Or that time when Sam was fifteen and had a crush on his English teacher and read poetry all the time, the real stuff, not hallmark cards, the kind that made Dean totally crack up every time he leaned over Sam's shoulder to take a look, because it was just so weird. He had something new almost every week, borrowed from his teacher--who was, Dean had to admit, incredibly hot, all bright red curls and too-small sweater sets--and when he didn't have his head in a book he was copying stuff out into notebooks, because Sam never did his obsessions halfway. So Dean kept an idle eye on the steady turnover of books and his interest perked a little when Sam brought home a huge volume of Edgar Allan Poe, because that was some downright freaky shit right there, that story about the swinging pendulum blade he'd read back in high school--good stuff, and definitely an improvement on the Shakespeare sonnets Sam had been plowing through last week.So he'd nodded approvingly and thought maybe he'd grab it and take a look at that story, see if it was as gross as he remembered, but he pretty much forgot about it until three days later when he came home early from work--this was what happened when they stuck around on extended jobs, Sam went all hot for teacher and geeked out while Dean had to get actual honest work--and found Sam striding back and forth in the kitchen reciting 'The Raven', complete with vigorous dramatic hand motions.
"Is there, is there balm in GilAAAHH!" Sam said as he turned around.
"Man, she better be sleeping with you for this," Dean said, "because nobody else will, ever."
"I'll finish this," Dad said. "Run back to the room and get your brother ready to go."
"Yes, sir," Dean said, and maybe 'run' was aiming a little high with his twisted knee screaming like that, but he could definitely manage 'brisk limp.' Which he did, back the six blocks to the motel and almost to the door of their room when he heard Sam's voice from around the corner, low and unhappy--he didn't sound *hurt* but Dean sped up anyway, wincing a little. Turned and found Sam crouched in front of a row of scraggly bushes, his back to Dean and something in his hands--and then facing him as he whirled around, clutching the thing protectively to his chest.
The--*kitten,* jesus, great. Squirming in Sam's grip and coal-black and tinier than anything Dean had ever seen.
"We are *not* taking that with us," Dean said.
Sam glared at him and clutched it a little closer. "I know."
"Dude, don't squash it," Dean said, and, "you know we can't, right? Because I don't want you being a little bitch for the next four days over this."
"I said I know!" And the glare turned into a full-on scowl, but he loosened his deathgrip on the thing. "I *know* we can't take it, okay, I'm not a *baby.* I just like taking care of it." He rubbed his thumb over the tiny curve of skull between the oversized ears, back and forth, making it butt up into his hand. "Are we leaving now?"
"Yeah." Dean felt weirdly let down, almost. He'd been gearing up for a fight. "Dad's cleaning up, said to get packed--" Something by Sam's feet caught his eye. A little can, something-- "You been feeding it?"
Sam's eyes flicked down for just a second and he stiffened, then straightened his back defiantly. "So?"
"So, where the hell did you get catfood from? You can't steal for shit." Not for lack of trying on Dean's part, but it was like trying to give pointers to a really sullen brick wall, lately. It just figured Sam would be precocious about being a bratty teenager along with everything else.
Sam said, "Bought it," with that look he had more and more, the mix of guilt and glee. Like he was waiting for one of them to snap and hit him, and somehow excited about the possibility.
And christ, maybe Dean would, because it wasn't like Sam had a freaking *allowance,* and if they didn't have money to buy Sam new used sneakers that actually fit him then they definitely didn't have money for goddamn *cat food* for a stray that was gonna go back to starving as soon as they left, anyway, and also-- "Jesus, you stole from Dad to feed a kitten? Are you trying to get your ass kicked?"
"You gonna tell him?"
"I fucking should," Dean said, and they both knew he wouldn't. "Just go get packed, okay?"
Sam looked like maybe he wanted to say something else, but he just nodded and crouched down, set the kitten back on the grass next to the half-empty can. Stroked it for a couple seconds and stood up, face blank--he'd gotten so creepily good at that--and went inside.
Dean started to follow him and flinched as the throbbing in his knee flared up again. He'd need to get an ice pack on that quick or it was gonna swell up like a balloon, and he needed to finish packing and he needed to make sure Sam wasn't still sulking around when Dad got back, but he paused for a second anyway and watched the kitten curl itself up in a ball, nose to tail. It looked so unbelievably tiny, like maybe if he picked it up it wouldn't weigh anything at all.
Dean can't entirely figure how he ended up here, and if that's kind of a weird thing to think with his hand halfway up his little brother's ass, well--it's Sam. Sam, who is what a chick magazine would probably call Sexually Adventurous, all into trying new things, which Dean guesses is what happens when you spend a while with just one person. It's hard to get really deep down and dirty with the kinky shit when you only fuck people you met a few hours ago, and anyway he likes the, the steadiness of just fucking, predictable solid center to all the different smells and voices and sounds.
But then, it's been a while since he smelled or heard anyone besides Sam, and Sam's into all *kinds* of crazy shit. There's a bag of freaking *sex toys* in the trunk now, where Dean's always a little worried he'll grab one by accident and end up facing down a ghost with a vibrating oversized neon green dick instead of a shotgun. They've tried out all kinds of weird-ass positions, because Sam--the giant geek--has actually *read* the Kama Sutra. They've done it with blindfolds, gags, handcuffs, feathers, knives, a gun once--unloaded and halfway disassembled, because Sam might have an imagination straight out of a porno movie, but neither of them are *stupid.*
So basically, when Sam walked out of the drugstore and back to the car with a huge bottle of lube and a box of size-large latex gloves, Dean just went ahead and rolled with it. After raising his eyebrows and saying, "Man, those better not be for you, you got paws like a damn gorilla."
"Uh. No," Sam said, and blushed a little, which he hadn't done for a while, and pretty much guaranteed Dean an instant hard-on. "No, they're for you, uh. If you want?"
Dean was suddenly *really aware* of his hands. They weren't gigantic like Sam's, but they were big enough to make him wonder how the fuck Sam expected this to work, and then felt himself go hot all over from picturing it. "*Shit* yes," he said fervently, already pulling out of the parking lot, and Sam snickered and relaxed and then--now--here they are.
Freaking *dripping,* like some sort of hideous lube-based carnage just went down. He's got one of Sam's ankles on his shoulder, one hand holding himself up, and the other--he can't stop staring at where his hand is sliding in, gloved and slick-shiny and slow. Fingers folded over--he started with two, forever ago, then three and Sam had to tell him to go to four. With his voice all shaky and thick, spilling out of him like liquid--"More, come on, do it," and Dean did and Sam *took* it. Takes it, unbearably tight even pressure all around his fingers, and Sam gasping and arching and open. Riding the knobbly swell of Dean's knuckles, squeezing down hard enough to hurt.
"Jesus," Dean mutters, "so fucking tight, Sammy, okay? Is it okay?" He needs to ask, even though Sam is hard and dripping against his belly, even though his goddamn *toes* are curling and flexing, but Dean has to make sure, because this is *completely insane.*
And oh, god, Sam just makes this noise like a moan and a purr and a sob all mixed up, scratching uselessly at the sheets like he can't even remember how to move his hands. Dean bites his lip and--for some reason, he doesn't know--holds his breath as he folds his thumb down and pushes. There's a half-second when Sam tenses and squeezes his eyes shut, and Dean feels like his stomach's fallen out--but then the last wide swell is past and he slips in to the wrist. He barely has time to stare disbelievingly before Sam groans and comes, eyes wide, heel drumming hard and jerky where it's hooked over Dean's shoulder.
Dean watches, dizzy, breathes. It's not like anything he's seen before, the way the orgasm just rolls through Sam, makes him tighten down on Dean's hand and come and come till he's just shivering, whimpering with every shift of Dean's fingers. "Fuck," Dean breathes, barely hearing himself, "fucking--god, Sam, baby, c'mon..." Endless seconds, minutes, and his hand starts to ache but he can't even begin to move from where he is. It feels almost too close, like there's something dangerous about holding Sam this deep, this open.
"*Shit* shit *fuck," she spat, but held still while Dean sewed her up. It was long, almost all the way down her calf, but not too deep. Not too bad. She lay facedown on the bed, banging her fist against the bedframe and cursing, until he was done.
"I'd say you get used to it, but you really don't," Dean said, dodged a kick from her other leg. Keeping his voice light.
"Too late trying to scare me off now." Jo rolled over, angling the hurt left out to the side to keep pressure off it. She had her (ripped, bloody) jeans off for Dean to do the stitches, faded gray panties gapping at the crease of her thigh, where she was spread. She yawned. He looked away, starting putting up the first aid kit. Wished Sam were back already.
Jo had her eyes closed, bruise darkening high on her cheek where she'd hit the floor. Probably plenty more under her shirt, too. She'd be stiff as hell in the morning. Dean thought for a second she was going to just fall asleep there, but then she said, "Don't tell me you're *embarrassed.*"
"What?"
"I can hear you just sitting there, you know." She grinned, eyes still closed. "You've seen me undressed before, why the big freak-out?" Same grin, looked different with her face black and blue. Smashed up.
"Just put your damn legs together," he said, biting out the words. He knew it wasn't fair. She'd been--sexless, with them, almost from the beginning. When she started training her body turned into just another tool, one they both--all three--worked on and shaped and touched without any particular notice. Dean rubbed knots from her shoulders, Sam adjusted her when she left her stance open, they both had their hands on her all the time.
She stared at him, hurt. Then thoughtful. Bent her knee to her chest so she could reach the stitches and stroked lightly over them. "It it this? This is what's different?"
"Jo--"
"This is what it takes to make you look at me?" She laughed. "God, I'd given *up*--"
"Don't--stop touching them, you'll tear them." He batted her hand away. Tried to make it casual, but his fingers felt burnt where they touched her skin.
"It's too *late,*" she said again, more urgently. "I'm not going anywhere. Just--why--Dean, god, why *don't* you--" She broke off. Dropped her leg back down. In a smaller voice, she said, "Do you want me to stop?"
Not pleading, just...asking. He could say yes and end this for good. Jo would grow up that last little bit and her leg would heal up and they'd all be fine, she'd be family. He looked at her hands, scraped dirty knuckles, remembered them slim and perfect around her knife.
"No," Dean said, and sat down next to her, heavy. Hot. "I don't, okay, yeah--"
Her smile punched through the bruise and swelling, bright and pulling him in.
"Ow! Jesus, what the fuck are you doing back there?" Dean jerked away, scowled over his shoulder. Sam ignored him and kept running the saline over the deep gashes, dabbing the gauze to try and get the bits of debris out. Dean yelped again and tried to get up, so Sam sat on him. "Just fucking sew it up already, god--"
"Yeah, because I really want to deal with you after you get a hideous *ass infection,*" Sam said. "Quit being such a damn baby, it's not that bad."
"It's my ASS," Dean said, which, okay, point. He had a lot fewer scars back here, and probably more nerve endings, or...something. Not the train of thought Sam wanted to be heading down right now, anyway. He picked up the needle and started to stitch. Dean growled into a pillow.
"Your damn fault, anyway. Let some giant freaking hell-bear dig a chunk out of me, you're supposed to have my back out there, man."
"Your *back* is fine," Sam pointed out.
He carried Sam into the room, set him down on the bed as gently as he could. Still ended up jostling him enough that he whimpered, eyes fluttering a few times before sinking back down. For the hundredth time Dean thought about a hospital, but Sam didn't seem to be too badly injured, aside from the obvious, and Dean didn't want him out of his sight. Didn't want him waking up to strange hands and drugs and he'd never forgive Dean, be right not to.
He got some washcloths from the bathroom, wet them and cleaned up Sam's face the best he could. A lot of blood but that was just from scratches, cuts; he ran his fingers through Sam's sweaty hair and didn't come away red. He remembered the gashes across Sam's back and sat there for a minute, working up the nerve to turn him over, hearing the sleepy distressed noises almost before Sam made them. But he didn't wake up, at least, and Dean cleaned up the blood and debris, disinfected and taped up what he could and then finally let himself pull the sheet over Sam and go collapse on the other bed.
He hadn't realized how exhausted he was, all the adrenaline of the search spiking through him and then he found Sam and couldn't think about anything except getting him safe. Now he couldn't even get up the energy to take his shoes off before sinking down into sleep, thinking vaguely, at least Sam can wake up first, at least I can give him that.