Chapter Text
Woof, these old fashioned salt-and-burns weren’t as easy as Dean remembered.
After they’d come back to themselves as the Winchester brothers, it had been pretty much nonstop with breaking seals and the literal apocalypse. The only good part was that now that he and Sam were together - like, together-together, it all felt a little less bleak. They didn't have time for much - a little furtive tumbling under the sheets, maybe, some hand stuff at the end of another soul-crushing day - but it was something.
They had caught word of a poltergeist situation on their way back from failing to stop yet another seal from breaking. They had literally been driving right past it and honestly, they needed a win, so they'd stopped to deal with it.
Unfortunately, it was a freaking mess. Literally.
The remains were underneath a construction site where they were digging a new sewer line, which meant Sam and Dean had been fumbling around on their hands and knees in a muddy trench. And the ghost was pelting them with construction debris.
Dean sucked on his fat lip, still swollen from that two-by-four that had come out of nowhere.
Sam was trying to shelter them as best he could with a piece of plywood, which had been working better before the spirit picked up that freaking nail gun. They had finally found the remains but it wasn't going to be easy to light when everything was soaking wet.
Sam slipped in the muck and barely managed to catch himself, sending splatters everywhere. Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and held him up, reaching at the same time to hold onto their plywood shield as the ghost sent off another rally of lumber nails.
“Son of a bitch!”
Sam had a shallow cut on one side of his head, maybe from a sharp corner somewhere, and the blood was dripping down into his eye. Dean hated the sight of him with blood on his face.
The plywood was splintering, daylight coming through the middle, which meant it wasn't going to stop the next nail. Dean pushed Sam down lower into the trench, trying to cover him. “Running out of time here, Sam, let’s get this done!”
Dean was preparing to shoot one of their iron rounds if that’s what it took, even though it’d be messy in such a tight space. He heard the squirt of what was probably the bottle of lighter fluid, then the flick of Sammy’s bic.
Dean kept his hand on Sam’s shoulder, holding him crouched while the ghost was freaking out, throwing whatever it could pick up – blueprints, a tape measure, a set of lug wrenches, a box of pencils. Then there was the familiar whomp as the flame caught, and the ghost howled, throwing its head back as it burned from the outside in.
Then there was silence, shockingly loud. Everything being suspended in the air simultaneously dropped to the ground. Dean was panting.
“Jeez,” groaned Sam. “I'm drenched.” He had mud spattered in his hair. When he reached one dirty hand up to push it out of his face, he made it worse.
Dean stretched cautiously and glanced down to make sure the fire was burning itself out. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. You?”
His hands were sore. He had splinters right in the webs between his fingers, that was going to a bitch to deal with. “Nothing six beers and an ice pack won’t cure.”
Sam bumped their shoulders together, smiled that little pleased smile he got when they saved the day and neither of them were too bad off. Dean couldn’t help smiling back. Victory was theirs! The ghost had been dealt with, and no more civilians had been hurt after the first one that drew them here originally.
Now the ritual of the shower – shared, if there was a God – and the battered old med kit, followed by what Dean could admit now was his favorite part of hunting these days, the part where him and Sam huddled up under the covers, testing if they’d rather make out or pass out. There was a time he would have been 100% in the former camp all the time, but it turned out that the latter was okay too, just sleeping curled up in a tangled mass of limbs.
Dean knew he wasn't the same guy he had been once. Hell could do that to you.
But maybe when they woke up all clean and refreshed ...
“I know that smile,” Sam murmured, leaning in. He nudged their noses together because Sam was a girl like that, then planted a pretty hot kiss right on Dean’s fat lip, still all puffy and sore.
“Mm,” said Sam, a noise with a fair amount of intent, considering they were outside in front of God and everyone. If the racket from this last hunt attracted anyone – security, the police, or curious neighbors – Dean didn’t want to have to explain why the two of them were here making out. Plus, even though he loved Sammy in every form, he couldn’t really figure out where to touch him when they were both covered in muck.
Sam had mostly wiped the blood off of his face, but he still had it in his hair and his ear on that side. Dean was itching to get him cleaned off properly.
“Hey,” said Dean. “You ready to put this mess back into some semblance of order and clear out of here?”
“We could do that,” Sam agreed. “Or we could celebrate surviving another one.” He stepped closer into Dean’s space, slid one hand over Dean’s cheek, turning his face up.
Dean wanted to be into this, but the truth was that he was cold and wet, and the billion little cuts he was sporting were stinging. His face hurt and they both kind of stank. He let Sam kiss him as deep as he wanted but didn’t push to take it further, kind of hoping that Sam would see reason and they could pick this up later.
He had forgotten how stubborn Sam could be though, when he had his mind set on something. He wasn’t sure if it was the chance of getting caught or the thrill of victory – probably some combination of both. Sam stepped even closer, let their chests press together (which would be better if Dean hadn’t wiped his hands on his own shirt front, meaning now they were rubbing blood and ectoplasm all over themselves, and that stuff was a real bitch to get out).
“You’re so hot like this,” murmured Sam. “All scuffed up and ready to fight. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you took the brunt of it back there, once the plywood gave way. We can talk about that later.”
Ever since he remembered their past, Sam had been on this training kick, like if Dean just recited his daily affirmations and tried real hard, he was going to forget what a piece of crap he really was.
Now Sam was pawing him, those big shovel hands curling around his shoulder and down his back. Dean assumed it was the adrenaline going to his dick. Sam was always hotter than the sun, of course but – but it was hard for Dean to get in the mood when they were both dirty and he hadn’t really had the time to check out Sam’s injuries. There could be something really wrong with him, and instead of fixing it, Dean was letting them waste time out here in the cold.
Sam’s tongue pushed into his mouth and Dean shuddered. It was the contrast, Sam’s warm body and his own cold back.
“Wantchu to fuck me,” Sam mumbled against his lips.
“Here?” That better not have come out as high pitched as it sounded in Dean’s head.
“Mm, yeah, right where we banished that ghost straight to hell. Nobody’s going to find us, it’s the middle of the night. C’mon, Dean.”
“But ... you’re bleeding!”
“What, this?” Sam waved at the cut on his temple. “It’s just a scratch. It’s nothing. I’ve had worse falling down when I’m drunk.” It was true that Sammy was a spectacularly clumsy drunk (and a surprisingly cheap date).
“If we get arrested for public indecency, they’re going to find out we’re brothers and then we’ll really be in for it. You want that on your record?” They were in Connecticut, too, where it was probably a real crime, as opposed to some of the states they’ve been to.
“Don’t care.” Sam’s eyes were bright with lust, his cheeks pink, and Dean knew if he could get that shirt open – which he wouldn’t want to, because it was fucking freezing – there’d be a tell tale flush spreading over his whole chest, which was the Sammy equivalent of Al Green’s Let’s Get It On coming out of the speakers.
Fuck, Dean hadn't been able to deny the kid anything since he was four years old. Plus he was pretty sure Dean Smith would have jumped all over this. He wasn't going to let his brother down. Dean Winchester could deal with a little cold, slimy sex if they could get it done quickly and get back inside like God intended. If Sam wanted funky animal sex in the mud, then Dean’s body – and his dick – were just going to have to get on board.
Dean pressed a hard kiss to his mouth (fuck, even his lips were cold) and started fumbling with the button of his pants, which like the rest of him was covered with muck. “You promise you’re really not hurt anywhere worse than that cut on your face, right?” It wasn’t going to need stitches, but Dean should at least clean it out real good and cover it in gauze. Sammy’s baby face couldn’t be allowed to scar.
“Would you let up on the mother hen routine,” Sam grumbled, pulling his own pants and boxers down together so that his pale, smooth backside, shockingly clean unlike any other part of them, was exposed to the moonlight.
Dean loved that round peach of an ass, so he moved in at once, wanting to touch – but his hands were so dirty. He wiped them on his undershirt but that didn’t help, he was soaked with cold sweat. He wondered if he could wipe them on Sam’s boxers or something, those didn’t get exposed to anything gross.
“What?” said Sam, turning his head over his shoulder. He usually didn’t have to do anything but drop trou to get Dean all over him, and Dean usually pretty much took it from there.
“Nothin,” said Dean, frustrated. “I just – I don’t want to get you even dirtier in the one place you’re still clean.”
This was not sexy, he realized, irritated with himself. Nobody wanted to fuck the OCD guy going on about the germs on a door handle.
“Um, it’s fine?” said Sam. “We’re both already gross, and you’re about to put your genitals in my asshole?”
Dean made a face. “Yeah, that kind of talk’s definitely going to get me in the mood, baby.”
“Since when does anybody have to get you in the mood? I’ve seen you pop a boner at the mention of curly straws. Now suddenly you’re picky?”
That was true about the curly straws, but to be fair he'd been 14, and at that age excitement is excitement. Still, Sam was right. For most of his life he had rarely been one to turn down sex.
He put his hand on Sam’s hip, ignoring the gritty hand print he must be leaving, and eased himself in closer again, bending forward to kiss Sam’s long neck (he didn’t inhale as he did it, reminding himself that neither of them were gonna smell like roses just now) to bury his face into Sam’s hair. Even drenched in cold sweat he couldn’t get enough of Sammy’s mom haircut.
Crap, he was really only maybe half hard, the kind of barometer boner that could change when the winds shift. He was going to need to keep his eyes on the prize here.
That other guy, Dean Smith, he didn’t have to deal with all this. He had just met Sam Colt, he didn’t have all these overlapping memories of baby Sammy. Dean tried to see Sam the way he would have seen him – just a body, a great ass, looking for some quick dick to make him feel good.
But this wasn't just some guy.
“Mm,” Sam pushed back against him gently, his ass in the crotch of Dean’s blue jeans, reminding him that he had a job to do. And it wasn’t to nuzzle Sammy’s non blood covered ear. “We’re kind of on a deadline here, dude,” Sam reminded him a little awkwardly.
Dean knew it was true but that wasn’t exactly helping. Focus. “Gonna give it to me, little brother?” He murmured, rubbing Sam’s ass. He pinched the pale skin, hard.
“Yeah, just like that,” Sam moaned, tossing his head back, a lot more interested in the pain that he had been in the mushy stuff. The freak. Personally Dean was blaming the porn the kids were looking at these days. You didn’t get that stuff from nice wholesome hentai. Some weird thing with tentacles, maybe, but not all this other stuff.
C’mon, he used to be good at this. Used to be able to give a guy a roll in the hay and send him on his way smiling – whatever he wanted, Dean could deliver. Even if it was rough. God, he missed the innocence of those days. He'd had no idea, back then, what he was really capable of. Sure, he’d known he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t good enough – but he had no idea the kind of evil that lived inside him, just waiting for the right combinations of meat hooks and patience to bring it out.
No wonder Sam had gone nuts for that other Dean, with the power suit and the lack of hang-ups. Dean Smith had been neurotically tidy, yes, and there was something not right about his approach to nutrition, but that had made more sense for a guy in a stupid office. It didn’t hang right on messy, sloppy Dean Winchester.
And if this Dean didn’t watch it, he was going to lose Sam.
Cautiously Dean rubbed himself up against his brother, knowing that he had to be careful because if he didn’t demonstrate clear and present interest, Sam would know something was up. This was no time for Heisenberg’s uncertainty boner.
“So beautiful, Sammy,” he whispered, which had the advantage of being both true – he'd kind of promised himself he wouldn’t lie to Sammy any more if he could help it – and also the kind of thing he would say in a different setting, the kind he was picturing for himself, where everybody was clean and uninjured and there was freshly washed sheets and a door with a good lock. And maybe there’d be some sex toys or something, maybe he’d put Sam in the novelty cuffs, but it was not literally an unsafe place to be.
Sammy’s little noises were definitely helping, Sammy’s squirming, yes, that worked. Just don’t think about the blood or the dirt or the fact that he didn’t see exactly where every one of those nails had landed.
“Hey,” said Sam. “What’s up with you, man?”
“Nothing,” said Dean, maybe a little grumpy. He was doing his best here to make his brother’s night okay, so sue him if he was a little behind the eight ball.
Sam turned around, which was not what Dean needed. He didn’t need the Concerned Face to take away whatever erection he had going on. He needed that view of Sammy’s sweet little pucker, looking all hungry and needy and sad like its feelings were going to be hurt if Dean didn’t get his dick up there.
“Come on, Sammy,” he whined, pawing at his hip. “You started this! I’m just trying to finish it!”
Sam’s hand cupped his crotch through his jeans. Dean whined and thrust into it a little, almost automatic whenever Sam touched him. But he couldn't swear he was unambiguously hard.
“Is it the mud?” asked Sammy, knowingly.
Damn. “No it’s not the mud!”
“What is it then? I’ve never seen you stall this long when I’m good to go.”
“It’s nothing! It’s the fact that you won’t turn back around and spread 'em!”
Sam kissed him, and okay Dean did like that.
“Come on, talk to me. Is it the cold?”
It wasn't not the cold, but … “It’s hard for me to get in the mood when you’re hurt,” mumbled Dean.
“I told you it’s not that bad!" Sam sounded amused, which was not necessarily the best state for either of their libidos. My brother is an idiot but what can you do: not all that sexy.
“You’re covered in blood! I don’t even know how bad it is! You could have an injury I don’t know about, you could be – you could be bleeding internally while I’m trying to get us off in this freezing cold muddy pit!”
Screw Dean Smith, this was his little brother: the boy he had carried on his shoulders for most of the years between 4 and 7, scooped up in his arms and ran with more than once. The boy he had waited for after school, hugged when he cried, clapped on the back when he hit the target dead-on at forty yards; taught to drive, taught to shave the downy peach fuzz on his upper lip, taught as best he could about the birds and the bees.
“Okay, okay,” said Sam, and that smile was definitely fond and definitely not at all turned on.
Shit, Dean ruined it with his fussing and now Sam was humoring him and then was definitely gonna mock him about this later.
“You know, I’m cold too,” said Sam. “How about we go back to the hotel, take a shower together, warm up, you can look me over to your heart’s content, and then we’ll have as much sex as you can handle, old man.”
“But I ruined your thing,” Dean mumbled. “Your victory is ours outdoors in the open thing. I want you to have that.” If they were going to be together forever, which was Dean’s goal, and be each other’s only sex partners for the rest of their lives, Dean needed to make sure he was giving Sammy one hundred percent of everything he needed.
Sam was still smiling. “We can try it again sometime. Maybe a little less sewage and twenty degrees warmer, I could talk you into giving it another shot.”
“Maybe there’s a seal needs protecting in Florida, somewhere. No snakes though.”
“No snakes.” Sam kissed him, bright like a pop. “You ready to go?” He pulled his pants back up, tucked his now muddy dick back into his boxers. Dean was sad to see it go.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’ll let you make it up to me,” Sam promised, winding their fingers together. Dean didn't even care that his hands were still stinging from the combination of ice and wood splinters.
"Okay, fine," he said, magnanimous.
If there was one thing Sam Winchester knew, it was his big brother.
Not that Dean didn't occasionally manage to surprise him.
So after Sam let Dean tidy up the construction site - Dean claimed it was important to keep a worksite well organized - and drive them to a motel, and get them both naked in the less-sexy way (which was still pretty sexy, because Dean just was sex personified, at least as far as Sam was concerned, and there was no way he was even partially undressed that some corner of Sam’s mind wasn't contemplating putting his mouth on whatever part of him he could get to) – he got them both hustled into a hot shower. Sam was patient, standing under the full blast of the water letting Dean scrub and mutter under his breath about slime and muck.
Growing up, Dean was always a slob in their hotel rooms, and Dad was always on his case about his duffel being stuffed full of wadded-up dirty clothes (except for the pockets that were reserved for emergency condoms, of course) - which it still usually was. And Dean’s own body he typically treated like crap, eating junk, drinking too much, leaving wounds untreated until they scarred.
But with his increasing age, Dean was turning into quite the clean freak. It started subtly, with Baby, then with their weapons cache, and now it was moving on to Sam himself.
Okay, it was secretly kind of cute. Dean liked to take care of the things he loved. He liked to put in the time to keep them in good working order. Even if Baby was running fine and just had a wax job, Dean was going to want to spend an hour scrubbing out her wheel wells. So now Dean wanted to clean Sammy up and check his engine, maybe top off the oil (okay, the metaphor was slipping off the rails at this point).
Sam wanted hot sex in the construction site but Dean was getting turned on here in the shower, scrubbing the grit out of the scuffs on Sam’s palms. Weirdo.
He had always been possessive of Sam’s body, always wanted to make sure it was working, put it behind him when there was danger – that was nothing new, as annoying as it was. Sam could remember versions of it from when he was a little kid, being toted in Dean’s arms through a shopping mall because Dean wouldn’t let him out of his sight.
They would be doing the post-coital cuddle and Sam would realize that while Dean was stroking his hair he was also feeling his forehead for fever. It would almost be insulting if Sam hadn’t already known that his brother was the reincarnation of somebody’s Polish bubbashka.
He had already spent way too long with the shampoo, trying to get whatever grossness was caked into Sam’s scalp. It wasn't like Sam enjoyed being covered in muck and blood, but it was pretty funny that Dean, who couldn’t get his engine revving before, was getting excited now, running his fingers through ‘Sammy’s pretty princess hair.’ The cut on his forehead Sam was expecting to be seen to as soon as they were out, even though it was ridiculously minor and Dean actually had a worse chunk taken out of his forearm, which Sam was going to have to finagle next.
“This really does it for you, doesn’t it,” said Sam. “You’re basically getting off on this right now.”
Dean reached around to grope Sam’s butt, squeezing gleefully. He was a lot more cheerful now that he accepted none of Sam’s injuries were significant. “I’m not getting off yet, sweetheart, but that can definitely be arranged.”
Sure enough, Sam had to sit for the application of goop and gauze to the cut of his forehead (Dean kissed the skin over the wound when he was done – nobody else would believe how much his macho elder brother was a giant fuzzball).
Sam stretched up for a kiss when he was done, enjoying the role-reversal of being shorter in this position. He usually enjoyed his height, liked to know that he was instant back-up for his brother, liked the advantage of reach in a fight or intimidation when it was called for. But after a lifetime of fighting it he could admit that he also loved being the little brother and letting Dean do his big-brother thing.
Dean drew the moment out, his plush lips working against Sam's, offering deep, drugging kisses. Sam could feel him smiling. "Pretty Sammy," he hummed, before his tongue thrust rudely into Sam’s slack mouth.
Then he was manhandled, still naked, to the bed. His mild regret that he didn’t get to enjoy heat-of-battle sex out in the open was pretty quickly replaced by his enjoyment of happy-he-got-his-way Dean, who took his time being extra playful, sucking first on one of Sam’s clean toes, then biting at his knee, then his thigh, then – oooh …
Dean paused, his lips still brushing the tip of Sam’s cock. "That’s it, Sammy. Just relax for me."
"M'relaxed!" Sam slurred. "M so, so relaxed."
Dean spat on his hand and Sam moaned loudly as the slick warmth of his calloused finger rubbed confidently against his hole. "Like that, babyboy?" Dean was watching closely, eyes fixed on Sam’s face, even though he must know Sam’s body better than his own at this point.
"Y-yeah." Dean knew how much he loved this. The two conflicting sensations, the warm wet heat bathing his cock, and the faintly scratchy burn of the finger sliding into his ass, not quite enough prep to be perfectly smooth (although Dean could make it smooth when he wanted).
"That’s good Sammy, took that real nice," Dean whispered, licking around Sam’s shaft, nuzzling at the root while Sam moaned and let himself relax into the intrusion, Dean’s finger sliding gently in and out. “Yeah?”
“Ah, s’good Dean, it’s so good. Yeah, just like that.” Sam let his head drop back, rocking his hips. He had never been a talker during sex before, but Dean coaxed it out of him, and now it was like he just couldn’t help himself.
He had never been like this in his life - in fact a few women from his past had pointed out his assertive style in the bedroom. Mostly with women he liked to pin them, let them feel how big and strong he was, let them try to squirm and realize they couldn’t – liked to feel the way that thrilled them. He liked to put them just how he wanted them – good girls on their hands and knees, panties around their thighs or, if he was in the mood to play, in their mouths.
But this - he craved it just like this. Dean alternately fussing and fucking, keeping him safe, keeping him close. Dean's dick in his ass and his tongue in his mouth and his palm at the back of Sam's neck.
"Fuck me," Sam begged, lifting his hips up. "Please Dean, I want it, I need it, I need you."
"Easy, sweetheart." Dean had him under the knees, holding him open, the head of his dick rubbing where Sam was clenching and eager. "Nice deep breath for me, baby," Dean soothed, "just like that. That's it. Sh sh sh, not too fast. Gonna give it to you. Gonna have it when I say you're ready for it." Sam whined and made himself relax. "There you go. There you are. Just like that."
A few minutes later Sam had his eyes closed, laid back, raising his hips so he could get Dean even deeper, feeling totally debouched. He could feel Dean moving inside of him, filling him up so perfectly, his dick fitting itself into the shape of Sam’s body, just like Dean had always made himself at home wherever they went, whether it was a haunted supermax prison or a fancy new subdivision built on sacred Indian grounds.
Dean was almost silent except for a soft little grunt at the end of each stroke, and Sam knew his own uhn, uhn, uhns would slide into louder and louder moans.
"You tell me when you're ready to come," muttered Dean. "You tell me, Sammy."
Never, thought Sam, feeling his pleasure rising up from his toes. God, this was the only place he ever felt right. Felt it right down to his bones.
"Whenever - you - say," he managed, settling in.
"Hey Dean," said Sam.
"Mm?" Dean sounded half asleep already, all relaxed and lazy as a housecat. It was weird to think that if they hadn’t gotten together in that other reality, Sam would never have suspected his older brother could be this sweet and open.
"You know, we don’t have to do it the other way if you don’t want to. I mean, I like it, I really do, but … I like being with you more, you know? I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t trade getting to be with you like this for more kinky fun with that other guy."
Dean nuzzled his ear, the same ear he had scrubbed in the shower.
"Okay?"
"S'kay." Dean curled around his back, sliding his thigh between Sam's knees. "Shh, sleepytime, S'mmy."
Dean clearly wasn't tracking, but Sam was okay with reminding him in the morning.
And maybe the next chance they got, they were going South to find a nice clean monster to vanquish – something that dissolved into light rays. And they were going to be careful, no injuries, on a warm day, not close to any bodies of water (unless it was a chlorinated pool), and he was going to try again. He was going to get his thrill-of-victory sex one way or another, and he would show Dean what he was missing.
But until then, this was … this was pretty good too. Sam couldn’t really complain about being the center of all of Dean’s considerable willpower, all of his attention, all of his love.
He just needed to find a way to prove that he’d give it all right back, even if that meant accepting a little more mush than he thought he was into. He knew Dean - in any reality - would always try to give him what he wanted, as well as what he needed.
"Goodnight, Dean," he whispered.
Right now, with Dean snoring gently into his neck … he couldn’t think of a single thing he would ask for.