Conflicted
It happens during a routine beer run of all times and on a fucking Tuesday to boot, making the whole ridiculous situation that much worse. Dean’s not dead this time but he’ll probably wish he was when he comes around and realizes Sam pulled his shredded jeans off, exposing…exposing…well. Dog attacks aren’t foreign to Dean. He’s also no stranger to getting knocked out cold when he goes down head first onto asphalt. Sam reaches out a tentative finger and gently touches one of a half dozen small white ribbons patterned across the front of Dean’s underwear. There’s a bit of string hanging where one is obviously missing from the pattern. A tiny white spot near the hip speaks to an unfortunate bleach splash and the waistband sags just enough to expose the nether bits of Dean’s happy trail. Swallowing hard and jerking his finger back like the fabric is on fire, Sam is forced to conclude that along with dog bites and concussions, Dean is intimately familiar with the sensation of pink satin panties cradling his junk.
Blood’s seeping from a half dozen punctures on Dean’s legs and his face is split right down the middle by a curtain of crimson. Sam really has more important things to worry about than his brother’s choice in undergarments but he can’t tear his eyes away. Dean wears ratty boxers streaked with disgusting stains. Sam’s seen them. He’s washed them. Wrack his brain though he may he can’t come up with a single reason for Dean to be wearing anything else. Even if all (3) pairs were dirty Dean would go commando. He would. If some long ago random hookup kept a pair for a souvenir, Dean would never snitch hers in retribution. And, on the off chance he was in that kind of asshole mood, he wouldn’t wear them. The opportunity for mockery here is undeniable and Sam will be merciless at the first opportunity. Because no. Just no.
Sam stands, quickly before he can reach out again because that’s not happening until his brother’s clean, bandaged and awake. Dean’s leg rolls slightly outward, falling onto the spot Sam so hurriedly vacated. The new position brings a few things previously hidden into soft relief as Dean’s cock and balls press, hot and pink against the fabric.
No. Oh, nononono. It’s the fabric that’s hot and pink, not Dean’s equipment. Sam runs desperate hands through his hair and absolutely does not think about how much more the satin would cling if it was wet. With Sam’s spit. From where he was sucking his brother off through those wrong, wrong panties.
Shit.
Sam should just take the damned things off and put them back where ever Dean squirrels them away between wearings. What with the bump on the noggin and all, he might not even remember he had them on. Except, if he does that now, the blood from Dean’s legs will ruin them. Not that they’re Busty Asian Beauty quality, but still. Dean appears to like them. What the fuck? Also, since Sam’s NEVER run across this particular predilection of Dean’s he’s got no idea where he hides them. Dean’s got secrets, sure. Sam’s got a few of his own. None of them, however, involve fetishes his brother knows nothing about. Sam made damn sure of that the first time he straddled Dean’s lap and kissed the shit out of him. And multiple times thereafter. Dean’s got Sam’s kinks on speed dial.
A quick trip to the bathroom kills two birds as Sam wets a cloth to clean Dean’s wounds and snags a bath towel to drape across those distracting hips. Dean’s going to need to wash his hair when he can stand up again but the cut on his temple has stopped bleeding and Sam gets his face de-blooded in no time. He carefully presses the edges of the wound together and secures them with a butterfly bandage. The legs are a more demanding process, peroxide and iodine dispensed in copious amounts to clean out the punctures. Dean shifts once and mutters something unintelligible as Sam probes the deepest tooth mark, but he doesn’t really wake. Before long Dean’s bandaged and clean(ish) and Sam’s got the problem of what to do now back on the front burner.
The panties are mocking him, towel covered though they are. Dean might not remember. But he usually does. And take them off or leave them right where they are, Dean will know Sam got an eyeful. And then what? Sam snags the corner of the towel and slowly pulls it off, like he’s an assistant to the world’s cheesiest strip tease. The panties are revealed, inch by hot pink inch, and Dean shifts again at the sensation, lifting one leg until Sam gets another eyeful, this time of pink satin hugging the solid muscle of his brother’s ass. Nope, nope, nope. Wrong. Except his downstairs brain doesn’t totally agree. Sam ignores the increasing pressure in his crotch and flings the towel across the room. He grabs a pair of his own sweatpants out of his duffle and carefully slides them up Dean’s bandaged legs. Wherever Dean picked up those…those…things, they’re going to be covered by something of Sam’s. And when Dean’s feeling better Sam’s going to put a more physical claim on him.
There’s a long pause when the pants reach the tops of Dean’s thighs before Sam slips one big hand under Dean’s satin covered rump and lifts him enough to work them over his hips. The fabric presses even tighter against Dean’s glutes and, in that brief moment of incline, the head of Dean’s cock peeks enticingly out from beneath the loose elastic waistband. Sam’s sure he breaks a few speed records getting the pants situated and the drawstring knotted before backing away from the bed. He’s not unaware that his jeans resemble a circus tent and the notion that he’s about to head into the bathroom to jerk off to thoughts of his unconscious brother in worn out women’s underwear really doesn’t sit well with him. But he does it anyway.
The shower’s pounding as Sam leans back against the wall, working his dick with long, frantic strokes. His fantasy right now tries to keep Dean on his knees, mouth hot and hungry as he sucks Sam’s cock. But it keeps going back to the panties. Dean bent over the Impala’s hood, skin pale against the midnight black except for the splash of color that Sam’s about to rip off his ass. With his teeth. Dean spread out on the bed, hand disappearing into the pink satin, playing with his cock and balls and bringing himself off, slow and messy, while Sam watches. Sam groans out his brother’s name as he comes, hips snapping into his fist until he’s wrung dry. Fuck. He’s definitely got some things to work through.
Sam doesn’t hesitate for a moment before settling on the bed next to his brother and taking him in his arms. He doesn’t like the panties, except, you know, his dick kind of does, but then again, he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t like Dean’s taste in music. He doesn’t always care for Dean’s sense of humor. He despises the way Dean throws himself into danger. And he hates Dean’s self esteem issues. But he loves Dean. All of him. They’ll deal with the panties when Dean is ready to deal with them. Sam’s got a couple of ideas now about how he could help with that. He lies back and if during the night one of his hands wiggles its way beneath the waist of Dean’s sweatpants to brush the satiny smoothness beneath, well…Sam will just claim it was sleepwalking.
Blood’s seeping from a half dozen punctures on Dean’s legs and his face is split right down the middle by a curtain of crimson. Sam really has more important things to worry about than his brother’s choice in undergarments but he can’t tear his eyes away. Dean wears ratty boxers streaked with disgusting stains. Sam’s seen them. He’s washed them. Wrack his brain though he may he can’t come up with a single reason for Dean to be wearing anything else. Even if all (3) pairs were dirty Dean would go commando. He would. If some long ago random hookup kept a pair for a souvenir, Dean would never snitch hers in retribution. And, on the off chance he was in that kind of asshole mood, he wouldn’t wear them. The opportunity for mockery here is undeniable and Sam will be merciless at the first opportunity. Because no. Just no.
Sam stands, quickly before he can reach out again because that’s not happening until his brother’s clean, bandaged and awake. Dean’s leg rolls slightly outward, falling onto the spot Sam so hurriedly vacated. The new position brings a few things previously hidden into soft relief as Dean’s cock and balls press, hot and pink against the fabric.
No. Oh, nononono. It’s the fabric that’s hot and pink, not Dean’s equipment. Sam runs desperate hands through his hair and absolutely does not think about how much more the satin would cling if it was wet. With Sam’s spit. From where he was sucking his brother off through those wrong, wrong panties.
Shit.
Sam should just take the damned things off and put them back where ever Dean squirrels them away between wearings. What with the bump on the noggin and all, he might not even remember he had them on. Except, if he does that now, the blood from Dean’s legs will ruin them. Not that they’re Busty Asian Beauty quality, but still. Dean appears to like them. What the fuck? Also, since Sam’s NEVER run across this particular predilection of Dean’s he’s got no idea where he hides them. Dean’s got secrets, sure. Sam’s got a few of his own. None of them, however, involve fetishes his brother knows nothing about. Sam made damn sure of that the first time he straddled Dean’s lap and kissed the shit out of him. And multiple times thereafter. Dean’s got Sam’s kinks on speed dial.
A quick trip to the bathroom kills two birds as Sam wets a cloth to clean Dean’s wounds and snags a bath towel to drape across those distracting hips. Dean’s going to need to wash his hair when he can stand up again but the cut on his temple has stopped bleeding and Sam gets his face de-blooded in no time. He carefully presses the edges of the wound together and secures them with a butterfly bandage. The legs are a more demanding process, peroxide and iodine dispensed in copious amounts to clean out the punctures. Dean shifts once and mutters something unintelligible as Sam probes the deepest tooth mark, but he doesn’t really wake. Before long Dean’s bandaged and clean(ish) and Sam’s got the problem of what to do now back on the front burner.
The panties are mocking him, towel covered though they are. Dean might not remember. But he usually does. And take them off or leave them right where they are, Dean will know Sam got an eyeful. And then what? Sam snags the corner of the towel and slowly pulls it off, like he’s an assistant to the world’s cheesiest strip tease. The panties are revealed, inch by hot pink inch, and Dean shifts again at the sensation, lifting one leg until Sam gets another eyeful, this time of pink satin hugging the solid muscle of his brother’s ass. Nope, nope, nope. Wrong. Except his downstairs brain doesn’t totally agree. Sam ignores the increasing pressure in his crotch and flings the towel across the room. He grabs a pair of his own sweatpants out of his duffle and carefully slides them up Dean’s bandaged legs. Wherever Dean picked up those…those…things, they’re going to be covered by something of Sam’s. And when Dean’s feeling better Sam’s going to put a more physical claim on him.
There’s a long pause when the pants reach the tops of Dean’s thighs before Sam slips one big hand under Dean’s satin covered rump and lifts him enough to work them over his hips. The fabric presses even tighter against Dean’s glutes and, in that brief moment of incline, the head of Dean’s cock peeks enticingly out from beneath the loose elastic waistband. Sam’s sure he breaks a few speed records getting the pants situated and the drawstring knotted before backing away from the bed. He’s not unaware that his jeans resemble a circus tent and the notion that he’s about to head into the bathroom to jerk off to thoughts of his unconscious brother in worn out women’s underwear really doesn’t sit well with him. But he does it anyway.
The shower’s pounding as Sam leans back against the wall, working his dick with long, frantic strokes. His fantasy right now tries to keep Dean on his knees, mouth hot and hungry as he sucks Sam’s cock. But it keeps going back to the panties. Dean bent over the Impala’s hood, skin pale against the midnight black except for the splash of color that Sam’s about to rip off his ass. With his teeth. Dean spread out on the bed, hand disappearing into the pink satin, playing with his cock and balls and bringing himself off, slow and messy, while Sam watches. Sam groans out his brother’s name as he comes, hips snapping into his fist until he’s wrung dry. Fuck. He’s definitely got some things to work through.
Sam doesn’t hesitate for a moment before settling on the bed next to his brother and taking him in his arms. He doesn’t like the panties, except, you know, his dick kind of does, but then again, he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t like Dean’s taste in music. He doesn’t always care for Dean’s sense of humor. He despises the way Dean throws himself into danger. And he hates Dean’s self esteem issues. But he loves Dean. All of him. They’ll deal with the panties when Dean is ready to deal with them. Sam’s got a couple of ideas now about how he could help with that. He lies back and if during the night one of his hands wiggles its way beneath the waist of Dean’s sweatpants to brush the satiny smoothness beneath, well…Sam will just claim it was sleepwalking.