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Dean could just throw the holy-fired glasses in the trunk with the rest of their gear, but recalling the fate of a magnifying glass, uh, “borrowed” from Bobby’s a few years back, instead tucks them in his jacket pocket and promptly forgets about them for the first three hundred miles back to the bunker. He remembers them only when he reaches for his phone so he can check in with Kevin when they stop for the night. He’d rather keep going until they’re back in Kansas (what if his mattress forgets him?), but they left the ranch in the middle of the night and while they need to get out of range of the bodies, he still spent most of the day shoveling shit, so they pull off at a motel after a few hours. Sam scowls when he catches him dialing, insisting that “the kid needs sleep, Dean, he’s running himself into the ground, come on. ” Dean settles on a text if only because Sam’s still looking a little pale himself and maybe they don’t need to go rushing on to the next trial just yet.
He pulls one of the pair out of his pocket, turning it around in his hands. He double-checks that Sam’s still in the bathroom (the baby got some hellhound juice in his hair; he’ll take a few extra minutes primping for sure) and slips them on his face. He sneaks a look at himself in the mirror about the dresser--very Clark Kent--and grins.
“You’re a genius,” Sam had said and Dean rolls his eyes. No matter what Sam says, he’ll always pick the sword over the pen. Although...
He picks the motel channel guide up from next to the TV and squints. He seriously doubts they get every station listed, but it’s the words themselves that interest him. They’re... sharper. “Huh,” he muses, bringing the laminated list closer. He hasn’t gotten his eyes checked since grade school, but he’s always prided himself on his 20/20 vision. He knew it was a possibility that might change as he got older (older, ain’t that a trip?), but it’d been so far so good up until now. He won’t need a pair of Ben Franklin bifocals any time soon, but as he lifts the lenses he can’t deny the little HBO logo gets clearer when the glasses drop back into place.
Okay, he’s no bookworm, and Sam’s never going to trick him into helping catalog Matilda’s wet dream back at the bunker, but maybe he’ll slip ‘em on the next time he pursues an issue of Busty Asian Beauties (yeah, he reads the articles; the model profiles are interesting, so sue him).
Dean spends a few minutes (okay, maybe more than a few) entertaining himself by picking up and putting down every readable object in the motel room. He’s in the middle of thumbing through Sam’s copy of The Stranger Beside Me (jeez, Sam, grim much?) when he’s blasted by a wave of steam. It’s too late to pretend that he’s doing anything other than what he’s doing (not like he’s doing anything wrong anyhow), but he’s still a little embarrassed to be caught hunched on the end of the bed and deeply engrossed in the story of Ted Bundy. Dean’s not sure what’s worse--the idea Sam might think he now shares his deeply weird obsession with serial killers (hard no) or that Sam’ll figure out he’s childishly fascinated with the absence of the soft fuzz around words he’s so used to. But instead of going down either of these roads, Sam just stares.
Eyes fixed squarely on Dean’s face, Sam’s grip on the towel around his waist slackens. Not enough for Dean to enjoy it, unfortunately, but enough to betray the depth of Sam’s fascination. Dean shifts from embarrassed to annoyed as Sam’s gawking drags on. Before he can tell his brother off for it though, Sam straightens, righting the towel, and crouches to rummage through his duffel for clothes. “TV broken?” he asks as if he hadn’t gone totally brain-dead a minute ago. Sam’s attention diverted, Dean whips the glasses off his face and shoves him back in his pocket.
“Probably?” Dean assumes, tossing the book on Sam’s bed. “I do read you know.”
“I know.” Sam not-so-subtly sneaks another glance at Dean. Whatever he sees has his shoulders slumping and he resumes clothes hunting. “I think I’m going to dump that shirt. I don’t think Tide was made to take on hellhound bloodstains.”
What the hell? Dean wonders as Sam yanks a t-shirt over his head and pulls on boxers (under his towel, the prude). Something happened there, something... weird. Not work-weird or worrying-weird, but definitely weird nonetheless. Dean wants to poke and prod it, but Sam still looks tired and he can still smell hay and horse patties on himself, so he lets it drop. For now.
*~*
It clicks when they’re an hour or two out from Lebanon and Sam asks what happened to the hound-detecting specs when they stop to pump gas. His question is casual--so casual that it swings back around to become suspicious. “Why, you going undercover?” is Dean’s reply and Sam just shoots him a half-hearted shrug.
“They’re useful, that’s all,” Sam says, still poorly playing up his disinterest. “We should keep them handy. Wonder if they can see anything else, like daevas.”
“Not sure I wanna know what those suckers look like. The hellhounds were ugly enough.” Sam snorts in agreement as Dean shoves the gas pump back in its cradle. Then, he takes a chance. “You drive,” he orders, lobbing Sam the keys. “Leg cramp,” he lies before Sam can wonder, though his brother’s bewilderment is obvious. But Sam slides into the driver’s seat without protest and Dean takes over the passenger side, making sure to exaggerate stretching out his legs as he does so.
He waits until they’re on the road again to pull the frames out of his pocket. He only hesitates a moment before hooking them over his ears--he’s got more of an outline of a plan than an actual one--and takes out his phone to text Kevin. The kid’s last reply had been a jumbled mess and Dean should probably make sure he hadn’t OD’d on caffeine pills or had a stroke or something.
It takes a few minutes for Sam to notice. When he does, his head turns towards Dean, away, and then snaps back again in a genuine cartoon spit-take. Dean had wondered, briefly, if Sam had actually been that blown away by his accidental brush with psycho true crime, but nope. Something about having a pair of cheap plastic eyeglasses warranted giving Dean the zoo animal treatment. But now what? Ridicule or taunting--those are expected, acceptable, brotherly actions he’d know what to do with. Retaliation would then swiftly follow, but Sam hasn’t done anything to warrant it. He’s just... ogling.
“Eyes front,” Dean says, eyes fixed on the tiny screen (tiny, sharp, readable; yeah, the novelty hasn’t worn off yet) and thumbs still tapping. It’d be funny how fast Sam whips his attention back on the road, if the Impala didn’t mirror him when he did it. Whatever the hell is going on, it’s definitely not worth hurting his baby.
“Finally admitting you’re getting old?” Sam asks lightly. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean spies Sam’s grip on the wheel tightening, his face turning blotchy and pink--
Oh. Oh. Dean bites back his grin before it gives him away. Sam’s always been more of a duck-and-cover-er than a blusher when flustered (always looked like a tragic teenage eczema outbreak disaster when he goes pink), but with nowhere to run biology’s taking over. His brother’s embarrassed; like caught staring at the head cheerleader embarrassed. Sam hadn’t accidentally handed over ammunition this good since Dean walked in on him plastered and misty-eyed watching Titanic on Starz seven years ago. Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.
Dean slowly pushes the glasses up his nose and pretends he doesn’t notice Sam’s audible swallow. Oof, if it’s this bad he’ll save it for when they’re back at base. This is too much. “With age comes wisdom, Sammy,” Dean settles on. He puts the phone and glasses back in his pocket. “Pay attention, maybe you’ll learn something.”
Sam stops white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Pretty sure that’s the senility talking,” he says, and man, Sam doesn’t even know he’s been caught. This is going to be a joy. Dean pats his pocket and plans.
*~*
The glasses do help him read, even if the adjustment is minor. So Dean has his excuse ready when Sam knocks on his bedroom door for lunch and “catches” him wearing them while thumbing through an old issue of Classic Motorsports. The opportunity is ripe for Sam to give him shit: it’s such an old man thing, laying around, listening to Bob Seger, and reading car magazines, but Sam is nothing if not consistent. He freezes at the open door mid-knock, mouth parted with a gloriously stupefied look on his face.
Dean licks his index finger (unnecessarily) to turn the page. “Yeah?”
“Sandwich,” Sam replies.
Dean waits for Sam to elaborate but a quick look over the top of the magazine shows Sam still standing at the door, fist hovering in the air. “You got a sentence to go with that or are we just communicating in nouns now?”
“Uh, yeah. Right. Uh--” Sam finally drops his hand, pointing awkwardly over his shoulder instead. “Sandwiches. I made some. If you want, you know. To eat. Food.”
Dean arcs an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, I still eat food the last time I checked.”
“Good. That’s... good.”
His brother has actually gone brain dead. Dean suddenly finds himself reexamining years of jokes about Sam getting hot for encyclopedias and bitchy Mrs. Weatherford, the middle school librarian. This isn’t a kink, this is full-blown fetish territory. How had he missed this?
“Be there in a few.” Dean snaps the magazine in the air. “Almost done.”
“Yeah. I’ll just. Yeah.”
Sam wanders off in a daze and Dean makes sure to take his time finishing the article. Still a little early in the day to land the killing blow; gotta give Sammy time to marinade first. When he finally joins Sam in the kitchen he can’t help but preen at Sam’s obvious disappointment.
*~*
Dean doesn’t wear the glasses all the time--that would give the game away way too fast. He’s casual about it: keeps them in his back pocket so he can squint at the directions on microwave pizza, pulls them out when he’s shooting off a text, slips them on when he’s tinkering with some of the ancient technology in the bunker. Nothing too obvious. Sam develops a permanent flush on the tips of his ears and starts finding the floors very, very interesting. He nearly walks into a wall not once but twice (so, so close!). The... bashfulness? is endearing in a way Dean hadn’t expected. He really meant to go full torment, but this is much more appealing. It’s something uncomplicated in a rising, creeping sea of complicated. Takes his mind off of noticing how Sam’s a little pale around the gills and how he goes to bed at eleven o’clock on the dot every night without fail.
Dean’s careful but Sam must suspect something anyway, because after a few days he mutters something about a supply run and all but flees, leaving Dean completely alone for the first time in a long while. They’ve only been in the bunker a few weeks so the excuse isn’t entirely unreasonable, but they haven’t even managed to go through an entire carton of eggs yet. Dean lets him go anyway and lays the groundwork for the kill.
It’s simple, really. He kicks off half the lights in the library, flicking on all the lamps instead, gets the mood lighting going. He takes books off the shelves at random and piles them on the table, even cracks open a few for effect (Eastern European water spirits, how thrilling). Pours some gin, puts on a record (not any of his; some Bing Crosby-esque crooning), then goes in for the costume change.
The Men of Letters left behind quite a wardrobe when they got axed. Some are familiar enough from he and Sam’s own closet--priest robes and fed suits and the like--but there’s also zoot suits and hazmat suits and raggedy farmer’s overalls and black-tie wear. Someone had some serious undercover spy fantasies that Dean can’t really picture the society of eggheads actually managed to put to use. Dean restricts himself to something more casual and digs through the old laundry, managing to find himself a pair of slacks and sweater vest roughly his size--vintage nerd chic. The vest is a little tight across the shoulders (unsurprising; “Men of Letters” and “physically imposing” probably didn’t go together all that often, and he might be a little smug about it), but otherwise a decent fit. He checks himself out in the bathroom mirror and sort of has the urge to beat himself up, but he doesn’t look bad. He puts on the glasses and... oh yeah. Real Mensa material over here.
Dean kicks his feet up on the table, flips open his chosen tome (Liber Juratus Honorii, a mistake; the font has him cross-eyed), and waits.
Sam walks right by him at first, beelining it straight for the kitchen to drop off the groceries. Dean doesn’t make a sound; there’s only the fluttery crack of the ancient pages. It takes a second pass through the room for Sam to stop, turn heel, and stare.
“What the hell, ” he yelps, voice stretched and strangled.
Dean licks his finger (still totally unnecessarily) to turn the page. “Shush,” he scolds. “This is a library.” The glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them up, settling firmly back in his chair.
“Are you...” Sam edges closer, peering at the spine of the book. “Are you reading a fourteenth-century grimoire?”
“Interesting stuff,” Dean lies. He should have grabbed his copy of Timequake instead. “Think we can get Cas to help us test some of these angel seals?”
Sam goes dead silent and Dean refuses to look up, to break first. He pushes through a few more lines of the medieval snoozefest. He was joking, but a few of them look kind of legit. Maybe they could get Cas to help them out if he would stop being a spaz long enough to--
The chair legs squeal against the floor as Sam forces the chair around. Dean’s heels hit the ground hard, the book nearly joining them. A corner of a page tears as he fumbles the book but, shockingly, Sam doesn’t even notice. He traps Dean in his seat, slamming his hands down on the chair arms, leaning in close.
Dean finally raises his head. “Reading here. That’s not really appropriate behavior--”
Sam looms. It’d be intimidating, except for the splashes of crimson blooming across Sam’s nose and cheeks. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accuses and his voice wavers, just slightly.
Dean flicks his eyes up, sticks his index finger in his mouth, and drags it over his tongue. “Doing what?” He flicks the page over.
Sam’s stare is hard and searching, probably trying to figure out if he’s being made fun of. And Dean is making fun of him because it’s an easy thing to make fun of: his brother gets hot and bothered over glasses, and it’s hilarious. But he’s also teasing, and there’s a difference. Because teasing doesn’t lead to whining and prank wars. Teasing leads to... something else. Dean’s not picky, he’ll take a good prank war any day of the week, but, well. He knows his preference.
Dean meets Sam’s eyes and spreads his legs apart another inch, giving Sam room to stand between them, an open invitation. Putting the ball in Sam’s court.
Sam slowly reaches out and plucks the book out of Dean’s hands, setting it aside on the table. Then he hauls Dean out of his seat, pulls him close, and mashes their mouths together in a single motion. Oh, fuck yes.
Dean slides his hands down to Sam’s ass and pulls them even tighter together, grinding against his front. The chair’s digging into the back of his knees, Sam’s gripping his hair way too tight, and the stupid, stupid glasses are jamming into his face, but this? Best goddamn thing that’s happened to him in a while. Definitely since Purgatory, at least. Annoyed by his own thoughts, Dean thrusts his tongue into Sam’s mouth and tries not to wonder if Sam’s thinking the same thing.
They make out hot and heavy for a long minute and when they finally part the glasses are fogged up so much Dean can barely see. Dean snorts and Sam steps away so they can breathe, offering a weak chuckle. “So. Uh. That was.”
“Knew it,” Dean laughs. “Knew you had some kind of freaky librarian fetish.”
“Shut up,” Sam mutters and as the fog clears Dean’s delighted to see the pink on Sam’s face hasn’t faded. “I do not have a fetish. You just, uh, you look--”
Dean crowds his way into Sam’s space. Startled, Sam steps away. “I look? ” Dean wraps his hands around Sam’s waist and walks him back into one of the bookshelves. “How do I look, huh?” he says into Sam’s neck; Sam whines. “Like me looking all two-hundred-IQ? Brainiac thing got you all hot ‘n bothered, huh? Go for those intellectual types?”
Sam shakes his head. “IQ tests only go up to--”
If Sam can still pull stupid facts from his head, then clearly Dean’s doing something wrong here. He presses a palm against the front of Sam’s crotch and there’s a telling press back; good. He rubs firmly, his other hand working the button and zipper. Sam moans as Dean bites along his jaw. “Shh,” Dean hushes as he yanks at Sam’s pants. “Library, remember?”
“Dean--”
Dean stills his hands. “You gonna be quiet?” he asks. “Or am I gonna have to go back to my book?”
Dean does not want to go back to his book.
Sam shakes his head frantically and Dean goes back to his work, parting Sam’s fly and diving into his boxer briefs. Sam’s more than half-hard and makes a little bitten-off noise when Dean takes him in hand and strokes. “Don’t have a fetish, huh?” he murmurs as Sam’s length twitches in his hand.
“No,” Sam says, and Dean delights that he’s actually got him whispering, like some poor grad student could actually round the corner any second and catch them in the act. “That’s not--” Sam cups his face, running his thumbs along his cheekbones, right under the rims of the glasses. He kisses him again, softer this time, coaxing his mouth open with careful touches and barely teasing with his tongue. It’s a tender kiss, not a sexy one, and Dean’s almost surprised enough to stop stroking (almost; eyes on the prize). It’s too feely, not enough touchy, and definitely not what Dean wants at the moment. Luckily, it’s Sam who pulls away first and kills whatever saccharine mood might have been building when he bursts out with, “Jesus, you’re hot, though.”
Dean grins and redoubles his efforts. “Feel free to check me out. This is a library, after all.”
Sam groans and shuts his eyes, thumping his head back against the bookcase. “You’re the worst,” he complains even as his hips rock in time with Dean’s hand. “Seriously, you suck.”
“Not yet I’m not,” Dean corrects. Sam lifts his head and blinks his surprise. Dean smirks and revels in Sam’s open-mouthed disbelief as he sinks to his knees. He pulls Sam’s pants and briefs down to his thighs with a single yank and leans in close to nuzzle at Sam’s length. Sam, breathing hard, looks down at him like he really is the certifiable genius he’s playing at. Dean’s got his brother in the palm of his hand, literally, and he’s loving every second of it. “You want this, Sammy? You want my mouth?”
“Yes, yes, please--”
This might be his favorite Sam: the right kind of desperate and willing to go along with all his stupid shit. As Dean licks his way up to the head, he wonders what kind of picture he makes on his knees. Wonders if Sam’s thought about him like this these past couple of weeks, if he had him rattling off statistics or scolding him about library fines. Dean’s deliberate when he takes the head of Sam’s dick between his lips, hollowing his cheeks and flicking at the tip with his tongue, and looks up at Sam. The top of the frames block his view a bit and he reaches up to remove them. Sam catches his hand before he can touch them.
“Leave them on,” he pants. His blotches get a few shades darker. “Uh, please?”
Dean lets the glasses be and rubs his thumb on the big vein on the underside of Sam’s dick instead. He pulls off just long enough to throw out, “Pervert,” and before Sam can protest he sucks down until his mouth meets his fingers. Sam moans, loud, one hand cupping the back of Dean’s head. Not pushing or even guiding, just holding--but his fingers clench reflexively like he wants to do the opposite. Dean wouldn’t mind if Sam fucked his mouth a little. Never really minded as long as he got some warning first, but he’s only gotten Sam to let loose like that a couple of times. With Sam groaning and gawking at him like he won the goddamn lottery (and as far as Dean is concerned, Sam has), he figures he’d let loose, but no dice. Ah, well. Next time.
Sam’s kind of easy. Well, easy for Dean; he knows Sam gives women one hell of a ride, but Dean’s the only one who really knows how to wind him up and leave him a shivery, wrecked mess. Dean knows just how to twist his fingers or where to bite to have his brother shoot off like a rocket in five minutes flat. And sure, it’s a little fucked up that he has that knowledge in the first place (even more fucked up that he has a bit of an ego about it), but it has its uses. Right now he uses it to do the opposite, keeping Sam right on the edge of completely goddamn crazy--swirling his tongue right under the head of his dick, rubbing little circles right behind his balls with his free hand, then pulling away to breathe, but really only to give Sam just long enough to get himself back under control before he’s back at it again. Sam’s taking it like a champ but he’s already losing it, giving himself away with the little uncontrollable jerk of his hips and harsh panting that almost dissolves into sobs more than once.
It’s not like it’s a chore. Sam’s a big guy and the weight of Sam on his tongue fulfills a deep, primal satisfaction in Dean’s hindbrain. Sam is the perfect fix for anyone’s oral fixation. If his knees weren’t starting to bitch at him (the bunker floors really were not impromptu blow-job friendly) he could probably go at this all day long, lose himself in Sam’s heft and smell and the soundtrack of moaning from above him. Dean’s hard in his stupid librarian slacks from sucking off his little brother in the middle of a secret magical bomb shelter and there’s no place he’d rather be.
Dean fumbles at his pants one-handed, yanking at the belt and pulling the whole mess, boxer briefs and all, down enough that he can get at his dick. He squeezes himself and jerks with a loose fist, giving himself some relief but keeping his focus on swallowing down as much as possible without choking. Sam groans, a deep rumble from somewhere down in his chest, and Dean’s dick twitches in appreciation.
“I wanna see you,” Sam breathes, tugging lightly on Dean’s hair. Dean pulls off with a lascivious lick. “C’mon, I wanna see you.”
“Yeah?” Dean shoves the trousers down a little farther, spreads his knees as far as the pants will allow, and settles back on his heels. He firms up his grip and tugs on his dick with long, indulgent pulls. Putting on show. “You wanna watch your big brother get off? Is that it?” Sam bites his lip and Dean knows he’s got him. “I wanna hear you say it.”
“I wanna watch you get off,” Sam says obediently, though unsteadily. He’s striping his dick with a speed that almost looks painful, his other hand white-knuckling the shelf behind him to keep himself steady. “God, I want to watch you get off.”
“Shhh...” Dean reminds him, still jerking off nice and slow. “We got time.”
Sam slows down but just barely, working his lower lip between his teeth as he struggles for self-control. Jesus, he could watch this all day. Dean adjusts the glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, and Sam’s hand speeds up again. He smirks, lets his fingers trail gradually along one earpiece before falling to his side. “Can I--” Sam begins then cuts himself off.
Oh, none of that now. “You want something?” Dean coaxes, rolling his hips as he works himself. Sam’s head twitches a ‘no,’ but Dean’s not having it. He shuffles forward and lifts himself up just enough that his lips touch the head of Sam’s cock. Sam freezes, caught out. “Don’t be a bitch,” he murmurs. “What. Do you. Want?”
“Let me come on your face,” Sam blurts. He’s back to jerking hard and fast. His knuckles bump up against Dean’s mouth with every stroke. “I wanna come on your face so bad--”
Dean can’t help but chuckle, settling back on his haunches. “No one’s stopping you. You can come whenever you want to.” He tilts his head back in invitation.
“You’re a jerk,” Sam gasps. Something’s going to give, and soon. “You’re a--a tease-- ”
“You’re the one with the fetish, Sammy,” Dean reminds him. He’s managed to keep himself steady so far, but watching Sam crack like this--eyes wild, hard as fucking diamonds, focused solely, entirely on Dean--just does something to him, messes him up inside. If he finishes before Sam he’ll never forgive himself.
Dean spreads his legs just a little bit wider, enough that he can feel the stitches in the pants strain, and slowly fucks his fist. “You’re the one who got all hot because of some dumb glasses. The one that likes watching his big brother on his knees jerking off--”
“Jesus--” Sam swears. Before Dean can puzzle out what’s happening, Sam reaches down, steadying Dean’s head with one hand while the other guides the head of his dick over Dean’s right eye. It clicks too late for Dean to stop his reflexive flinch as white blooms over the lens as Sam gasps and jerks above him. Filthy. Sam drags his cock over Dean’s cheeks leaving streaks of cum on both sides of his face. “God, you look so good. So, so good,” he moans. He stops on Dean’s lips and Dean compliantly opens his mouth. Sam finishes off with a last weak spurt on Dean’s tongue.
Dean doesn’t move because even though he can’t see he knows Sam’s taking in the picture, committing it to memory (Sam does that sometimes, just stares until it’s borderline uncomfortable, but Dean’s learned not to call him out on it, knows that saying anything gets Sam introspective and moody, so he lets him look). Sam hnns and shivers, but he’s done even if Sam wishes otherwise. Dean swallows like the goddamn gentleman he is (at least Sam’s rabbit diet is good for something) and then finally goes to town on his dick, giving himself that rolling twist from base to tip just how he likes it and lightly tugging on his balls. Sam, still cradling the side of his face, pushes his thumb at Dean’s mouth and Dean sucks it in, biting down on it softly.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Sam encourages. As if Dean needs any help after that performance. He can’t see a damn thing (seriously, Sam, filthy), but he knows exactly how Sam’s looking at him, can smell all the sweat and sex in the air, tastes Sam’s skin, and he’s so close. He just needs-- “Dean,” Sam says, “please--”
“Oh, fuck,” he huffs. “Sam, Sam-- ” He’s coming, all over his fist, on those dumb pants, catches a little bit on his stupid vest. It occurs to him that this stuff is probably all dry-clean only, but with Sam groaning like he’s the one that just came, Dean doesn’t really give a shit. He forgot it could be like this, this good, even with just his hand (it’s because Sam’s there, Sam wanting him to come, that makes all this difference; his insides and dick all jolt at the thought and he knows he can never, ever say it aloud). He shudders his way through the aftershocks but keeps his hand moving. Sam likes it when he works himself all the way through an orgasm, even when it’s almost painful. Sam might be a bit of a sadist.
By the time he stops shaking, Dean’s knees are complaining and his exposed ass and thighs are resenting the bunker’s cold floors. He probably needs a hand up and Sam saves him from having to ask when he slides his thumb out of Dean’s mouth (Dean nips it as it exits) and offers his hand. Dean accepts it and is more than a little annoyed at how he wobbles to his feet like a mind-blown virgin. It wasn’t that great. Just because it was the first time--
(first time since he got back, first time with Sam)
--time in a while doesn’t mean he’s gotta act like they reinvented the wheel here. He lets go of Sam as soon as he’s stable and hikes his pants up as gracefully as possible. A drop of come slides down his cheekbone and hangs off his chin. He grimaces and swipes his arm across his face. Porn actresses better get paid good for this kind of thing.
“Here, let me.” And Sam’s sliding the glasses off his nose and wiping his face off like he’s a kid after an ice-cream disaster. It takes Dean a minute to realize that Sam grabbed a handkerchief from the breast pocket of the vest (he didn’t even notice it was there to begin with), and as soon as it clicks Dean grabs the cloth and gets to scrubbing before Sam can destroy the natural order too much. “Okay then,” Sam relents.
Now that Dean can see, he almost wishes he couldn’t again because Sam’s looking at him with eyes way too soft for someone who just jizzed on his face. It’s not an unfamiliar expression. Dean’s caught that look before, lying in the dark in some hotel room with just high-beams cutting through the curtains for light. Those times, he could just roll over and pretend he didn’t see. Now he’s got nowhere to go. “What?” he grunts, figuring annoyed is his safest bet. As predicted, Sam looks away.
“That was, um--” Sam holds out the glasses awkwardly and Dean snatches them away. The handkerchief leaves streaks of white on the glass. They’ll have to be washed. “That was good. Right?”
Jesus, that kicked puppy look. You’d think it’d be less effective at thirty than thirteen, but no. Dean slid his hand into Sam’s hair, giving it a sharp tug. “You think too much,” Dean grumbles and then gestures at his cum-stained clothes. “Yeah, it was good.” And it might be a little sappy but he comes off of his post-orgasm endorphins slower than Sam does, so he doesn’t think about it too much when he pulls Sam into a kiss. Sam’s mouth parts easily, unbothered by the taste of himself that must still linger. When they separate Sam looks less worried but not as reassured as Dean would like. Dean nibbles on Sam’s lower lip and gives those Rapunzel locks another yank before letting go.
“I just wanted to know if--” Sam begins and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Listen, perv, I said it was good,” Dean repeats. “What, do I have to get you off again before you’ll believe me?” It’s not like he doesn’t know why Sam’s hesitant. But thinking about the past few months coupled with the dynamics of having an on-again-off-again relationship with your brother is just too much right now. Too much at any time, if he’s honest.
Luckily, Sam’s eyes go a little dark and hungry. “Technically, I got myself off,” he points out. “So you haven’t actually gotten me off yet.”
Dean smirks, gets his thumb wet, rubs it over the streaked lenses, then attacking them with the handkerchief again. Not perfect, but it’ll do. “That so?” Dean drawls, sliding the glasses back on. “You know, you turn your nose up at porn, but I think the, uh, visual stimulation was key in this whole scenario, dontcha think?”
“It might have helped a bit,” Sam agrees. His big hands grab at Dean’s hips, slipping under the loosely done up pants to pet the skin underneath. “I could probably stand to look a little longer.”
“I don’t mind you checking me out,” Dean confirms as Sam draws him closer, pressing kisses against his neck.
“You already used that one,” Sam rumbles into his ear.
“Did not.”
“You did. But I’ll take you up on it anyways.”
Dean allows Sam to neck him like a handsy teenager for a good minute or two, pushing him away only when he feels the good-hurt of teeth leaving their mark. “Okay, enough of that,” he complains, and when Sam moves back he’s smiling. Fucking finally. “C’mon. Help me break in my bed. It’ll give you some more spank bank material for your mental fetish folder.”
Sam groans, but follows Dean through the bunker. “I do not have a fetish.”
Dean laughs. “You are fooling exactly nobody, pal.” Right before he reaches the door to his room Sam drags him to a halt with fingers hooked in his belt loops.
“I do not have a fetish,” Sam repeats firmly. He turns Dean around to attack his mouth again. Dean tilts his head this time so his cheeks remain imprint-free from the old frames. Then Sam does that thing again, cradling his face and stroking his cheekbones, like he’s holding something delicate. Those glasses are doing something funny to Sam’s head. Dean’s too because he doesn’t hate this nearly as much as he should. “It’s just you.”
Dean swallows. “I always knew you were a Velma guy,” he says, which comes out way more breathless than he means it to. He clears his throat before speaking again. “I can make anything look good.”
Sam snorts. “Sure, Will Smith,” he says and Dean flicks his ear in retaliation. “Come on, you said something about breaking your bed.” He tries reaching around for the doorknob and Dean stops him with a firm hand in the center of his chest.
“Ah, excuse me? Breaking in my bed. You break my bed and I’ll kill you.”
“There are like twenty other empty bedrooms down here, why do you care?”
“Uh, this is my bedroom. There are many like it, but this one’s mine. I’ve got it just how I like it. All, uh, Feng Shui’d. So don’t touch anything.”
If Sam rolled his eyes harder they’d fall out of his head. “You don’t even know what Feng Shui is --”
Dean looks at him over the top of the glasses like a stern schoolteacher, and Sam’s words die in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just don’t touch anything, smartass. If you do I’ll have to send you to detention.”
Sam shakes his head. “You have got to stop that.”
“Uh, no,” Dean says. “Besides, even if you don’t like it your dick disagrees.” Sam down and away, lips twisting into a pout, which does nothing to draw attention away from the fact he’s managed to chub up a little bit. “Yeah, exactly.” Dean turns around to open the door.
“Hey, question though,” Sam asks.
“Yeah?”
“Do you really need those, or were you just screwing with me?”
Dean replies with a non-committal shrug.
“I knew it. Getting old, ” Sam crows.
Dean shuts him up with his mouth. And his hands. And maybe Sam doesn’t have a fetish, but Dean likes whatever he sees instead.