Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~5200 words. Direct sequel to Burdens to Bear.
And sometimes, Sam plays dirty, too.
And sometimes, Sam plays dirty, too.
Dean squints at the far wall and wills the room to stop swimming. His head is too heavy to lift from the headboard, but that’s alright. There’s less stop-motion jerkiness to his vision as long as he keeps his head still.
Carefully, fixing first on the bedspread and then the television for points of reference, Dean’s gaze makes the trip to the other side of the room where Sam sprawls smug and lazy in a ratty chair.
“You got me drunk,” Dean says, wincing first at the slur in his words, second at the way moving makes the ugly patterned wallpaper waver like streamers in the wind. “Holy shit, you got me high?”
Unrepentant, Sam says, “Yup.”
That morning had dawned the same as any other, with Sam already awake, showered and typing away at the laptop before Dean could remember what state they were in. Once he’d wrapped his fuzzy brain around that, everything else came flooding back.
His tee on the floor, crumpled and stained. The dry, scratchy pull between his legs as he rolled over, the ache low in the back of his throat as he swallowed. The hot, tender bitemark sucked onto his neck.
Dean’s stomach hit the floor and kept on going.
“Coffee,” Sam said, pointing at a generic paper cup set on the nightstand without lifting his head. “Morning.”
Gingerly, well too aware of his nakedness, Dean untwisted himself from the sheets as his stomach came crawling back down his throat, sniveling and filthy as a mangy dog. “Yeah,” he croaked, picking up the cup for its warmth. He doubted drinking it would do much for the churning in his guts.
He waited a full minute, eyes glued the second hand on the wall clock steadily ticking away, for Sam to say something more. Hating it, dreading it, he still waited.
Sam’s lips pressed into a thin white line as he read on. His eyes narrowed like he was about to start arguing with the internet about some obscure bit of lore before his face softened. Dean was close to panicking about Sam’s mouth pursing into the unmistakable shape that’d say okay, now we need to talk even as he pictured it melting towards a moan.
“Gonna grab a shower,” Dean blurted.
“Okay.” Sam glanced up, nudging the computer aside to drag a musty old book closer. “Breakfast after?”
Dean was going to puke. It had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the open honesty plastered across Sam’s face. Just another morning in just another town.
He felt foolish for it but still waited until Sam’s attention drifted back to their research before streaking for the bathroom.
All morning, Dean waited for a tell. That slant to Sam’s eyes, the thinning of his lips, the flare of his nose, something, anything to serve as a warning to the inevitable. Sam would want to talk about this, Dean knew. It was Sam’s way, built into Sam’s genetic makeup as surely as the brown of his eyes, the shape of his face.
Noon rolled by to find Dean rooting through their first aid supplies for Tums. He popped them like candy, licked the chalky sweetness from the roof of his mouth. Thought of Sam’s tongue doing the same, tracing slick and warm along the line of his teeth.
He switched from Tums to the Jack stashed beneath a stack of shotgun shells. With a wary eye to Sam gathering info from the kid minding a weather-beaten old newsstand, he gulped a few healthy mouthfuls, capped the flask, then thought better of it and went back for one more.
Dinner happened in the same booth as breakfast, just as breakfast: no different than any other day. Sam ordered something healthy and adult, Dean cast a quick glance about and ordered what looked good.
The waitress had a nice rack, a quick smile and an invitation scribbled on the back of their bill. When Dean waved her back for a little chat and a third beer, Sam didn’t say a word.
In retrospect, that should’ve tipped Dean off.
“Just how much did you drink today, Dean?” Sam asks, his voice echoing down the long dark tunnel of the three feet between their beds.
“Holy shit,” Dean repeats, blinking slowly and trying to concentrate. “What the hell’d you slip me?”
Dean’s not sure, but he thinks Sam looks a little abashed. Sam opens his mouth but Dean talks right over him, saying, “You roofied me, Sammy?”
Immediately, Sam barks, “No!” and Dean holds up a hand, trying to forestall any more outbursts until that one stops ringing his bones. Sam starts talking again, muttering about unconventional drugs and alcohol, and Dean’s almost sure Sam’s ignoring the impatient flicker of his fingers until he realises his hand isn’t moving.
“Sam,” Dean says, a tiny twinge of panic starting at the base of his spine.
“If you’d kept your-”
From across the room, near the television, Sam says, “What?”
“I can’t move my hand.”
Two and a half heartbeats later, and Dean knows for certain it was a half because he paid very close attention, Sam says, “You’re waving it at me. Right now.”
“You’ve been drinking all day, haven’t you.”
Groaning, Dean scrubs a hand over his face. Stubble rasps pleasantly against his palm. Tickles, almost. He does it again, tilting his head back to rub his hand slowly over his neck.
Feeling Sam watching him, he says, “Maybe.”
“Great. Is it wearing off yet?”
Dean pauses. The dizziness is less than before, and thankfully, the wallpaper has glued itself back to the wall where it belongs. But he’s not sure he wants to tell Sam that.
“Maybe,” Dean hedges.
Sam moves out of Dean’s field of vision and it takes a couple tries for Dean to find him again. Which was weird enough without finding him sitting right beside Dean on the bed, leaning closer to peer straight into Dean’s eyes.
“Here,” Sam says, offering up the tiny blue pill cupped in his palm.
“No offence, but y’know, you’ve already drugged me once.”
Something flickers across Sam’s face, there and gone long before Dean can puzzle out its meaning. Closing the hand with the pill into a fist, Sam lifts the other to Dean’s face, fingers splayed wide over his cheek, thumb over his lips.
Visceral memory slams the breath from Dean’s lungs; his thumb on Sam’s mouth, in Sam’s mouth, Sam’s tongue and his sliding together.
He sucks in a breath and suddenly the memory becomes real. Sam’s lips on his are soft, dry until a quick swipe of tongue slicks them wet. The hard sucker-punch of lust hits first, the nauseating creep of guilt follows. Sam’s tongue slips into his mouth, licks at his just like he remembers, just like he’d been wanting and dreading since that first taste.
It’s only when he feels the slight fizzing on his tongue that he pulls back, wide-eyed and incredulous as Sam’s hand slaps over his mouth and Sam whispers, low and dark and too much like before, “Swallow it.”
Whatever it is that makes Dean want Sam makes him obey. The fizzling stops soon after, leaves his mouth alive and tingling with the aftershocks. Sam’s hand withdraws and the thrill of fear scrabbling through his veins lessens only slightly.
“I didn’t know you’d drank that much,” Sam says by way of explanation. “It wouldn’t have hit you so hard otherwise.”
The mellow heaviness surges back, recedes just as quickly and leaves Dean’s breath trickling after it. It’s different this time, still dizzying but not nearly as bad, resolving steadily into the drunken sort of hyper-focus he’s much at ease with.
Experimentally, he licks his lips for the lingering taste of Sam. It explodes in his mouth, a sharpness of mint and something else, something indefinable outside of Sam. It prickles at his lips, his tongue, and he licks at it again, and again, swallowing until there’s nothing left.
Sam watches him with a jealous sort of hunger. That prickles at him, too, nips his skin teasingly through his clothes, brings his breath faster and harsher until his heart beats machine-gun fast against his ribs.
“Sam,” Dean groans, caught like a deer in the headlights of a truck barrelling straight down the highway as Sam shifts, swings a leg over his to straddle his lap. “Sammy, what’d you give me?”
“Payback,” Sam says, all heat. There’s nothing malicious in his voice, in his hands smoothing down Dean’s chest, but Dean doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t want to trust it.
Trusting it means Sam’s just like him.
“No,” Dean says, more sick disappointment than relief flooding in when Sam stops, pulls back with his mouth inches from the mark livid on Dean’s throat. “I was wrong, I shouldn’t have, I never-”
“What, Dean? You never what?” Sam’s voice is soft not sharp, pleading instead of punishing. It’s so, so wrong; Sam should hate him for what he’s done. “Never wanted your baby brother to make you moan like that?”
Sam’s hands drag down his arms, long fingers encircling his wrists, pinning them to the headboard. Dean’s struggles are too little too late, whatever the drugs are working through his system stealing his strength as easily as the brush of Sam’s mouth on his jaw steals his breath.
“You didn’t tell me to stop then,” Sam says, “don’t tell me to now.”
Sam kisses him again, takes his mouth and just takes over in a way that Dean’s helpless to fight. Only, he’s not. His wrist flexes in Sam’s loose grip, his hand pulls easily free. He could push Sam away, could leave, could, should, doesn’t.
It’s all there, perched right on the tip of his tongue ready to spill free; how this is his fault, how him not telling Sam to stop now is exactly the problem. How he should’ve told Sam to stop last night instead of being so fucking selfish.
Sam’s hands push under his shirt, spread broad across the low of his back. It’s everything happening all over again but worse, so much worse.
“Why?” Sam asks, crawling backwards down the length of Dean’s legs. He hooks two fingers in Dean’s empty beltloops and hauls hard enough to have Dean skidding down the bed, sheets rucking up and spilling over the foot. “Why’s it so much worse when I want it?”
“Jesus.” Dean slaps his hands on the hard muscles of Sam’s thighs, the entire room spinning madly out of control for one long, panicky second. “You readin’ my mind now, Sammy?”
Sam’s grin is brilliant, blinding. “You haven’t shut up since I dosed you.”
“Because,” Dean says, attempting to leave it at that but Sam pushes at him, asks why, strips away his shirt and uses teeth and tongue and lips to wring a strangled, hitching noise from his throat.
Dean gropes through the layers of Sam’s clothes to find bare, warm skin. He clutches at Sam’s sides, fingers flexing, kneading as he tries to find an answer through the mess Sam’s making of his head. He can’t think past the cool trail of saliva left on his chest, or the fresh throb of the bitemark under Sam’s lips. He can’t think at all and as soon as he stops trying, he’s talking, scrambling to catch the words even though it’s too late.
“I’m not,” Sam says, so effortlessly, so smoothly Dean thinks he must’ve said it before, that Sam was just fucking with him to get him to say it again. But he knows Sam wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t think of doing it. “I’m not better than this. I’m not better than you.”
And Sam sets about to prove it, sliding down Dean’s body, settling between his spread legs. There’s little in the way of fumbling when Sam tugs his jeans open, nothing at all like the giddy, unsteady eagerness that had kept delaying him the night before. Soft hair and softer breaths tickle Dean’s stomach and it hits him, well and truly hits him like the world imploding that his baby brother is going to suck his cock.
He says, “Holy shit, Sammy,” the same time Sam says, “Don’t think I’m doing all the work,” and then it’s nothing but heat, slippery wet heat closing over the head of his dick. Tiny flickers of tongue push under the foreskin, dip just barely into the slit and Dean groans realising that Sam’s taking it so slow because he’s fucking basking in it.
Sam doesn’t ever really get around to sucking and Dean couldn’t care less. His hips jerk and Sam returns the favour of holding him down, licking and teasing in a way that Dean would almost call shy except for the glitter of Sam’s eyes when he glances up. He nearly loses it right then, and either Sam senses it somehow or Dean babbled it because Sam stops cold, cups Dean’s balls in one big hand and gives them a gentle tug.
“You owe me,” Sam says. It’s dirty pool, breaking that out, and the way Sam’s looking at him says clear as day Sam knows it. “You’re gonna fuck me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I mean it, Dean,” Sam says. Something that could’ve been a protest gets stopped up in Dean’s throat when Sam’s head dips again, squeezes free on a hissing moan when teeth just barely scrape his dick. He almost misses Sam’s whispered, “I want it. So bad.”
It isn’t that Dean hasn’t thought of that before. Pictured it, hating himself for it in his best moments, jerking off to it in his worst. As long as it’s only in his head, he can deal. But this, Sam sucking him wet asking for it, the pure base need riding him to give in and do it, he can’t.
Dean chokes on words, on guilt; shoves it aside to barrel on. “Had your dick between my legs last night, you want the prize?” The bald-faced shock plastered across Sam’s face sparks a fresh rush of prickling heat, shame and lust painted by the same brush on his skin. “Give you anything you want, Sammy, fuck myself wide open on my own fingers for you,” and he doesn’t stop talking, feeds on the sharp intake of Sam’s breath to make it dirtier, filthier, cheap.
Between one word and the next, he loses his way. It stops being about how to drive Sam away from wanting one thing to being about Dean wanting the other. He shudders as Sam leans close but still doesn’t stop, moaning straight into Sam’s mouth how much he’s been thinking about Sam fucking him, how Sam’s cock rubbing over his hole turned him on, got him so hard.
“You want me to?” Sam’s voice cuts straight through the haze Dean’s building in his own head. “I thought about it, thought about shoving you down face-first last night and doing it. I knew you’d let me.”
Everything about the way Sam’s looking at him says that’s how it’s going to happen. “Yeah. Yeah, I would,” Dean says. He rises up and starts to twist, ready to roll over and offer it all up like a whore. He feels jittery, unreal; he hasn’t done this before and it shows, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He should’ve figured out long ago he couldn’t hide from Sam.
“No,” Sam says, grabs for his arms again and holds him down. A sound too much like a whine builds in his chest and he packs it back down. “I tell you I love you, that I’d die for you,” Sam says, and the grimy tar-thick guilt coating Dean’s insides creeps upwards, sears the back of his throat, “and you think that’s what I want?”
Panic explodes in Dean’s gut like a mushroom cloud, swells up and out to burn away the air in his lungs. He knew this wasn’t what Sam wanted, knew it long before it’d ever gotten this far. He always stood to lose more than he’d gain and this is it, Sam’s hate, Sam’s loathing for what Dean’s done to him.
“It’s not,” Sam says, too quietly. “And you know it’s not, that’s why you’re doing it.”
“No,” Sam repeats, strong and smooth as a hunting knife slicing into Dean’s flesh. “You can talk dirty all you want, Dean. The first time I fuck you, I want to see your face.”
That’s all it takes to bring what’s left of Dean’s whole world crashing down.
“We’re going to hell,” he says but there’s no fight left in him; Sam’s tongue slips into his mouth and he responds in kind, learning the ways to make Sam’s heartbeat skip with just the touch of his mouth. “You okay with that, Sammy? Do not pass go,” and to that Sam snorts a laugh, the decision long since made, hands already tucked under Dean’s hips to lift and drag his jeans down to his knees. “Do not collect two hundred dollars.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, then does the job himself, twisting a hand in Dean’s jeans and hauling his legs up before Dean can figure out if Sam is serious or not.
Sam sticks a finger quickly in his mouth to wet it and brings it down.
Dean scrambles for a hold on the headboard, braced for the burn without realising it and shocked into a full-body shiver when all Sam does is slick spit over his hole. Sam tosses him an absent glance, licks another finger wet, and this time there’s pressure, blunt, thick fingers pressed against him, one slipping inside.
It’s not bad but Dean’s not sure yet if it’s good; the look on Sam’s face, though, eyes fixed on his ass, the finger pushing up inside him, the faint groan slipping free when he twitches, that’s more than enough to get him rock hard and panting.
“Sam,” Dean says, “we’re gonna need,” and he stumbles a little, as if telling Sam to get the lube in his pack is somehow worse than letting Sam stick fingers up his ass. “I’ve got some. Good for, you know.” With a shaky grin, he mimes jerking off.
“Yeah,” Sam breathes, “yeah, okay.” But he doesn’t move to get it. He stuffs two fingers right back in his mouth and rocks back on his heels, eyes on Dean’s.
Dean’s halfway through a curse when Sam jacks his legs up and back, practically bends him in two, and the heart-stopping tightness in his chest has only a little to do with having his knees unceremoniously shoved into his face. Sam breathes a curse of his own, fingering Dean slowly, almost coaxingly. He lets go of Dean’s legs and Dean automatically catches himself. Sam’s groan is loud, ragged. It echoes in Dean’s skull like a promise.
“Grab a pillow,” Sam says.
Trying not to swallow his tongue, Dean gropes for one and says, “Wha-”
“Just give it to me,” Sam says, not snapping like usual but still impatient. Snatching the pillow before Dean can decide to whap him with it or not, he crams it under Dean’s hips, drops to his elbow and offers up a smile that’s hot as hell but doesn’t completely mask the flash of nerves.
Dean moans, “Sammy,” or thinks he does. He’s not sure because he can’t really see what the hell Sam’s doing but he can feel it, fuck, he can feel it. Lips brushing his balls, gentle like a kiss and then hard, sucking heat, teeth on thin, delicate skin. Dean’s eyes nearly fucking cross at the pressure, the wet, dirty wiggle of Sam’s tongue. “Jesus.”
Sam makes a noise stuck halfway between a moan and a laugh. Dean fumbles at his jeans, trying to free his legs, but then Sam drifts lower and that’s the last thing on his mind. Somehow, his hand ends up in Sam’s hair, twisting and tugging and not sure if he’s asking for more or a chance to breathe. Sam’s tongue glides over his hole, sweeps over sensitive flesh in slow, lazy circles. He thinks he’s ready for it but he’s not when Sam’s tongue stabs into him, so fucked up and wrong and still so right.
Sam pushes his face harder against Dean and Dean’s stomach jerks, shivers and flips. Dean drops his head back like surrender, eyes on the blurry ceiling and both hands curved under his knees, holding himself just like he is for Sam.
Heat floods from where Sam’s tongue and fingers thrust into him, spreads, tingling, all along his limbs. His hips twitch fitfully, his arms begin to tremble but he wants more, wants more and asks for it and gets it in the hard curve of Sam’s finger inside him, pushing deep, pressing firm. It pulls free, drags another ragged sound from Dean’s throat; two replace it and all the air caught in Dean’s lungs escapes in short, sharp bursts.
“Jeans,” he gasps, wrenching at his clothes. He needs to see this, needs to spread his legs and see Sam settled between them. It takes a few moments for Sam to catch up but then he’s finally free, knees falling wide.
There’s not one speck of hesitation on Sam’s face, he just crawls forward and drops down, cheek pillowed on Dean’s thigh, fingers searching. He stretches his neck out to lap at the head of Dean’s cock, drag his tongue down the side and further, lick all the way to Dean’s balls to press another sucking kiss to them.
“You, uh,” Dean says, swallowing hard when the pressure flirts near the edge of pain, a body-jarring clash with the still gentle push of Sam’s fingers. “Am I loose enough?” he manages, watching Sam’s eyes go dark, Sam’s mouth curve in an eager smile that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.
“Yeah.” Sam scoots to the edge of the bed, casts about for Dean’s pack and shucks his pants on the way. “Yeah, you’re loose enough.”
Dean stares because Sam lets him, gives him ample time for it while digging through his pack. The seconds tick by and while Dean’s content for a moment to catch his breath, Sam isn’t. Sam upends the pack and everything goes skittering across the floor, books and clothes and bottles all victims of Sam’s impatient search.
Dean opens his mouth to complain but Sam cuts him off with another grin. “But I’m not done yet.”
“What are you, the friggin’ Energizer Bunny?”
Sam shakes his head and laughs, but it’s nothing like his usual guffaw, it’s low and quiet and goes too well with the way he slips back onto the bed, between Dean’s legs like he belongs there. “You gonna bitch?”
It takes Dean two tries to squeeze out, “Nope,” because Sam’s fingers are already inside him again, pulling him open, making space for Sam’s tongue to slide in with them. One minute stretches into forever, heat coiling tight in his gut and maybe, just maybe, he could get off on this alone.
But he doesn’t want that. He wants Sam.
“Fuck, Sammy, just….” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, doesn’t realise his fingers are drifting down to press tight against the bruise on his throat until the sharp ache of it flares. “Making me crazy here.”
Sam pulls free to coat his fingers glistening wet, inching up to rub his lips over Dean’s fingers still pressed to the mark. “That’s sort of the point,” he says, sinking deeper, easier, still fingering Dean lazily like they’ve all the time in the world. “Anything I’ve got to do- God, I want to fuck you.” He lifts his head for another kiss, the steady thrust of his tongue fucking into Dean’s mouth matching the rhythm of his fingers.
“Then Jesus, Sam, do it.” Dean bites at Sam’s lips, catches the bottom one between his teeth and tugs, messing up Sam’s slow and careful kisses just like they’re messing up his head.
Sam draws back with a whisper-hiss of breath, shoves Dean’s legs wider, grip tight under one knee to hold it high. His dick nestles tight to Dean’s hole, so fucking close, and he says, “You sure?”
“Fuck, yes, I’m sure,” Dean says, aiming for a growl and nailing something more like a moan. Sam’s cock rubs against him and he jerks his hips impatiently, earning a shaky curse and a shakier thrust that skids past the mark. He’s about two steps away from threatening to slug Sam if they don’t get on with it when Sam curses again, re-aims, and then it’s nothing at all like Dean imagined.
“Wait, shit,” Dean gasps, “wait.” Sam glances at him but doesn’t stop, and the stretch is too much, the hard, gritty burn of it racing along his nerves like wildfire.
He clenches his teeth to bear it but then Sam blinks, slowly, eases off and apologises and starts all over again before Dean can catch up. It’s easier the second time, maybe because Sam’s already wedged him open or because this time all of Dean’s attention is on the shape of Sam’s mouth, the low, humming moan coming up from the long stretch of his throat. And it’s so fucking beautiful, the sound and Sam making it.
It’s hard to believe this is real, that it’s Sam above him, inside him, that it’s Sam’s mouth pressed to his cheek. Warm breath and words barely recognisable melt into Dean’s skin, sink deep into tendon and muscle and bone with every roll of Sam’s hips.
“Dean,” Sam says, hand dragging down Dean’s side to his hip, pulling them tighter together. “Tell me it’s okay. Tell me it’s good, god, Dean, the way you feel,” and Sam shudders, forces himself all the way in and drives a strangled noise straight out of Dean’s throat to echo in the air heavy between them.
Dean tries to answer and can’t, his tongue gone thick and clumsy, his lungs empty. He blinks the blur out of his eyes to focus on Sam, clutches Sam’s face with both hands to pull Sam into a kiss that he hopes says it all.
The kiss breaks on Dean’s gasp and for a moment, Sam is so still he wonders if Sam needs the words he can’t find. But then Sam drives into him, slams deeper, and it’s a shock that’s back to almost-pain. His teeth grind together and he sucks air through them, uses the breath to moan Sam’s name, to ask for more.
His hands shake as they roam across Sam’s back, broad and strong and so different, so much better than anything he’s ever known. Legs tightening, flexing against Sam’s thighs, Dean begs wordlessly for Sam to stay deep for only a second, just long enough to feel him. Sweat dampens Sam’s skin and Dean wants to say how good it is, wants to say everything he’s fought forever not to. But all he can do is gasp, whisper Sam’s name syrupy-thick and wavering and hope it’s enough.
Sam grinds into him, short, shallow thrusts that betray how quickly this is going to end. Dean wants it and doesn’t, wants to feel Sam come but wants this to go on forever. He seeks out Sam’s mouth, tries for a kiss and fails, contents himself with the taste of Sam’s skin instead. He’s so hungry for it, starving and greedy. The thought of it fading from his tongue hurts like dying.
Dean’s eyes open to narrow slits at the sound of Sam’s voice. The pleasure on Sam’s face, each flicker of it, every moan, burns into Dean’s brain like Sam’s touch into his flesh. For the first time in his life, Dean honestly doesn’t care what should and shouldn’t be, where for once wanting his brother falls neither in black nor white but somewhere between; this, them, is the first thing in a long, long time that’s felt real.
Sam rises up, braced on his hands to stare down at Dean as their rhythm falters. Sam thrusts too hard, too fast, too good for Dean to meet with any sort of consistency. It doesn’t matter to either of them, Dean too eager to take what Sam is eager to give, the slap of flesh into flesh and their moans bleeding into white noise screaming loud in Dean’s head.
He feels it when Sam comes, or thinks he does and that’s good enough, the throbbing jerk of Sam’s dick and the flood of heat filling him. It goes on and on and Sam fucks him through it, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut beneath sweat-damp hair. He comes with a noise he doesn’t recognise as his own until Sam echoes it, the blood rushing in his ears and pounding in his heart not enough to drown out Sam’s voice.
He’s still dazed when he feels Sam’s mouth touch his, dimly aware of Sam’s hands sliding up his legs, pulling the pillow away, Sam’s body settling warm and heavy over him. Sam’s heart beats into his chest in counterpoint to his own, gradually slowing, matching. Dean closes his eyes and just breathes.
When Sam doesn’t show sign of moving any time soon, Dean wiggles about a bit to ease the pressure on his chest. Sam grunts and shifts with him but doesn’t leave enough space to consider getting up.
“So, Sammy,” Dean says, letting his fingers curl in Sam’s hair like they want to. “What’d you give me?”
Face mashed against Dean’s chest, Sam mumbles, “Placebo.”
“Mostly a placebo,” Sam says, and huffs when Dean tugs on his ear. “Fine.” Heaving himself up on one elbow, he gives Dean a look that should’ve been a glare but is entirely ruined by the softness creeping into his eyes. Dean’s stomach flips just from having Sam close, from having Sam look at him like that in a position like this. “It was like a concentrated drunk without a couple of side effects, like passing out or something. And maybe some extras. Like sensitivity to touch.”
“Dude,” Dean breathes, not sure if he should be proud or make fun of Sam going after something so complicated. “You could’ve just slipped me poppers.” Sam rolls his eyes and drops back down, none too gently. Dean gives him a moment to settle before asking, “Where’d you get it?”
The faint stain of red across the bridge of Sam’s nose is better than winning the lottery. “Made it,” Sam grumbles, kicking at the sheets. “Brewed it.”
Dean laughs and laughs, not just because it really is hilarious but because it’s so Sam. It’s so completely, so fundamentally a Sam thing to do and Dean loves it so much his ribs ache.
“Yeah, well,” Sam says. “If I need to drug you every night, Dean, I will. Every damn night.”
And that’s so very Sam, too, so much so that Dean’s laughter tapers off, curls up companionably in his chest, close to the surface ready to break free again. Not for a moment does he doubt it. The blame for this is still his but he can’t deny that Sam’s dead set on sharing it no matter what he does. He guesses he has to take the blame for some of Sam’s pig-headed stubborn streak, too; Sam learned it from him.
“There’s some Jack in the trunk,” Dean says. He watches Sam’s fingers relax on his chest, glances down at the flick of Sam’s eyelashes to catch his steady brown gaze. “Try that tomorrow.”