Blue Skies From Rain Part 3 - Chapter 16

[lovesrain44]

 

They worked hard at painting the rocks for a few days until it started raining again, and Dean realized when they went back outside after it stopped raining to pick up branches and leaves from the front lawn that it had been too wet to paint in the first place. The paint from the tops of the rocks had thinned to show the grey beneath the white. Dean carted the bucket and held it for Sam as he bent to pick up a stray weed, and nudged Sam with his foot. When Sam looked up, Dean pointed at the rocks.

“Now I am going crazy,” he said. “All that work.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s good for the patients,” he said, “because it’s the work that counts, not the result.”

He sounded so normal and sensible, so Samlike, that it was almost as if they were undercover and not that Sam was really suffering from amnesia. Dean hunkered down, wanting to make another joke, when the slick bottoms of his sneakers slipped, and he landed on his ass in the wet grass. The thin cotton pants soaked it up, and he knew that in a second that Greer would see and make him go inside and change. Like he was Bellows or some other loony.

“Fuck.”

This made Sam laugh out loud, mouth wide, eyes bright, and he actually reached over and gave Dean a push, so his whole side got wet now, and cold. But it was good, Sam like this, more like his old self, with his dark hair flopping in his eyes and sticking to his face in the damp. With dimples quirking along the side of his face like they used to in the old days. Before the hospital.

Dean felt the impulse, a warm, solid feeling in his chest, wanting it to be like that, this moment, him and Sam, and Sam laughing with him in the damp, cool air. Brave and alive and there, his hands in the grass, attentive to his task, but looking at Dean. This was the way he wanted it to be, for always. Even though it couldn’t be.

It especially couldn’t be like last night, where Sam had pressed close and put his hands on Dean. For a guy locked in a loony bin, he’d known what to do, and how to press and stroke and tease. That was there, too, under that bright smile, and in Sam’s eyes, he saw the memory of that. Once they were gone from the hospital, it would have to stop, it would. But it made Sam feel good and it made Dean feel good, so maybe for now it was okay. But only if Dean could keep it from getting out of hand and going all the way like Sam wanted it to. All the way, Sam’s hands on his waist and- His cock started to get heavy and hot, and for Christ’s sake, he had to stop thinking like this-

Sam gave him a nudge to let him know that Greer was walking their way, so Dean made sure he was standing on both feet, and kept the side of him that was wet out of sight. Greer kept walking and when his back was to them, Sam gave Dean another push and sent him sprawling into the grass again. He was wet all over on the other side and streaked with green, now. But didn’t matter, because Sam’s snickers, as he tried to hide them in his grass-speckled hands, were the prize. Sam was the prize, and for the moment, he belonged to Dean.

Dean got back up and chuffed Sam along the back of his head, and then stood there, letting his hand stay in Sam’s hair for a minute before pulling it back. Holding the bucket while Sam worked. Watching Sam’s hands and the pull of muscles in his arms. The sweat on his neck. While they were stuck in the loony bin, maybe it was okay. Besides there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Sam was here, and he was here. And that’s just the way it was. It would be alright. It would just be alright.

*

Supper was a dismally bad collection of overdone chicken and underdone rice. The patients at the other tables gobbled it down and either swallowed or let it dribble down their chins. Dean tried not to look, tried to be bracing and eager as he made himself eat the peas that were tasteless green blobs. He had to eat because Sam needed to eat, because if Dean didn’t, Sam wouldn’t. So he waded through the chicken and the peas and the crunchy rice and washed it down with milk. And wished he had some candy, maybe something like some Red Vines, for Sam for doing the same.

After supper that night, the Day room was a little more crowded, for some reason. The tables were all taken, and the couch was full, which was fine, because Dean was tired of watching the Cubs lose; he was beginning to think they did it on purpose, just to be cute, which was a lousy way to run a team. So he and Sam had to sit on the floor along the wall under the window. The floor was cold under his butt, and the wall behind his back seemed to be actually generating ice that was soaking into his muscles and making them cramp up. They watched the people in the room, not saying much, and Dean knew he was bored and tired and when was he going to get up enough gumption to say it was time to walk out of there. Just a little while longer, when he and Sam were all the way off their meds.

By the time the chime rang to announce bedtime, Dean was shivering as he stood up, feeling the cold down to his bones, feeling a little numb as he walked down the hall behind Sam. Maybe some sleep would help, and Sam would be there to keep him warm. The thought of it gave him far more comfort than it should. He knew that.

The orderly gave them their pills and let them in their room, and Sam took the pills from Dean’s hand and flushed everything down the toilet.

As he came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants, he looked at Dean. “You okay?”

“Just cold,” said Dean.

“Here,” said Sam. He pulled Dean into the bathroom, and turned to fiddle with the plug and the taps. “Your pants are still wet, and your socks, they never did the sock ritual today, did they. Take ‘em off.”

“Bossy,” said Dean, standing there. This probably wasn’t a good idea, because although he liked the other bath that Sam had given him, he’d liked it too much. Sam’s hands had been all over him, and in the hot, or at least warm, water, it would be too easy to let him put his hands anywhere. Everywhere.

Water ran in the tub, and there was even some steam coming off it, Dean could see. The dampness grew, but it was warm, and Dean shivered in his wet clothes, and thought it might not be such a bad idea. He didn’t want to catch cold.

“C’mon, Dean,” said Sam as he stood up and turned. He plucked at Dean’s shirt with his fingers. “You’re soaked. C’mon, it’ll be nice. You know it will. Let me do this for you.”

Those were the magic words, and he couldn’t resist them. He took off his shoes and socks and stood there with his bare toes curling and uncurling on the icy tile floor. Sam let the water fill the tub and curled his fingers into the hem of Dean’s shirt, tugging it up and over Dean’s head. Dean let him, raised his arms high to help, but he let Sam do this. Then, as Sam pulled down his cotton pants and boxers, he had second thoughts, but Sam, fast and businesslike, and had Dean in the almost hot water, soaking before he could start to feel really uncomfortable about the whole role reversal, big brother, little brother thing. Besides, it wasn’t anything they’d not done before, anyhow. Right?

Dean let himself relax against the back of the tub, even though the water only came up to just past his belly button. The feeling of not wanting danced around with the wanting in his gut, the flurry of anticipation and what might follow the simple ritual of bathing. Sam knelt by the tub, hands hanging over the edge, holding the washcloth in one, and the soap in the other.

“Will you relax?” asked Sam. “I’m not going to bite you.”

Dean opened his mouth to make a joke about that, but decided against it, and turned his head away a little. The damp was curling Sam’s hair against his forehead, making his eyes bright, and Dean knew that the evening could quickly go where it ought not to go. As he heard Sam dip the washcloth in the water, and lather up the soap, he realized it might already be too late for that.

Sam’s wet fingers curled around the back of Dean’s neck, then he brought the washcloth up and began to wash, moving it across Dean’s skin, under his ear, turning Dean’s head towards Sam. And so softly that Dean shivered. He caught Sam’s gaze, watching him, and blinked, letting his shoulders relax. They’d already done this, they’d already done so many things, this was nothing more than more of the same. And Sam liked it, it made him strong, taking care of Dean like this. He’d told himself the same thing so many times, sometimes it felt right, and sometimes it felt like a thin excuse. Like it did now, because Dean knew he liked it, but no matter what he thought he should say, he wasn’t going to stop Sam. Not now.

Sam soaped up the washcloth and washed Dean’s chest, and his shoulders and his arms. Then his hair, letting the water soak from the cloth to make it soapy, using his fingers to get to Dean’s scalp. Then he bent Dean forward, almost into the water, cupping his hands to rinse the soap out. As he pulled Dean upright, he leaned in to kiss Dean right on the mouth, tasting of soap and damp air, his tongue flicking in so fast, it made Dean gasp and jerk back. But Sam ignored this and went at it again, washing Dean’s legs beneath the surface of the water, his toes, his calves, moving up to the top of Dean’s thighs, and it was almost too much. Dean was hard now, his cock much warmer than the water around it, and in a second, Sam would find out. Like that hadn’t been his goal from the get go.

“Can we-” Dean realized his voice was rising to a squeak. “Can we not do this in the tub?”

Sam smiled, flushed, blinking at Dean, his eyelashes flickering with moisture, and Dean’s heart lurched in his chest. This was definitely not how it was supposed to go, even though it was, he knew that it was. He just needed it to be a whole lot darker, with the lights out, and for Sam to not be looking at him like that, tipping his head down, mouth curved, wanting another kiss. Dean wanting to give it to him.

“Okay,” said Sam. “Out.” He stood up as he pulled the plug, and grabbed for the towel, ready when Dean stepped out to rub him dry, briskly all over. Then he handed Dean his p.j.’s, smirking again, as if he knew that he’d soon have Dean out of them. Like he had the night before, and it curled in Dean’s stomach, remembering that feeling, Sam’s hands struggling past Dean’s clothes. And when he’d pulled his pants down, he’d tried not to think of Randy, who’d wanted that very thing, pulling his pants down for Sam. Bare to the thigh, for Sam.

Dean put his p.j.’s on, warmer now, and dry, and watched Sam hurriedly brush his teeth. He brushed his teeth when Sam was done and then the lights out chime sounded. Sam tugged on Dean as Dean spit into the sink, and Dean’s stomach tightened, good and hard, and then the lights went out and it was just him and Sam, in the dark. Getting into bed, their arms touching, Sam’s hands reaching for him, pressing him back into the pillow, warm hands sweeping down his legs, moving up to reach under his pajama top, tracing his ribs, pushing Dean’s skin, almost rough. And then, pulling his hands away to move on top of Dean, cupping Dean’s face in the dark, his lips close, and kissing. Softly, as though Dean was the one who was in need of care.

“I’ll warm you up,” said Sam, whispering, his breath on Dean’s cheek.

Dean closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said.

He liked the way Sam’s thighs were solid on his, heavy, holding him down, keeping him to gravity, and if they could stay like this, then Dean would be happy forever. Sam’s hips were a little bony, but he shifted them to straddle Dean’s leg, curving his arm around Dean’s shoulders to hold him there. He reached down between their bodies, his fingers moving beneath the elastic waistbands of Dean’s p.j.’s and boxers. Pushing them down, like he had before, his fingers tangling in the hairs at the top of Dean’s thighs, making Dean’s stomach curl, sending shivers radiating out, thinking of Sam’s hand, Sam’s wide, strong hand, on him. Cupping him. Like it did now, was doing now, Sam’s fingers between his legs, stroking the bottom of his balls and then up, in a swoop, making Dean shiver, the skin along the inside of his thighs tighten. Good, that was good. Like that.

“Like this?” asked Sam, his voice a feather in Dean’s ear. He stroked again, curving his fingers, lightly, around Dean’s cock, and pulling up. Swooping down again, doing it again, building it warm, sudden and warm, tingling all along, a dim, buzzing sensation coming closer. There was sweat on the back of his neck. Then Sam drew his hand away for a second, and before Dean could wonder why, the hand was back. Wet, slick, cupping Dean’s cock, and stroking. Hard.

Dean reached up to clasp Sam’s arms in the dark, just for something to hold on to. He tipped his head back on the pillow, his eyes seeing only black and sparks, almost seeing the pattern of his stomach quivering. And the approaching buzz as Sam shoved hard, and pulled down Dean’s pants, his boxers and p.j. bottoms, all at once, almost them hard enough to rip. Dean felt the chill of the air across his thighs, felt his balls tighten against the coolness, and when Sam took his arm away from Dean’s shoulders, Dean felt like he was falling, into the dark, flailing, and where had Sam gone?

Then Sam was a warm weight, bending close, shivering over Dean’s thighs, one hand on Dean’s bare hips and before Dean could breathe or protest or grab at Sam to stop him, he felt it. Sam’s hand pulling his cock up, and Sam’s mouth, wide and generous and hot, circling his cock. Coming down, wet, Sam’s tongue, tasting him, soft on the thin skin of his shaft. Sam knew what he tasted like, and this wasn’t-this wasn’t-but then Sam swirled his tongue around, pushing into his slit and then swirling around and around and around, and Dean felt his eyes tip back in his head, and his throat arched, and the faraway buzz danced all the way through him. Sam sucked at the crown and pumped at Dean’s cock with his hand, warm, hard, just right hard, and Dean couldn’t stop him. Not with the low, low denseness growing in his thighs, a weight pressing down on his chest, with him aching for Sam to keep going, keep doing that-

Sam did that. Pulled his hand faster along the base of Dean’s cock, pumping, everything slick. And sucking with his mouth, sucking and tasting, his tongue pressing, rubbing that one spot, over and over, until Dean felt the pressure build in his thighs and the sweat started soaking his spine like a sugar rush. He tried to lift his hands to push Sam off before he could come, he didn’t want Sam to have to do that-

But Sam kept sucking and Dean couldn’t stop the pumping of his cock that echoed the pounding of his heart, thighs pushing, hips coming up into Sam’s mouth, cock pulsing as Sam swallowed. Dean could hear Sam’s throat working as he swallowed, licked and swallowed, never letting go of Dean’s cock with his mouth. Dean’s head was spinning as the pleasure faded away into sparks, down his legs, around his heart, and he knew they’d gone too far. Sam didn’t know that, but Dean did.

He reached to pull Sam’s hands off him, Sam’s mouth off him, and Sam took that as a signal to stretch his body alongside Dean’s. To cup Dean’s face to his in the darkness, and to kiss Dean, full on the mouth, his tongue licking in like it had before, licking nerves that felt swollen and alive. The taste of Dean’s come on Sam’s mouth entered Dean like a shockwave, and the realization of what he’d just let happen slammed into him, making him cold and shivering all over again.

He pushed up against Sam’s shoulders, turning his head, jerking his mouth away.

“Stop, okay, stop. Please, Sam,” but it wasn’t enough. Sam started kissing the line of his jaw, licking along the curve, behind Dean’s ear, and Dean leaned into it, feeling his eyes close and his stomach start to clench all over again.

Sam stopped.

“You okay?” Sam asked. His voice was tight. “Dean?”

Sam was worried now. He’d worried Sam, and all of Dean’s efforts could be undone in a second. But Dean needed that second, to catch his breath, to try and catalog this away, the feel of Sam sucking on his cock, even as the pinpricks of pleasure were taking their sweet time fading. He shouldn’t have let it happen. But he had.

He tried to make his breathing even as he circled his arm around Sam’s neck and pulled him close. Like they’d done before, a million times before. He needed them to be where it was safe, him looking out for Sam, caring for Sam. Sam relaxed into Dean’s arms, curving his arm over Dean’s stomach as he tucked his body into Dean. Which was better, except that now Sam was tugging on Dean’s clothes, pulling his boxers and p.j. bottoms up, his hands generous and wide and warm and taking their own time with the task. Pausing to pet the top of Dean’s thighs, to wipe away the dampness there before it could get sticky and dry. Then he brought his hand up, and Dean realized that Sam was sucking on his fingers, tasting Dean again. He could feel Sam’s eyelashes flicking against his jaw as though Sam were looking up at him.

He reached down to finish pulling his own boxers and pajama bottoms up, feeling a little strange, like his stomach wanted to throw up. Only his body didn’t want to move. No, his body liked it like this, with Sam warm and close. So he turned his head away to where he couldn’t feel Sam’s eyelashes, or the warmth of his breath. Sam’s hand rested on Dean’s stomach, a warm band in the dark. Dean waited for the pounding in his chest to settle.

“Gotta sleep now,” he said, a little more gruff than he meant. So he bent to kiss the top of Sam’s head, hair and dampness and salt, cupping Sam’s head to him with the curve of his palm. “You wear me out, Sammy.”

“Good,” said Sam. “Now you’re warm, and I’m warm. Now we’ll sleep good.”

Dean nodded, biting his lower lip. He’d probably sleep better than he ever had since coming to the hospital. His whole body felt boiled through, his head weighed nothing, and sleep was coming at a fast pace. It wasn’t right that this felt so good. It wasn’t right at all. But his body didn’t care, and he fell asleep just as he felt Sam’s head turn to plant a light kiss alongside his neck.

*

Dean awoke feeling good. He shouldn’t feel this good. Too good really, considering. It was one thing to give Sam what he wanted, maybe even needed, what Dean needed to give him to tie Sam to him so that when he left, Sam would follow without question. It was another thing to enjoy it, or to be on the receiving end of a blow job. Which was now intensified with the knowledge of the way Sam’s tongue felt on his cock, or how he’d tasted himself on Sam’s mouth. The feel of Sam’s hands on his skin. When they were out of the institution, he would put it all behind him, make Sam put it behind him. Wondered how he could, remembering the sweet pull of Sam’s mouth on his, how he-

Beside him in the bed, Sam was curled up, the sheets and covers all pulled over to his side, up to his chin, where he lay warm as a cat. Practically purring, relaxed.

“Up, Sam,” said Dean. He could hear the cart in the hall with the morning razors, the orderly making his rounds. “Up now.”

“Kiss,” said Sam. He opened his eyes to look up at Dean, his smoky gaze steady.

“You’re such a girl,” said Dean, not thinking.

Sam’s forehead wrinkled like he didn’t know whether or not to be hurt by this. “I am not a girl,” he said. “You want me to show you?”

“Um,” said Dean. His body wanted it very much, stomach gathering up, cock coming to early morning attention just as nice as you please. “We gotta-” What he didn’t want was someone walking in on them. He could hear the lock in the door. “C’mon, now.”

Easy to please, easy to tease, that was something about Sam that hadn’t changed, even without his memory.

“Later?” asked Sam, half sitting up.

He gave Sam a shove. “Move.”

They got their razors, got ready for breakfast, and got through the morning pill ritual without the pill lady being the wiser, and suffered through the soggy, undercooked breakfast by focusing on the oatmeal and milk. Sam had extra in his bowl that morning, and before he was finished, he pushed the bowl over to Dean so he could finish it. Dean dug in, nodding his thanks, no one made it the way Sam did. He could become addicted to the stuff.

The day brought the usual work in the laundry, a lunch that was a pale imitation of the real thing, more pills to be spat out or covered. Work outside in the yard where the breeze made it far too hard to face into the wind, the bite of rain not far behind that, so it wasn’t long before Greer called a halt, and waved everyone to get inside as the clouds boiled overhead.

Which was fine with Dean. He’d found himself staring at Sam, at the way the wind mashed his hair around, flickering around his face, Sam brushing it away with the fingers of one hand while he’d tried to pick up trash with the other. Dean didn’t want to be staring, and having odd, stray thoughts about Sam’s hair. Sam’s hair in his mouth as he tucked his head under Dean’s chin. Sam’s hair brushing the inside of his thighs as he- No. Not going there. It was for Sam this thing he was doing. For Sam, and not for himself. As long as he kept it one way, him doing and Sam taking, then that would make it okay. For now.

Inside of the hall, the sock ritual began and Dean thought about how easy it would have been for the place to have supplied rubber boots or something instead of going through all this, the yelling and scuffling in a narrow hallway. But then, maybe someone like Bellows would start chewing on a boot or Randy Pointy Fingers would complain that someone had taken his boots, and he needed them back right now. Tantrums would ensue. Maybe the sock ritual was the way to go after all.

They lined up. Dean figured they were going to the Day room at this point, and thought about how he could make it to the puzzle table before the three guys in robes did. And then wondered how it had come to this, where his biggest concern was the puzzle table and how to avoid talking to some guy with the emotional maturity of a twelve year old boy. And how to stop remembering the sensation of his brother’s mouth sucking on his cock.

As they began walking down the hall, he felt a hand pull on him, and it was Sam, tugging at him to go into a little side hallway that led to some storage rooms. Before he could ask what the hell was up, Sam pressed him against the wall.

“I know never without your permission, but I figure I have it, so-” And then Sam kissed him. Full on the mouth, with the chance of just about anyone coming by or missing them or calling for an orderly. It added a rush to Sam’s mouth, wide and sweet on his, and his skin smelled like fresh rain-blown air, his hair falling forward, bringing more scent, Sam’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him in. It made him hot, pulling his spine forward through his gut so fast, he thought he was on fire. Kissing back, tasting Sam, wondering how a kiss could be so wild and sure and out of control all at the same time.

Then Sam stopped. “Let’s go,” he said, motioning with his head as the last of the line of men passed by in the hallway. He pulled Dean out, so they were at the end of the line as it snaked towards the game room. No one was the wiser and if Dean was out of breath, he figured no one would notice. Or care.

The puzzle seemed rather dull after that.

*

If there was a definition of hell, this was not it. Dean brushed his teeth, and peed, washing his hands with Sam standing by, waiting for his turn at the sink. He supposed that part of the trap might be in his letting things go the way that he had, and making excuses for it., instead of working harder to get them both out of there. He should be far more concerned with making their escape plan, and why wasn’t he? A person shouldn’t be so happy being locked up in a loony bin, it just wasn’t natural.

He’d seen the window that was broken, had glanced at the placards for fire escape routes and figured out which stairwell was closest to storeroom 101. He knew the way out, had some rough ideas for getting his necklace and the keys to the Impala back. Granted none of that mattered if he didn’t get his ass in gear. But while part of him was restless, the other part of him, and he was ashamed to think it, liked being locked in here with Sam. Night after night, Sam’s warm legs and arms and chest wrapped around Dean as if Dean was the warmth that kept away the chills of night and not the other way around.

Sam came out of the bathroom, hanging half in the doorway as he dried his hands on the towel. He might have glanced at the bathtub, but Dean ignored that. Baths definitely led to other things, and Dean was trying to resist the temptation. Sam, of course, was oblivious to the dark workings in Dean’s mind and Dean wanted it kept that way. The only way out of this when the end came, and it would, was to be very clear about why he was doing any of it. At least in his own mind.

Sam came up to him, hands on Dean’s arms, pushing Dean backwards. And Dean, although a little off balance, let it happen. It was, after all, nothing they’d not done before, Sam kissing him, Dean responding, responding to what Sam wanted. His knees bent as they hit the bed, and Sam toppled half on top of him.

“Dean,” said Sam, kissing the soft skin below Dean’s ear. Dean tried to move away a little bit, tried to give Sam the signal to stop, but it wasn’t working. Sam was kissing the hollow of his throat now, warm mouth following the path of Dean’s windpipe, sucking, the pressure of his tongue moving Dean’s neck backwards into the mattress, sending tingles into Dean’s spine. He should stop this, he really should.

“Dean,” said Sam again, burrowing his forehead into the curve of Dean’s neck and shoulder.

“What?”

“I want you to do it to me.”

“Do what?”

“You know,” said Sam. His arms curved around Dean’s back, where his hands were doing interesting things along his spine, pressing into the muscles of Dean’s back, digging in in a delightful way that eased the kinks and undid tension Dean hadn’t known he was carrying.

“No I don’t know,” said Dean, half irritated. A little breathless as his hands came up to touch Sam, anywhere. Everywhere.

“That thing we talked about, that Randy wants.”

For a second, Dean blinked his eyes, bringing up his hands to push at Sam’s shoulders, to push him a way so he could look at Sam’s face and see if he saw there reflected what Sam’s words said. What he thought they meant.

“I’m not doing that, Sam,” Dean said. His voice was firm. “We already talked about this. I’m not.”

“But why not?” asked Sam. His fingers were doing that thing again, and he leaned in to press kisses along Dean’s throat, along the line where his cotton shirt gave way to bare skin. Punctuated his words with kisses. “Why not?”

“Because.” Left unsaid were the words he did want to say, that they were brothers, that he was the older brother and nowhere in his list of duties as said older brother did it describe anything remotely like what Sam was asking for.

“You’re so-” began Sam, and then he stopped, stopped kissing, stopped doing that thing with his fingers. He raised his head and looked down at Dean, poised on his elbows. “We’ve already done everything else,” he said. “You’ve kissed me and I’ve sucked-”

Dean slapped his hand over Sam’s mouth before he could begin, not wanting to hear the litany from that mouth that had so recently been kissing him. The mouth that belonged to his brother, for crying out loud. It was one thing to do it. But to hear about it? From Sam? It was like taking a jump into a very horrible and certain future, where the Sam that cuddled up to him now, wanting things, would turn into a whole different Sam who would one day stand and very clearly state how Dean had trespassed where he ought not to have gone and never mind the reason why.

Leaning back on one elbow, Sam peeled Dean’s hand away from his mouth. “I was only going to say, Dean,” said Sam, his voice taking on that little lecturing tone it sometimes got. Dean made himself not smile at this, it was far too serious to be encouraging Sam with smiles. “I was only going to say that you’ve had your hand over my heart, where no one’s hand has ever been. I-”

“No, Sam,” said Dean. “Look, the thing with Randy is just-”

“But I want to give that to you.”

Big-eyed Sam, giving Dean the last of the ice cream the time Dean had fallen out of a tree hard enough to be completely out of air, to think he was dying. Dad had lifted him up and told him to walk it off. But Sam, who had been standing close by, thought differently, felt it was worth the sacrifice of the ice cream. Butter pecan, Sam’s favorite. Any flavor was Dean’s favorite, so he’d eaten the whole thing, ribs aching, the aspirin not quite sinking in fast enough to stave off each wave of pain that breathing brought.

“No,” said Dean. He made his voice as firm as he possibly could, but with Sam on top of him like he was, warm and pressing down, it was hard. He was hard. And Sam was hard. His cock branded into Dean’s thigh, impossibly warm through the layers of thin cotton. Sam shifted his weight a little, sending his cock spearing upwards against Dean’s hip, melting through the cotton, sending spirals of want up from Dean’s stomach.

“N-no,” he said. “I can’t-” Which he realized, as he pushed at Sam’s shoulders, trying to shift that weight and that heat, almost made it sound like he could, if the circumstances were different. He braced himself and swallowed the want, and ducked his head so that he could kiss Sam’s neck. “Can we just-here.” He reached down, it was a bad angle, but he needed to distract Sam, to distract himself-

“Like this.” His hand shoved past the waistband of Sam’s pajama bottoms and his boxers, and he felt Sam rise back on his knees to give Dean more room. He circled his fingers around the heat and weight of Sam’s cock, moved his palm down and tugged. “Like this. You and me.”

Now Sam was on all fours above him, using his hand to shove his clothes down, to give Dean more room. Dean stroked Sam’s cock, feeling the heat come up through his bones, moisture from the head of Sam’s cock slicking up his palm. Sam ducked his head down to plant light, light kisses from a distance on Dean’s forehead, his nose, his mouth.

Teasing as he loomed above Dean in the dark, his hands on either side of Dean’s head. And powerful, more powerful than Dean, he could do it if he wanted to, and Dean couldn’t stop him. Might not stop him, if it came to that, and yeah, there it was, the image of Sam yanking down Dean’s pants and just doing it. Because he wanted to, because he was that strong. Sam arched his back and pressed down until his chest was almost brushing Dean’s, just about trapping Dean’s arm between them, trapping his cock, and Dean’s hand wrapped around it, against Dean. Against Dean’s cock. And then he pushed. Just once.

Dean came in hard, brain-rocking pulses, and Sam’s hands had never even been on him. Making him realize, as he was swept into the dark, that Randy had totally always had Sam’s number. And Dean’s.

Chapter 17

Blue Skies From Rain Master Fic Post