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Sam can’t turn his back on his brother for a minute. Seriously. He glances over his shoulder for two measly seconds to make sure the rawhead isn’t rushing up from behind them and before he can swivel his head back the other way, Dean lets out a yell of surprised warning and flies past Sam to slam into yet another wall.
Sam hates rawheads.
Pivoting, he ducks instinctively and avoids the rawhead’s enraged swipe at his neck. Still half-bent over in an awkward position, he fires his taser—no need to aim from this distance—and hits the son of a bitch dead on. Down and smoking, the thing reeks of burnt hair and mold.
Dean is conscious and moving when Sam gets over to him. He waves Sam’s efforts to help away with a ‘get off me’ and ‘I’m fine, dude, chill’, but he’s in enough pain that he lets Sam drive. Won’t let him get a look at his injuries when they get back to the motel, though; just slips into the bathroom and locks Sam on the other side and comes out wearing a loose t-shirt and a ratty pair of sweats and goes to bed.
Sam grits his teeth and lies in his own bed for a while, fuming over stubborn older brothers who won’t back the fuck down, and then drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes up in the morning, Dean’s already up: bag packed and sitting on the edge of his bed. There are two steaming cups of coffee on the table, and a bag from Dunkin Donuts that probably has a Boston Cream inside with Sam’s name on it. He sits up and rubs his eyes with the back of one hand.
“Hey, man,” Dean greets him cheerfully. “Get your ass in gear. I found us a gig in Plymoth. We hurry, we can be there by tomorrow afternoon.”
Sam squints at his brother, takes in what Dean is wearing, and feels his stomach give a disquieted roll. The oldest, most worn hoodie that Sam owns is draped over Dean’s torso like a tent, and that’s a really bad sign. Dean thinks he’s got walls and defenses miles thick, but Sam’s known his brother all of his life and the guy is pretty damned transparent.
Take the hoodie thing, for instance. Dean won’t accept comfort or babying directly, but whenever he’s feeling more vulnerable or hurt than usual, he’ll steal one of the damned things. Cover himself in Sam’s scent. The last time he pulled this particular stunt was after their last encounter with a rawhead. Sam knows that Dean isn’t dying now, of course, but that doesn’t stop his pulse from picking up at the sight.
Instantly awake, he rolls out of the bed and stands up. “What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” Dean gives him a startled, wide eyed glance and then quickly tries to cover it up with a smirk. “You still dreaming there, Sammy?”
Sam’s suddenly, unreasonably, angry. “Drop it, Dean. We both know that you’re hurt, so just … just sit down and let me look already.”
“Are you still on about th—”
“You’re wearing my hoodie,” Sam points out bluntly.
“So? All my shit was dirty. It’s definitely laundry day. You can take care of that when we stop tonight.”
Dean’s going to keep doing this, Sam realizes. He’s going to stall and put Sam off until they’re fighting about something else entirely and Sam has forgotten what started the whole thing in the first place. Screw that.
He’s across the room in three ground-eating strides, backing Dean up against the wall. He doesn’t miss the wince that crosses his brother’s face when his back hits.
“You ready to let me patch you up yet?”
“Jesus Christ, Sam, it’s just a few bruises.” Dean tries to escape to the right and Sam slams his hands against the wall on either side of his brother’s head, caging him in. This close he can see that Dean’s pupils are dilated: he obviously broke into their stash of pain meds. Sam can practically smell the pain coming off of his brother—sour and stale—and he’s so goddamned angry he could punch him.
“Dude, back the fuck up,” Dean growls, shoving at Sam’s chest. His efforts are weak, though, and almost immediately he makes a small, pained noise that makes Sam’s anger ratchet up a notch.
“How long were you gonna wait before you let me know how badly you were hurt?” he demands.
Dean gives up trying to shove Sam away and lets his arms hang by his sides, which is admission enough that he’s in a hell of a lot of pain. Being hurt has never made him less stubborn, though, so he glares up at Sam and says, “You’ve got about fifteen seconds to get out of my face before I kick your ass.”
It’s a bluff and they both know it—Dean’s in no condition to swat a fly—but he's doing his best to keep this from going any further.
Sam is getting less and less certain of what ‘this’ is himself. Anger still churns in his stomach, but there’s a healthy dose of something heavier there, too, and he’s suddenly way too aware of the way he’s crowding Dean up against the wall. He stares down into his brother’s eyes, at those thin rings of lime ringing the black, and feels himself go still inside.
This is it, Sam thinks, and has no fucking clue what that means.
“Ten seconds, Sammy. I mean it.” Dean’s voice is still harsh, but he can sense this unspoken, uncertain thing between them as well. Sam can see it in the way his brother’s lips tremble as he breathes.
“Five,” Dean says, and it’s a whisper. Sam wonders if Dean is planning on counting them down by ones now, and he can’t stand it. Can’t wait that long.
He shoves forward and kisses his brother. Mouth hard and demanding, body held back to keep from hurting Dean any further. Dean’s right there with him for all of thirty seconds—Sam’s keeping an absurd count in his head while wondering what the fuck he’s doing—and then he clocks Sam across the jaw.
Sam’s pained grunt is drowned out by Dean’s swear. When he looks back, he sees Dean limping across the room for the door, one hand pressed lightly to his side and his face set in a panicked grimace.
Sam’s after him in a second, not even registering the ache spreading along his jawbone. He catches his brother by the shoulder and when Dean hauls around with another wild punch, he catches his fist and holds him still. Dean’s sweating now; his face gone white and his eyes watering in pain.
“Goddamn it, Sam,” he hisses.
Sam isn’t sure if Dean is swearing at him about Sam’s persistence, or the kiss, or the pain that’s clouding his vision. Probably a little bit of all three. Sam’s a little panicked himself but he shoves that aside in favor of handling more urgent problems.
“Let me look.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Dean snaps, but it isn’t a ‘no’, and when Sam turns him loose, he makes his way gingerly over to sit on his bed.
Sam follows and then stands in front of his brother, awkward now that Dean’s not fighting him. As his brother’s eyes travel up his body, Sam realizes what kind of position they’re in. That Dean’s mouth is on the perfect level to …
He clears his throat and crouches before asking, “So, how bad is it? Really?”
Dean starts to shrug and then, wincing, stops. “See for yourself,” he mutters. With slow, careful movements, he pulls Sam’s hoodie up over his head and drops it on the bed next to him.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam says faintly. He forgets, looking at his brother’s torso, that there’s this new, unsettling thing between them. He’s trying to figure out how Dean can even bear to breathe, let alone move around.
His brother’s left shoulder and side are a mottled mess of indigo and eggplant bruises. His skin, when Sam brushes his fingers against it, is feverish to the touch. Sam traces the bruise with his eyes down to where Dean’s hipbone is just peeking out above his pants and stops. The bruise itself keeps going, down into uncharted territory.
“You didn’t break anything?” Sam says softly.
“No. I’m just bruised to shit. Are we done here? Can you get dressed so we can get on the fucking road already?”
“How far does it go?” Sam asks, and then, as Dean’s stomach muscles flutter, wishes he hadn’t.
“Far enough,” Dean says. He doesn’t move. Just sits there, still and wary.
Sam takes a shaky breath—he has no fucking clue what he’s doing here, and only thirty seconds worth of a kiss telling him Dean’s even interested—and then reaches out anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Dean gives an absurd, out-of-control laugh when Sam pops the button on his jeans, but he doesn’t protest. Lifts his hips slightly so that Sam can finish stripping him.
Sam crouches in between his brother’s legs, staring at the bruise that finishes its run midway down Dean’s thigh and delaying the inevitable. He’s the one who brought them here, and he wants it—fuck, his mouth is watering at how much he wants it—but he’s still frightened. This is Dean, here. This is his brother.
Oh God, what if this changes everything?
Or worse: what if it doesn’t?
Sam starts at the feel of Dean’s hand dropping down on his head. Dean’s fingers tangle through his hair, fingertips rubbing against his scalp. When Sam glances up, his brother’s lips are twisted in embarrassment. His face is more open than Sam has seen it in a long time.
“You gonna kiss it and make it better or what?” he asks. His words are rough, but there’s a nervous tremor in his voice. There’s fear and self-consciousness in the tentative press of his fingers.
Sam licks his lips and feels heat pool in his belly at his brother’s surprised gasp. They’re going to have to talk about this—hell, even Dean’s going to want to talk about this one—but not yet. Not now.
Later, they’ll shout accusations and Dean will play the martyr and say that it can’t happen again and Sam will have to persuade him. Will have to convince him that, no matter how much of a surprise this was, it’s what he wants. That Dean is who he wants.
On the other side of acceptance there are hard, fast fucks against the Impala, and lazy showers spent jerking each other off, and sloppy, urgent kisses in the adrenaline rush after a successful hunt.
Kneeling between his brother’s legs, Sam can see everything laid out in front of them: the coming storm, and the calm that will succeed it.
For now, though, he has this. He has Dean’s hand in his hair and his brother’s hot flesh in his mouth. For now, that’s enough.