Fic: Simple As That (Dean/Sam)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 7,500
Warnings: first time, some comeplay (should I just make this a standard warning on all my fics?), temporarily-deaf!Dean, moderate angst, lots of schmoop
Notes: First - my LJ is being a bitch, so I apologize if this fucks up again. Second - I feel weird posting this since it vaguely deals with an actual disability so I'm just going to go ahead and disclaimer that this is all a cheap excuse for porn and doesn't reflect my opinions on or feelings toward hearing impared people nor is it in any way reflective of what the hearing impaired actually deal with. I'm making this a much bigger deal than it needs to be. Seriously, it's just porn.
Summary - "The back of Dean’s head probably makes a crack sound as it hits the tile wall, but of course, he doesn’t hear it, so his entire sensory perception is narrowed down to Sam’s rictus of a snarl way too close to his face, the heat of Sam’s palm burning into his chest through his t-shirt and the faint scent of sweat and spent gun powder and something that his brain can only supply as ‘Sammy’ filling his nostrils."
The first thing Dean’s aware of when he wakes up is the strange ache in his head, like a bubble of pain floating at the top of his skull. He must be in bed because he’s laying down, and while the mattress underneath him may be hard, it’s not nearly as bad as some of the stuff he’s woken up draped across over the years.
He groans and turns over, something in the back of his mind shouting ‘wrong’ but he can’t pinpoint what it is until he blinks his eyes open, automatically seeking to assure himself that the ‘wrong’ isn’t something with Sammy and finds his brother sitting on the opposite bed, staring at him with a kind of resigned concern that makes his skin crawl. He understands why the second he opens his mouth to ask. His lips move, his vocal cords vibrate, the air rushes from his mouth but there’s no sound.
Reflexively he claps a hand to his throat, like he needs to check that it’s still there, which is stupid, but he feels kind of justified because his voice is gone! His voice is gone! He repeats it over and over, can feel the muscles in his neck work, the tremors that should make noise but don’t for some reason and-
Sam catches his attention by flipping up the bright yellow notepad Dean hadn’t noticed was sitting in his lap. In fat, dark letters he’s written, Don’t freak out - yeah, because that’s going to fucking happen. Dean would tell his brother how fucking stupid that whole concept is except he doesn’t have a fucking voice! Of course he’s freaking out!
Now Sammy’s shaking his head, tapping his own neck, shaking his head again and then pointing to his ears. What? Sam’s lost his voice and he can’t hear? Oh! Oh fuck whatever did this to them because it is a fucking dead mother fucker as soon as Dean finds it and-
Ok, seriously, what’s with the head shaking?
His brother makes a frustrated face and lets out what should probably be a heavy sigh, but comes out silent. Wait, do you use your voice to sigh? Then he’s getting up, coming to kneel over on Dean’s bed and press gentle fingers to Dean’s throat. He swallows against the pressure on instinct, feeling out Sam’s soft touch with the bob of his Adam’s apple. Sam’s other hand forms a thumbs up sign, and he presses pointedly at Dean’s throat again and shakes his thumbs up. He worries at his lower lip for a moment before moving his hand again, slowly sliding it up to Dean’s ear. The gun calluses on his fingers rasp against the delicate shell silently and the look on Sammy’s face is like they just outlawed higher education and burned every known copy of the encyclopedia.
Oh God. He’s going to be sick. Dean has to get out of the bed right now or he’s going to puke all over both of them.
He’s deaf.
Sam rushes after him to the bathroom where all Dean manages are a couple of dry heaves of bile that he can feel click in his gullet but can’t hear. Oh shit. Oh fuck. He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of glory, taking out some big bad and saving people. Thought it would all end fast and bloody, but epic at least. This? This is so much worse.
What the hell is he good for now? He can’t hunt like this - he’d be dead in a week from the inevitable something getting the jump on him and even if he was willing to take that risk, he can’t saddle Sammy with half of a partner, get them both murdered. And he can’t send Sammy out there on his own to hunt, not without someone to watch his back.
Dean’s got no skills, barely a GED, he’s not cut out for civilian life, let alone disabled civilian life. Sitting around a house all day, doing whatever deaf people - hearing impaired, he has to be PC about it now because he’s one of them - do all day, getting old and reliving the glory days when his existence mattered. Maybe Sammy will at least get to have the life he’s always wanted; go back to school, settle down with a girl, have a couple of kids. Maybe Dean can even come over for holidays, you know, if Sam doesn’t mind having his good for nothing, shell of a brother hanging around, ruining everybody's good time.
The back of Dean’s head probably makes a crack sound as it hits the tile wall, but of course, he doesn’t hear it, so his entire sensory perception is narrowed down to Sam’s rictus of a snarl way too close to his face, the heat of Sam’s palm burning into his chest through his t-shirt and the faint scent of sweat and spent gun powder and something that his brain can only supply as ‘Sammy’ filling his nostrils. A flash of yellow shows him Sam’s notepad again, held up beside his brother’s face. Don’t freak out, emphasized by an angry furrow of Sam’s eyebrows. Awkwardly, Sam flips the page with one hand - the other still keeping Dean pinned up against the wall - revealing another note: It’s only temporary.
Dean stares at the words for a minute, letting them imprint on his brain. It’s only temporary. It’s only temporary!
When he looks back at Sam’s face, his brother still looks annoyed, but there’s a tremble at the corner of his lips that might be a burgeoning smile. Sammy nods at him in confirmation and flips the next page. Bobby says it should wear off - a week, 2 tops.
Alright, that’s significantly less appealing than the last message, but still, two weeks is worlds better than the rest of his life. His breathing eases up under Sam’s hand, only then aware of how close to the edge of hyperventilation he was. Sam’s hand smoothes up his chest to cup the side of his neck. Dean’s always been a tactile kind of guy, but the level of comfort he gets from that touch is almost shocking. He’s pretty sure he can actually feel Sam’s pulse and all he really wants at the moment is to hold it even closer so he can count the throb of blood in his brother’s veins.
Sam smiles and brings their foreheads together, tapping them a couple of times like he’s banging his head in frustration.
***
It only takes about 30 seconds in the shower for Dean to figure out he can’t handle being alone like this. He’s spent enough years seeing thousands of variations on ‘freaky shit happens’ to know that there’s nowhere completely safe, and has seen Psycho way too many times to ever feel totally at ease in a shower.
Worse even than the constant need to check through the steam behind him, always feeling like something will suddenly appear, is the realization that anything could be happening out in their room and Dean wouldn’t know. Somebody could come crashing through the front door and attack Sammy, could be trying to hurt him right fucking now, could have him screaming for Dean’s help and Dean wouldn’t even know.
The thought is terrifying enough that he barely manages to reign himself in long enough to rinse the shampoo out of his hair before he stumbles out of the shower, abandoning the idea of a towel altogether to make sure Sammy’s safe.
Sam’s lying on the bed when the bathroom door - presumably - bangs open; back braced against the headboard, laptop across his thighs. He rushes over to Dean as soon as he sets a soaked foot to the worn-out carpet, obviously as panicked that something’s gone wrong as Dean is. Dean plants his still-dripping hands on his little brother’s chest, soaking his shirt and assuring himself that everything’s ok, all of those bloody, half-formed images in his head fading with the warmth under his palms. Sam’s eyes searching him, seem reassured by the “I’m ok, it’s ok,” that Dean’s telling his mouth to say and can only hope comes out right.
He should be embarrassed, and maybe he will be later, but when he closes that last bit of space and gets Sam’s clothes, Sam’s heat, clinging to his wet body, his face pressed against Sam’s neck so he can feel each draw of breath against his forehead, he’s not ashamed at all of how much better it feels.
***
Sam keeps trying to convince him that they should go to Bobby’s, which is how Dean discovers one of the real plus sides to having to write down or pantomime everything they want to say to each other - much shorter arguments. Also, it makes it really easy to turn his head and refuse to acknowledge Sammy’s point.
It’s a point that he understands; that’s not the issue. Yes, certain things might be easier at Bobby’s - they’d have food on hand and a fridge big enough to hold more than one six-pack at a time, they know the place, so it’d be comfortable and there’d be more to do than try and find the channels with closed captioning - Sam still won’t let him use the laptop, afraid Dean will go looking for a hunt or something stupid like that. There’d be somebody else around to help Sammy take care of him.
If Dean’s being honest, that’s the reason he doesn’t want to go. He’s not humiliated by the loss or anything, and all things considered, he’s coping pretty well he thinks - most stuff isn’t particularly harder to do without hearing, it’s just a weird sensation he’s had to adjust to - it’s just that, well… See, realistically, most people who lose their hearing probably don’t become needy little bitches, but Dean sort of has - not that he’s about to admit that anywhere but the privacy of his own head - and it’s not a side of him that he’s particularly keen on Bobby witnessing.
It’s not that he needs Sam to do everything for him or anything like that; he’s got a handle on this shit, thank you very much. It’s not even that he’s scared for himself about something happening - every now and then the idea will crop up, but Dean’s damn good at what he does and hearing or not, he dares any fucking thing to come and try and take him out. Aint happening.
The thing is that he’s got ‘protect Sammy’ engraved on his DNA and unless he’s got Sam in his line of sight or under his hands, he can’t really be sure everything’s ok. It seems idiotic to imagine that every time he turns around Sammy’s going to disappear or get kidnapped or attacked, except it’s Sam and every single one of those things has happened to him more than once, so really, Dean’s just being prudent. He’s not actually sure why this hands-on solution never occurred to him before - maybe because Sam wouldn’t have let him get away with it then.
That first night he spends three hours lying there trying to keep the panic attack he’s having as quiet as possible. Finally he gives up and just moves over to Sam’s bed.
His brother wakes up with a jolt - he’s never taken to keeping a knife under his pillow like Dean, but he’s still ready for a fight - relaxing fractionally when he recognizes Dean’s shape in the darkness. Dean mutters “Not a word” at him, since it all seems to keep coming out ok even when he can’t hear that the sounds are right.
Sam’s hands find his face, gently pulling him up to look through the dark at his brother’s eyes. There’s not enough light to really see anything, but Sammy seems to find whatever answer he was looking for anyway because he releases Dean and eases himself back down.
Dean settles with his head on his little brother’s chest, his hand splayed out there as well to feel every thud of Sam’s slowly relaxing heartbeat. The smell of cheap laundry detergent fills his senses along with that warm Sammy scent he’s suddenly become much more attuned to and Dean closes his eyes to concentrate on it.
He sleeps like a baby.
***
It's the fourth day that he's woken up to a noiseless world when he realizes it. See, he's grabbing one of the half dozen legal pads Sammy sweet-talked the girl at the front desk out of so they can have their thrice daily throwdown about what to eat when he notices that the last thing they'd written out was yesterday's discussion about dinner, and immediately before that, yesterday’s discussion about lunch. In fact, flipping back through the pages while Sam watches him curiously, Dean realizes that they really haven't had to write much out since the afternoon of the second day.
He certainly doesn't feel like they haven't been communicating since then; in fact, he's reasonably sure they had a debate sometime yesterday afternoon about whether Pam Anderson was hotter back in the Home Improvement era or once her tits became inflatable. He's almost positive that didn't just happen in his head.
One time - one very drunk time - when Sammy was still his petulant, coltish teen self, Dad had confided to Dean that sometimes he felt like he was living in a foreign country with the two of them and he didn't know how to speak the language. Sammy probably would have taken it as an insult at the time, since he seemed inclined to take everything Dad said as an insult back then, but Dean understood what he meant.
He and Sam have always had a connection. Maybe because Dean's been taking care of him since before his brother could talk, or maybe just because they've had limitless hours to learn every nuance of the other. It’s always gone way beyond the need to actually put things out there in words, even though Sammy's always been fond of doing that anyway. It’s part of what's made them such a good team, a unit; their ability to read each other at a glance.
They'd lost some of it when Sam ran off to Stanford - even a bit before that, actually; probably when Sam started pulling away and keeping his plans a secret. It had hit Dean like a bullet in the back at the time, the realization that his brother had been looking at him all along and lying right to Dean's face; they lie to everyone else but not to each other. They've been steadily getting it back ever since Sam picked up a sawed-off again and now, looking at their twin spiky scrawl on the blue-lined paper, Dean realizes how far they've come.
Sam gives him a look that Dean can read the question in easy as pie and he shakes his head in answer, not quite quelling the smile he can feel turning his lips up. He flips the page and scrawls out chili dogs, bitch! big enough to take up a whole sheet of paper.
***
The shower thing only gets weirder.
Dean blames an overactive imagination and too many B-movie horrors for the way the image of Sam slipping in the tub and cracking his head wide open seems to live at the front of his mind every time Sam shuts the bathroom door.
He's been betting with himself on how long it's going to take before Sammy gets fed up with being mother henned all the time - ever since the kid hit puberty, anything more than a casual glance was liable to get you snapped at - but Sam hasn't so much as looked at him funny, not even when Dean takes to coming into the bathroom to shave while his brother's still in the shower, his outline milky and indistinct at the corner of Dean's eye through the translucent shower curtain. Nor does he say anything about Dean leaving the door open during his own world-fastest shower and, in fact, starts leaning up against the wall just outside the door where Dean can see him. Dean, as a result, ends up getting significantly cleaner after that.
If Sam notices the way Dean inexplicably gets hard every single time - hey, he's gotten off in so many showers over the years, running water alone could probably give him a stiffy - he at least has the tact not to point it out; the same way neither of them mentions how they both end up rock-hard every night pressed up against each other, fighting desperately not to fidget.
It's not exactly a surprise that by day five, one of them breaks. It's more of a surprise that Sammy's the one who does it - he can buck the stereotype all he wants, but Dean knows that he's the horny one of their dynamic duo.
Dean's running his electric razor around the curve of his jaw when he notices the motion. There's really only one thing that Sam can be doing in there, and even with nothing but the cloudy suggestion of a shape moving behind the curtain, Dean’s whole body goes rocket-hot in .2 seconds.
This isn't the first time he's ever seen Sammy get off, not by a long shot. Growing up practically on top of one another, sharing a bed half the time, there was really never a way to avoid knowing every last intimate detail about his brother's body and vice versa. Hell, it wouldn't even be a first for them if he were to reach in there right now and stroke his little brother's cock until he came all over Dean's fist. True, it would be the first time since Sammy up and walked out on him at eighteen, but aside from some proportions, he doubts the kid's that different.
Like the way he's tipping his head back right now, chest arching out as the blur of his arm speeds up - that's a classic sign that Sam's close. He's probably doing that soft little exhale he does, like the whisper-equivalent of a grunt. Probably twisting just a little as he gets to the top; it's not like the way you jack yourself off changes much over the years. Probably making that chirp sound like he used to when his muscles lock up and he loses it in his own hand, the musk of come dispersing in the steam-heavy air. Dean breathes it in deep, memory as good as time-travel for all the times they did this back in the day.
When Sam gets out of the shower and skins his wet hair back from his face, droplets beading on tan flesh, neither of them quite meets the other's eye. Dean turns once his brother has dried off, leading the way back into the bedroom and trying to ignore the way his dick his throbbing in the confines of his jeans.
He can't resist lapping up a stray bead of water on Sam's shoulder as he brushes past, and that's not exactly new either, but it sort of feel like it.
***
It's probably to be expected that things are different after that; the world sitting ever so slightly off-kilter, a fraction of a degree left of center. It's still enough to leave an opening between them, a foreign space they've never stepped into before, and that night, lying in bed with his little brother, Dean can't say that the alien sensation bubbling in his stomach is regret.
It had only been the third night when Dean had poked Sam in the ribs and told him to talk. He'd refused to lift his head from his baby brother's chest, but he had felt Sam looking at him funny. Still, it wasn't like Sam could exactly argue, and ultimately he'd given in. They've been going to bed like that ever since; Dean pressed in close to feel the vibrations of Sam's voice as he rattles off who knows what. There are moments Dean's curious whether it's secrets Sam's up there throwing into Dean's silence or all the emo bullshit Dean won't normally listen to or just old Latin drills Dad had made the do. With Sammy, it's anybody's guess.
Well, except maybe tonight he could figure out what Sam's saying if the way he's slowly shifting his hips - his hard-on - against Dean's leg is anything to go by. Dean pushes into it a little, permission and aid all in one. His hand twitches with the sudden desire to reach out and touch, feel Sam hot and stiff through his boxers and see if he's still the same down there as he was the last time. He doesn't, because there's a difference between trading handjobs with your brother when you're both young and horny and have no choice but to share a bed; it's a whole other thing to do it when that brother's a full-grown man who's been serious enough with a girl to be living with her, to fall apart over losing her. A whole other thing when the only reason you're sharing a bed is because some fucking creature left you temporarily deaf and touch-needy.
It occurs to him that he's probably the only person on the planet who's ever had that particular thought.
But then Sam makes it a moot point, sliding his own hand down his chest to cup himself through the worn-soft fabric of his boxers so there’s no room for Dean’s hand anyway. Jesus, Sam has big hands, even bigger than before he left for college; they’d probably feel amazing on him. And they do, because there’s the other one braced at the small of Dean’s back, pushing him in so he’s cradled snugly against the sharp cut of Sam’s hip. He feels tiny in this ridiculous way that just the couple of inches Sam has on him should not be able to make him, and it’s steadily climbing the list of the best things he's ever felt.
The rise and fall of the chest beneath Dean’s cheek is going jagged, heartbeat thundering beneath the skin, quivering as Sam babbles or moans or whatever the hell he’s doing. The mattress shakes slightly in rhythm with Sammy jacking himself - hand inside his boxers now, not even pretending he’s not doing it and Dean’s just pissed he's lost his view.
It takes him a minute to figure out that he’s rubbing up against his brother, has been for a while, riding that pain/pleasure razor as he thrusts steel-hard flesh up against the bite of Sam’s hip. It’s so good and he knows he’s making noise too, can feel it rolling through his throat along with gasped breaths, but he hasn’t got a clue what the reflexive sounds might be nor does he give a shit because he can’t hear them so there’s no point being embarrassed.
Sam’s fingertips are digging little bruises into the meat of his back, just above his ass, and Dean would be lying if he said that wasn’t pushing all kinds of buttons for him. He presses his own grip into the muscle of his brother’s thigh, fingernails dragging just a bit to leave dark pink crescents and apparently that little bit of pain-kink is something else they have in common because Sam’s body goes rigid against him and spurts of come darken his boxers.
Dean’s mouth floods wet and the circuit breaker in his brain trips. Or at least that’s the excuse he’s going to use if Sam decides to push the point later, because right now, there’s nothing in the world that’s going to stop him from reaching down there and tugging his little brother’s come-sticky hand up to his face to get a taste.
The flavor’s bitter and sharp and exactly what he wants, tongue snaking into the webbing as he works his hips hard against Sam’s body, so fucking close as Sam’s fingers leave wet smears on his face. It’s a shock when Sam’s tongue is there too, enough so that he gasps, eyes flying open to see his brother lapping at the milky fluid coating long, spidery fingers, white building up on slick pink as Sam keeps the motions slow as a strip-tease. Dean forgets entirely about Sam’s fingers and plunges his tongue through the cage of them to lap the taste right out of Sam’s mouth.
Sammy seems to be ok with that development, messy hand skidding down Dean’s neck over his chest, smudging him up as Sam licks him right back. For a while their tongues just tangle in the breath-warm air between them before Dean’s finally finds its way inside Sam and somewhere in the middle of it, it hits him that they’re kissing. He and Sam are kissing.
Dean goes off like a gunshot, his skin pulsing in bright tingles with each burst as he soaks himself. Sam’s hand cups around the back of his neck, holding him in place even when Dean can’t manage to do more than let his mouth hang open, swallowing whatever toneless sound he can feel ripping out of his throat.
Sam gentles him through the aftershocks with open, wet kisses and the feathery touch of his lips as he presses prayer-soft words into Dean’s skin. He wants to touch those words, taste them, feel Sam’s tongue curl against his own as each one forms and most of all he wants to fucking hear them so bad he’s all but shaking with it. He wants to know what Sam sounds like when it’s like this, not just a last resort but something they did together because they wanted it. God he hopes Sam wanted it, it sure as hell seemed like he did.
And, yeah, it’s a whole other level of shit he’s going to have to deal with, probably kind of soon, because this ‘I want to see/taste/touch every inch of my baby brother’ thing just does not feel as shiny and new as it ought to but it’s not going to be happening right now. Right now, he’s going to capture those sweet, silky lips with his own and do his level best to make sure Sammy forgets how to speak.
***
On the sixth day of living inside a silent movie it takes them a couple of extra hours to drag out of bed because Dean can’t force himself to quit making a topographical map of Sam’s mouth with his tongue and Sam appears equally dedicated to the cause. Once they do finally unstick themselves from the sweat- and come-stained sheets, it’s only long enough for them both to pile into the shower together at which point Dean learns that his brother’s gigantic hands feel approximately a billion times better on his cock than he could have possibly imagined. Like, his legs barely have enough strength in them to get him back to the bed again, still dripping air-cooled water all over the place while Sam tries half-heartedly to dry them both off - that’s how awesome it is.
Naturally, he’s not about to let that kind of indignity go unavenged, so he spends the next five minutes or so with Sam’s dick trying to wedge his throat open. It’s a lot fucking harder than it looks in porn to suck a guy off and getting a blow isn’t nearly the same as giving, but Sammy’s not complaining. Even without his hearing, Dean can tell that the look on Sam’s face has got nothing to do with dissatisfaction. The bitter heat spurting onto the flat of his tongue is also a hint.
By day seven, they’ve given up any pretense of doing anything but laying around and getting each other off all day, so they order in four pizzas - two meat lovers, two vegetarian - and spend the day watching Wheel of Fortune and any movie they can find with explosions in it. It’s actually kind of a lot like the shit he’s done with the few girls who’ve been worth more than a one night fling. It’s also pretty much exactly the shit they used to together do before Dean was old enough to sneak into bars and hustle pool while Dad was gone, just the two of them stuck in some hole in the wall motel, curled up together in one bed because that’s the way they were used to sleeping. He can’t decide which part of that line of thought is more disturbing.
He keeps anticipating some kind of freak out from Sam about all of this because not talking about this must be fucking killing the kid, but Sam seems mostly unfazed. Every now and again, he’ll look over at Dean with a wordless question in his eyes, searching Dean’s face for some sign he doesn’t know how to give but Sam still seems to find it every time anyway because then he’ll smile a little and Dean will feel him relax through whatever part of them happens to be touching at that moment. He honestly doesn’t know what to make of that but he’s survived for a long damn time on the ‘don’t ask questions you don’t have to’ policy so he skirts neatly around the whole idea.
It’s day nine that he realizes he’s going to have a problem because on day nine he wakes up to the almost-silent thrum of Sam’s heart beating.
His head is pillowed on Sam's chest and every time he feels the thump of his brother's pulse, he gets a faint tha-thump whuffing through his ear. Dean's own pulse kicks into overdrive. It's stupid, they both knew - hell, hoped - this was going to happen. They'd been anticipating it tacitly all this time, but the reality of getting his hearing back is so jarringly frightening he doesn't know how to cope.
What if this has all been some limited time thing? Some weird, protective instinct of Sam's; pulling a Florence Nightengale or whatever. What if all of the touching and the kissing and the rubbing and the sucking is going to end now that Dean's getting back to normal? He hasn't even gotten to fuck Sam yet, damnit! And fuck all the dirtybadwrong all to hell because there's no way he's ever going to stop craving it like an itch under his skin.
He's got a very limited time to make a decision here before Sam's spidey-sense wakes him up from Dean being so tense. Option #1 - come clean, tell Sam his hearing is coming back and resign himself to whatever happens after that. Option #2 - come clean, tell Sam his hearing is coming back and pounce on him like a starving man at a buffet before his brother has a chance to tell Dean about all the reasons they can't do this. Option #3 - be a total chickenshit and pretend like nothing's changed.
Fine, so he's a chickenshit. He's a chickenshit with Sam's long fingers petting at the back of his head as he sucks at the silky-thin skin of his little brother's sac, so it's an ok trade off.
Sammy kisses him like he's dying for it afterward, like he can crawl right into Dean's skin if he just tries hard enough, with the sharp musk of come and sleep-sour breath still lingering between their tongues. And fuck, but the way he sounds. All breathy and deep and manly in this way that should not turn Dean on but just fucking does it for him. He can't even think about stopping, needs every last blurt of noise out of his brother like he needs air.
They're both naked and the room is just the pleasant side of warm that leaves their skin clinging together, getting friction-sticky with the mess of fresh precome and flaky dried come from last night. It's all tacky and sweet, just gritty enough to rasp up his spine like fur rubbed the wrong way.
There's something epically wrong with his brain that it makes him think of Sam's hands back when they were little, how they somehow seemed to find every drop of jelly or Elmer's glue in a ten mile radius to get covered in and leave dirty little fingerprints all over the place. Of stripping him down and plopping him in the bathtub because once Sam's hands were sticky, the whole rest of him inevitably was too. Of how they'd both end up soaked to the skin because in the water Sam had all the grace and majesty of a baby duck. Of bundling Sammy into a scratchy motel towel that could cover his whole body and rubbing and scrubbing and tickling until all his brother could do was laugh "Dean, Dean, Dean" over and over again. Of how that little boy turned into this man and Dean's the only one who can still see it inside; all the small innocent, hopeful bits that this life has never managed to kill, the things it's always been Dean's job to protect.
It's dozen different kind of fucked up that that's the shit that makes Dean lose it in ten seconds flat. That even though it's a whole different kind of touching now, it's still "Dean, Dean, Dean" that's coming out of Sam's mouth.
He follows it up with a bunch of moderately incoherent things about Dean being beautiful and sexy and loving him that make several of Dean's vital organs squirm in this way that simultaneously make him want to hide his face and kind of maybe never stop listening to them. It's weird. The whole thing is fucking weird and Dean doesn't say a word because he's not supposed to hear.
***
Turns out it's a lot harder to pretend to be deaf than he'd initially thought. Not talking isn't so hard, he's got years of practice on that one under his belt, but not reacting is much harder. His internal stereo system isn't cranked all the way to eleven yet but it's still sharp enough to hear it when Sam rustles the notepad as he advocates for Thai over Chinese so he can get that bizarre tofu thing that Dean has the overwhelming urge to salt and burn every time. Or when he accidentally drops the remote off the bed close enough that Dean could reach down and grab it, but he's not supposed to know it fell. Or when he makes this little noise that is absolutely nowhere in the extensive catalogue of Sammy-sounds in Dean's head when he curls up behind Dean and starts nibbling up the back of his neck. Or, hardest of all, when he whispers dirty, sugary little things against Dean's skin that flutter around in his belly and make him want.
It gets better when Sam gives him something to do besides fight the urge to say "yes, do it, c'mon" by pressing two fingers into Dean's mouth, spread around his tongue, caressing him on the inside. He's got a pretty damn good idea of where that little prelude is headed and he sucks harder on them like approval.
It's not exactly virgin territory for him; there have been pretty girls with slim, polish-tipped fingers sliding up inside him to make that peak nail him even harder, a couple of really kinky ones who got their tongues in on the act. It's still nothing close to what Sam's packing downstairs and he can’t decide if that fist squeezing his chest tight is panic or desire.
Doesn't really matter in the end, though, because when Sam pulls his fingers free - moaning like a damn pornstar for the teasing flick of Dean's tongue chasing them - they don't go sliding down between his legs like he's expecting. In fact, he doesn't figure out where the hell they went until Sam gives up this gorgeous little moan-gasp and then he has to get a hand clamped down on his cock just to keep from coming. Christ, he's...
Dean flips over so fast it's nothing but pure dumb luck that he doesn't clock Sammy in the jaw with his shoulder. Somewhere, sometime, there's probably been something hotter than Sam's arm stretched back to finger himself open with his big brother’s spit, but Dean would really have to see it to believe because holy fucking hell.
Sam’s eyes are open just about as much as his mouth, tiny little slivers of space that shows wide pupil and wet tongue. The muscles in his arm ripple under smooth skin as Dean tries to match the motions up with what his brother’s hand is doing, what it must look like, feel like. On the edges of his newly regained sense he hears a car honk but all he’s really making out is the stunted sound of Sam’s breath mixing with his own, hard and desperate as his dripping cock.
“Touch me,” Sam says, little hitch of his head added in like Dean had designs on getting his hands anywhere but exactly where Sam’s is. He follows through without a second thought, rides his own palm down the path of Sam’s powerful arm and over a delicate-boned wrist, further until he hits knuckle and then immediately, damp, stretched-taut skin. A ragged groan rips out of him to match Sam’s, dick jerking so hard with a thick spurt of precome that for a second he’s absolutely sure he’s going to lose it just like this, like a damn kid.
Instantly, instinctually, he’s gathering the fluid up, sliding his fingers back around to slick it over Sam’s hole. His face is buried against his brother’s neck, this close to overloaded on the feel and the smell and the fucking sounds. Jesus.
Then his brother commands, “Do it,” and Dean sinks one in right alongside Sam’s, tight silky heat sucking at him.
He’s got a snap of a second to enjoy it and then, just that fast, Sam’s shoving him over onto his back, climbing up on top of him and his whole thought process shorts out. This is really happening. This is actually really happening. Ten days ago he’d have never thought twice about fucking his baby brother, probably would have decked anyone who even suggested it. Now that’s Sam looking like heaven itself straddling his hips, Sam’s big hand steadying Dean’s cock, Sam’s tight little hole clenching and unclenching just enough to feel like it’s mouthing at his leaking slit.
Sam, looking down at him and asking, “This morning?”
All Dean can do is nod stupidly and go blind when his eyes roll back in his head because Sam doesn’t question it, doesn’t bitch or scowl or any other fucking thing besides sit right down on Dean’s cock like they’re two pieces made to fit together - insert tab A into slot fucking B.
His brother makes that sound again and later Dean’s going to have to do some extensive field research to figure out if that’s a good noise or not but for now he’s just going to smack the mattress with his hand because that is exactly the level of coherency he is capable of. Sam must correctly interpret this to be a sign of approval since he repeats that same filthy swivel that makes Dean’s skin sputter-spark and catch ablaze.
There can’t be nearly enough slick for this to be comfortable for Sam, not when even Dean’s dick - whilst doing its internal touchdown dance of joy - is noting the fact that this is a lot like being trapped in a hot, velvet vice. In the best of all possible ways, of course. Sam rolls with it like a pro anyway, getting a slow motion going, taking it easy so that more and more of Dean’s cock slides out each time just to be swallowed up again.
Hell, maybe Sam’s done this before - not like ass-fucking’s ever come up in the conversation - it would sure explain how he can looks so calm and blissed out up there when Dean’s on the verge of flailing all over like an octopus just to have something to do with all of the energy pinballing around inside of him. Chalk that up to something else he’s going to deal with later because while he sure as fuck wants to know if he’s popping Sam’s ass cherry or not, now is not the time. Now is the time for hanging onto whatever he can get hold of for dear life and watching Sam ride him like he’s in the mother fucking rodeo. Brother-fucking rodeo. Whatever.
“You like that? Feel good?” Sam growls like there’s even a fucking question. Dean’s answer comes out more “Oh, fuck, Sammy,” than the “yes, it feels very nice, actually. Let’s not ever do anything but this for the rest of our lives, ok?” he’d been thinking, but he figures the point gets across anyway.
“Yeah, so good, Dean. Always wanted- ngh! Always. Always. Christ, Dean! Yeah. Fuck me. Fuck me like you mean it, c’mon.”
And Dean does, because he sure as hell means it. Just pulls his feet in to get as much traction as he can manage and slams up the next time Sam slides down, jolting this groan out of his brother that Dean can actually see rolling all the way up from his gut. From there on out all he can hear is Sam panting, “Like that, just like that, oh God,” and the harsh slap of flesh on sweat-sticky flesh. It’s a damn fine soundtrack; maybe they can get a recording of it for the Impala. Then again they’d probably do a lot more fucking on the side of the road than driving. Dean can’t actually think of a reason that would be a bad thing.
Time being, he’s just going to ignore all of those questions about whether this is going to keep happening. He needs this now and it seems a lot like Sam does too, so logistical issues aside, Dean’s not giving it up - simple as that.
It’s not until Sam locks up like Fort Knox around him that it occurs to Dean that neither of them has touched his brother’s dick. Evidently it didn’t get that memo because it’s busy spitting out hot, ropey wads of come all over Dean’s chest. There is no known universe in which that fact should make Dean blow his load like a trigger pull. That, in no way, stops it from happening.
The noise that grinds out of him as the world turns to static fuzz and he pumps deep inside of his brother comes out a lot like Sam’s name.
“So how long did you think you could go without me noticing?” Sam asks, a couple of decades too soon for Dean’s brain to be working again. At least his heart isn’t trying to explode anymore. The smooth sheath of muscle still wrapped around him flexes and Dean lets out whatever’s the manliest equivalent to a whimper.
“I dunno,” is the only answer he’s got. It’s not exactly like this was a well thought out plan.
Sam’s braced over him, a hand on either side of Dean’s head, watching all casual like he doesn’t currently have Dean’s softening dick holding his ass open. Oh shit, he needs to not think things like that or there’s going to be a serious issue in the ‘softening’ department. He is not sixteen anymore, he’s supposed to have a little bit of recovery time or else he’s going to strain something and wouldn’t that just be embarrassing as all fuck? Sam’d never let him live it down.
“You talk to yourself when you can’t hear it. That was the first big tip off,” Sam informs him, slowly relaxing down until they’re chest to chest, sliding around on a sheen of sweat. “You were too quiet.”
“Yeah, well, “ Dean shrugs, “you know what they say about the quiet ones.” He’s not entirely sure when he decided to pet through Sam’s hair, but it feels nice and makes Sam’s eyelids droop to half-mast so he goes with it.
“They murder you in your sleep?” his brother mumbles back, all contented sighs and slow smiles.
“They’re the best lays.”
“Oh. Well that explains it. Should have known better than to get it on with a loudmouth like you.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Sam’s lips meet his, barely even a kiss with both of them smiling too big like a couple of saps. Evidently having sex with a dude has turned them both into chicks. Still, with Sammy looking at him like that - some sort of weirdly soft variation on the way Sam’s always looked at him - he can’t help but feel like it’s going to work itself out somehow. They’re going to be ok.
“Hey,” he jumps in just as Sam’s closing the distance between their mouths again. More kissing is a fantastic idea, but he just can’t help himself - he has to know. “What did I say when I was talking to myself?”
Sam just grins.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 7,500
Warnings: first time, some comeplay (should I just make this a standard warning on all my fics?), temporarily-deaf!Dean, moderate angst, lots of schmoop
Notes: First - my LJ is being a bitch, so I apologize if this fucks up again. Second - I feel weird posting this since it vaguely deals with an actual disability so I'm just going to go ahead and disclaimer that this is all a cheap excuse for porn and doesn't reflect my opinions on or feelings toward hearing impared people nor is it in any way reflective of what the hearing impaired actually deal with. I'm making this a much bigger deal than it needs to be. Seriously, it's just porn.
Summary - "The back of Dean’s head probably makes a crack sound as it hits the tile wall, but of course, he doesn’t hear it, so his entire sensory perception is narrowed down to Sam’s rictus of a snarl way too close to his face, the heat of Sam’s palm burning into his chest through his t-shirt and the faint scent of sweat and spent gun powder and something that his brain can only supply as ‘Sammy’ filling his nostrils."
The first thing Dean’s aware of when he wakes up is the strange ache in his head, like a bubble of pain floating at the top of his skull. He must be in bed because he’s laying down, and while the mattress underneath him may be hard, it’s not nearly as bad as some of the stuff he’s woken up draped across over the years.
He groans and turns over, something in the back of his mind shouting ‘wrong’ but he can’t pinpoint what it is until he blinks his eyes open, automatically seeking to assure himself that the ‘wrong’ isn’t something with Sammy and finds his brother sitting on the opposite bed, staring at him with a kind of resigned concern that makes his skin crawl. He understands why the second he opens his mouth to ask. His lips move, his vocal cords vibrate, the air rushes from his mouth but there’s no sound.
Reflexively he claps a hand to his throat, like he needs to check that it’s still there, which is stupid, but he feels kind of justified because his voice is gone! His voice is gone! He repeats it over and over, can feel the muscles in his neck work, the tremors that should make noise but don’t for some reason and-
Sam catches his attention by flipping up the bright yellow notepad Dean hadn’t noticed was sitting in his lap. In fat, dark letters he’s written, Don’t freak out - yeah, because that’s going to fucking happen. Dean would tell his brother how fucking stupid that whole concept is except he doesn’t have a fucking voice! Of course he’s freaking out!
Now Sammy’s shaking his head, tapping his own neck, shaking his head again and then pointing to his ears. What? Sam’s lost his voice and he can’t hear? Oh! Oh fuck whatever did this to them because it is a fucking dead mother fucker as soon as Dean finds it and-
Ok, seriously, what’s with the head shaking?
His brother makes a frustrated face and lets out what should probably be a heavy sigh, but comes out silent. Wait, do you use your voice to sigh? Then he’s getting up, coming to kneel over on Dean’s bed and press gentle fingers to Dean’s throat. He swallows against the pressure on instinct, feeling out Sam’s soft touch with the bob of his Adam’s apple. Sam’s other hand forms a thumbs up sign, and he presses pointedly at Dean’s throat again and shakes his thumbs up. He worries at his lower lip for a moment before moving his hand again, slowly sliding it up to Dean’s ear. The gun calluses on his fingers rasp against the delicate shell silently and the look on Sammy’s face is like they just outlawed higher education and burned every known copy of the encyclopedia.
Oh God. He’s going to be sick. Dean has to get out of the bed right now or he’s going to puke all over both of them.
He’s deaf.
Sam rushes after him to the bathroom where all Dean manages are a couple of dry heaves of bile that he can feel click in his gullet but can’t hear. Oh shit. Oh fuck. He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of glory, taking out some big bad and saving people. Thought it would all end fast and bloody, but epic at least. This? This is so much worse.
What the hell is he good for now? He can’t hunt like this - he’d be dead in a week from the inevitable something getting the jump on him and even if he was willing to take that risk, he can’t saddle Sammy with half of a partner, get them both murdered. And he can’t send Sammy out there on his own to hunt, not without someone to watch his back.
Dean’s got no skills, barely a GED, he’s not cut out for civilian life, let alone disabled civilian life. Sitting around a house all day, doing whatever deaf people - hearing impaired, he has to be PC about it now because he’s one of them - do all day, getting old and reliving the glory days when his existence mattered. Maybe Sammy will at least get to have the life he’s always wanted; go back to school, settle down with a girl, have a couple of kids. Maybe Dean can even come over for holidays, you know, if Sam doesn’t mind having his good for nothing, shell of a brother hanging around, ruining everybody's good time.
The back of Dean’s head probably makes a crack sound as it hits the tile wall, but of course, he doesn’t hear it, so his entire sensory perception is narrowed down to Sam’s rictus of a snarl way too close to his face, the heat of Sam’s palm burning into his chest through his t-shirt and the faint scent of sweat and spent gun powder and something that his brain can only supply as ‘Sammy’ filling his nostrils. A flash of yellow shows him Sam’s notepad again, held up beside his brother’s face. Don’t freak out, emphasized by an angry furrow of Sam’s eyebrows. Awkwardly, Sam flips the page with one hand - the other still keeping Dean pinned up against the wall - revealing another note: It’s only temporary.
Dean stares at the words for a minute, letting them imprint on his brain. It’s only temporary. It’s only temporary!
When he looks back at Sam’s face, his brother still looks annoyed, but there’s a tremble at the corner of his lips that might be a burgeoning smile. Sammy nods at him in confirmation and flips the next page. Bobby says it should wear off - a week, 2 tops.
Alright, that’s significantly less appealing than the last message, but still, two weeks is worlds better than the rest of his life. His breathing eases up under Sam’s hand, only then aware of how close to the edge of hyperventilation he was. Sam’s hand smoothes up his chest to cup the side of his neck. Dean’s always been a tactile kind of guy, but the level of comfort he gets from that touch is almost shocking. He’s pretty sure he can actually feel Sam’s pulse and all he really wants at the moment is to hold it even closer so he can count the throb of blood in his brother’s veins.
Sam smiles and brings their foreheads together, tapping them a couple of times like he’s banging his head in frustration.
***
It only takes about 30 seconds in the shower for Dean to figure out he can’t handle being alone like this. He’s spent enough years seeing thousands of variations on ‘freaky shit happens’ to know that there’s nowhere completely safe, and has seen Psycho way too many times to ever feel totally at ease in a shower.
Worse even than the constant need to check through the steam behind him, always feeling like something will suddenly appear, is the realization that anything could be happening out in their room and Dean wouldn’t know. Somebody could come crashing through the front door and attack Sammy, could be trying to hurt him right fucking now, could have him screaming for Dean’s help and Dean wouldn’t even know.
The thought is terrifying enough that he barely manages to reign himself in long enough to rinse the shampoo out of his hair before he stumbles out of the shower, abandoning the idea of a towel altogether to make sure Sammy’s safe.
Sam’s lying on the bed when the bathroom door - presumably - bangs open; back braced against the headboard, laptop across his thighs. He rushes over to Dean as soon as he sets a soaked foot to the worn-out carpet, obviously as panicked that something’s gone wrong as Dean is. Dean plants his still-dripping hands on his little brother’s chest, soaking his shirt and assuring himself that everything’s ok, all of those bloody, half-formed images in his head fading with the warmth under his palms. Sam’s eyes searching him, seem reassured by the “I’m ok, it’s ok,” that Dean’s telling his mouth to say and can only hope comes out right.
He should be embarrassed, and maybe he will be later, but when he closes that last bit of space and gets Sam’s clothes, Sam’s heat, clinging to his wet body, his face pressed against Sam’s neck so he can feel each draw of breath against his forehead, he’s not ashamed at all of how much better it feels.
***
Sam keeps trying to convince him that they should go to Bobby’s, which is how Dean discovers one of the real plus sides to having to write down or pantomime everything they want to say to each other - much shorter arguments. Also, it makes it really easy to turn his head and refuse to acknowledge Sammy’s point.
It’s a point that he understands; that’s not the issue. Yes, certain things might be easier at Bobby’s - they’d have food on hand and a fridge big enough to hold more than one six-pack at a time, they know the place, so it’d be comfortable and there’d be more to do than try and find the channels with closed captioning - Sam still won’t let him use the laptop, afraid Dean will go looking for a hunt or something stupid like that. There’d be somebody else around to help Sammy take care of him.
If Dean’s being honest, that’s the reason he doesn’t want to go. He’s not humiliated by the loss or anything, and all things considered, he’s coping pretty well he thinks - most stuff isn’t particularly harder to do without hearing, it’s just a weird sensation he’s had to adjust to - it’s just that, well… See, realistically, most people who lose their hearing probably don’t become needy little bitches, but Dean sort of has - not that he’s about to admit that anywhere but the privacy of his own head - and it’s not a side of him that he’s particularly keen on Bobby witnessing.
It’s not that he needs Sam to do everything for him or anything like that; he’s got a handle on this shit, thank you very much. It’s not even that he’s scared for himself about something happening - every now and then the idea will crop up, but Dean’s damn good at what he does and hearing or not, he dares any fucking thing to come and try and take him out. Aint happening.
The thing is that he’s got ‘protect Sammy’ engraved on his DNA and unless he’s got Sam in his line of sight or under his hands, he can’t really be sure everything’s ok. It seems idiotic to imagine that every time he turns around Sammy’s going to disappear or get kidnapped or attacked, except it’s Sam and every single one of those things has happened to him more than once, so really, Dean’s just being prudent. He’s not actually sure why this hands-on solution never occurred to him before - maybe because Sam wouldn’t have let him get away with it then.
That first night he spends three hours lying there trying to keep the panic attack he’s having as quiet as possible. Finally he gives up and just moves over to Sam’s bed.
His brother wakes up with a jolt - he’s never taken to keeping a knife under his pillow like Dean, but he’s still ready for a fight - relaxing fractionally when he recognizes Dean’s shape in the darkness. Dean mutters “Not a word” at him, since it all seems to keep coming out ok even when he can’t hear that the sounds are right.
Sam’s hands find his face, gently pulling him up to look through the dark at his brother’s eyes. There’s not enough light to really see anything, but Sammy seems to find whatever answer he was looking for anyway because he releases Dean and eases himself back down.
Dean settles with his head on his little brother’s chest, his hand splayed out there as well to feel every thud of Sam’s slowly relaxing heartbeat. The smell of cheap laundry detergent fills his senses along with that warm Sammy scent he’s suddenly become much more attuned to and Dean closes his eyes to concentrate on it.
He sleeps like a baby.
***
It's the fourth day that he's woken up to a noiseless world when he realizes it. See, he's grabbing one of the half dozen legal pads Sammy sweet-talked the girl at the front desk out of so they can have their thrice daily throwdown about what to eat when he notices that the last thing they'd written out was yesterday's discussion about dinner, and immediately before that, yesterday’s discussion about lunch. In fact, flipping back through the pages while Sam watches him curiously, Dean realizes that they really haven't had to write much out since the afternoon of the second day.
He certainly doesn't feel like they haven't been communicating since then; in fact, he's reasonably sure they had a debate sometime yesterday afternoon about whether Pam Anderson was hotter back in the Home Improvement era or once her tits became inflatable. He's almost positive that didn't just happen in his head.
One time - one very drunk time - when Sammy was still his petulant, coltish teen self, Dad had confided to Dean that sometimes he felt like he was living in a foreign country with the two of them and he didn't know how to speak the language. Sammy probably would have taken it as an insult at the time, since he seemed inclined to take everything Dad said as an insult back then, but Dean understood what he meant.
He and Sam have always had a connection. Maybe because Dean's been taking care of him since before his brother could talk, or maybe just because they've had limitless hours to learn every nuance of the other. It’s always gone way beyond the need to actually put things out there in words, even though Sammy's always been fond of doing that anyway. It’s part of what's made them such a good team, a unit; their ability to read each other at a glance.
They'd lost some of it when Sam ran off to Stanford - even a bit before that, actually; probably when Sam started pulling away and keeping his plans a secret. It had hit Dean like a bullet in the back at the time, the realization that his brother had been looking at him all along and lying right to Dean's face; they lie to everyone else but not to each other. They've been steadily getting it back ever since Sam picked up a sawed-off again and now, looking at their twin spiky scrawl on the blue-lined paper, Dean realizes how far they've come.
Sam gives him a look that Dean can read the question in easy as pie and he shakes his head in answer, not quite quelling the smile he can feel turning his lips up. He flips the page and scrawls out chili dogs, bitch! big enough to take up a whole sheet of paper.
***
The shower thing only gets weirder.
Dean blames an overactive imagination and too many B-movie horrors for the way the image of Sam slipping in the tub and cracking his head wide open seems to live at the front of his mind every time Sam shuts the bathroom door.
He's been betting with himself on how long it's going to take before Sammy gets fed up with being mother henned all the time - ever since the kid hit puberty, anything more than a casual glance was liable to get you snapped at - but Sam hasn't so much as looked at him funny, not even when Dean takes to coming into the bathroom to shave while his brother's still in the shower, his outline milky and indistinct at the corner of Dean's eye through the translucent shower curtain. Nor does he say anything about Dean leaving the door open during his own world-fastest shower and, in fact, starts leaning up against the wall just outside the door where Dean can see him. Dean, as a result, ends up getting significantly cleaner after that.
If Sam notices the way Dean inexplicably gets hard every single time - hey, he's gotten off in so many showers over the years, running water alone could probably give him a stiffy - he at least has the tact not to point it out; the same way neither of them mentions how they both end up rock-hard every night pressed up against each other, fighting desperately not to fidget.
It's not exactly a surprise that by day five, one of them breaks. It's more of a surprise that Sammy's the one who does it - he can buck the stereotype all he wants, but Dean knows that he's the horny one of their dynamic duo.
Dean's running his electric razor around the curve of his jaw when he notices the motion. There's really only one thing that Sam can be doing in there, and even with nothing but the cloudy suggestion of a shape moving behind the curtain, Dean’s whole body goes rocket-hot in .2 seconds.
This isn't the first time he's ever seen Sammy get off, not by a long shot. Growing up practically on top of one another, sharing a bed half the time, there was really never a way to avoid knowing every last intimate detail about his brother's body and vice versa. Hell, it wouldn't even be a first for them if he were to reach in there right now and stroke his little brother's cock until he came all over Dean's fist. True, it would be the first time since Sammy up and walked out on him at eighteen, but aside from some proportions, he doubts the kid's that different.
Like the way he's tipping his head back right now, chest arching out as the blur of his arm speeds up - that's a classic sign that Sam's close. He's probably doing that soft little exhale he does, like the whisper-equivalent of a grunt. Probably twisting just a little as he gets to the top; it's not like the way you jack yourself off changes much over the years. Probably making that chirp sound like he used to when his muscles lock up and he loses it in his own hand, the musk of come dispersing in the steam-heavy air. Dean breathes it in deep, memory as good as time-travel for all the times they did this back in the day.
When Sam gets out of the shower and skins his wet hair back from his face, droplets beading on tan flesh, neither of them quite meets the other's eye. Dean turns once his brother has dried off, leading the way back into the bedroom and trying to ignore the way his dick his throbbing in the confines of his jeans.
He can't resist lapping up a stray bead of water on Sam's shoulder as he brushes past, and that's not exactly new either, but it sort of feel like it.
***
It's probably to be expected that things are different after that; the world sitting ever so slightly off-kilter, a fraction of a degree left of center. It's still enough to leave an opening between them, a foreign space they've never stepped into before, and that night, lying in bed with his little brother, Dean can't say that the alien sensation bubbling in his stomach is regret.
It had only been the third night when Dean had poked Sam in the ribs and told him to talk. He'd refused to lift his head from his baby brother's chest, but he had felt Sam looking at him funny. Still, it wasn't like Sam could exactly argue, and ultimately he'd given in. They've been going to bed like that ever since; Dean pressed in close to feel the vibrations of Sam's voice as he rattles off who knows what. There are moments Dean's curious whether it's secrets Sam's up there throwing into Dean's silence or all the emo bullshit Dean won't normally listen to or just old Latin drills Dad had made the do. With Sammy, it's anybody's guess.
Well, except maybe tonight he could figure out what Sam's saying if the way he's slowly shifting his hips - his hard-on - against Dean's leg is anything to go by. Dean pushes into it a little, permission and aid all in one. His hand twitches with the sudden desire to reach out and touch, feel Sam hot and stiff through his boxers and see if he's still the same down there as he was the last time. He doesn't, because there's a difference between trading handjobs with your brother when you're both young and horny and have no choice but to share a bed; it's a whole other thing to do it when that brother's a full-grown man who's been serious enough with a girl to be living with her, to fall apart over losing her. A whole other thing when the only reason you're sharing a bed is because some fucking creature left you temporarily deaf and touch-needy.
It occurs to him that he's probably the only person on the planet who's ever had that particular thought.
But then Sam makes it a moot point, sliding his own hand down his chest to cup himself through the worn-soft fabric of his boxers so there’s no room for Dean’s hand anyway. Jesus, Sam has big hands, even bigger than before he left for college; they’d probably feel amazing on him. And they do, because there’s the other one braced at the small of Dean’s back, pushing him in so he’s cradled snugly against the sharp cut of Sam’s hip. He feels tiny in this ridiculous way that just the couple of inches Sam has on him should not be able to make him, and it’s steadily climbing the list of the best things he's ever felt.
The rise and fall of the chest beneath Dean’s cheek is going jagged, heartbeat thundering beneath the skin, quivering as Sam babbles or moans or whatever the hell he’s doing. The mattress shakes slightly in rhythm with Sammy jacking himself - hand inside his boxers now, not even pretending he’s not doing it and Dean’s just pissed he's lost his view.
It takes him a minute to figure out that he’s rubbing up against his brother, has been for a while, riding that pain/pleasure razor as he thrusts steel-hard flesh up against the bite of Sam’s hip. It’s so good and he knows he’s making noise too, can feel it rolling through his throat along with gasped breaths, but he hasn’t got a clue what the reflexive sounds might be nor does he give a shit because he can’t hear them so there’s no point being embarrassed.
Sam’s fingertips are digging little bruises into the meat of his back, just above his ass, and Dean would be lying if he said that wasn’t pushing all kinds of buttons for him. He presses his own grip into the muscle of his brother’s thigh, fingernails dragging just a bit to leave dark pink crescents and apparently that little bit of pain-kink is something else they have in common because Sam’s body goes rigid against him and spurts of come darken his boxers.
Dean’s mouth floods wet and the circuit breaker in his brain trips. Or at least that’s the excuse he’s going to use if Sam decides to push the point later, because right now, there’s nothing in the world that’s going to stop him from reaching down there and tugging his little brother’s come-sticky hand up to his face to get a taste.
The flavor’s bitter and sharp and exactly what he wants, tongue snaking into the webbing as he works his hips hard against Sam’s body, so fucking close as Sam’s fingers leave wet smears on his face. It’s a shock when Sam’s tongue is there too, enough so that he gasps, eyes flying open to see his brother lapping at the milky fluid coating long, spidery fingers, white building up on slick pink as Sam keeps the motions slow as a strip-tease. Dean forgets entirely about Sam’s fingers and plunges his tongue through the cage of them to lap the taste right out of Sam’s mouth.
Sammy seems to be ok with that development, messy hand skidding down Dean’s neck over his chest, smudging him up as Sam licks him right back. For a while their tongues just tangle in the breath-warm air between them before Dean’s finally finds its way inside Sam and somewhere in the middle of it, it hits him that they’re kissing. He and Sam are kissing.
Dean goes off like a gunshot, his skin pulsing in bright tingles with each burst as he soaks himself. Sam’s hand cups around the back of his neck, holding him in place even when Dean can’t manage to do more than let his mouth hang open, swallowing whatever toneless sound he can feel ripping out of his throat.
Sam gentles him through the aftershocks with open, wet kisses and the feathery touch of his lips as he presses prayer-soft words into Dean’s skin. He wants to touch those words, taste them, feel Sam’s tongue curl against his own as each one forms and most of all he wants to fucking hear them so bad he’s all but shaking with it. He wants to know what Sam sounds like when it’s like this, not just a last resort but something they did together because they wanted it. God he hopes Sam wanted it, it sure as hell seemed like he did.
And, yeah, it’s a whole other level of shit he’s going to have to deal with, probably kind of soon, because this ‘I want to see/taste/touch every inch of my baby brother’ thing just does not feel as shiny and new as it ought to but it’s not going to be happening right now. Right now, he’s going to capture those sweet, silky lips with his own and do his level best to make sure Sammy forgets how to speak.
***
On the sixth day of living inside a silent movie it takes them a couple of extra hours to drag out of bed because Dean can’t force himself to quit making a topographical map of Sam’s mouth with his tongue and Sam appears equally dedicated to the cause. Once they do finally unstick themselves from the sweat- and come-stained sheets, it’s only long enough for them both to pile into the shower together at which point Dean learns that his brother’s gigantic hands feel approximately a billion times better on his cock than he could have possibly imagined. Like, his legs barely have enough strength in them to get him back to the bed again, still dripping air-cooled water all over the place while Sam tries half-heartedly to dry them both off - that’s how awesome it is.
Naturally, he’s not about to let that kind of indignity go unavenged, so he spends the next five minutes or so with Sam’s dick trying to wedge his throat open. It’s a lot fucking harder than it looks in porn to suck a guy off and getting a blow isn’t nearly the same as giving, but Sammy’s not complaining. Even without his hearing, Dean can tell that the look on Sam’s face has got nothing to do with dissatisfaction. The bitter heat spurting onto the flat of his tongue is also a hint.
By day seven, they’ve given up any pretense of doing anything but laying around and getting each other off all day, so they order in four pizzas - two meat lovers, two vegetarian - and spend the day watching Wheel of Fortune and any movie they can find with explosions in it. It’s actually kind of a lot like the shit he’s done with the few girls who’ve been worth more than a one night fling. It’s also pretty much exactly the shit they used to together do before Dean was old enough to sneak into bars and hustle pool while Dad was gone, just the two of them stuck in some hole in the wall motel, curled up together in one bed because that’s the way they were used to sleeping. He can’t decide which part of that line of thought is more disturbing.
He keeps anticipating some kind of freak out from Sam about all of this because not talking about this must be fucking killing the kid, but Sam seems mostly unfazed. Every now and again, he’ll look over at Dean with a wordless question in his eyes, searching Dean’s face for some sign he doesn’t know how to give but Sam still seems to find it every time anyway because then he’ll smile a little and Dean will feel him relax through whatever part of them happens to be touching at that moment. He honestly doesn’t know what to make of that but he’s survived for a long damn time on the ‘don’t ask questions you don’t have to’ policy so he skirts neatly around the whole idea.
It’s day nine that he realizes he’s going to have a problem because on day nine he wakes up to the almost-silent thrum of Sam’s heart beating.
His head is pillowed on Sam's chest and every time he feels the thump of his brother's pulse, he gets a faint tha-thump whuffing through his ear. Dean's own pulse kicks into overdrive. It's stupid, they both knew - hell, hoped - this was going to happen. They'd been anticipating it tacitly all this time, but the reality of getting his hearing back is so jarringly frightening he doesn't know how to cope.
What if this has all been some limited time thing? Some weird, protective instinct of Sam's; pulling a Florence Nightengale or whatever. What if all of the touching and the kissing and the rubbing and the sucking is going to end now that Dean's getting back to normal? He hasn't even gotten to fuck Sam yet, damnit! And fuck all the dirtybadwrong all to hell because there's no way he's ever going to stop craving it like an itch under his skin.
He's got a very limited time to make a decision here before Sam's spidey-sense wakes him up from Dean being so tense. Option #1 - come clean, tell Sam his hearing is coming back and resign himself to whatever happens after that. Option #2 - come clean, tell Sam his hearing is coming back and pounce on him like a starving man at a buffet before his brother has a chance to tell Dean about all the reasons they can't do this. Option #3 - be a total chickenshit and pretend like nothing's changed.
Fine, so he's a chickenshit. He's a chickenshit with Sam's long fingers petting at the back of his head as he sucks at the silky-thin skin of his little brother's sac, so it's an ok trade off.
Sammy kisses him like he's dying for it afterward, like he can crawl right into Dean's skin if he just tries hard enough, with the sharp musk of come and sleep-sour breath still lingering between their tongues. And fuck, but the way he sounds. All breathy and deep and manly in this way that should not turn Dean on but just fucking does it for him. He can't even think about stopping, needs every last blurt of noise out of his brother like he needs air.
They're both naked and the room is just the pleasant side of warm that leaves their skin clinging together, getting friction-sticky with the mess of fresh precome and flaky dried come from last night. It's all tacky and sweet, just gritty enough to rasp up his spine like fur rubbed the wrong way.
There's something epically wrong with his brain that it makes him think of Sam's hands back when they were little, how they somehow seemed to find every drop of jelly or Elmer's glue in a ten mile radius to get covered in and leave dirty little fingerprints all over the place. Of stripping him down and plopping him in the bathtub because once Sam's hands were sticky, the whole rest of him inevitably was too. Of how they'd both end up soaked to the skin because in the water Sam had all the grace and majesty of a baby duck. Of bundling Sammy into a scratchy motel towel that could cover his whole body and rubbing and scrubbing and tickling until all his brother could do was laugh "Dean, Dean, Dean" over and over again. Of how that little boy turned into this man and Dean's the only one who can still see it inside; all the small innocent, hopeful bits that this life has never managed to kill, the things it's always been Dean's job to protect.
It's dozen different kind of fucked up that that's the shit that makes Dean lose it in ten seconds flat. That even though it's a whole different kind of touching now, it's still "Dean, Dean, Dean" that's coming out of Sam's mouth.
He follows it up with a bunch of moderately incoherent things about Dean being beautiful and sexy and loving him that make several of Dean's vital organs squirm in this way that simultaneously make him want to hide his face and kind of maybe never stop listening to them. It's weird. The whole thing is fucking weird and Dean doesn't say a word because he's not supposed to hear.
***
Turns out it's a lot harder to pretend to be deaf than he'd initially thought. Not talking isn't so hard, he's got years of practice on that one under his belt, but not reacting is much harder. His internal stereo system isn't cranked all the way to eleven yet but it's still sharp enough to hear it when Sam rustles the notepad as he advocates for Thai over Chinese so he can get that bizarre tofu thing that Dean has the overwhelming urge to salt and burn every time. Or when he accidentally drops the remote off the bed close enough that Dean could reach down and grab it, but he's not supposed to know it fell. Or when he makes this little noise that is absolutely nowhere in the extensive catalogue of Sammy-sounds in Dean's head when he curls up behind Dean and starts nibbling up the back of his neck. Or, hardest of all, when he whispers dirty, sugary little things against Dean's skin that flutter around in his belly and make him want.
It gets better when Sam gives him something to do besides fight the urge to say "yes, do it, c'mon" by pressing two fingers into Dean's mouth, spread around his tongue, caressing him on the inside. He's got a pretty damn good idea of where that little prelude is headed and he sucks harder on them like approval.
It's not exactly virgin territory for him; there have been pretty girls with slim, polish-tipped fingers sliding up inside him to make that peak nail him even harder, a couple of really kinky ones who got their tongues in on the act. It's still nothing close to what Sam's packing downstairs and he can’t decide if that fist squeezing his chest tight is panic or desire.
Doesn't really matter in the end, though, because when Sam pulls his fingers free - moaning like a damn pornstar for the teasing flick of Dean's tongue chasing them - they don't go sliding down between his legs like he's expecting. In fact, he doesn't figure out where the hell they went until Sam gives up this gorgeous little moan-gasp and then he has to get a hand clamped down on his cock just to keep from coming. Christ, he's...
Dean flips over so fast it's nothing but pure dumb luck that he doesn't clock Sammy in the jaw with his shoulder. Somewhere, sometime, there's probably been something hotter than Sam's arm stretched back to finger himself open with his big brother’s spit, but Dean would really have to see it to believe because holy fucking hell.
Sam’s eyes are open just about as much as his mouth, tiny little slivers of space that shows wide pupil and wet tongue. The muscles in his arm ripple under smooth skin as Dean tries to match the motions up with what his brother’s hand is doing, what it must look like, feel like. On the edges of his newly regained sense he hears a car honk but all he’s really making out is the stunted sound of Sam’s breath mixing with his own, hard and desperate as his dripping cock.
“Touch me,” Sam says, little hitch of his head added in like Dean had designs on getting his hands anywhere but exactly where Sam’s is. He follows through without a second thought, rides his own palm down the path of Sam’s powerful arm and over a delicate-boned wrist, further until he hits knuckle and then immediately, damp, stretched-taut skin. A ragged groan rips out of him to match Sam’s, dick jerking so hard with a thick spurt of precome that for a second he’s absolutely sure he’s going to lose it just like this, like a damn kid.
Instantly, instinctually, he’s gathering the fluid up, sliding his fingers back around to slick it over Sam’s hole. His face is buried against his brother’s neck, this close to overloaded on the feel and the smell and the fucking sounds. Jesus.
Then his brother commands, “Do it,” and Dean sinks one in right alongside Sam’s, tight silky heat sucking at him.
He’s got a snap of a second to enjoy it and then, just that fast, Sam’s shoving him over onto his back, climbing up on top of him and his whole thought process shorts out. This is really happening. This is actually really happening. Ten days ago he’d have never thought twice about fucking his baby brother, probably would have decked anyone who even suggested it. Now that’s Sam looking like heaven itself straddling his hips, Sam’s big hand steadying Dean’s cock, Sam’s tight little hole clenching and unclenching just enough to feel like it’s mouthing at his leaking slit.
Sam, looking down at him and asking, “This morning?”
All Dean can do is nod stupidly and go blind when his eyes roll back in his head because Sam doesn’t question it, doesn’t bitch or scowl or any other fucking thing besides sit right down on Dean’s cock like they’re two pieces made to fit together - insert tab A into slot fucking B.
His brother makes that sound again and later Dean’s going to have to do some extensive field research to figure out if that’s a good noise or not but for now he’s just going to smack the mattress with his hand because that is exactly the level of coherency he is capable of. Sam must correctly interpret this to be a sign of approval since he repeats that same filthy swivel that makes Dean’s skin sputter-spark and catch ablaze.
There can’t be nearly enough slick for this to be comfortable for Sam, not when even Dean’s dick - whilst doing its internal touchdown dance of joy - is noting the fact that this is a lot like being trapped in a hot, velvet vice. In the best of all possible ways, of course. Sam rolls with it like a pro anyway, getting a slow motion going, taking it easy so that more and more of Dean’s cock slides out each time just to be swallowed up again.
Hell, maybe Sam’s done this before - not like ass-fucking’s ever come up in the conversation - it would sure explain how he can looks so calm and blissed out up there when Dean’s on the verge of flailing all over like an octopus just to have something to do with all of the energy pinballing around inside of him. Chalk that up to something else he’s going to deal with later because while he sure as fuck wants to know if he’s popping Sam’s ass cherry or not, now is not the time. Now is the time for hanging onto whatever he can get hold of for dear life and watching Sam ride him like he’s in the mother fucking rodeo. Brother-fucking rodeo. Whatever.
“You like that? Feel good?” Sam growls like there’s even a fucking question. Dean’s answer comes out more “Oh, fuck, Sammy,” than the “yes, it feels very nice, actually. Let’s not ever do anything but this for the rest of our lives, ok?” he’d been thinking, but he figures the point gets across anyway.
“Yeah, so good, Dean. Always wanted- ngh! Always. Always. Christ, Dean! Yeah. Fuck me. Fuck me like you mean it, c’mon.”
And Dean does, because he sure as hell means it. Just pulls his feet in to get as much traction as he can manage and slams up the next time Sam slides down, jolting this groan out of his brother that Dean can actually see rolling all the way up from his gut. From there on out all he can hear is Sam panting, “Like that, just like that, oh God,” and the harsh slap of flesh on sweat-sticky flesh. It’s a damn fine soundtrack; maybe they can get a recording of it for the Impala. Then again they’d probably do a lot more fucking on the side of the road than driving. Dean can’t actually think of a reason that would be a bad thing.
Time being, he’s just going to ignore all of those questions about whether this is going to keep happening. He needs this now and it seems a lot like Sam does too, so logistical issues aside, Dean’s not giving it up - simple as that.
It’s not until Sam locks up like Fort Knox around him that it occurs to Dean that neither of them has touched his brother’s dick. Evidently it didn’t get that memo because it’s busy spitting out hot, ropey wads of come all over Dean’s chest. There is no known universe in which that fact should make Dean blow his load like a trigger pull. That, in no way, stops it from happening.
The noise that grinds out of him as the world turns to static fuzz and he pumps deep inside of his brother comes out a lot like Sam’s name.
“So how long did you think you could go without me noticing?” Sam asks, a couple of decades too soon for Dean’s brain to be working again. At least his heart isn’t trying to explode anymore. The smooth sheath of muscle still wrapped around him flexes and Dean lets out whatever’s the manliest equivalent to a whimper.
“I dunno,” is the only answer he’s got. It’s not exactly like this was a well thought out plan.
Sam’s braced over him, a hand on either side of Dean’s head, watching all casual like he doesn’t currently have Dean’s softening dick holding his ass open. Oh shit, he needs to not think things like that or there’s going to be a serious issue in the ‘softening’ department. He is not sixteen anymore, he’s supposed to have a little bit of recovery time or else he’s going to strain something and wouldn’t that just be embarrassing as all fuck? Sam’d never let him live it down.
“You talk to yourself when you can’t hear it. That was the first big tip off,” Sam informs him, slowly relaxing down until they’re chest to chest, sliding around on a sheen of sweat. “You were too quiet.”
“Yeah, well, “ Dean shrugs, “you know what they say about the quiet ones.” He’s not entirely sure when he decided to pet through Sam’s hair, but it feels nice and makes Sam’s eyelids droop to half-mast so he goes with it.
“They murder you in your sleep?” his brother mumbles back, all contented sighs and slow smiles.
“They’re the best lays.”
“Oh. Well that explains it. Should have known better than to get it on with a loudmouth like you.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Sam’s lips meet his, barely even a kiss with both of them smiling too big like a couple of saps. Evidently having sex with a dude has turned them both into chicks. Still, with Sammy looking at him like that - some sort of weirdly soft variation on the way Sam’s always looked at him - he can’t help but feel like it’s going to work itself out somehow. They’re going to be ok.
“Hey,” he jumps in just as Sam’s closing the distance between their mouths again. More kissing is a fantastic idea, but he just can’t help himself - he has to know. “What did I say when I was talking to myself?”
Sam just grins.