SPN FIC: Call It Education
Title: Call It Education
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,500
Notes: This is pretty much just porn for porn's sake, and is entirely due to this picture (**promo shot for 8x13**, not very spoilery but click at your own risk!). I said all he needed was some glasses to complete the outfit, quickreaver said he should be reciting Latin, and then this fic happened. I make no apologies. It's based on what Sam is wearing, but there are no spoilers beyond that. Thanks to the_reverand for looking it over! <3
Summary: Sam buys a new costume for a job, and Dean really likes it.
Their duffels were full of costumes accumulated over the years -- overalls and fed suits, hard hats and tool belts, priest dog collars and even (for one ill-advised hunt that Dean still refused to talk about) leather pants and biker gloves. Sam had rifled through looking for the right outfit for their current job but nothing seemed to fit for the character he had to play. He had to get past the University’s security and then sweet-talk the curator into letting him into the library’s unique collection of ancient manuscripts, which was guarded more heavily than Fort Knox.
His visiting professor’s ID was shoddy at best and he didn’t have any references beyond a fake letter from an eminent researcher he’d never met. To make up for that, he’d really have to look the part. His usual clothes were too casual, his suits and ties too formal. No, he knew what he needed to look like, but he’d have to buy some new clothes. Conveniently, his new credit card had just come in (cardholder name: Mike Hunt, ‘cause Dean had filled out the application and still had the sense of humor of a 12 year old), and there was a mall just down the road from their motel.
“Retail therapy, Sammy? You know new shoes and a purse aren’t truly going to make you happy,” Dean said as he dropped him off there on their way back from dinner.
“Bite me,” Sam said through the open window, and Dean waggled his eyebrows at him and took off with a squeal of tires.
He found what he was looking for quickly enough, mainly thanks to a friendly sales attendant. A little too friendly, honestly, with his elevator eyes and his flirty smile -- Christ, he couldn’t be more than 18, and thank fuck Dean wasn’t there to see it or Sam never would’ve heard the end of it -- but he seemed to have a knack for correctly estimating Sam’s size, and the whole process was relatively painless.
Sam bundled his new clothes under his arm (crumpled the sales attendant’s phone number and dropped it into a trash can as soon as he was out of sight), stopped at Walgreens on his way for one last purchase, and took his time walking back to the motel, breathing in the cool evening air.
Dean was already half-asleep in front of the television, heavy-lidded eyes and mussed hair, a beer in one hand, scratching his stomach with the other. He looked exhausted. They’d travelled for nearly 20 hours straight to get to this town, and he’d done the brunt of the driving.
“How was shopping, honey? Find anything cute?” he asked, his lips turned into a teasing smirk. Sam tossed him the bag of M&Ms he’d grabbed at Walgreens, hitting him in the stomach. Dean’s ‘oof’ turned into an appreciative smile when he saw what it was and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Shut up.” He dumped his shopping bags, grabbed a beer from the six-pack on the floor between the beds, and settled down against the pillows with a contented groan. He sighed when he realized what was playing on TV, shook his head and fought an exasperated smile. “This again? Seriously?”
“Die Hard is a classic. Be quiet.”
*
Dean was still asleep when Sam got back from his morning run, grumbled something unintelligible into his pillow when Sam smacked his foot as he passed him by and headed towards the bathroom, grabbing his new bag of clothes on the way.
His appointment with the library’s curator wasn’t until 1pm, but he might as well put them on now, so they wouldn’t have to come back to their room in the middle of the day.
Sam showered and shaved and got dressed, eyeing himself critically in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. That twinky sales attendant had been good -- the slacks were well fitting and just the right length, the shirt fit perfectly across his shoulders. Sam fastened the buttons at his wrists, pulled on the tan sweatervest (a fucking sweatervest, Dean was going to love that), and slipped into a gray sport coat, the only item he hadn’t had to buy. He combed his fingers through his hair and straightened his sleeves, nodding at his own reflection. He wouldn’t have looked out of place giving a lecture at Stanford dressed liked this.The only thing that was missing was the glasses.
Sam pulled the silver wire frames out of his last shopping bag and slipped them on, pleased with himself for managing to find glasses with fake lenses on such short notice.
Dean was awake when Sam emerged from the bathroom. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, a t-shirt he was about to put on held in one hand. He looked up when he heard the door open and froze, except for his eyebrows that went straight up, almost into his hairline.
Sam sighed. “Yeah, I know. But dude, I’m supposed to be a professor. Nerd is kind of the point.”
Dean dropped his t-shirt onto the floor and pushed himself up, his bare feet silent on the carpet as he stepped closer.
“Is this really what professors look like? Man, I missed out.” He circled around Sam with an appreciative low whistle.
Sam laughed, caught off guard and a bit embarrassed. This wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d expected. “Seriously? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a fetish for academia.”
“You say academia, I say sexy librarian,” Dean countered, stopping in front of Sam, so close now that his bare chest was brushing against Sam’s jacket. His pink nipples were pebbled and his neck was flushed, a clear sign of arousal. He wasn’t just messing with Sam, he was actually turned on by this getup. If Sam had known, he’d have exploited this weakness years ago.
He’d grown up soaking in his brother’s attention and he still craved it, even now. Especially now, when it was all focus and hunger, his eyes riveted on Sam like he was the only thing Dean had ever wanted.
“So... are you going to get dressed so we can grab breakfast?” Sam said, fighting a smile because he was pretty sure he already knew what Dean’s reply was going to be. It was there in the curl of his lips, in the way his hand grasped Sam’s elbow.
“I think I’ve got my breakfast right here, Sammy.”
“You’re so predictable,” Sam said, but he didn’t resist when Dean manhandled him across the room. Not like he was going to fight it, not when Dean was looking at him like that, pushing Sam into the armchair under the window, pushing his thighs open and sinking to his knees in front of him.
Sam gripped the armrests and sat back as Dean made quick work of Sam’s belt, sliding it through the hoops and tossing it over his shoulder. Sam was already hard, pushing up against his zipper and Dean leaned forward, mouthing against his dick beneath the dark blue cloth.
“God, Sammy. You look good like this. You look smart. You are smart. You’d have made a hell of a hot professor.”
Sam didn’t feel very smart, though, not now with Dean’s lips framing the outline of his cock, the pressure delicious and nowhere near enough, his breath hot through the fabric. Sam fumbled with the buttons of his fly and pulled the zip down and Dean’s hand plunged in immediately. He closed his fingers around Sam’s cock and pulled it out of his boxers, carefully tucking the elastic under his balls and pushing them up. It looked so much more obscene like this, his dick sticking out of the open V of his pants, the rest of his body still clothed. He was even still wearing his sport coat, it was ridiculous.
“Talk to me,” Dean said, brushing his nose softly against the underside of Sam’s cock, a feather-light touch that made Sam groan in frustration. Dean’s breaths were damp and hot against the sensitive skin of his balls and Sam spread his legs a bit wider, slouching in his seat.
“Oh, Christ.”
“Come on, Professor,” Dean wheedled, pressing his lips wetly at the base of the shaft, following it by the barest touch of his tongue. Sam squirmed, fit one hand at the back of Dean’s neck, fighting the urge to just thumb his jaw open and slide right in -- he doubted that would fly right now, Dean seemed intent on steering and Sam wasn’t going to fight it. “Use your words.”
“Fuck. What--” His hips gave a little jerk when Dean wrapped his hand around Sam’s dick, his thumb pressing just below the head. “What do you want me to say? You want me to compose sonnets about your mouth?” God, he was starting to sweat, his shirt clinging to the small of his back. His glasses slid down the slope of his nose and he pushed them back up. “An ode to your cocksucking skills?”
Dean grinned, giving a teasing little lick to the head, just above the ring of his fingers. “Tempting, but no.” He rubbed the head of Sam’s dick across his mouth, spreading pre-come all over his lips.
“Will you just-- Please.”
“Speak Latin to me.”
Sam laughed, a short, surprised bark. He squeezed the back of Dean’s neck, equal parts amused and frustrated. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “You’re kidding me.”
“Go on, college boy. You know Latin.”
Sam groaned and opened his eyes again just in time to see Dean lean forward again, teasing Sam’s cock with tiny licks, flicking his tongue against the slit. Sam’s hips rose again of their own volition but Dean pushed him back down, the fingers of his free hand digging into hipbones. Dean’s eyes were glittering as he moved his hand up and down, the touch too light to be remotely satisfying. He was enjoying this far too much.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think, would have been hard pressed to spell out his own name, much less come up with sentences in a dead language. “Christo,” he said, half-heartedly.
Dean laughed, his lips against the crown of Sam’s dick, and the resulting vibrations made him groan pitifully. “Come on, Professor. You can do better than that.”
There was really only one thing that Sam could be sure to get right under those circumstances, the only Latin he’d memorized that was ingrained so deeply by now that he could (and had) manage to spit out the words while half-concussed or drunk. “I’m going to get you back for this,” he grunted, moving his hand to Dean’s cheek, thumb at the corner of his lips. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” he began, and Dean smirked.
“Losing points for creativity, but alright, that works,” he said, and finally, finally closed his lips around Sam’s cock and sucked him down. Sam watched as Dean took him all the way into his throat, his nose brushing Sam’s stomach, then pulled back. “Keep going,” he said.
“Fuck. Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio--”
Dean grunted appreciatively and started sucking him in earnest, working his mouth up and down.
“--omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” Sam kept reciting the exorcism, his mouth working independently of his brain -- which was good, because all of his brain power was focused on not thrusting up into that hot mouth, on trying to hold back from coming at the sight of Dean on his knees in front of him, practically naked between Sam’s clothed thighs, his mouth stretched wide and obscene, his chin glistening with spit. His grip on Sam’s hip was bordering on painful and it made the muscles of his arm strain and stand out. His other hand was down the front of his boxers, moving rhythmically, and Sam realized with a moan that he was jerking himself off.
“Oh, fuck. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare...”
Dean picked up the pace and Sam lost it then, wasn’t even sure what he was saying or even if he was still speaking at all. His hips snapped forward and he came with a moan, a toe-curling orgasm that rushed through him like a wave. When he came to it was to the sound of Dean pulling off with a wet-sounding pop. Sam opened his eyes and found Dean staring back at him, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and looking pleased even though his eyes were watering.
“Come up here,” Sam said, his grip weak around Dean’s forearm, but Dean stayed where he was.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said, his voice hoarse from the abuse.
Sam arched an eyebrow and Dean flushed high on his cheeks, looking embarrassed. Sure enough, when he stood up, his dick was softening in his boxers, the fabric damp and sticky.
“Hunh. So the professor look really does it for you, does it? That’s good to know.”
“Shut up,” Dean croaked, but allowed himself to be pulled down until he was straddling Sam’s lap, his knees digging into the cushions on either side of Sam’s tighs. They kissed slowly, tongues swirling together. Sam moaned at the taste of his come lingering in Dean’s mouth and Dean ran his hand over his cheek and into his hair. It wasn’t until Dean pulled back with a smirk that Sam realized that he’d wiped his other hand across Sam’s chest, smearing his own come against the beige wool.
“Dean! What the hell?!”
Dean shrugged, unapologetic, got back up and pulled Sam to his feet.
“I have to wear this to an appointment in like three hours, you jerk!”
“You’re cranky for a guy who’s just had his brains sucked out through his dick.”
“Gross. Thanks for that imagery.”
Dean gave him his best bratty smile, and Sam was torn between the urge to punch him and kiss him again. Dean stepped away and headed towards the bathroom. “There’s a laundromat next door, Professor,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m out of clean socks anyway.”
Sam grimaced at the mess Dean had made of his clothes, but the truth was that he wasn’t that annoyed. His shirt was nearly soaked through with sweat anyway, and it had been a pretty fantastic blowjob.
He cleaned up and changed into his regular clothes, stuffing his professor getup into a bag with the rest of their dirty laundry.
They were almost out the door when Sam remembered the glasses he was wearing. He reached up to take them off, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his elbow.
“Leave ‘em on,” he said. He didn’t say anything else, but his dirty smile was promising.
Sam rolled his eyes, just for show, but he complied.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,500
Notes: This is pretty much just porn for porn's sake, and is entirely due to this picture (**promo shot for 8x13**, not very spoilery but click at your own risk!). I said all he needed was some glasses to complete the outfit, quickreaver said he should be reciting Latin, and then this fic happened. I make no apologies. It's based on what Sam is wearing, but there are no spoilers beyond that. Thanks to the_reverand for looking it over! <3
Summary: Sam buys a new costume for a job, and Dean really likes it.
Their duffels were full of costumes accumulated over the years -- overalls and fed suits, hard hats and tool belts, priest dog collars and even (for one ill-advised hunt that Dean still refused to talk about) leather pants and biker gloves. Sam had rifled through looking for the right outfit for their current job but nothing seemed to fit for the character he had to play. He had to get past the University’s security and then sweet-talk the curator into letting him into the library’s unique collection of ancient manuscripts, which was guarded more heavily than Fort Knox.
His visiting professor’s ID was shoddy at best and he didn’t have any references beyond a fake letter from an eminent researcher he’d never met. To make up for that, he’d really have to look the part. His usual clothes were too casual, his suits and ties too formal. No, he knew what he needed to look like, but he’d have to buy some new clothes. Conveniently, his new credit card had just come in (cardholder name: Mike Hunt, ‘cause Dean had filled out the application and still had the sense of humor of a 12 year old), and there was a mall just down the road from their motel.
“Retail therapy, Sammy? You know new shoes and a purse aren’t truly going to make you happy,” Dean said as he dropped him off there on their way back from dinner.
“Bite me,” Sam said through the open window, and Dean waggled his eyebrows at him and took off with a squeal of tires.
He found what he was looking for quickly enough, mainly thanks to a friendly sales attendant. A little too friendly, honestly, with his elevator eyes and his flirty smile -- Christ, he couldn’t be more than 18, and thank fuck Dean wasn’t there to see it or Sam never would’ve heard the end of it -- but he seemed to have a knack for correctly estimating Sam’s size, and the whole process was relatively painless.
Sam bundled his new clothes under his arm (crumpled the sales attendant’s phone number and dropped it into a trash can as soon as he was out of sight), stopped at Walgreens on his way for one last purchase, and took his time walking back to the motel, breathing in the cool evening air.
Dean was already half-asleep in front of the television, heavy-lidded eyes and mussed hair, a beer in one hand, scratching his stomach with the other. He looked exhausted. They’d travelled for nearly 20 hours straight to get to this town, and he’d done the brunt of the driving.
“How was shopping, honey? Find anything cute?” he asked, his lips turned into a teasing smirk. Sam tossed him the bag of M&Ms he’d grabbed at Walgreens, hitting him in the stomach. Dean’s ‘oof’ turned into an appreciative smile when he saw what it was and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Shut up.” He dumped his shopping bags, grabbed a beer from the six-pack on the floor between the beds, and settled down against the pillows with a contented groan. He sighed when he realized what was playing on TV, shook his head and fought an exasperated smile. “This again? Seriously?”
“Die Hard is a classic. Be quiet.”
*
Dean was still asleep when Sam got back from his morning run, grumbled something unintelligible into his pillow when Sam smacked his foot as he passed him by and headed towards the bathroom, grabbing his new bag of clothes on the way.
His appointment with the library’s curator wasn’t until 1pm, but he might as well put them on now, so they wouldn’t have to come back to their room in the middle of the day.
Sam showered and shaved and got dressed, eyeing himself critically in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. That twinky sales attendant had been good -- the slacks were well fitting and just the right length, the shirt fit perfectly across his shoulders. Sam fastened the buttons at his wrists, pulled on the tan sweatervest (a fucking sweatervest, Dean was going to love that), and slipped into a gray sport coat, the only item he hadn’t had to buy. He combed his fingers through his hair and straightened his sleeves, nodding at his own reflection. He wouldn’t have looked out of place giving a lecture at Stanford dressed liked this.The only thing that was missing was the glasses.
Sam pulled the silver wire frames out of his last shopping bag and slipped them on, pleased with himself for managing to find glasses with fake lenses on such short notice.
Dean was awake when Sam emerged from the bathroom. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, a t-shirt he was about to put on held in one hand. He looked up when he heard the door open and froze, except for his eyebrows that went straight up, almost into his hairline.
Sam sighed. “Yeah, I know. But dude, I’m supposed to be a professor. Nerd is kind of the point.”
Dean dropped his t-shirt onto the floor and pushed himself up, his bare feet silent on the carpet as he stepped closer.
“Is this really what professors look like? Man, I missed out.” He circled around Sam with an appreciative low whistle.
Sam laughed, caught off guard and a bit embarrassed. This wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d expected. “Seriously? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a fetish for academia.”
“You say academia, I say sexy librarian,” Dean countered, stopping in front of Sam, so close now that his bare chest was brushing against Sam’s jacket. His pink nipples were pebbled and his neck was flushed, a clear sign of arousal. He wasn’t just messing with Sam, he was actually turned on by this getup. If Sam had known, he’d have exploited this weakness years ago.
He’d grown up soaking in his brother’s attention and he still craved it, even now. Especially now, when it was all focus and hunger, his eyes riveted on Sam like he was the only thing Dean had ever wanted.
“So... are you going to get dressed so we can grab breakfast?” Sam said, fighting a smile because he was pretty sure he already knew what Dean’s reply was going to be. It was there in the curl of his lips, in the way his hand grasped Sam’s elbow.
“I think I’ve got my breakfast right here, Sammy.”
“You’re so predictable,” Sam said, but he didn’t resist when Dean manhandled him across the room. Not like he was going to fight it, not when Dean was looking at him like that, pushing Sam into the armchair under the window, pushing his thighs open and sinking to his knees in front of him.
Sam gripped the armrests and sat back as Dean made quick work of Sam’s belt, sliding it through the hoops and tossing it over his shoulder. Sam was already hard, pushing up against his zipper and Dean leaned forward, mouthing against his dick beneath the dark blue cloth.
“God, Sammy. You look good like this. You look smart. You are smart. You’d have made a hell of a hot professor.”
Sam didn’t feel very smart, though, not now with Dean’s lips framing the outline of his cock, the pressure delicious and nowhere near enough, his breath hot through the fabric. Sam fumbled with the buttons of his fly and pulled the zip down and Dean’s hand plunged in immediately. He closed his fingers around Sam’s cock and pulled it out of his boxers, carefully tucking the elastic under his balls and pushing them up. It looked so much more obscene like this, his dick sticking out of the open V of his pants, the rest of his body still clothed. He was even still wearing his sport coat, it was ridiculous.
“Talk to me,” Dean said, brushing his nose softly against the underside of Sam’s cock, a feather-light touch that made Sam groan in frustration. Dean’s breaths were damp and hot against the sensitive skin of his balls and Sam spread his legs a bit wider, slouching in his seat.
“Oh, Christ.”
“Come on, Professor,” Dean wheedled, pressing his lips wetly at the base of the shaft, following it by the barest touch of his tongue. Sam squirmed, fit one hand at the back of Dean’s neck, fighting the urge to just thumb his jaw open and slide right in -- he doubted that would fly right now, Dean seemed intent on steering and Sam wasn’t going to fight it. “Use your words.”
“Fuck. What--” His hips gave a little jerk when Dean wrapped his hand around Sam’s dick, his thumb pressing just below the head. “What do you want me to say? You want me to compose sonnets about your mouth?” God, he was starting to sweat, his shirt clinging to the small of his back. His glasses slid down the slope of his nose and he pushed them back up. “An ode to your cocksucking skills?”
Dean grinned, giving a teasing little lick to the head, just above the ring of his fingers. “Tempting, but no.” He rubbed the head of Sam’s dick across his mouth, spreading pre-come all over his lips.
“Will you just-- Please.”
“Speak Latin to me.”
Sam laughed, a short, surprised bark. He squeezed the back of Dean’s neck, equal parts amused and frustrated. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “You’re kidding me.”
“Go on, college boy. You know Latin.”
Sam groaned and opened his eyes again just in time to see Dean lean forward again, teasing Sam’s cock with tiny licks, flicking his tongue against the slit. Sam’s hips rose again of their own volition but Dean pushed him back down, the fingers of his free hand digging into hipbones. Dean’s eyes were glittering as he moved his hand up and down, the touch too light to be remotely satisfying. He was enjoying this far too much.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think, would have been hard pressed to spell out his own name, much less come up with sentences in a dead language. “Christo,” he said, half-heartedly.
Dean laughed, his lips against the crown of Sam’s dick, and the resulting vibrations made him groan pitifully. “Come on, Professor. You can do better than that.”
There was really only one thing that Sam could be sure to get right under those circumstances, the only Latin he’d memorized that was ingrained so deeply by now that he could (and had) manage to spit out the words while half-concussed or drunk. “I’m going to get you back for this,” he grunted, moving his hand to Dean’s cheek, thumb at the corner of his lips. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” he began, and Dean smirked.
“Losing points for creativity, but alright, that works,” he said, and finally, finally closed his lips around Sam’s cock and sucked him down. Sam watched as Dean took him all the way into his throat, his nose brushing Sam’s stomach, then pulled back. “Keep going,” he said.
“Fuck. Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio--”
Dean grunted appreciatively and started sucking him in earnest, working his mouth up and down.
“--omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” Sam kept reciting the exorcism, his mouth working independently of his brain -- which was good, because all of his brain power was focused on not thrusting up into that hot mouth, on trying to hold back from coming at the sight of Dean on his knees in front of him, practically naked between Sam’s clothed thighs, his mouth stretched wide and obscene, his chin glistening with spit. His grip on Sam’s hip was bordering on painful and it made the muscles of his arm strain and stand out. His other hand was down the front of his boxers, moving rhythmically, and Sam realized with a moan that he was jerking himself off.
“Oh, fuck. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare...”
Dean picked up the pace and Sam lost it then, wasn’t even sure what he was saying or even if he was still speaking at all. His hips snapped forward and he came with a moan, a toe-curling orgasm that rushed through him like a wave. When he came to it was to the sound of Dean pulling off with a wet-sounding pop. Sam opened his eyes and found Dean staring back at him, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and looking pleased even though his eyes were watering.
“Come up here,” Sam said, his grip weak around Dean’s forearm, but Dean stayed where he was.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said, his voice hoarse from the abuse.
Sam arched an eyebrow and Dean flushed high on his cheeks, looking embarrassed. Sure enough, when he stood up, his dick was softening in his boxers, the fabric damp and sticky.
“Hunh. So the professor look really does it for you, does it? That’s good to know.”
“Shut up,” Dean croaked, but allowed himself to be pulled down until he was straddling Sam’s lap, his knees digging into the cushions on either side of Sam’s tighs. They kissed slowly, tongues swirling together. Sam moaned at the taste of his come lingering in Dean’s mouth and Dean ran his hand over his cheek and into his hair. It wasn’t until Dean pulled back with a smirk that Sam realized that he’d wiped his other hand across Sam’s chest, smearing his own come against the beige wool.
“Dean! What the hell?!”
Dean shrugged, unapologetic, got back up and pulled Sam to his feet.
“I have to wear this to an appointment in like three hours, you jerk!”
“You’re cranky for a guy who’s just had his brains sucked out through his dick.”
“Gross. Thanks for that imagery.”
Dean gave him his best bratty smile, and Sam was torn between the urge to punch him and kiss him again. Dean stepped away and headed towards the bathroom. “There’s a laundromat next door, Professor,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m out of clean socks anyway.”
Sam grimaced at the mess Dean had made of his clothes, but the truth was that he wasn’t that annoyed. His shirt was nearly soaked through with sweat anyway, and it had been a pretty fantastic blowjob.
He cleaned up and changed into his regular clothes, stuffing his professor getup into a bag with the rest of their dirty laundry.
They were almost out the door when Sam remembered the glasses he was wearing. He reached up to take them off, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his elbow.
“Leave ‘em on,” he said. He didn’t say anything else, but his dirty smile was promising.
Sam rolled his eyes, just for show, but he complied.