didn’t wait. Unzipped his fly with one hand while keeping his grip on Sam’s hair with the other. His cock slipped out—hard, hot, with a glistening drop of pre-cum on the head. Sam reached for it, opening his mouth, but Dean didn’t allow it—stopped an inch from his lips, teasing.

“First, say it. Say how bad you want my cock in your dirty little mouth.”

Sam moaned, feeling saliva pool under his tongue. His hole clenched in anticipation, releasing another drop of slick.

“I want it. I want it so bad, Dean. Please, let me suck you. Let me swallow your cum like a good wife.”

That was enough. Dean thrust in, filling Sam’s mouth to the throat in one motion. Sam didn’t gag—he’d learned. He relaxed his muscles, letting the cock go deeper, working his tongue along the vein underneath. His lips sealed tight around the base, and he began moving his head—slowly, rhythmically, sucking.

“Fuck, Sammy…” Dean tipped his head back, his fingers tightening in Sam’s hair. “Your mouth… better than any cunt.”

Sam moaned in response, sending vibrations along the shaft. He loved it when Dean said things like that. Loved feeling the cock pulse on his tongue, the muscles of Dean’s stomach tensing with every movement he made. He sped up, swallowing deeper, his nose brushing Dean’s pubic bone, and Dean cursed through his teeth.

“Enough. I want to come in your ass.”

Dean pulled his cock out of Sam’s mouth with a wet sound, yanked him up by the hair, spun him around, and shoved him onto all fours. His palm smacked hard against Sam’s ass, making him cry out.

“Pull down the underwear. I want to see how wet you are.”

Sam obeyed, shoving the lace down below his knees. His skin gleamed in the dim light—slick and his own moisture running down the inside of his thighs. Dean ran his fingers over Sam’s hole, collecting the fluid, then shoved them into Sam’s mouth.

“Taste yourself. How sweet you are, wife.”

Sam obediently licked the fingers, tasting the salty tang. Dean grunted with satisfaction, pulled his hand away, and pressed the head of his cock against the pulsing entrance.

“Look at me, Sammy. I want to see your eyes when I take what’s mine.”

Sam turned his head, meeting the black, bottomless gaze. Dean pushed in—slowly, deliberately, entering inch by inch. The walls clenched, trying to adjust, but Sam relaxed, letting him in. Pain mixed with pleasure, turning into heat low in his belly.

“All the way. Every inch,” Dean exhaled as his hips pressed against Sam’s ass. “So tight. Perfect. Mine.”

He began to move—smoothly at first, rocking, driving deep. Sam moaned with every thrust, feeling Dean’s cock scrape against something inside, making his legs tremble. Dean spanked his ass in rhythm, leaving red prints, gripping his thighs hard enough to bruise.

“Say whose you are. Say it,” Dean growled, speeding up.

“Yours,” Sam breathed, clenching around the cock. “Your wife. Your hole. All yours.”

Dean snarled, thrusting harder, almost brutally. His fingers dug into Sam’s hips, holding him in place. The orgasm hit suddenly—Sam came untouched, just from the pounding, spilling onto the floor beneath him. Dean followed a second later, pressing in to the hilt, flooding deep inside with a hot gush.

He froze, breathing hard, then slowly pulled out, watching the cum drip from the red, swollen hole. Sam collapsed to the floor, exhausted but happy.

Dean crouched beside him, running his fingers over his damp cheek.

“Good wife,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “The best.”

Someone made a beautiful smack with lipstick on the lips 💄❤️

He-he

It wasn’t just a habit honed by years of hunting, the need to keep his brother in his line of sight to watch his back. No. This was something instinctual, deeply animal. Sam could be sitting across from him in a cluttered diner, studying old newspaper clippings, and Dean — even with his eyes glued to the menu — would still see him. The way he’d furrow his brow when he hit a dead end. The way his fingertip would idly trace circles on the sticky, syrup-coated tabletop. The way a strand of hair, loose from behind his ear, would fall across his cheek.

Dean noticed every single move. Too many. More than a brother should. More than a partner should.

At first, Sam didn’t notice it. He’d grown up with the weight of Dean’s protective gaze, used to him keeping watch so their father wouldn’t say something out of line, or so Sam wouldn’t stick his nose where it didn’t belong. But then Dean’s stare changed. The older-brother vigilance faded, replaced by something thick and slow, something that lodged under Sam’s skin and made him feel like a spotlight cutting through total darkness.

Sam first caught that look in a motel room, when he stepped out of the shower, towel drying his hair. Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, pinching a beer bottle label between his fingers, but he wasn’t looking at Sam’s face. He was watching a drop of water slide from his collarbone down his chest. Dean stared like he wanted to memorize the path by heart.

From that moment on, Sam started hiding.

As soon as he felt that gaze on him — heavy, charged, locked in on him and him alone — he’d flush. Not the righteous, indignant red he’d get when their dad was pissed at him for disobeying. No. This was a treacherous, feverish heat that crept up from his neck to his cheekbones, leaving his skin burning.

Sam would duck his head lower, pretending to be absorbed in a book, letting his hair fall like a curtain over his face. He’d whip around toward the window, suddenly fascinated by the blank parking lot. He’d find any excuse — tying his shoe, adjusting his belt, taking too big a gulp of lukewarm coffee — just to hide what was happening to his face.

But Dean saw that too. Dean saw everything.

It became crystal clear one evening in Bangor. Sam was standing in front of the mirror, trying to fix his shirt collar after a tussle with a werewolf. Dean came up behind him, too close. Sam froze, looking at their reflections. Dean wasn’t looking at the torn fabric. He was looking in the mirror, straight into Sam’s eyes, and then his gaze dropped to his jawline, where the traitorous blush was already spreading.

“You know,” Dean said, his voice low and gravelly, like after a cigarette, “when you do that… it just makes me wanna stare harder.”

Sam swallowed. He tried to step aside, to break free from the reflection trap, but Dean planted his palm on the mirror beside his head, boxing him in.

“Dean…” Sam breathed out, and there was no denial in that exhale. Just a plea for mercy he didn’t dare give himself permission to ask for.

Dean leaned in closer. The tips of his fingers brushed the heated skin behind Sam’s ear, pushing the strand of hair back. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the blush drain from his face and flood somewhere deeper, into the very core of his chest, making his heart slam against his ribs.

"Hey." Dean's voice was low, without the usual raspy edge of sarcasm. He took a step, and the old floorboards creaked, like they were warning Sam.

Sam looked up. In his eyes was that same vulnerability he'd spent years at Stanford carefully masking, trying to prove to himself that he was different, that he didn't need anyone. Dean knew that look. He always knew when Sam needed someone's steady hand to keep him grounded.

"Dean, don't," Sam breathed, but even he didn't believe his own words. There was no refusal in his voice, just a plea to delay the inevitable.

Dean crouched down in front of him, ending up slightly lower, but still looking up at him with a commanding certainty that made Sam's breath catch. Dean's large hands landed on Sam's knees, heavy and hot even through the denim.

"Look at me," Dean ordered. He didn't ask. He ordered. Like back when he taught Sam how to hold a shotgun so the recoil wouldn't break his collarbone. Like when he'd pressed down on a gash in his brother's shoulder, whispering, "Hang on, Sammy, I'm right here."

Sam obeyed. He always obeyed when Dean stopped being his older brother and became something more—his center of gravity.

Dean straightened up slowly, his hands sliding up Sam's thighs, up along his ribs, until they stopped on his cheeks. The movements were unhurried, almost surgical. He held Sam's face in his palms like it was the most fragile and simultaneously the most precious thing he had in this cursed life.

"The first time," Dean said quietly, and something ancient and possessive flickered in his eyes. "I want you to remember this. So no one else..."

He didn't finish. Sam jerked forward, wanting to close the distance, wanting to press his lips to Dean's with all the wild, unspent tenderness he'd been hoarding for years, but Dean didn't allow it. His fingers tightened slightly, stopping him.

"No. Not like that."

Dean leaned in himself. He always set the pace. He was the first teacher, the first protector, the one who held Sam's hand in the dark. And now, he wanted to be the first in this.

Their breath mingled. Sam could smell Dean's skin, gasoline, and gunpowder, ingrained in his pores for good. Dean's lips didn't meet his right away—first, they brushed along his cheekbone, paused at the mole above his lip, teasingly slow.

"Dean..." Sam breathed, and the name came out like a prayer.

When their lips finally met, the world outside the motel ceased to exist. The kiss wasn't clumsy. Dean couldn't afford clumsy. He led, deepening the contact, biting Sam's lower lip just hard enough to make him gasp and open his mouth, letting him in. Dean's tongue slid inside, commanding, exploring, making Sam tip his head back and press forward, his trembling fingers clutching the collar of Dean's jacket.

This wasn't just a kiss. It was the payoff for all the "almosts," for every glance in the rearview mirror, for the nights they'd huddled together in the Impala to escape the cold, pretending it was just practical.

Dean pulled back first. His forehead rested against Sam's, his breathing uneven, but his eyes held a satisfied, predatory pride.

"Now you know," Dean whispered, running his thumb over Sam's swollen, wet lower lip, the one he'd just been kissing. "I'm always first, little brother."

Sam was trembling. He stared at Dean with wide eyes, and the fear was gone from them. In its place was that blind, all-consuming trust that Dean had nurtured in him since he was a kid.