PORN! Get ur Sunday porn here! Mmmm.... PORN!
Title: Binding the Edges
Author: mgbutterfly
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Dean/Sam
Disclaimer: If they belonged to me, we'd see them cleaning each others wounds, stitching each other up, and Dean would curse all the time. Sam would roll his eyes a lot and I would be one happy chick. They don't belong to me, though, so I have to make due with pretending. I'm only borrowing and promise to return them without a scratch.
Summary: Dean goes into the bathroom, Sam following close behind with the first-aid kit. It's a routine they've practiced for too many years to count.
Beta!Bitch:barkeep, because she loves me. And I owe her flowers and chocolate and puppies and stuff for this. ILU, baby. Smooches.
Author's Notes: This is all because of apreludetoanend. She planted the porny plot bunny and nudged my muse. The prompt was Sam. Dean. Motel bathroom. So, that's what I wrote. It's a "First Time" fic, there's some hurt/comfort kinda, boys getting wounded and then patched up, and in my opinion, this is a PWP. I guess there's a little plot in there somewhere, though. I hope you like.
When they get back to the room, Dean has a gash on his upper forearm that feels like someone cut into him with a hot, pointy coal. He's pretty pissed off about the whole fucking situation, but it's really no use saying anything about it now. They got the god damned erlking, but not before it spotted them and took its frustrations out on Dean. Fuckers had killer claws.
Dean shucks his now ruined over-shirt off onto the floor and pulls his t-shirt over his head. He starts to grab the first-aid kit and head into the bathroom for patching up when Sam says, "Go take a shower, get as much of the grit out as you can. I'll flush the rest of it once you're out. You smell like a demon rolled in shit."
Dean stops at the foot of one of the beds, lifts his arm above his head, sniffs his armpit and flinches back with a grimace on his face, "You weren't kidding. Jesus, what the hell are those things made of?" He looks over at Sam and is met with a look of amused disgust.
Dean finishes stripping off everything but his boxer-briefs and heads into the bathroom for a long shower. He doesn't rush through the cleaning; he wants to get rid of all the stink-producing molecules and as much as it hurts like a bitch, he wants to scrub the fuck out of the cut. Better safe than sorry.
When he gets out, the wound is still bleeding but that's no surprise. He towels off and steps out of the bathroom to let it air out and to put on clean clothes. Sam is reclining on his bed and he looks over at Dean and scrutinizes the wound. Dean pulls on a fresh pair of shorts and says, "It's not that deep, I don't think it needs stitches. Butterflies though."
Sam nods his head and pushes off the bed, "You ready?"
"Let's do this. You don't smell too much like flowers yourself there, nature boy."
Dean goes into the bathroom, Sam following close behind with the first-aid kit. It's a routine they've practiced for too many years to count. Dean lowers the lid of the toilet and sits down as Sam removes some supplies from the kit. The cleaning and patching up is gentle but efficient. It has always amazed Dean how Sam can clean and even stitch Dean's deepest wounds and Dean hardly feels any pain.
When it's all said and done, Dean's cut has been drenched in holy water, lightly scrubbed, drenched again, smothered in antibiotic cream and pulled shut with four butterfly band-aids. Easy.
Still burns like a motherfucker, though.
~ -|- ~
Three weeks later and Sam is silent as they drive back to the motel. His brain, though... not so silent. He's cursing the imp that slashed his leg with every expletive in the book... and some that aren't. The thing ruined his most comfortable pair of jeans. He's spent years breaking these things in, and now they're air conditioned. Hell, they're down right drafty. Well, he thinks, at least it won't be attacking anymore kids. What's one pair of jeans when compared to that?
Sam is applying pressure to the wound with an old towel from the trunk of the Impala. Years of drying and wrapping and rubbing and machine washing have left the small towel threadbare. As a result, it's nearly soaked through with blood when they finally reach the motel parking lot. Sam opens the car door carefully stepping out onto the pavement and meets Dean at the room door as he's turning the key.
As they step inside, Dean turns to Sam and says, "Pants off, bathroom..." he trails off as his eyes make it to the bloody towel. Sam watches Dean's expression turn from annoyance to thinly veiled concern.
"It's not as bad as it looks, Dean. The towel's just old, I don't think the cut's that deep." Sam lifts the towel off the wound and shows it to Dean. Even though he seems to understand the towel issue, the fact that the wound is still seeping blood does nothing to remove the (still thinly veiled) concern from Dean's face. Sam places the towel back over the cut and sits down on the bed to remove his shoes.
Once he's out of all clothing save his boxers, he limps into the bathroom and sits down on the closed toilet lid. Dean is close behind with the first-aid kit. He takes the towel from Sam and chucks it into the trash can.
Sam watches Dean as he washes his hands and soaks a washcloth with soap and water. He looks down at the cut on his leg, still seeping blood, and assesses the damage. It's on the outside of his right thigh, it aches, it's deep, but thankfully, it's small. Dean's gonna have to stitch it, but that's no big deal. Sam's been stitched up by Dean plenty of times before.
Dean turns to Sam, still looking at the cut, and lowers himself to his knees next to the toilet, "Turn a little so I can get to it better."
Sam does as he's told and closes his eyes as Dean starts scrubbing the wound with the soapy washcloth. It hurts, but it doesn't. That's the thing about Dean; he has this uncanny ability to take the hurt right out of Sam's wounds. Sam's not really sure how he does it, he just knows he's thankful. And no, that symbolism isn't lost on him.
When Sam feels Dean run warm water over the freshly cleaned wound, he turns his head and stares down at him. Dean's laid a towel on the floor to catch most of the water and he's got the first-aid kit opened next to him. Sam continues to watch as Dean dries the wound and his hands and pulls a stitching pack out of the kit along with hydrogen peroxide and a couple of cotton balls.
Dean soaks the cotton balls with the hydrogen peroxide and raises his head to find Sam staring at him. "You okay, Sammy? It's gonna need stitches, but not too many."
Sam's not sure if it's the loss of blood or lack of food in his stomach, but he's a little dizzy all of a sudden. He takes a moment to reply which elicits a soft squeez on his knee from Dean. "Yeah, I'm okay. Uh, just hurry up, I think I need to eat something."
Dean gives Sam a crooked smile and turns back to the wound, applying the cotton balls. Sam is seriously beginning to worry about his sanity while he watches Dean work. He's noticing things about his brother's hands he's never noticed before. Things like how gentle they are, when they should be hard and calloused. Like how nicely manicured his nails are, when Sam's pretty sure he's never seen Dean take the time to even put lotion on, let alone clip his nails. Like how smoothly they pass over his leg, pushing the needle into skin, pulling the thread through. Like how perfect the silver band looks, gleaming like a slice of moonlight against Dean's creamy skin.
Okay, Sam decides he is a little loopy and should really eat something or lay down... or both. He shakes his head, as if to shake those images free from his brain, and stares at his own hands while Dean finishes stitching him up.
When it's all said and done, Sam's cut has about fifteen stitches and is covered with a thin layer of antibiotic ointment and a sterile gauze pad. Easy.
He's still convinced he's a little crazy, though.
~ -|- ~
"Sonuvafuckingbitch!" Dean slams the motel room door behind himself. Sam is already in the room grabbing the first-aid kit and heading to the bathroom.
"Let it go, Dean. Get your ass in here so we can take care of that." Dean can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes.
Dean shakes his head and sits down on his bed to take his boots off. He has a gash on his shin (his fucking shin) from a badger (a fucking badger) that he'd tripped over unintentionally while they were in the woods looking for the fucking wood sprite. Fucking badgers. Admittedly, it could be worse, he thinks. At least the thing just clawed his shin and took off running. Fucking badgers.
"How do you trip over a badger anyway, Dean? Explain to me the mechanics of that. I mean, a badger. They're not small." Sam is shaking his head and has his hands on his hips while he's watching Dean pull off his jeans.
"Shut up, bitch. It was dark, I couldn't use a fucking flash light without giving away my location! I didn't see it, it didn't see me. Just, get in the bathroom for Christ's sake and help me get this cleaned up. Jesus, Sam." Dean stands up and walks into the bathroom and plops down on the toilet lid. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Sam a positively deathly glare as he walks into the bathroom behind him.
Dean is stewing in his own juices as he watches Sam get a washcloth wet and soapy and start to scrub at the cut. It's deeper than Dean thought, it's gonna need stitches. And antibiotics wouldn't be a bad idea. Fucking badger.
"Should probably take some antibiotics." Sam says as he tosses the soapy, and now bloody, washcloth in the sink and soaks another one under the faucet.
"Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious." Dean bites out. He's sorry about that immediately after and ducks his head when Sam raises an eyebrow at him. He resigns himself to being quiet for the rest of the sitting.
Dean closes his eyes and leans back against the tank. When he feels the warm water washing down his shin he lets the tension roll out of his shoulders with a sigh. He opens his eyes and looks down at Sam kneeling on the tile in front of him. He watches Sam use a towel to pat the wound dry then dry his hands. His big hands. Christ. Dean looks away.
When he looks back, Sam has the bottle of isopropyl alcohol out and is soaking three cotton balls. Under different circumstances, Dean would brace himself for the burn. But he knows it's not going to hurt. Well, it will, but it won't. It's Sam's hands doing the cleaning. And Sam's hands just don't hurt.
Dean watches Sam use the soaked cotton balls to clean out the wound further then reach into the canvas bag to retrieve a stitching packet. As he opens the packet he leans over and lightly blows on Dean's cut. Dean's not sure if it's to dry the alcohol or lessen the burn. Either way, Dean smiles a little to himself. And then he sees Sam pull the little needle out of the packet. The needle that looks even smaller when it's held in those gigantic paws. Jesus.
Dean can't look away. He's noticing things he's never bothered to notice before about Sam's hands. Things like how freaking enormous they are. Like how, despite their size, they feel almost like silk cobwebs when Sam rests his left hand in the crease behind Dean's knee. Things like they way Sam keeps the stitches small and closely knit by using just the tips of his fingers. Fuck. Sam's hands are awesome.
Then Dean starts to imagine those hand on Jess. On Madison. And oh, man, that is not a thought he needs to be having about his brother. Dean clears his throat and pops his neck, as if those actions will erase the images from his newly perverted brain.
"Sorry." And the word doesn't register for a minute. Then Dean realizes that Sam thinks he hurt him.
"Nah, it's good. I just needed to loosen up a bit. You almost done?"
Sam cuts the thread and tosses the needle in the trash, effectively answering Dean's question. Dean patiently waits, not looking at him, as Sam applies antibiotic ointment and a gauze pad.
When it's all said and done, Dean has twenty-two new stitches and a new, somewhat perverted respect for his brother's hands.
He's pretty sure this isn't healthy.
~ -|- ~
They have been (thankfully) wound-free for the last couple of months, except for some minor scraps and bruises. Dean hasn't had any reason to sit on the lid of the toilet. Tonight, however, the streak ended. Dean is sitting in the bathroom with his shirt off. He's holding a towel to his stomach trying to keep the blood off the waistband of his jeans. And man, it's a lot of blood. More than Dean is comfortable with. Not that he's comfortable with any blood, mind you. Especially not Sam's. But this isn't Sam's, thank god, this is his, which makes it okay.
Sam walks into the bathroom, first-aid kit in hand, and goes to his knees in front of Dean. Dean's a little light-headed; the drive back to the motel was not a short one and the cut is pretty deep. He's still all there though and he doesn't miss the worry on Sam's face when he sees the towel. Sam looks up at Dean and says, "God damn it, Dean. What the fuck were you thinking? What the FUCK were you thinking? That guy had a fucking knife!" Sam's hands are shaking.
"I know, Sam. I seem to have found the knife," Dean looks down at the bloody towel, "It's not that bad, Sammy. It's a little deep, but it's fine. I just need it cleaned and stitched up. Gimme the stuff and I'll do it." Dean reaches for the first-aid kit but Sam catches his wrist and pushes it away.
"I'll do it. Just. Dean..." Sam sighs.
Dean smiles and leans back against the tank. He feels Sam pulling the towel away and he stops him by touching his wrist, "Let me take my pants off, I don't want to ruin another pair. I swear we should buy stock in Levi's."
Dean is still touching Sam's wrist when Sam sinks back to his haunches. As soon as Dean pulls back, Sam starts to unlace his boots and pull them off, one at a time. Dean uses his free hand to unbutton and unzip his pants. Instead of Dean standing up to take them off, Sam pulls the jeans by the legs until they slip off and he tosses them out of the bathroom into a heap on the floor. Dean's more light-headed than he thought.
He sits back against the tank and waits for Sam to start his practiced work. Dean closes his eyes and listens. He can hear Sam grabbing a towel, wetting a washcloth, digging around in the canvas bag, pulling things out, opening things. He hears the care and attention to detail and concern that Sam embeds in every little motion. He hears the concentration as Sam cleans and stitches the cut. And then Dean's thinking it might be a good idea to open his fucking eyes and stop acting like some fucking swooning girl. It's just a little blood loss for fuck's sake. He's had so much worse.
Dean opens his eyes and is met with Sam's. It seems Sam has finished patching Dean up and has even had time to put all the stuff back into the first-aid kit. Dean's not sure where his missing time went, but Sam is reaching up and putting his hand against Dean's cheek.
"You're a little warm, Dean. You should lay down. I'll go get you some juice and something to eat. You lost, well... there was too much blood on that towel."
When Sam doesn't pull his hand away from Dean's cheek right away, Dean raises his left hand, coated in blood from holding the towel to the wound, and covers Sam's hand. There's a moment of intense eye contact before Sam pulls a deep breath and slips his hand from beneath Dean's. Dean lets his hand drop while Sam helps him up and out of the bathroom. He lays down on his bed and lets Sam clean the blood off his hand, and now face, and watches as Sam grabs the keys and heads out to the store.
When it's all said and done, Dean has nineteen stitches across his lower abdomen.
He thinks he's lucky, insanely lucky, to have Sam.
~ -|- ~
The thing about bugganes is that when they're in human form, as long as they don't open their mouths or take off their gloves, you can walk right past them. The other thing about bugganes in their human form is that they never close their mouths or wear gloves. And they're stupid. Unfortunately, what they lack in intelligence, they make up for in strength and speed.
Therein lies the reason that Sam is currently holding an old shirt over the gash in his side. A clean line between two of his ribs.
Dean is driving like a bat out of hell despite Sam's insistence that it's not that bad. Sam gave up the argument moments after it began, resigning himself to slump against the window. When they get back to the motel, Dean practically runs to the door and opens it. Sam watches Dean grab the first-aid kit and take it to the bathroom.
Sam steps into the room and is met with Dean coming out of the bathroom and striding purposefully toward him. When he gets to Sam, Dean reaches behind him and pushes the door shut and starts tugging at the hem of Sam's shirt. Sam scrunches his eyes up and says, "Dean, what are you doing? I can get it off myself. It's not that bad." He ducks his head toward Dean and pushes him away with the hand not holding the old shirt.
"Sam, that thing had five inch claws. I watched it slice into you. You're bleeding through that shirt. Let me see." Dean starts to pull the old shirt away from Sam's side.
Sam rolls his eyes and tosses the shirt in the trash. He carefully pulls his shirt off over his head and tosses that one in the trash too. He thinks for a moment it's a good thing there are three Goodwills in this town, he's going to have to stock up on some more t-shirts. He looks down at Dean scrutinizing the gash. Dean squints his eyes and says, "C'mon, let's get it clean. See how many stitches you need."
Sam follows Dean into the bathroom and sits down on the toilet sideways. He leans against the tank and rests his left forearm on top of his head to give Dean better access to the oozing, red line. He closes his eyes while Dean gets everything ready. When he opens them, Dean has finished cleaning the wound and is starting the stitching.
Sam watches him and can't help but notice all the details of Dean's face: His eyes are clear and focused, the left eyelid slightly lower than the right. His mouth is parted slightly, like he's breathing through both it and his nose. Every now and then his tongue will dart out and moisten the lower lip. The stubble along Dean's jaw casts a smoky shadow across his fair complexion. He's starting to get a glossy sheen of sweat across his forehead. And he's got a tiny crust of doughnut glaze on the soft skin just below his lower lip.
Sam imagines licking that glaze right off of Dean.
Dean is putting the last few stitches in when Sam touches his wrist. Dean pauses and looks up at him, lips parted a little wider, eyelids a little more open. Sam licks his lips, lets two more breaths pass then pulls his hand away and turns his head back to watching the shower curtain. He can feel Dean looking at him a moment longer before he goes back to finishing the stitching. Sam doesn't watch as the ointment and gauze are applied.
When it's all said and done, Sam has thirty-four stitches between his sixth and seventh ribs. He's woozy and maybe a little confused and absolutely ready to just pass the fuck out.
He's pretty sure he'd meant to follow through on that glaze licking. He's also pretty sure Dean wouldn't have stopped him.
~ -|- ~
Sam shoots the whiskey and slams the glass down onto the picnic table. Dean pours two more fingers and Sam tosses that back too. Fuath tail spikes hurt like a motherfucker.
"C'mon, little brother. Let's get back to the room. That's lookin' nasty." Dean starts to screw the cap back on the bottle.
"One more." Sam says and winces as fresh pain rockets through his cheek. Dean pours and Sam drinks. They head back to the car in the dark, Sam heavy footed as the whiskey starts to loosen his limbs.
When they get back to the room, it's back to that familiar routine. Sam's cheek isn't stinging as badly as it had been, but it's still pretty god damn sore. He plops down on the lid of the toilet and waits for Dean and the ever present first-aid kit.
He watches Dean set things out on the counter; holy water, alcohol, cotton balls, stitching kit, gauze and tape. Once everything is out and arranged, Dean turns to Sam and says, "Hey, why don't you take a shower. Scrub the cut out a bit. I can see grit and dirt in it. How's it feeling?"
Sam takes a moment then says, "Well, it would hurt a hell of a lot worse minus the whiskey." Sam starts to pull his clothes off. He tugs his shirt off over his head and toes his shoes off as he stands up from the toilet. Dean is still in the room with him as he starts to remove his jeans. Sam gives him a meaningful look and Dean says, "Right. Yeah. You, uh, shower," and lightly punches Sam in the arm.
Sam shakes his head and turns the water on. He takes a quick shower, but doesn't skimp on cleaning out the cut. Despite the whiskey in his system, the scrubbing burns. When he's done, Sam dries off and steps out of the bathroom to his duffel. He pulls on a fresh pair of shorts and peeks his head around the corner to see Dean lounging on his bed.
"Ready, princess?" Dean gets up and starts walking toward Sam who is toweling his hair dry with one hand and flipping Dean off with the other. Sam goes back into the bathroom and sits back down on the toilet.
Dean flushes the wound with holy water, and if it were anyone other than Dean doing it, it would sting like the devil. Sam doesn't so much as flinch as Dean works. He sits back and closes his eyes, waiting for the cleaning to be over and the stitching to begin.
When Sam hears Dean open the stitching packet, he opens his eyes to watch. Dean has chosen a small gauge needle and thin thread. He's putting a tiny knot in the end of the thread using just his thumb and first finger. Sam notices Dean's hands are immaculately clean, like he scrubbed all the dirt and grime from them while Sam was in the shower. Dean looks over at Sam and raises his eyebrows, "That whiskey hitting you a little harder than you thought, Samantha?"
Sam raises one eyebrow in return and says, "I was just wondering if you were ever gonna get to the stitching part, Florence."
Dean rolls his eyes and lowers his hand to Sam cheek. When the needle pierces for the first time, Sam slowly closes his eyes and lets his breathing deepen. Dean is making small stitches, very close together. He's so good at this that Sam is sure the wound won't scar. Sure, it'll take a while to heal completely, but once it does, no one will ever know Sam took a Fuath tail spike to the face. Although Sam seriously doubts that would be anyone's first guess.
Dean finishes the stitching and Sam listens as he takes the gauze out of its packet and cuts a couple of pieces of tape. He still doesn't open his eyes as Dean applies the ointment and gauze. When Dean holds the gauze to his face to grab the tape, Sam leans into the touch. He's not sly about it, he just lets the weight of his head be held by Dean's hand over the gauze.
Dean doesn't pull away. And he doesn't say a word.
After Dean has applied the tape, Sam lets his head rest there a few more moments. He thinks, it's just the whiskey. I've got a buzz going and my head's a little heavy. When he hears Dean sigh as his thumb barely moves along Sam's cheekbone, he knows it's not the whiskey. Not at all. And he's not exactly sure what that means.
When it's all said and done, Sam has thirty-eight tiny stitches in his cheek. He definitely has a buzz and could definitely use a full day of sleep, but he knows his dreams will wake him up with Dean's name on his lips and hard cock in his shorts.
And at this moment? He's okay with that.
~ -|- ~
Dean hates Spring Heeled Jacks. He had to deal with one all by his lonesome once, and that was not a walk in the park. It's much easier with two people, especially when one of those people is Sam, but you still end up running all over God's green earth chasing the damn things. They're called Spring Heeled Jacks for a reason. Jumping motherfuckers.
When they had finally cornered it, Dean got a little too close with the torch and the thing reached out and laid a gash across his chest before Dean had a chance to set the fucker on fire. Now, not only is his new (by way of Goodwill, anyway) flannel ruined, but the awesome long-sleeve Aerosmith shirt is trash as well.
Sam runs to Dean and starts fumbling around with Dean's shirt. Dean pushes his hands away and pulls the flannel off to hold over the gash.
"It's not that bad, Sam. Here, you drive." Dean hands Sam the keys to the Impala and they start walking back to the car. It's a short drive to the motel, and as soon as they arrive, Sam is inside getting the first-aid kit ready. Dean walks through the door and tosses the flannel in the garbage, along with the formerly kick-ass Aerosmith shirt. He walks into the bathroom and sits down on the toilet, ready for the ritual of cleaning and patching.
Sam already has everything laid out. Dean looks down at the gash and thinks it feels much worse than it looks. It'll still need stitches, though. Sam starts cleaning, first with holy water, then with alcohol and iodine. Dean leans back against the tank, like he has so many times before, and lets himself feel Sam working. He closes his eyes as Sam blows the alcohol dry and a shiver runs through his body. When he feels the needle for the first time, he evens out his breathing and tries to ignore the heavy feeling in his groin.
Dean keeps his eyes closed as Sam applies the ointment and gauze pad. Sam is holding the gauze to Dean's chest and securing it with tape, ready to pull his hand away, when Dean reaches out and grabs his wrist. Dean opens his eyes and meets Sam's, surprised and open and shadowed with something Dean knows all too well. He stands up from the toilet, still holding onto Sam's wrist, and crowds him against the bathroom wall. For a moment, they both stop breathing, each set of eyes searching the other for any sign of resistance.
When Sam closes his eyes and Dean feels him relax against the wall, Dean slides into Sam's space and pulls him down into a kiss. Dean's still holding Sam's wrist in one hand, ready to let it go should his brother decide he's one sick fuck and pull away. But that doesn't happen. Sam brings his free hand up to Dean's hip and tries to pull him in closer. Closer. Shit, if they get any closer, they'd be inside one another. And that is a thought Dean can totally get behind.
Dean lets go of Sam's wrist and brings his hands up to Sam's head. He has one hand cradled behind Sam's neck and the other tangled in his hair, trying to pull in, trying to take all of Sam. A kiss that started off soft, unsure and searching has turned into a desperate fiery thing. Dean is fisting both hands in Sam's hair while Sam gropes gracelessly at Dean's shoulders and waistband. Their breathing is harsh and loud around the echo of the bathroom and when their teeth clash in the violence of the kiss neither one notices.
Sam starts to try to push himself off the wall and their lips part. Dean looks him in the eyes and pushes him back, holding Sam by one shoulder. Sam huffs out a breath and smiles, something predatory. Dean gives a smirk of his own and pushes Sam's shirt up and off, tossing it out of the bathroom without breaking eye contact. He starts to fumble with Sam's jeans when Sam leans in and bites his earlobe. And god damn if that's not a pleasant surprise.
Sam moves his lips and teeth down to Dean's neck and Dean can't seem to manage control of his hands anymore. He's still groping at Sam's jeans when Sam shifts his weight and flips them both to shove Dean back against the wall. Sam's running his hands down Dean's chest, letting them come to rest at the button of Dean's jeans. Dean feels Sam kick his shoes off while licking a stripe down his neck. Dean pulls Sam's face back up to him and goes in for another kiss.
Sam, it turns out, is a biter. He's pulling Dean's bottom lip through his teeth and nipping at Dean's top lip. Dean finally gains control of his hands and gets Sam's jeans undone. While Sam is busy biting and licking at Dean's lips, Dean takes the opportunity to switch their positions again. He presses Sam against the wall and runs his hands down to the waistband of his jeans. Sam pulls him in for another biting kiss and Dean slowly pulls away, sliding to his knees while taking Sam's jeans and shorts with him.
Dean sucks a kiss into the soft flesh of Sam's hip. He licks a trail from Sam's navel to the head of his cock, swollen, red and slick with pre-come. Sam moans, a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and tries to come off the wall. Dean pushes him back and looks up at him, a mischievous grin painting his face.
Dean takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Sam's cock. He uses the tip of his tongue to lick from the base to the head as it stands up against Sam's belly. He hears Sam's head thump against the wall and a breath escape his lips. Dean smiles, runs a hand up Sam's leg, tips his dick toward his lips and flicks his tongue around the head. Sam's breathing is getting more shallow and Dean can't help but smile. He's doing this. He's making Sam feel this way. And fuck that's hot.
Dean lets his lips slip over the head of Sam's cock and he starts slowly working his tongue around. Sam is making little moaning noises, his breath shallow. As Dean works his mouth up and down along Sam's length, Sam gently, almost questioningly, places his hands on Dean's head. Dean moans at the touch. As if on cue, Sam tightens his fingers in Dean's hair and Dean can feel his brother's balls tightening up. He can feel his whole body tensing.
Dean takes Sam as deep as he can, humming softly when the head hits the back of his throat. He pulls off almost completely, tongue lapping around the head, then takes him deep again. Sam's hands are fisting hard in Dean's hair, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. When Dean lets Sam's cock nearly slip out of his mouth again, Sam's head thumps against the wall. Dean holds his mouth just over the head of Sam's cock and tightens his grip on Sam's hips. He goes down fast on Sam's dick and Sam's whole body tenses just before he spills hot and bitter into Dean's mouth. Dean hears his name and works Sam through the orgasm, finally swallowing his come with a smile in his eyes.
With a wicked pop, Dean lets Sam's dick slide from between his lips. He looks up at Sam, chest and cheeks flushed, little beads of sweat down his chest, and smiles. Sam looks down, gives Dean a crooked smile back and slides his back down the wall. When he gets to Dean's level, he pulls Dean in for a kiss. It's slower, not as desperate as before, and Dean is sure Sam can taste himself on his lips.
Sam pulls away and Dean props himself up with a hand on the floor. Sam reaches over and starts to untie Dean's boots. Dean watches silently as Sam pulls them off, one at a time, and tosses them out of the bathroom. When it's done, Sam gets up and offers Dean a hand up. Dean takes it, rising off the floor, and Sam walks out of the bathroom after pulling his jeans off the rest of the way. Dean almost wanted to see Sam trip over them trying to walk with them pooled around his ankles. Maybe under different circumstances.
When Dean leaves the bathroom, Sam is already reclining on one of the beds. Dean stops at the foot and just looks at Sam. He's not sure what to do next. I mean, he just gave his brother a blow job in the bathroom. Turns out, Dean doesn't have to do anything. Sam is rising to his knees and crawling to the end of the bed.
Dean watches Sam undo his pants and push them off his hips, "Step out," Sam says. And fuck. Dean's never heard Sam's voice so rough before. The sound sends a twitch to his dick.
Dean steps out of his jeans as Sam leans back against the headboard once again. There's a bottle of cheap motel lotion sitting on the nightstand and Dean realizes exactly where this is going. He hesitates, and apparently Sam catches it, because he says, "Take your boxers off, Dean. Get on the bed."
Sam is using that voice, and Dean can't ignore it. He pulls off his shorts and kneels on the bed in front of Sam. Sam comes up to his knees again and presses his body to Dean's, trapping Dean's hard cock between the two of them. Dean closes his eyes when Sam runs his hands down his sides; they're warm and soft and Jesus Christ they're big. He moans when Sam pulls him close, biting his neck and pressing his fingers into Dean's hips.
"I want you to fuck me, Dean." Sam's words are a breathy, rough whisper against Dean's ear. Dean pulls back and meets Sam's eyes. He doesn't say anything, just searches Sam's eyes for any hesitation. He finds none.
"Fuck, yeah." The words surprise Dean as they leave his mouth. Sam smiles and kisses him again. Dean pushes Sam down to the mattress. He hovers over him for a moment before saying softly, "Turn over."
Sam actually smirks and Dean doesn't miss the little twitch that escapes his dick. Sam turns over and rests on his elbows. Dean is straddling his hips and he lowers himself to lay kisses across Sam's shoulders. Dean runs his hands up Sam's sides from the middle of his thighs, letting his thumbs smooth over the tight curve of Sam's ass, to his shoulders. He reaches over and grabs the lotion off the nightstand, squirting a generous amount into his hands.
Dean slicks up his fingers and runs his hand back down to Sam's ass. Sam relaxes into the mattress and Dean leans down and kiss/bites his shoulder. Dean slowly lets one finger press into Sam's ass. Sam tenses a little and Dean lays his other hand across his lower back. He starts working his finger in and out slowly, feeling the way Sam moves along with him.
Dean adds another finger and Sam moans. He lowers himself to rest along Sam's side and starts sliding his dick along his brother's thigh to the same rhythm his fingers are keeping. Dean bites Sam's shoulder as he adds a third finger and Sam turns his head to face him.
"Fuck, Dean. Fuck. I... want you in me. Need to feel you in me."
Dean stops. He's using every bit of concentration not to come right. the fuck. now. He closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip and feels Sam hovering inches from his face. When he opens his eyes, Sam leans in for a kiss and Dean pulls his fingers out of Sam's ass to the sound of Sam moaning into his mouth.
Dean squirts more lotion into his hands and slicks his dick up with Sam watching. He gently spreads Sam's legs apart and kneels between them, every nerve in his body vibrating with want. Dean wants, no, he needs to feel Sam. He needs to be inside him, pressed up against him, every inch of skin met with Sam's warm, sweating body. He holds his dick in his right hand, ready to guide it into Sam, and lowers himself to press against Sam's back.
Dean presses the head of his cock to Sam's tight little hole and pauses, lets the tension roll along his body. When Sam presses back onto Dean's dick, Dean sucks in a breath and pushes, sliding slowly into Sam until his balls are cradled against Sam's ass.
Dean doesn't move. He can't. He's brought his right hand up to Sam's hip and he's slid his left hand under Sam's left arm and is holding his shoulder from the front. Dean presses his head to the middle of Sam's back taking deep breaths, trying to control all the vibrations running through his body.
Sam is breathing deeply, head turned toward Dean's hand holding his shoulder. Dean raises his head off of Sam's back and starts to move slowly in and out of Sam's body. He feels the tight heat relaxing around him, cradling him in his brother's body. He's holding, pulling Sam, with every thrust. And Sam is meeting him with thrusts of his own.
Dean moves slowly, pushing in deep and coming out nearly all the way. He bites Sam's shoulder as he thrusts in deep and is rewarded with a surprised yelp. Sam has started moving his hips more desperately, fucking into the mattress, and Dean tries to slow him down.
Dean changes his rhythm. He stays deep inside Sam, moving with tiny controlled thrusts. He's pulling and thrusting and fucking Sam into the mattress, whispering wicked, dirty words into Sam's ear.
Sam's hips are meeting Dean's motions, and Dean leans in and whispers, "Sam. Fuck, Sam. Come. Come for me. Fuck into that mattress and come for me."
A breathy moan escapes Sam's lips and Dean feels him tighten impossibly around his cock as Sam comes into the mattress. Dean works him through it, slowing his thrusts down to meet Sam's spasms. When Sam is spent and melting into the bed beneath them both, Dean starts his deep/shallow thrusts once again.
Sam grabs a hold of Dean's hand on his waist and says Dean's name. Dean stutters, losing his rhythm, sinks deep into Sam and comes hot and wet inside. He's pressing into Sam as deep as he can get, fucking into him and gripping Sam so hard he's sure he'll have bruises come morning. The sensation sends fireworks across his closed eyelids and when it finally subsides, Dean sinks down onto Sam's back breathing hard.
Dean's dick is softening and it slips out of Sam's ass eliciting a moan from each of them. A few minutes later and Dean feels Sam's breathing even out, a sign that Sam's just passed the fuck out. Dean takes the cue and passes out as well, still resting heavily on Sam's back: left hand splayed across Sam's shoulder, left leg crooked between Sam's, right leg resting against his brother's and right arm stretched out along his side.
-|-
When Dean wakes up in the morning, sticky with come and sweat, Sam is gone. He pushes himself off the mattress and listens for the sound of a shower.
Nothing.
He looks around and Sam's duffel is still by the bathroom, so he takes the opportunity to take a long, hot shower. When the water hits the freshly stitched cut on his chest he hisses. Fucking Spring Heeled Jacks.
Dean gets out of the shower and wraps the towel around his waist to walk into the main room. He's met with Sam right outside the bathroom door, looking like he was ready to knock, holding coffee and a bag in one hand.
"Coffee?"
"Uh, yeah." Dean give Sam a what? are you stupid? look and grabs the coffee out of his hand. "What's in the bag?"
Sam follows Dean into the main room and opens the bag at the table to reveal two giant blueberry muffins, four glazed doughnuts, two apples, and two Hostess cherry fruit pies.
Dean's eyes light up at the feast of sugar laid before him. He looks up at Sam and smiles, wide and bright, then punches him in the arm.
"What the hell was that for, Dean?" Sam asks, rubbing his shoulder where Dean landed the punch.
"You're a bed hog." Dean says, and stuffs one of the doughnuts into his mouth. Little flecks of glaze fall off onto the floor and one gets stuck just under Dean's lower lip. Sam leans in and slowly licks it away, pulling back with a smile and says, "Well, I didn't hear you complaining last night. But if you don't like it, I guess we can start getting separate rooms or something." Sam starts to walk away and Dean grabs his shoulder, turning him around.
"What the fuck ever, Francis. Next time, we do it on your bed."
Sam smiles as Dean stuffs another doughnut into his mouth.
When it's all said and done, Dean thinks, this is gonna be pretty fucking sweet. Hot sex when ever I want it,with Sam... with Sam, and coffee and crazy delicious food delivered the next morning. Well, except for the apples.
Author: mgbutterfly
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Dean/Sam
Disclaimer: If they belonged to me, we'd see them cleaning each others wounds, stitching each other up, and Dean would curse all the time. Sam would roll his eyes a lot and I would be one happy chick. They don't belong to me, though, so I have to make due with pretending. I'm only borrowing and promise to return them without a scratch.
Summary: Dean goes into the bathroom, Sam following close behind with the first-aid kit. It's a routine they've practiced for too many years to count.
Beta!Bitch:barkeep, because she loves me. And I owe her flowers and chocolate and puppies and stuff for this. ILU, baby. Smooches.
Author's Notes: This is all because of apreludetoanend. She planted the porny plot bunny and nudged my muse. The prompt was Sam. Dean. Motel bathroom. So, that's what I wrote. It's a "First Time" fic, there's some hurt/comfort kinda, boys getting wounded and then patched up, and in my opinion, this is a PWP. I guess there's a little plot in there somewhere, though. I hope you like.
When they get back to the room, Dean has a gash on his upper forearm that feels like someone cut into him with a hot, pointy coal. He's pretty pissed off about the whole fucking situation, but it's really no use saying anything about it now. They got the god damned erlking, but not before it spotted them and took its frustrations out on Dean. Fuckers had killer claws.
Dean shucks his now ruined over-shirt off onto the floor and pulls his t-shirt over his head. He starts to grab the first-aid kit and head into the bathroom for patching up when Sam says, "Go take a shower, get as much of the grit out as you can. I'll flush the rest of it once you're out. You smell like a demon rolled in shit."
Dean stops at the foot of one of the beds, lifts his arm above his head, sniffs his armpit and flinches back with a grimace on his face, "You weren't kidding. Jesus, what the hell are those things made of?" He looks over at Sam and is met with a look of amused disgust.
Dean finishes stripping off everything but his boxer-briefs and heads into the bathroom for a long shower. He doesn't rush through the cleaning; he wants to get rid of all the stink-producing molecules and as much as it hurts like a bitch, he wants to scrub the fuck out of the cut. Better safe than sorry.
When he gets out, the wound is still bleeding but that's no surprise. He towels off and steps out of the bathroom to let it air out and to put on clean clothes. Sam is reclining on his bed and he looks over at Dean and scrutinizes the wound. Dean pulls on a fresh pair of shorts and says, "It's not that deep, I don't think it needs stitches. Butterflies though."
Sam nods his head and pushes off the bed, "You ready?"
"Let's do this. You don't smell too much like flowers yourself there, nature boy."
Dean goes into the bathroom, Sam following close behind with the first-aid kit. It's a routine they've practiced for too many years to count. Dean lowers the lid of the toilet and sits down as Sam removes some supplies from the kit. The cleaning and patching up is gentle but efficient. It has always amazed Dean how Sam can clean and even stitch Dean's deepest wounds and Dean hardly feels any pain.
When it's all said and done, Dean's cut has been drenched in holy water, lightly scrubbed, drenched again, smothered in antibiotic cream and pulled shut with four butterfly band-aids. Easy.
Still burns like a motherfucker, though.
~ -|- ~
Three weeks later and Sam is silent as they drive back to the motel. His brain, though... not so silent. He's cursing the imp that slashed his leg with every expletive in the book... and some that aren't. The thing ruined his most comfortable pair of jeans. He's spent years breaking these things in, and now they're air conditioned. Hell, they're down right drafty. Well, he thinks, at least it won't be attacking anymore kids. What's one pair of jeans when compared to that?
Sam is applying pressure to the wound with an old towel from the trunk of the Impala. Years of drying and wrapping and rubbing and machine washing have left the small towel threadbare. As a result, it's nearly soaked through with blood when they finally reach the motel parking lot. Sam opens the car door carefully stepping out onto the pavement and meets Dean at the room door as he's turning the key.
As they step inside, Dean turns to Sam and says, "Pants off, bathroom..." he trails off as his eyes make it to the bloody towel. Sam watches Dean's expression turn from annoyance to thinly veiled concern.
"It's not as bad as it looks, Dean. The towel's just old, I don't think the cut's that deep." Sam lifts the towel off the wound and shows it to Dean. Even though he seems to understand the towel issue, the fact that the wound is still seeping blood does nothing to remove the (still thinly veiled) concern from Dean's face. Sam places the towel back over the cut and sits down on the bed to remove his shoes.
Once he's out of all clothing save his boxers, he limps into the bathroom and sits down on the closed toilet lid. Dean is close behind with the first-aid kit. He takes the towel from Sam and chucks it into the trash can.
Sam watches Dean as he washes his hands and soaks a washcloth with soap and water. He looks down at the cut on his leg, still seeping blood, and assesses the damage. It's on the outside of his right thigh, it aches, it's deep, but thankfully, it's small. Dean's gonna have to stitch it, but that's no big deal. Sam's been stitched up by Dean plenty of times before.
Dean turns to Sam, still looking at the cut, and lowers himself to his knees next to the toilet, "Turn a little so I can get to it better."
Sam does as he's told and closes his eyes as Dean starts scrubbing the wound with the soapy washcloth. It hurts, but it doesn't. That's the thing about Dean; he has this uncanny ability to take the hurt right out of Sam's wounds. Sam's not really sure how he does it, he just knows he's thankful. And no, that symbolism isn't lost on him.
When Sam feels Dean run warm water over the freshly cleaned wound, he turns his head and stares down at him. Dean's laid a towel on the floor to catch most of the water and he's got the first-aid kit opened next to him. Sam continues to watch as Dean dries the wound and his hands and pulls a stitching pack out of the kit along with hydrogen peroxide and a couple of cotton balls.
Dean soaks the cotton balls with the hydrogen peroxide and raises his head to find Sam staring at him. "You okay, Sammy? It's gonna need stitches, but not too many."
Sam's not sure if it's the loss of blood or lack of food in his stomach, but he's a little dizzy all of a sudden. He takes a moment to reply which elicits a soft squeez on his knee from Dean. "Yeah, I'm okay. Uh, just hurry up, I think I need to eat something."
Dean gives Sam a crooked smile and turns back to the wound, applying the cotton balls. Sam is seriously beginning to worry about his sanity while he watches Dean work. He's noticing things about his brother's hands he's never noticed before. Things like how gentle they are, when they should be hard and calloused. Like how nicely manicured his nails are, when Sam's pretty sure he's never seen Dean take the time to even put lotion on, let alone clip his nails. Like how smoothly they pass over his leg, pushing the needle into skin, pulling the thread through. Like how perfect the silver band looks, gleaming like a slice of moonlight against Dean's creamy skin.
Okay, Sam decides he is a little loopy and should really eat something or lay down... or both. He shakes his head, as if to shake those images free from his brain, and stares at his own hands while Dean finishes stitching him up.
When it's all said and done, Sam's cut has about fifteen stitches and is covered with a thin layer of antibiotic ointment and a sterile gauze pad. Easy.
He's still convinced he's a little crazy, though.
~ -|- ~
"Sonuvafuckingbitch!" Dean slams the motel room door behind himself. Sam is already in the room grabbing the first-aid kit and heading to the bathroom.
"Let it go, Dean. Get your ass in here so we can take care of that." Dean can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes.
Dean shakes his head and sits down on his bed to take his boots off. He has a gash on his shin (his fucking shin) from a badger (a fucking badger) that he'd tripped over unintentionally while they were in the woods looking for the fucking wood sprite. Fucking badgers. Admittedly, it could be worse, he thinks. At least the thing just clawed his shin and took off running. Fucking badgers.
"How do you trip over a badger anyway, Dean? Explain to me the mechanics of that. I mean, a badger. They're not small." Sam is shaking his head and has his hands on his hips while he's watching Dean pull off his jeans.
"Shut up, bitch. It was dark, I couldn't use a fucking flash light without giving away my location! I didn't see it, it didn't see me. Just, get in the bathroom for Christ's sake and help me get this cleaned up. Jesus, Sam." Dean stands up and walks into the bathroom and plops down on the toilet lid. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Sam a positively deathly glare as he walks into the bathroom behind him.
Dean is stewing in his own juices as he watches Sam get a washcloth wet and soapy and start to scrub at the cut. It's deeper than Dean thought, it's gonna need stitches. And antibiotics wouldn't be a bad idea. Fucking badger.
"Should probably take some antibiotics." Sam says as he tosses the soapy, and now bloody, washcloth in the sink and soaks another one under the faucet.
"Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious." Dean bites out. He's sorry about that immediately after and ducks his head when Sam raises an eyebrow at him. He resigns himself to being quiet for the rest of the sitting.
Dean closes his eyes and leans back against the tank. When he feels the warm water washing down his shin he lets the tension roll out of his shoulders with a sigh. He opens his eyes and looks down at Sam kneeling on the tile in front of him. He watches Sam use a towel to pat the wound dry then dry his hands. His big hands. Christ. Dean looks away.
When he looks back, Sam has the bottle of isopropyl alcohol out and is soaking three cotton balls. Under different circumstances, Dean would brace himself for the burn. But he knows it's not going to hurt. Well, it will, but it won't. It's Sam's hands doing the cleaning. And Sam's hands just don't hurt.
Dean watches Sam use the soaked cotton balls to clean out the wound further then reach into the canvas bag to retrieve a stitching packet. As he opens the packet he leans over and lightly blows on Dean's cut. Dean's not sure if it's to dry the alcohol or lessen the burn. Either way, Dean smiles a little to himself. And then he sees Sam pull the little needle out of the packet. The needle that looks even smaller when it's held in those gigantic paws. Jesus.
Dean can't look away. He's noticing things he's never bothered to notice before about Sam's hands. Things like how freaking enormous they are. Like how, despite their size, they feel almost like silk cobwebs when Sam rests his left hand in the crease behind Dean's knee. Things like they way Sam keeps the stitches small and closely knit by using just the tips of his fingers. Fuck. Sam's hands are awesome.
Then Dean starts to imagine those hand on Jess. On Madison. And oh, man, that is not a thought he needs to be having about his brother. Dean clears his throat and pops his neck, as if those actions will erase the images from his newly perverted brain.
"Sorry." And the word doesn't register for a minute. Then Dean realizes that Sam thinks he hurt him.
"Nah, it's good. I just needed to loosen up a bit. You almost done?"
Sam cuts the thread and tosses the needle in the trash, effectively answering Dean's question. Dean patiently waits, not looking at him, as Sam applies antibiotic ointment and a gauze pad.
When it's all said and done, Dean has twenty-two new stitches and a new, somewhat perverted respect for his brother's hands.
He's pretty sure this isn't healthy.
~ -|- ~
They have been (thankfully) wound-free for the last couple of months, except for some minor scraps and bruises. Dean hasn't had any reason to sit on the lid of the toilet. Tonight, however, the streak ended. Dean is sitting in the bathroom with his shirt off. He's holding a towel to his stomach trying to keep the blood off the waistband of his jeans. And man, it's a lot of blood. More than Dean is comfortable with. Not that he's comfortable with any blood, mind you. Especially not Sam's. But this isn't Sam's, thank god, this is his, which makes it okay.
Sam walks into the bathroom, first-aid kit in hand, and goes to his knees in front of Dean. Dean's a little light-headed; the drive back to the motel was not a short one and the cut is pretty deep. He's still all there though and he doesn't miss the worry on Sam's face when he sees the towel. Sam looks up at Dean and says, "God damn it, Dean. What the fuck were you thinking? What the FUCK were you thinking? That guy had a fucking knife!" Sam's hands are shaking.
"I know, Sam. I seem to have found the knife," Dean looks down at the bloody towel, "It's not that bad, Sammy. It's a little deep, but it's fine. I just need it cleaned and stitched up. Gimme the stuff and I'll do it." Dean reaches for the first-aid kit but Sam catches his wrist and pushes it away.
"I'll do it. Just. Dean..." Sam sighs.
Dean smiles and leans back against the tank. He feels Sam pulling the towel away and he stops him by touching his wrist, "Let me take my pants off, I don't want to ruin another pair. I swear we should buy stock in Levi's."
Dean is still touching Sam's wrist when Sam sinks back to his haunches. As soon as Dean pulls back, Sam starts to unlace his boots and pull them off, one at a time. Dean uses his free hand to unbutton and unzip his pants. Instead of Dean standing up to take them off, Sam pulls the jeans by the legs until they slip off and he tosses them out of the bathroom into a heap on the floor. Dean's more light-headed than he thought.
He sits back against the tank and waits for Sam to start his practiced work. Dean closes his eyes and listens. He can hear Sam grabbing a towel, wetting a washcloth, digging around in the canvas bag, pulling things out, opening things. He hears the care and attention to detail and concern that Sam embeds in every little motion. He hears the concentration as Sam cleans and stitches the cut. And then Dean's thinking it might be a good idea to open his fucking eyes and stop acting like some fucking swooning girl. It's just a little blood loss for fuck's sake. He's had so much worse.
Dean opens his eyes and is met with Sam's. It seems Sam has finished patching Dean up and has even had time to put all the stuff back into the first-aid kit. Dean's not sure where his missing time went, but Sam is reaching up and putting his hand against Dean's cheek.
"You're a little warm, Dean. You should lay down. I'll go get you some juice and something to eat. You lost, well... there was too much blood on that towel."
When Sam doesn't pull his hand away from Dean's cheek right away, Dean raises his left hand, coated in blood from holding the towel to the wound, and covers Sam's hand. There's a moment of intense eye contact before Sam pulls a deep breath and slips his hand from beneath Dean's. Dean lets his hand drop while Sam helps him up and out of the bathroom. He lays down on his bed and lets Sam clean the blood off his hand, and now face, and watches as Sam grabs the keys and heads out to the store.
When it's all said and done, Dean has nineteen stitches across his lower abdomen.
He thinks he's lucky, insanely lucky, to have Sam.
~ -|- ~
The thing about bugganes is that when they're in human form, as long as they don't open their mouths or take off their gloves, you can walk right past them. The other thing about bugganes in their human form is that they never close their mouths or wear gloves. And they're stupid. Unfortunately, what they lack in intelligence, they make up for in strength and speed.
Therein lies the reason that Sam is currently holding an old shirt over the gash in his side. A clean line between two of his ribs.
Dean is driving like a bat out of hell despite Sam's insistence that it's not that bad. Sam gave up the argument moments after it began, resigning himself to slump against the window. When they get back to the motel, Dean practically runs to the door and opens it. Sam watches Dean grab the first-aid kit and take it to the bathroom.
Sam steps into the room and is met with Dean coming out of the bathroom and striding purposefully toward him. When he gets to Sam, Dean reaches behind him and pushes the door shut and starts tugging at the hem of Sam's shirt. Sam scrunches his eyes up and says, "Dean, what are you doing? I can get it off myself. It's not that bad." He ducks his head toward Dean and pushes him away with the hand not holding the old shirt.
"Sam, that thing had five inch claws. I watched it slice into you. You're bleeding through that shirt. Let me see." Dean starts to pull the old shirt away from Sam's side.
Sam rolls his eyes and tosses the shirt in the trash. He carefully pulls his shirt off over his head and tosses that one in the trash too. He thinks for a moment it's a good thing there are three Goodwills in this town, he's going to have to stock up on some more t-shirts. He looks down at Dean scrutinizing the gash. Dean squints his eyes and says, "C'mon, let's get it clean. See how many stitches you need."
Sam follows Dean into the bathroom and sits down on the toilet sideways. He leans against the tank and rests his left forearm on top of his head to give Dean better access to the oozing, red line. He closes his eyes while Dean gets everything ready. When he opens them, Dean has finished cleaning the wound and is starting the stitching.
Sam watches him and can't help but notice all the details of Dean's face: His eyes are clear and focused, the left eyelid slightly lower than the right. His mouth is parted slightly, like he's breathing through both it and his nose. Every now and then his tongue will dart out and moisten the lower lip. The stubble along Dean's jaw casts a smoky shadow across his fair complexion. He's starting to get a glossy sheen of sweat across his forehead. And he's got a tiny crust of doughnut glaze on the soft skin just below his lower lip.
Sam imagines licking that glaze right off of Dean.
Dean is putting the last few stitches in when Sam touches his wrist. Dean pauses and looks up at him, lips parted a little wider, eyelids a little more open. Sam licks his lips, lets two more breaths pass then pulls his hand away and turns his head back to watching the shower curtain. He can feel Dean looking at him a moment longer before he goes back to finishing the stitching. Sam doesn't watch as the ointment and gauze are applied.
When it's all said and done, Sam has thirty-four stitches between his sixth and seventh ribs. He's woozy and maybe a little confused and absolutely ready to just pass the fuck out.
He's pretty sure he'd meant to follow through on that glaze licking. He's also pretty sure Dean wouldn't have stopped him.
~ -|- ~
Sam shoots the whiskey and slams the glass down onto the picnic table. Dean pours two more fingers and Sam tosses that back too. Fuath tail spikes hurt like a motherfucker.
"C'mon, little brother. Let's get back to the room. That's lookin' nasty." Dean starts to screw the cap back on the bottle.
"One more." Sam says and winces as fresh pain rockets through his cheek. Dean pours and Sam drinks. They head back to the car in the dark, Sam heavy footed as the whiskey starts to loosen his limbs.
When they get back to the room, it's back to that familiar routine. Sam's cheek isn't stinging as badly as it had been, but it's still pretty god damn sore. He plops down on the lid of the toilet and waits for Dean and the ever present first-aid kit.
He watches Dean set things out on the counter; holy water, alcohol, cotton balls, stitching kit, gauze and tape. Once everything is out and arranged, Dean turns to Sam and says, "Hey, why don't you take a shower. Scrub the cut out a bit. I can see grit and dirt in it. How's it feeling?"
Sam takes a moment then says, "Well, it would hurt a hell of a lot worse minus the whiskey." Sam starts to pull his clothes off. He tugs his shirt off over his head and toes his shoes off as he stands up from the toilet. Dean is still in the room with him as he starts to remove his jeans. Sam gives him a meaningful look and Dean says, "Right. Yeah. You, uh, shower," and lightly punches Sam in the arm.
Sam shakes his head and turns the water on. He takes a quick shower, but doesn't skimp on cleaning out the cut. Despite the whiskey in his system, the scrubbing burns. When he's done, Sam dries off and steps out of the bathroom to his duffel. He pulls on a fresh pair of shorts and peeks his head around the corner to see Dean lounging on his bed.
"Ready, princess?" Dean gets up and starts walking toward Sam who is toweling his hair dry with one hand and flipping Dean off with the other. Sam goes back into the bathroom and sits back down on the toilet.
Dean flushes the wound with holy water, and if it were anyone other than Dean doing it, it would sting like the devil. Sam doesn't so much as flinch as Dean works. He sits back and closes his eyes, waiting for the cleaning to be over and the stitching to begin.
When Sam hears Dean open the stitching packet, he opens his eyes to watch. Dean has chosen a small gauge needle and thin thread. He's putting a tiny knot in the end of the thread using just his thumb and first finger. Sam notices Dean's hands are immaculately clean, like he scrubbed all the dirt and grime from them while Sam was in the shower. Dean looks over at Sam and raises his eyebrows, "That whiskey hitting you a little harder than you thought, Samantha?"
Sam raises one eyebrow in return and says, "I was just wondering if you were ever gonna get to the stitching part, Florence."
Dean rolls his eyes and lowers his hand to Sam cheek. When the needle pierces for the first time, Sam slowly closes his eyes and lets his breathing deepen. Dean is making small stitches, very close together. He's so good at this that Sam is sure the wound won't scar. Sure, it'll take a while to heal completely, but once it does, no one will ever know Sam took a Fuath tail spike to the face. Although Sam seriously doubts that would be anyone's first guess.
Dean finishes the stitching and Sam listens as he takes the gauze out of its packet and cuts a couple of pieces of tape. He still doesn't open his eyes as Dean applies the ointment and gauze. When Dean holds the gauze to his face to grab the tape, Sam leans into the touch. He's not sly about it, he just lets the weight of his head be held by Dean's hand over the gauze.
Dean doesn't pull away. And he doesn't say a word.
After Dean has applied the tape, Sam lets his head rest there a few more moments. He thinks, it's just the whiskey. I've got a buzz going and my head's a little heavy. When he hears Dean sigh as his thumb barely moves along Sam's cheekbone, he knows it's not the whiskey. Not at all. And he's not exactly sure what that means.
When it's all said and done, Sam has thirty-eight tiny stitches in his cheek. He definitely has a buzz and could definitely use a full day of sleep, but he knows his dreams will wake him up with Dean's name on his lips and hard cock in his shorts.
And at this moment? He's okay with that.
~ -|- ~
Dean hates Spring Heeled Jacks. He had to deal with one all by his lonesome once, and that was not a walk in the park. It's much easier with two people, especially when one of those people is Sam, but you still end up running all over God's green earth chasing the damn things. They're called Spring Heeled Jacks for a reason. Jumping motherfuckers.
When they had finally cornered it, Dean got a little too close with the torch and the thing reached out and laid a gash across his chest before Dean had a chance to set the fucker on fire. Now, not only is his new (by way of Goodwill, anyway) flannel ruined, but the awesome long-sleeve Aerosmith shirt is trash as well.
Sam runs to Dean and starts fumbling around with Dean's shirt. Dean pushes his hands away and pulls the flannel off to hold over the gash.
"It's not that bad, Sam. Here, you drive." Dean hands Sam the keys to the Impala and they start walking back to the car. It's a short drive to the motel, and as soon as they arrive, Sam is inside getting the first-aid kit ready. Dean walks through the door and tosses the flannel in the garbage, along with the formerly kick-ass Aerosmith shirt. He walks into the bathroom and sits down on the toilet, ready for the ritual of cleaning and patching.
Sam already has everything laid out. Dean looks down at the gash and thinks it feels much worse than it looks. It'll still need stitches, though. Sam starts cleaning, first with holy water, then with alcohol and iodine. Dean leans back against the tank, like he has so many times before, and lets himself feel Sam working. He closes his eyes as Sam blows the alcohol dry and a shiver runs through his body. When he feels the needle for the first time, he evens out his breathing and tries to ignore the heavy feeling in his groin.
Dean keeps his eyes closed as Sam applies the ointment and gauze pad. Sam is holding the gauze to Dean's chest and securing it with tape, ready to pull his hand away, when Dean reaches out and grabs his wrist. Dean opens his eyes and meets Sam's, surprised and open and shadowed with something Dean knows all too well. He stands up from the toilet, still holding onto Sam's wrist, and crowds him against the bathroom wall. For a moment, they both stop breathing, each set of eyes searching the other for any sign of resistance.
When Sam closes his eyes and Dean feels him relax against the wall, Dean slides into Sam's space and pulls him down into a kiss. Dean's still holding Sam's wrist in one hand, ready to let it go should his brother decide he's one sick fuck and pull away. But that doesn't happen. Sam brings his free hand up to Dean's hip and tries to pull him in closer. Closer. Shit, if they get any closer, they'd be inside one another. And that is a thought Dean can totally get behind.
Dean lets go of Sam's wrist and brings his hands up to Sam's head. He has one hand cradled behind Sam's neck and the other tangled in his hair, trying to pull in, trying to take all of Sam. A kiss that started off soft, unsure and searching has turned into a desperate fiery thing. Dean is fisting both hands in Sam's hair while Sam gropes gracelessly at Dean's shoulders and waistband. Their breathing is harsh and loud around the echo of the bathroom and when their teeth clash in the violence of the kiss neither one notices.
Sam starts to try to push himself off the wall and their lips part. Dean looks him in the eyes and pushes him back, holding Sam by one shoulder. Sam huffs out a breath and smiles, something predatory. Dean gives a smirk of his own and pushes Sam's shirt up and off, tossing it out of the bathroom without breaking eye contact. He starts to fumble with Sam's jeans when Sam leans in and bites his earlobe. And god damn if that's not a pleasant surprise.
Sam moves his lips and teeth down to Dean's neck and Dean can't seem to manage control of his hands anymore. He's still groping at Sam's jeans when Sam shifts his weight and flips them both to shove Dean back against the wall. Sam's running his hands down Dean's chest, letting them come to rest at the button of Dean's jeans. Dean feels Sam kick his shoes off while licking a stripe down his neck. Dean pulls Sam's face back up to him and goes in for another kiss.
Sam, it turns out, is a biter. He's pulling Dean's bottom lip through his teeth and nipping at Dean's top lip. Dean finally gains control of his hands and gets Sam's jeans undone. While Sam is busy biting and licking at Dean's lips, Dean takes the opportunity to switch their positions again. He presses Sam against the wall and runs his hands down to the waistband of his jeans. Sam pulls him in for another biting kiss and Dean slowly pulls away, sliding to his knees while taking Sam's jeans and shorts with him.
Dean sucks a kiss into the soft flesh of Sam's hip. He licks a trail from Sam's navel to the head of his cock, swollen, red and slick with pre-come. Sam moans, a guttural sound from deep in his chest, and tries to come off the wall. Dean pushes him back and looks up at him, a mischievous grin painting his face.
Dean takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Sam's cock. He uses the tip of his tongue to lick from the base to the head as it stands up against Sam's belly. He hears Sam's head thump against the wall and a breath escape his lips. Dean smiles, runs a hand up Sam's leg, tips his dick toward his lips and flicks his tongue around the head. Sam's breathing is getting more shallow and Dean can't help but smile. He's doing this. He's making Sam feel this way. And fuck that's hot.
Dean lets his lips slip over the head of Sam's cock and he starts slowly working his tongue around. Sam is making little moaning noises, his breath shallow. As Dean works his mouth up and down along Sam's length, Sam gently, almost questioningly, places his hands on Dean's head. Dean moans at the touch. As if on cue, Sam tightens his fingers in Dean's hair and Dean can feel his brother's balls tightening up. He can feel his whole body tensing.
Dean takes Sam as deep as he can, humming softly when the head hits the back of his throat. He pulls off almost completely, tongue lapping around the head, then takes him deep again. Sam's hands are fisting hard in Dean's hair, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. When Dean lets Sam's cock nearly slip out of his mouth again, Sam's head thumps against the wall. Dean holds his mouth just over the head of Sam's cock and tightens his grip on Sam's hips. He goes down fast on Sam's dick and Sam's whole body tenses just before he spills hot and bitter into Dean's mouth. Dean hears his name and works Sam through the orgasm, finally swallowing his come with a smile in his eyes.
With a wicked pop, Dean lets Sam's dick slide from between his lips. He looks up at Sam, chest and cheeks flushed, little beads of sweat down his chest, and smiles. Sam looks down, gives Dean a crooked smile back and slides his back down the wall. When he gets to Dean's level, he pulls Dean in for a kiss. It's slower, not as desperate as before, and Dean is sure Sam can taste himself on his lips.
Sam pulls away and Dean props himself up with a hand on the floor. Sam reaches over and starts to untie Dean's boots. Dean watches silently as Sam pulls them off, one at a time, and tosses them out of the bathroom. When it's done, Sam gets up and offers Dean a hand up. Dean takes it, rising off the floor, and Sam walks out of the bathroom after pulling his jeans off the rest of the way. Dean almost wanted to see Sam trip over them trying to walk with them pooled around his ankles. Maybe under different circumstances.
When Dean leaves the bathroom, Sam is already reclining on one of the beds. Dean stops at the foot and just looks at Sam. He's not sure what to do next. I mean, he just gave his brother a blow job in the bathroom. Turns out, Dean doesn't have to do anything. Sam is rising to his knees and crawling to the end of the bed.
Dean watches Sam undo his pants and push them off his hips, "Step out," Sam says. And fuck. Dean's never heard Sam's voice so rough before. The sound sends a twitch to his dick.
Dean steps out of his jeans as Sam leans back against the headboard once again. There's a bottle of cheap motel lotion sitting on the nightstand and Dean realizes exactly where this is going. He hesitates, and apparently Sam catches it, because he says, "Take your boxers off, Dean. Get on the bed."
Sam is using that voice, and Dean can't ignore it. He pulls off his shorts and kneels on the bed in front of Sam. Sam comes up to his knees again and presses his body to Dean's, trapping Dean's hard cock between the two of them. Dean closes his eyes when Sam runs his hands down his sides; they're warm and soft and Jesus Christ they're big. He moans when Sam pulls him close, biting his neck and pressing his fingers into Dean's hips.
"I want you to fuck me, Dean." Sam's words are a breathy, rough whisper against Dean's ear. Dean pulls back and meets Sam's eyes. He doesn't say anything, just searches Sam's eyes for any hesitation. He finds none.
"Fuck, yeah." The words surprise Dean as they leave his mouth. Sam smiles and kisses him again. Dean pushes Sam down to the mattress. He hovers over him for a moment before saying softly, "Turn over."
Sam actually smirks and Dean doesn't miss the little twitch that escapes his dick. Sam turns over and rests on his elbows. Dean is straddling his hips and he lowers himself to lay kisses across Sam's shoulders. Dean runs his hands up Sam's sides from the middle of his thighs, letting his thumbs smooth over the tight curve of Sam's ass, to his shoulders. He reaches over and grabs the lotion off the nightstand, squirting a generous amount into his hands.
Dean slicks up his fingers and runs his hand back down to Sam's ass. Sam relaxes into the mattress and Dean leans down and kiss/bites his shoulder. Dean slowly lets one finger press into Sam's ass. Sam tenses a little and Dean lays his other hand across his lower back. He starts working his finger in and out slowly, feeling the way Sam moves along with him.
Dean adds another finger and Sam moans. He lowers himself to rest along Sam's side and starts sliding his dick along his brother's thigh to the same rhythm his fingers are keeping. Dean bites Sam's shoulder as he adds a third finger and Sam turns his head to face him.
"Fuck, Dean. Fuck. I... want you in me. Need to feel you in me."
Dean stops. He's using every bit of concentration not to come right. the fuck. now. He closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip and feels Sam hovering inches from his face. When he opens his eyes, Sam leans in for a kiss and Dean pulls his fingers out of Sam's ass to the sound of Sam moaning into his mouth.
Dean squirts more lotion into his hands and slicks his dick up with Sam watching. He gently spreads Sam's legs apart and kneels between them, every nerve in his body vibrating with want. Dean wants, no, he needs to feel Sam. He needs to be inside him, pressed up against him, every inch of skin met with Sam's warm, sweating body. He holds his dick in his right hand, ready to guide it into Sam, and lowers himself to press against Sam's back.
Dean presses the head of his cock to Sam's tight little hole and pauses, lets the tension roll along his body. When Sam presses back onto Dean's dick, Dean sucks in a breath and pushes, sliding slowly into Sam until his balls are cradled against Sam's ass.
Dean doesn't move. He can't. He's brought his right hand up to Sam's hip and he's slid his left hand under Sam's left arm and is holding his shoulder from the front. Dean presses his head to the middle of Sam's back taking deep breaths, trying to control all the vibrations running through his body.
Sam is breathing deeply, head turned toward Dean's hand holding his shoulder. Dean raises his head off of Sam's back and starts to move slowly in and out of Sam's body. He feels the tight heat relaxing around him, cradling him in his brother's body. He's holding, pulling Sam, with every thrust. And Sam is meeting him with thrusts of his own.
Dean moves slowly, pushing in deep and coming out nearly all the way. He bites Sam's shoulder as he thrusts in deep and is rewarded with a surprised yelp. Sam has started moving his hips more desperately, fucking into the mattress, and Dean tries to slow him down.
Dean changes his rhythm. He stays deep inside Sam, moving with tiny controlled thrusts. He's pulling and thrusting and fucking Sam into the mattress, whispering wicked, dirty words into Sam's ear.
Sam's hips are meeting Dean's motions, and Dean leans in and whispers, "Sam. Fuck, Sam. Come. Come for me. Fuck into that mattress and come for me."
A breathy moan escapes Sam's lips and Dean feels him tighten impossibly around his cock as Sam comes into the mattress. Dean works him through it, slowing his thrusts down to meet Sam's spasms. When Sam is spent and melting into the bed beneath them both, Dean starts his deep/shallow thrusts once again.
Sam grabs a hold of Dean's hand on his waist and says Dean's name. Dean stutters, losing his rhythm, sinks deep into Sam and comes hot and wet inside. He's pressing into Sam as deep as he can get, fucking into him and gripping Sam so hard he's sure he'll have bruises come morning. The sensation sends fireworks across his closed eyelids and when it finally subsides, Dean sinks down onto Sam's back breathing hard.
Dean's dick is softening and it slips out of Sam's ass eliciting a moan from each of them. A few minutes later and Dean feels Sam's breathing even out, a sign that Sam's just passed the fuck out. Dean takes the cue and passes out as well, still resting heavily on Sam's back: left hand splayed across Sam's shoulder, left leg crooked between Sam's, right leg resting against his brother's and right arm stretched out along his side.
-|-
When Dean wakes up in the morning, sticky with come and sweat, Sam is gone. He pushes himself off the mattress and listens for the sound of a shower.
Nothing.
He looks around and Sam's duffel is still by the bathroom, so he takes the opportunity to take a long, hot shower. When the water hits the freshly stitched cut on his chest he hisses. Fucking Spring Heeled Jacks.
Dean gets out of the shower and wraps the towel around his waist to walk into the main room. He's met with Sam right outside the bathroom door, looking like he was ready to knock, holding coffee and a bag in one hand.
"Coffee?"
"Uh, yeah." Dean give Sam a what? are you stupid? look and grabs the coffee out of his hand. "What's in the bag?"
Sam follows Dean into the main room and opens the bag at the table to reveal two giant blueberry muffins, four glazed doughnuts, two apples, and two Hostess cherry fruit pies.
Dean's eyes light up at the feast of sugar laid before him. He looks up at Sam and smiles, wide and bright, then punches him in the arm.
"What the hell was that for, Dean?" Sam asks, rubbing his shoulder where Dean landed the punch.
"You're a bed hog." Dean says, and stuffs one of the doughnuts into his mouth. Little flecks of glaze fall off onto the floor and one gets stuck just under Dean's lower lip. Sam leans in and slowly licks it away, pulling back with a smile and says, "Well, I didn't hear you complaining last night. But if you don't like it, I guess we can start getting separate rooms or something." Sam starts to walk away and Dean grabs his shoulder, turning him around.
"What the fuck ever, Francis. Next time, we do it on your bed."
Sam smiles as Dean stuffs another doughnut into his mouth.
When it's all said and done, Dean thinks, this is gonna be pretty fucking sweet. Hot sex when ever I want it,with Sam... with Sam, and coffee and crazy delicious food delivered the next morning. Well, except for the apples.