Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/829669.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Crowley_(Supernatural), Kevin_Tran
  Additional Tags:
      Hurt_Sam_Winchester, Mention_of_Weecest, bunkerfic, Shaving, Wincest_-
      Freeform, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-04 Completed: 2013-06-28 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 9107
****** Of all of the things they’re good at not talking about, it’s the thing
they don’t talk about the best. ******
by OldEnoughToKnowBetter
Summary
     Sam is aware, objectively, that he's been through worse things than
     sharing a sickroom with Crowley. Sharing a cage with Lucifer, cold
     turkey demon blood detox, that time Dean sang "Kiss from a rose" in
     the car- plenty of bad things.
Notes
     This is the longest thing I've written since college!
***** Dean plays Florence Nightingale. *****
Sam is aware, objectively, that he's been through worse things than sharing a
sickroom with Crowley. Sharing a cage with Lucifer, cold turkey demon blood
detox, that time Dean sang "Kiss from a rose" in the car- plenty of bad things.
But there's something peculiarly awful about Crowley in his 90%-cured state.
Being de-demonized has left Crowley a not-all-that-nice almost-human, with
wiggle room for some of humanity's tackier peccadilloes. Like content piracy
(he's made Dean torrent at least 200 hours of HBO) and white lies ("That last
cookie is definitely mine, Moose. You've already had three.") and sizeist slurs
(see: Moose).
While a lifetime of hanging bad paper has left the Winchesters rather exposed
on the ethics front, Sam didn't expect Crowley to be so fundamentally sketch as
a person. Crowley hasn't forgotten he was very recently King of Hell, and he's
half pimp, half tedious bureaucrat. Only now he's mawkishly sentimental about
his former subordinates. He's been nattering on about his secretary's boyfriend
problems for at least an hour.
His fashion sense was apparently attached to the evil parts, and chelated right
out. He’s currently wearing one of those “As Seen On TV” Gothic snuggies and a
“When I Grow Up I Want To Be a Kardashian” t-shirt. He ordered it online and
made Dean go into town to pick it up. Sam feels bad, on a personal level, for
everyone who engaged with the t-shirt in any way, from the Bangladeshi tween
who sewed it to the crane operator at the container port who brought it onto
U.S. soil. Also, Crowley killed that guy they saved from the Wendigo, and
Sarah, who had a husband and a little kid, just lately. He almost killed Jodi.
Sam got an email from her with the header, “So. Funny thing.” He stood over
Crowley’s sleeping body with a pillow for about forty-five minutes that night.
The Winchester “nobody rides for free” OS for living doesn’t have a sub-program
to parse out forgiveness for partially cured demons yet.
But the worst of it, the worst of it, is the way Crowley sucks up to Dean. He
thinks Dean has some kind of gimmick for making peace with your bad self, and
he’s determined to pry it out, so he can stop feeling this uncomfortable
remorse. And Dean is offensively sympathetic, and even used the phrase “I feel
you, man.” Maybe that will turn out to be part of a clever scheme to win 90/10
Crowley’s trust and convince him to go convalesce somewhere else? Sam hopes so.
Because what Crowley doesn’t know, will never know, is that Dean didn’t just go
along with his bad self when he came back from hell. What he did was re-up in
the John Winchester Army of Conscripted Sons, Taking Care of Sammy Division.
And Dean has failed to re-integrate and been subjected to regular stop-loss
events and involuntary deployments ever since. There hasn’t exactly been a
still heart of the moment, a five o’ clock in the morning when Dean looked his
own darkness in the eye and accepted his shadow self. He’s just been keeping
himself busier than Martha Stewart at Christmas.

So Sam resents Crowley even more for pestering Dean at a time when he and Dean
have finally bridged some of the space between them and can maybe live like
human beings for a bit. Can maybe have a real conversation despite their
baggage. He wants to have a beer and watch Steve McQueen with Dean, but Crowley
is obsessed with “The Carrie Diaries” and monopolizes the ancient tv, while
using Sam’s computer to hang out in chat rooms for the show. Sam isn’t really
supposed to have a beer, either. They’re not sure yet what’s wrong with him,
but it resembles anemia in a lot of ways, so they’re treating that, and Sam’s
weak as a kitten much of the time. That leaves Sam on bed rest, along with 90/
10 Crowley, who could actually probably be up and about a lot more, but enjoys
being waited on. It was Crowley who figured out how to use the vintage intercom
system. He taps the Bakelite button now, and whines, “Deannn… I think my
temperature’s back. Will you come check it?”
“Such a beautiful man, your brother.” Crowley says to Sam. “Bet it was fun
playing doctor with him!” Sam rolls over onto his side so Crowley can’t see the
color rising in his face. He remembers a Nebraska motel room, and begging.
“Dean, Dean, please, just let me touch it, c’monnn-“ “No! Sammy, it’s not
right.” “And us jerking off like this is ok?” “Sure, all guys have circle
jerks. It’s just a really small circle. Besides, you’re too young to touch
anybody’s junk but your own.” “I’m fourteen! You were fucking people when you
were fifteen!” “I’m different.”
Even as a teenager, Dean was a smug bastard. And at eighteen, leaning back
against the grimy motel wall, his bare chest gleaming with sweat as he jerked
his thick cock, he was impossibly, absurdly beautiful. Sam wanted to eat him,
to lick him, to tackle him and marry him and get the hell away from him. It was
like sharing a bed with a nuclear reactor. He felt like a blast shadow.
He remembers the bus stop. They sat inside, the night cool for the end of
August, and they held hands for two hours, waiting. Their hands gripped
together, aching, clammy with sweat, not talking. While everyone else climbed
onboard they stood together by the shining aluminum flank of the thing, heads
bowed together, bodies open against each other. When Dean tilted his head up to
kiss Sam for the first and last time, his face was full of terror and
determination. His lower lip was pushed out with stubbornness, and it slid
between Sam’s parted lips. The tip of Sam’s tongue touched Dean’s soft mouth,
and he made a little “hhh” sound of shock and pleasure. A jolt of electricity
had gone through them both, because Dean shuddered and clutched Sam’s hips. And
then Dean was stumbling back from him, hand over his eyes, and Sam could smell
the exhaust of the bus engine and hear the nice lady driver honking the horn.
Thinking of it now, with a decade-plus of sexual experience under his belt so
to speak, he understands that the spark that leapt between them was just pure
chemistry. What witches call sex magic and yogis call kundalini. As a teenage
near-virgin, it was almost as frightening as it was erotic. Dean had plenty of
experience back then, though, and Dean must have felt its rarity, its danger
and its addictive properties.
He shivered with longing through three states, and then he devised a mantra
involving the virtues of normalcy and recited it to himself, staring out of the
bus window, alternating iambic pentameter and haiku formats. And he locked it
all down, and got himself some normal, and he stopped getting hard from the
smell of antiseptic and the sound of AC/DC.
So when Dean comes back into the room where Sam and Crowley are lying in their
narrow cast-iron beds, Sam doesn’t let his eyes run down Dean’s torso or linger
on Dean’s hips. He is a past master at the elided gaze. He knows exactly what
parts of Dean’s body he can touch without making either of their ears warm,
exactly which kind of jokes don’t leave an awkward silence in their wake. Of
all of the things they’re good at not talking about, it’s the thing they don’t
talk about the best.
***** Lollipops from doctor. *****
Chapter Summary
     Crowley convinces Dean that Sam needs a sponge bath.
Dean’s stomach twists every time he sees Sam in the white metal bed. Sam is
pale and gaunt; he looks older than Dean. His Dudley Do-Right jaw is dark with
stubble and his lovely mane is greasy. Sam looks like he could take out a
werewolf but not two, a poltergeist but not a rugaru. Crowley, of course, looks
fine. He’s letting his hair and beard grow, he’s mentioned aspirations towards
a mullet- “you know, modern and ironic, real Williamsburg swag!” Apparently he
wants a piercing too, since he’s thinking he’ll be staying in this body. Dean
refuses to discuss piercings with Crowley.
Dean isn’t sure how he wound up discussing anything at all with Crowley. When
he hauled Sam into the car under a sky full of flaming angels, Sam was
muttering about “…get Crowley, I almost fixed him—“ and he wouldn’t leave until
Dean put the tied-up, bad-smelling former principle of downstairs in the back
seat. They blindfolded Crowley for the last part of the drive, of course, and
they threatened him with various tortures should he attempt to escape and
discover his location. When they opened up the Bunker’s infirmary they warded
the doors, even though they’re not sure at all what percentage of evil a demon
needs to be before a Devil’s Trap will work on him. They also don’t know if
Crowley’s evil will grow back, like a tumor, or if he’s just such a tool he’s
driving them progressively more nuts. Humans, man.
When Dean comes into the sickroom he notices that Sam’s Fortress of Bookitude
is threatening to engulf the bed, and he moves a stack of dusty volumes down to
the foot before he drops a hand to Sam’s forehead. “You got a temperature too,
geek boy,” he tells Sam as he hands Crowley the thermometer. He’s not in the
inserting-things-into-Crowley’s-mouth-or-other-orifices business. He’s brought
them a tray of Gatorade and iron supplements and Ensure, all the stuff Kevin
could find at the town Walgreens that might help with messed-up blood.
Crowley has the thermometer under his tongue but he’s trying to talk anyway,
about what kind of job he’s going to look for. “I saw an ad for collection
agents,” he says, “that would be nice, huh? Human contact, helping people?”
Dean snatches the thermometer and gets the reading off it- 99.5, but he
suspects Crowley runs hot. He doesn’t care what color an almost ex-demon’s
parachute is; he doesn’t actually care much how anybody earns their living, as
long as there’s people whose job it is to make pie and hentai.
Dean gives Crowley a couple of Tylenol, and he’s turning away to adjust Sam’s
reading light when he hears Crowley say, “Sam sure looks like he could use a
sponge bath, yeah?” Dean chokes on his own saliva, has a coughing fit, and
looks down at Sam, who’s lying there like he wishes he could disappear into the
blankets. “Shut up, Crowley!” they say simultaneously. “Jinx! Jinx! You can't
talk 'til somebody says your naaame!” Crowley yelps.
While Dean is struggling with a rejoinder to this, Sam catches his eye and
scratches at the stubble on his jaw. Obviously, Sam really does need to shave
and get cleaned up, and he’s too inclined to dizzy spells to shower by himself.
“Shut up, Crowley. I’m gonna get Kevin in to keep an eye on you while I help
Sam shave.” Sam looks excited and relieved, as any guy who’s been lying in his
own funk for days would, and also entirely mortified, like any guy whose big
brother is about to help him bathe.
Dean finds Kevin eating the middles out of Oreos and leaving the eviscerated
cookie shells in a pile. They’ve all been through so much, it seems like all
bets are off regarding behavioral conventions or even common decency. “I need
you to look after Crowley for a while, I gotta get Sam in the shower.” Kevin
gives him a vicious side-eye. “Can I kill just the ten percent?” “No. You can’t
kill any part of him, at least today. You can whip his ass at Scrabble, though,
and I’ll back you up if you make up words.” “I don’t make up words, you
prole!”, Kevin says disdainfully, but he heads to the infirmary.
Dean gets some thick rubber mats out of the exercise room and covers the tiles
under the showerheads with them. He goes downstairs to Sam’s room, finds some
clean sweats, grabs Sam’s razor from his sink, and gets clean towels out of the
laundry room. Then he can’t really stall any more. Back in the infirmary he
clears some more books out of the way and helps Sam out of bed, gets a shoulder
under him, and walks them towards the showers.
***** You're Soaking In It. *****
Chapter Summary
     Crowley has terrible timing.
Dean has to help Sam undress, because Sam is unsteady on his pins. Trips to the
john have been his big expeditions, these last few days. The t-shirt and yoga
(so?! They’re comfy!) pants Dean got him into on the night of burning angel
wings are now crusty and vile in the way that only sickbed sweat can make
clothing. Sam would like them burned, but he’s afraid of what Crowley might
order from Hot Topic to replace them. Dean tosses the clothes into the hamper
(it came with the shower room. It’s a laundry hamper. It’s theirs, and a girl
didn’t buy it.)
Then he eases Sam down to the mats covering the floor and strips down to his
boxers. Once he’s hung his clothes over one of the other showerheads, he turns
and gets his first good look at Sam. And he’s shocked, because a worried,
shaggy man with a heavy beard shadow is wearing the body his brother had at
sixteen, before all that muscle was laid on. He sees the echo of Sam’s lanky,
gawky teenage frame, and the tracery of scars that winds around it now, and his
heart aches. What the hell have they done to themselves, to each other, to
their bodies, in pursuit of John Winchester’s holy war? What doesn’t kill you
might make you stronger, but who the hell ever wanted to be this strong?
Dean tests the water, then grabs Sam by the shoulders and helps him under the
warm spray. Sam makes happy noises for a second, then jolts and doubles over.
“what, what is it—“ “cramps, my legs, hurts—“ Dean slides them down to the mats
again, leans his back up against the tile wall and pulls Sam into the fork of
his legs, then reaches around and starts rubbing the knotty muscle above Sam’s
knees as the hot water comes down on them. Gradually Sam relaxes, the spasm
passing, and he stretches his legs out.
“I hate feeling this way.”  “What, like the world’s tallest naked hobo? I got
your razor.” “No, you jerk. Like my body’s all debilitated. I musta lost twenty
pounds, and don’t say shit about my girlish figure.” “You’ll get better”, Dean
says. “We have access to the arcane lore of generations of wise people, plus
thirty years of Readers’ Digest. We’ll figure it out. Garth’s on it too.”
As Sam moves back into his arms, Dean starts humming softly. It’s elegiac,
moody. “What is that? It sounds familiar.” “Springsteen. I used to sing it when
you were sick when you were a baby.” Dean says, and then he sings,
At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
And a freight train running through the
Middle of my head
Only you can cool my desire
Oh-oh-oh, I'm on fire
“Jesus!! Way to be inappropriate, Dr. Spock!” “What? It was on the radio all
the time when you were little, and it was the mellowest song I knew!” “Huh. I
guess it beats Sir Mixalot--“, Sam says, settling back against Dean’s chest.
The feeling of resting his body along Dean’s is a rich, meaty, drug-like
sensation. Oxytocin. He remembers it from their childhood, lying in Dean’s lap
in the back of the Impala. From his days with Jess, on the couch in their
apartment with a pint of ice cream. Skin contact that you drop into, that turns
your blood to chocolate milk and your heart to a stuffed bear with shiny eyes.
He can’t help a little moan of pleasure at the comfort of it. And wonders will
never cease, because Dean doesn’t issue the expected mocking snort- instead,
Dean huffs out a little sigh of contentment himself. Warm water runs down their
shoulders, runs in rivulets through Sam’s matted chest hair, turns the hair on
his legs black. The room is hazy, the water heater must be huge. They could
probably stay under here for hours.
Dean holds his brother in his arms, safe in their underground bunker, sure for
the moment that someone will know what’s going on with Sam, how to give him his
strength back. He’ll need Sam at fighting weight, no matter how sentimental he
feels about the coltish frame Sam’s currently sporting. No matter how much it
reminds him of the days when Sam would sprawl on a motel bed, just out of the
shower, and Dean would notice some new thing about his body. Like the sudden
rangy breadth of his shoulders, or the fine line of dark hair disappearing into
the towel at his waist. Those were dizzy, scary days, when their arms would
brush as they trailed Dad into a diner and Dean would get goosebumps. It was
scary because they were afraid they’d give in, he tells himself now. They’re
long past that, it was a crazy phase. Now Sam is just his brother, his hunting
partner, the other half of the demon-stomping, heaven-and-hell shaking
Winchesters. And Sam needs a shave, because one of them needs to be able to
talk to civilians without scaring the horses.
Dean slides out from behind Sam, lets Sam lean back onto the tiles. He stands
up, his boxers soaked to his wet skin, shining and flushed, and Sam absolutely
stares at his ass as he walks over to the pile of towels and shaving kit.
Dean’s ass looks really good, Sam can’t help but notice. The year in Purgatory
left him more fucking built than ever. Dean comes back and kneels next to Sam,
out of the spray. “Slide over a little, and tilt your chin up.” They’ve shaved
each other plenty of times over their lifetimes, whenever one of them had an
injury that limited mobility- hell, Dean learned to shave by shaving Dad, when
Dad broke both arms falling into a boarded-up cesspool on an abandoned farm
that was overrun with wraiths. Sam thought that was pretty funny, actually, but
he was only eight. When your one parent is ex-military, shaving is part of how
you hold the line. It’s something men do if it’s even remotely possible, in
rice paddies and WalMart parking lots. Or in Purgatory.
As Dean spreads shaving cream on his jaw, Sam hears himself asking, “When you
were together with Benny in Purgatory, were you- - together, together?” Dean
snorts, tosses his head so drops fly from the spiky ends of his hair, hitting
Sam in the face. “It’s Purgatory, Sammy. The pleasures of the flesh- eatin’,
sexin’, even naps—they don’t applythere.” Which is an answer, although not
exactly the answer Sam was looking for. 
Dean holds Sam’s jaw carefully in his hand and moves the safety razor over his
cheek. Sam hopes the face revealed by the razor’s passes isn’t too hollow and
lined, that he still looks enough like himself. He must, because he can hear
Dean’s breathing now. Dean pushes wet strands of hair off Sam’s temples,
smoothes them back gently, draws the razor delicately over Sam’s chin. The
warm, wet air clings to Sam’s newly exposed skin. “Tip your head back.” Dean
leans in and strokes the razor down Sam’s neck. He’s up on his knees, his left
fingers steadying Sam’s chin while his right hand guides the razor. His eyes
are so green, his absurd mouth pursed in concentration. Sam lets his eyelids
drop, slitting his gaze so he can study Dean’s hips in the wet boxers, just a
foot away. Dean’s definitely getting hard. And in a second, he’s gonna be done
shaving Sam, and he’s gonna notice Sam is fully erect.
“So- shampoo?” Sam says brightly, and leans forward, cupping his hands under
the water, to rinse his face. By the time Dean’s back with the shampoo, Sam is
up and facing the wall, palms flat against it. But that wasn’t really such a
great idea, because a) he’s really dizzy now, and b) the whole situation seems
much dirtier in this position.  Especially when he looks back over his shoulder
and meets Dean’s darkened eyes. He reels a little from the headrush, and Dean
drops the shampoo and catches him, and now they’re really in trouble. Standing
together under the shower, which is still deliciously warm, slippery-wet, a
single pair of soaked boxers between them, foamy bits of shaving cream dotting
Sam’s throat.
The intercom crackles, and they jump at Crowley’s nanny-goat voice. “You
guuyyys! Kevin’s cheating!”
***** All Bets Are Off. *****
Chapter Summary
     After the shower incident, Sam and Dean go to bed...separately.
Late that night Dean comes into the infirmary to see if they need anything.
“Thank you, Dean, but I’m perfectly fine.” Crowley says in his idea of an
ingratiating tone. As if a short middle-aged not-quite-human former serial
killer with a Cockney accent who’s growing in hipster sideburns could charm
anyone, let alone Dean. “Get some rest”, Sam says, and Dean lays a warm hand on
his shoulder and reaches to turn out the light. “You didn’t kiss your brother
goodnight, Dean!” Crowley chirps. “Just to shut you up—“ Dean says, and bends
down and gently kisses Sam on the forehead. God, his lips are soft! Once in
ninth grade Sam wrote a sonnet about Dean’s mouth, then carefully set the scrap
of lined paper on fire out behind the soccer field.
After Dean’s left the room Crowley starts to snore, and Sam’s alone with his
thoughts. Can you call it alone with your thoughts, if you’re thinking
obsessively about someone else? Jesus, that moment in the shower was hot. Sam
runs the memory through his head like a silk ribbon, and feels butterflies in
his stomach. Dean’s arms around his ribcage, his nipples brushing Sam’s slick
chest, the way Dean steadied him on his feet protectively. That second when
their eyes caught, like the hook-and-loop of Velcro, before Crowley’s voice
broke in. Remembering, he realizes he could smell Dean’s wet, gel-slimy hair
and his deodorant and hear the water thrumming on the rubber mats, and that
Dean had been opening his mouth to say something. Sam wonders what Dean was
going to say. Sam realizes he’s going to jerk off thinking about his brother,
something he hasn’t let himself do in years. Crowley better not wake up.
Dean closes his bedroom door behind him, secure in the knowledge that Sam has
the intercom if he needs anything. His balls ache like a teenager’s. He wants
porn, lube and an orgasm, ASAP. He’ll watch some wholesome tentacle-and-
schoolgirl action and this dirty feeling will go away. Somehow, he wound up
carrying one of Sam’s plaid shirts in with him. Must have picked it up meaning
to throw it in the laundry. Probably if he leaves it on his bed he’ll remember
to wash it in the morning. When he rubs his face against the soft, worn cloth,
he can breathe in the smell of Sam. He’s lying belly down on his memory foam
now, grinding his hips into the mattress. He only got a tiny glimpse of Sam’s
hard cock, but it fills up his head. He spreads his legs and rocks his ass up,
totally not thinking that probably it would feel even better to have Sam’s
warm, thick cock in him than that time or five when a girl fucked him with a
strap-on. He thinks Sam would probably whisper “I love you” while they were
fucking. He thinks Sam might kiss with his eyes open. He thinks- and then he’s
coming hard into Sam’s shirt, which he’s really gonna have to wash now.
After Sam comes and wipes himself down with a stray sock, which he balls up and
tosses behind the shelves of tongue depressors and cotton swabs and paregoric,
he considers the situation objectively. He’s apparently still in love with his
brother. However, he is now a grown man who can make his own choices. And a
legally dead felon who hotwires even his friends’ cars. He has been possessed,
he has been varieties of dead, he has killed a large number of creatures,
including some who were inside people, and he has done some truly disgusting
things. During the time Dean was in Hell, the time with Ruby, he justified
fucking her very simply. Since he never got to have the Bad, Wrong Thing he
really wanted, he was sure as hell going to take the consolation prize.
Lucifer’s cruelest taunts were always about how Sam was going to die wanting
what he’s never had. So who cares anymore about what’s Not Right? If Kevin can
cheat at Scrabble, Sam can fuck his brother.
Dean is almost asleep, limp and sprawled on his memory foam, but a tantalizing
thought keeps circling in his head. When he was with Lisa, sometimes after they
had sex they would have ice cream in bed. Ben would be asleep down the hall. It
was like the world was a snow globe, sparkly particles sifting softly down onto
the eaves of a tiny house. She would put her head on his chest. Dean finds
himself thinking now of how on those sweet nights, his eyes would fill with
tears and his heart would burn with shame, because he loved Lisa, but he wasn’t
whole without Sam. In his very own bed, in his own bedroom, in their actual
bunker, what would it be like to hold Sam in his arms and drift off to sleep?
What would it be like to wake up with Sam’s octopus arms twined around him, and
Sam’s pointy nose poking into his armpit, like when they were little?
***** Smothered pork chops. *****
Chapter Summary
     Kevin cooks, Dean shakes his ass, and Crowley is the hero.
Sam wakes up feeling about the same, not so much sick as drained of all energy.
It’s time to get this business sorted out. If he’s going to talk Dean into
taking a shot at together-together, he’s gonna need his full sex hoodoo going.
Crowley is still sleeping, still snoring softly. As if he’s somehow connected
to Sam’s consciousness and felt Sam wake up, Dean comes strutting in, looking
perfectly magnificent in his usual crappy clothes. Dean can wear the hell out
of t-shirts and plaids, and jeans love to wrap themselves around Dean’s thighs
and settle on his hips. If they were together-together, maybe Dean would let
Sam pick him out some nice clothes, some going-out-to-dinner clothes, sometime.
Dean deserves nice clothes.
Maybe Sam could slide his hand into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans while they
were walking down the street, sometime. Feel the roundness of Dean’s ass under
his fingertips. Maybe Dean would—Jesus! Dean’s leaning over the bed and
touching Sam’s face, very gently. Is he feeling for heat at Sam’s temple? Is
Sam’s hair all bed-heady? Oh, his fingertips are so rough and warm! “You look
like your handsome self again, mister. We gotta stay on top of that Miami Vice
shadow- it’s not really a look for you.” Dean is talking, but he’s also
stroking Sam’s jaw, softly, and well, possessively! Sam does his best to look
like a person a thirty-four-year-old high-school dropout demon hunter who’s
saved the world would want to be lovers with. He tries out a sexy smile. Dean
smirks at him. “You been into the painkillers, Ranger Rick?  You got a real
loopy grin goin’ there! Low blood sugar maybe?” Dean ruffles Sam’s hair and
produces, seemingly from nowhere, two Clif bars. “Eat a tasteless cardboard
food thing for now, Imma make you some eggs. Backinnaminute.” And just like
that he’s gone, but his ass gives a little sashay as he goes out the door. What
the hell!
Sam spends the morning poring through books, like he usually does. There’s so
much information in the Bunker’s library- but it’s so analog. He needs to start
a Project Gutenberg for mysterious tomes and scrolls written in what looks
suspiciously like blood.
Midday Kevin goes on a supply run and comes back from town with a bag of meat
and a smile. “What’s that? And what’s got into you?” “I’m going to make my
mom’s smothered porkchops. And I met a girl at the supermarket and we had sex
in the walk-in.” Dean does a quick run-through of everything he knows about
contributing to the delinquency of a minor, then remembers Kevin turned
eighteen while Dean was in Purgatory. Somewhat at a loss, Dean goes for a
cheesy grin and double thumbs up. Kevin heads for the kitchen and the Crock-
Pot.
Kevin eats in the library – “I’m not watching even one-tenth of the person who
killed her eat my mom’s porkchops. This redemption crap takes some wearing in,
you know.” Dean brings a tray into the infirmary and eats with Sam, sitting
cross-legged at the end of his bed. Crowley eats his porkchops and wisely says
nothing when Sam asks about the recipe and learns that it’s Mrs. Tran’s. Dean
blew off a surefire Hell-blockading to save his brother, so he’s not casting so
many stones. Inevitably the talk turns to Sam’s weakened state, and where the
research is at. Garth called in that afternoon, saying he was headed to
Louisville to see a man about a dog; it might be something. They assume
Crowley’s absorbed in one of his reality shows, ignoring the “boring lore talk”
as usual.
The next morning, Crowley is watching old Bangles videos on YouTube and eating
dry Cheerios. The endless crunching is driving Sam nuts. Crowley looks over and
just like that, solves the puzzle of Sam’s health. “If you were purified by the
trials, doesn’t that mean you’re demon-blood free now? But if you’ve had a tiny
bit of demon blood in you for your whole life, bein’ entirely without it would
make you sick, yeah?”
Sam stares at Crowley, then reaches for the intercom.
***** Blood magic and chicken soup. *****
Chapter Summary
     Fixing Sam, and the prospect of sex.
In the end, it’s simple but not easy. Dean expects a whole drama from Sam about
keeping his purity and not wanting to be tainted again; Sam however doesn’t
seem concerned about the implications of having three drops of demon blood in
him so much as the logistics of getting it in there. Sam doesn’t want a random
demon in a meatsuit to just bleed in his mouth, for one thing. Because pretty
ill-advised for a recovering demon blood addict. Plus, ew, and maybe hep C or
malaria or whatever, and consent issues with the meatsuit. Everybody they talk
to thinks it’s just crazy enough to work, though. They need to get exactly
three drops of blood into Sam, from a demon in its true body, and see if that
restores some kind of balance. Like homeopathic medicine, except actually doing
something.
Demons in their original bodies, not riding human hosts, aren’t easy to come
by. But Crowley is happy to throw his former compatriots under the bus, and
they find out about one who seems less egregious, or at least less murderous,
than the rest. She’s living as an insurance claims assessor in Hartford. They
go through uncountable books and internet searches and phone calls to other
hunters, and find a transubstantiation spell that will replace three drops of
Sam’s blood with the blood of a demon without the demon knowing it’s happening,
a blood ritual that opens a micro-portal. There’s a witch Garth knows, a nail
technician who does some magic on the side. She’s the occult equivalent of a
white-hat hacker, Garth says, a total magic geek.
The night before they do it everyone is worried. Even Crowley, who seems to be
recovering well from the ordeal of being reduced to only 10% despicable. He’s
found a salacious biography of Bugsy Siegel from the 40’s, and he takes his
book and goes off down the hall. To the library to pester Kevin, or to the lawn
chair he set up in the gun range; who knows? “Have some nice quality time,
boys!” he tells Sam and Dean.
Dean is sitting on Sam’s bed, Sam propped up on a pile of pillows, Dean holding
a bowl of soup he’s been trying to get Sam to eat. “I’ll eat tomorrow”, Sam
says. “When I’m better.” Dean puts the bowl on the floor and looks Sam in the
eyes. “It’s gonna work.” “I know it is.”
Dean brushes the hair back from Sam’s forehead, like he’s doing it
absentmindedly. He does it again, tucking loose strands behind Sam’s ear. He
traces Sam’s cheekbone with a fingertip and Sam tilts his face into the caress,
shivering. Dean puts the pad of his thumb on Sam’s lower lip. Sam opens his
mouth a tiny bit and touches the tip of his tongue to Dean’s skin. Dean closes
his eyes. “I couldn’t lose you. Not to lock up Hell, not to stop the Titanic
from sinking, not to get Lindsey Lohan sober.” “I know.” “This time, I was
like, ‘I gave at the office.’” “Fuck them anyway with their celestial
machinations and opaque prophecies.” “Seriously. God is a dick and his flunkies
are a bunch of assbutts.”
Dean leans forward and they’re kissing, suddenly, as if a piece of missing
footage has been restored to the Director’s Cut of their lives. Mouths opening,
tongues swirling together, Sam’s hands coming up to hold Dean’s face, little
grunts of pleasure, little creaks from the bed as they fit themselves closer
together. Electricity spirals up between them, crackles in Dean’s gasp, sparks
as their teeth knock together.  It escalates fast, the tempo increasing. They
break for a moment, panting, foreheads touching. Dean gazes at Sam, wipes the
spit off his lips with a neat custodial motion, then dives in for his neck.
When Dean sucks onto his throat Sam moans, and Dean’s lush, agile mouth follows
the vibration. Sam drops his head back on the pillows and Dean clambers onto
him, books sliding and thumping to the floor. Sam pulls Dean down onto his
body, arms around his ribs, and their hard cocks press together through Dean’s
jeans and the blanket and Sam’s sweats. “Ohhh. Oh yeah. Oh, yes, yes.” Dean
murmurs into Sam’s neck. “Uh. That’s it. Definitely.” Sam says, as if Dean’s
made an actual statement, as if they’re having a conversation. Dean kisses up
to Sam’s mouth again and when he gets there Sam opens to him and arcs his body
up against Dean’s, writhing and rocking. “Fucking…wanna…” he growls into Dean’s
mouth, and grabs Dean’s ass with both hands, his giant hands all over Dean’s
ass, kneading and grasping. Then his grip slackens, and Dean pulls back,
watches Sam try to catch his breath.
“Little…uh…winded. Not exactly on full batteries at the moment.” Dean slides
off and lies next to Sam, stroking his chest. “Gotta get you fixed up so I can
have my way with you.” Still dizzy turned-on and breathing hard, but the
urgency melted into tenderness. He pets Sam’s face and kisses his brow.
“Tomorrow. Eating and, um, maybe some…fucking.”
***** Bangers and Mash. *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean hates witches. Sam kind of likes being chained up in the
     dungeon.
They’re doing the transubstantiation spell in the dungeon, as a precautionary
measure, and plan to shackle Sam up in case his addiction returns full-force.
 The witch, Mitzi, is super-nice, a really young Eritrean single mom with a
tricked-out Game of Thrones manicure. She taps Sam’s shoulder with a nail that
has the Seal of House Greyjoy on it, and says, “Just relax, guy. I’ll get ya
fixed up.”
Dean is a little surprised that she’s brought her toddler, a dimpled girl in
overalls whose name is apparently Khaleesi. “We, uh, usually have a you-must-
be-this-high to do dubious arcane rituals policy,” he says, gesticulating.
“Well, either the spell is perfectly safe or if the space-time rift goes
sideways most of Kansas will be sheet glass, and the other option I had was to
leave her at my mom’s restaurant, which is only about forty minutes from here.
Definitely inside the blast radius.” “Oh. Gotcha.” Nevertheless, Dean insists
on parking the baby in the library with Kevin for the actual procedure.
Dean’s stomach is sour and he keeps swiping his hand over his mouth the way he
does when he’s worrying. Sam seems too dizzy and weak to go through the kind of
physical and psychic draining most magic requires. What if he loses his soul or
teleports into the future or turns into the car again? What if he gets cured by
the demon blood and decides that whole kissing-Dean thing was a terrible idea?
Before the ritual Mitzi breast-feeds Khaleesi, hands her off to Kevin, uploads
a couple of selfies to her Tumblr, and offers around some weird-looking kibble
of cashews and jerky. “It’s Paleo. Low-glycemic.”  “Good luck, you guys. I’m
gonna cruise Craigslist for a new place to crash in case Sam turns evil”, Kevin
says, and heads off with the baby.
Crowley edges towards the door. “You guys don’t need me for anything, right? I
found the demon, I don’t have any powers now, better if I go have a Hot Pocket,
right?” “You’re staying right here, buster. You’re gonna be how we know Sam’s
ok.” Crowley sighs and sits down in the corner. Dean takes a deep breath and
helps Sam put the heavy rune-covered shackles around his wrists.
He’s locking the second one when Sam leans forward and whispers, soft enough
that Mitzi can’t hear, “Does this get you hot?” Dean snorts and ignores him,
but a smile replaces his frowny-face, so Sam calls it a win. Mitzi sets up a
small tray of sterile tools, lights a can of Sterno under a little brazier,
cleans Sam’s palm with blue antiseptic, puts on rubber gloves. Sam feels like
he’s getting a piercing in a mall. Dean stands by watching, clearly hoping
their next adventure is the kind involving guns and whiskey. He hates witches,
even the cute urban Millennium ones.
The spell itself is the usual gobbledy-gook, and Mitzi says it very slowly
while drawing a circle in bone ash on the floor. She holds a little dish made
of something that looks like rain under Sam’s palm, and draws a scalpel across
his palm as deftly as a surgeon. Exactly three drops fall into the dish, which
disappears, and Mitzi swiftly pulls a little tool out of her brazier and
cauterizes the wound. Sam doesn’t make a sound.
Space folds open above the ash circle, always an unpleasant sight. Random
sights and sounds issue from the timestream- mammoths trumpeting as they sink
in a tarpit, laser fire from rusting orbital gun batteries in the Kuiper Belt.
Sam’s eyes turn black for an almost imperceptible amount of time, like a single
frame of film. Dean’s suddenly covered in greasy sweat. In Hartford, the demon
hits “Approve” on an MRI claim she’d been planning to bounce.
And then the wormhole closes, leaving a smell of ozone and caramel. Mitzi puts
some ointment on Sam’s tiny wound, bandages it neatly, and takes off her
gloves. Dean advances on Sam, who’s hanging in the restraints, shaking his
shaggy head like a wet dog. “Buddy? Sam? How you feeling?” Sam lifts his head
and stares at Dean. “Stronger…faster…better…” he intones solemnly, and then
grins like an idiot. “I feel great. Fucking hungry though.”

Mitzi checks Sam over. She presses a strip of blue litmus paper against the
sweat on his temple – “Demons are very acidic, if he got too much it’ll turn
red-” and sniffs his lymph nodes. “Is the partial-demon control subject ready?”
“Yup.” Dean yanks Crowley up and pins his arms behind his back; Crowley appears
wounded by this unexpected manhandling, and whines, “Deeeann….what are you
doooinnng?” “Checking to see if Sam’s gone cuckoo for demon blood. You don’t
mind helping Sam, right?” Dean holds one of Crowley’s hands out to Mitzi, and
she pricks his fingers, then fills a transfer pipette with a drop of blood. She
waves the blood-filled tube in front of Sam’s nose cheerfully. “How’s it smell,
big guy? Delicious? You wanna rip his head off and have a nice drink?” “Smells
like hypocrisy and foxhole conversion to me. He can keep his blood.”
Dean watches Sam with a lifetime’s Sam-watching skill, and Sam seems pretty
damn okay. Mitzi helps Dean unshackle Sam, while Crowley alternates between
sulking and preening at his important role in the process. Dean reaches forward
to catch Sam, but Sam smiles and shrugs him off. “I’m good. Not running laps
yet, but not too far from it.” They head for the library, where they find Kevin
and Khaleesi engaged in a complex, reiterative game of PattyCake. Mitzi hugs
them all (which Crowley clearly smarms at) and breezes off, her gear slung over
one shoulder and the baby on her hip, somehow with a hand free to text.
Everyone else stares at Sam until it gets a little awkward. “You look good,
Sam.” “Thanks so much, Crowley. You know what I’d really like? Something nice
and substantial to eat.” “I know just the thing! I make the world’s best
bangers and mash!”  “Bangers and mash!” Dean shouts. “Pig in a poke! Toad in
the hole!” He starts laughing like a loon, and Sam starts laughing too, and
pretty soon they’re doubled over, hands on each other’s shoulders, cackling.
Then suddenly they’re hugging, Dean’s head tucked into Sam’s neck, and it looks
like Dean has tears in his eyes. Crowley and Kevin eye each other and make for
the door. “Sorry guys”, Dean mumbles, but he doesn’t take his face away from
Sam’s shoulder. “It’s cool,” Kevin says, “better for everybody if the judging
train just skips this station.”
Sam takes Dean’s chin in his hand, gently, and kisses him, thoroughly. “Food.
And then, that other thing.”
***** Dessert. *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean and Sam eat sausages and go to bed.
It’s late when they get done with feasting on sausages and the attendant grade-
school humor. Plus there’s all the follow-up with hunters who helped research
and thanking Garth for Mitzi and everybody having a couple of beers. But
finally they’re in the doorway of Dean’s room. Staring at each other.
Dean’s room has a bed in it. As it happens. Dean looks up at Sam, catches his
slanted eyes, looks away. “Are you going to invite me in?” Sam asks. “Christ,
you better not be a vampire now. Seriously.” Sam laughs and strides through the
door, and he’s already unbuttoning his shirt. Dean grabs him then and tackles
him to the bed and they struggle with each other’s clothes until they’re down
to their underwear.  They hit another choke point of awkwardness there, another
tectonic shift from a lifetime of habits. Sam decides kissing is the best
transition state, and he takes Dean’s mouth in his and does everything he’s
ever wanted to those impossible lips. Turgid phrases from his long-ago sonnet
drift through his mind as he licks Dean’s full, soft mouth open. Images from
his fourteen-year-old fantasies rise up as he pushes his tongue into Dean’s
mouth. He hums with pleasure, seals Dean’s lips with his and draws the breath
out of Dean’s lungs, then inhales deeply through his nose and gives Dean air.
He sucks and bites and his head swims with gratitude for this moment that has
finally, finally come.
They roll together on Dean’s springy bed. Shoulders pressing together, then
hips, locking thighs, palms pressing against each other’s pecs. They nuzzle
each other’s faces, bite each other’s necks. Their cocks graze through their
boxers like Indy 500 racecars, swapping the lead. They kiss and kiss and kiss,
and wind up with Dean flat on his back and spread out under Sam, who’s holding
Dean’s mouth open for his probing tongue by the simple expedient of engulfing
Dean’s jaw in his giant hand. Dean knows right then that he wants Sam to fuck
him, for their first time.
“Will you do it to me? You know…?” Sam makes a guttural sound in his chest and
his tongue speeds up, drives into Dean’s mouth at fucking tempo. “Oh yes, I
will do you, I will fucking do you til you can’t walk.”  He presses Dean into
the bed, grinds his hips and murmurs into Dean’s mouth. “I will do you like
I’ve been waiting a decade and a half to…fuck…you…so…good.”  Sam stands up
quickly, leaving a draft over Dean’s chest, and yanks his boxers off, then goes
for Dean’s. He gets Dean’s eye before he pulls down on the elastic, makes sure
Dean feels that Sam is stripping him. He looks at Dean’s hard, thick, pale cock
like Dean looks at pie. He licks his lips, a little theatrically and a lot
sincerely. Dean’s whole body jerks, and a fine trembling sets up in his hips.
Sam waits for Dean’s gaze to fasten on Sam’s own rock-hard and very substantial
cock. Dean’s seen it before, of course. But Sam has never presented it to his
brother, as a promise and a threat and a gift, before. 
Dean’s eyes are very wide, looking at what he’s gotten himself into. Sam looks
pretty strong now, and he’s very, very tall. This must be how that really
petite lady Dean fucked one time felt, like she signed up for a bout outside
her weight class. He hopes he acquits himself as admirably as that five foot
girl. Then Sam’s long body is back on top of him, a blanket of heat and muscle
with a burning core. Dean can’t breathe for a second, Sam is turning him on so
much.  He wants to pay attention to every single place their skin is touching
at once.
There’s the hard bones of their hips meeting, sliding together. There’s Sam’s
nipples, drawn up tight and rubbing against his chest. There’s the breadth of
Sam’s shoulders over him, the hard arcs of his biceps in Dean’s peripheral
vision, enclosing him. There’s the hot zone of Sam’s throat, which he strains
up to reach with his mouth. When he bites on the long muscle of Sam’s neck, Sam
makes a growly sound and the sound makes Dean completely nuts. He thrashes
under Sam’s huge frame, grabbing Sam’s hips to press the hot skin of their
cocks together, sucking Sam’s neck and licking the tendon there with hard, flat
licks. Sam gasps and drops down onto him, pretty much mashing him into the
mattress, and hugs him tight.
“Easy, easy, you gotta let me keep it together for a little bit, I wanna make
it good for you. Sssh, shh. I’ll be back in a sec.” Sam rolls off Dean and
slides off the bed, picks up his jeans and roots through the pockets. Oh.
Condoms. Dean hasn’t been tested since that Amazon incident. Did Sam get tested
when he was with Amelia? Dean doesn’t know. They’ve both always been pretty
careful- another habit from a military father, like shaving. A discussion to
have later on, right now there’s gonna be some serious sex-having and soon, or
somebody’s gonna be sorry. “Lube in the top drawer, bedside table.” Sam gets
the lube and lies back down with Dean. He reaches over and runs one fingertip
over Dean’s frenulum. It feels like no-one’s ever touched Dean’s cock before,
it feels like every nerve he has is firing. “ I gotta”, Sam says, and then his
silky hair is trailing down Dean’s shaking torso and then his warm, wet mouth
is on Dean’s cock.
With Sam slowly sucking the head of his cock, Dean’s frenzy eases off. Suddenly
his legs are falling open, his shoulders are sinking back into the mattress,
and his heart is full. He relaxes into Sam’s care and attention. It feels like
a massage instead of a blowjob, like Sam’s rough tongue is working the flesh of
his cock into a previously unimagined state where he can be rock-hard and yet
in no hurry. Sam kisses the ridge of his head, rubs his face against Dean’s
length, presses his face into Dean’s balls and breathes in, then goes back to
alternating sucking and licking. Deans spreads his arms out on the bed, palms
up, and opens his hands, tips his head back, and takes it. He’s never felt so
loved. Sam knows how to read his every expression, knows his body language like
no lover he’s ever had. He lets Sam spiral him up towards the gathering tension
of orgasm, his back arching and the muscles in his thighs locked, and then
slide him back down, over and over, until his entire body is singing with
pleasure. He’s dopey and giddy when Sam pulls off and opens the lube.
Sam reaches out and arranges Dean’s legs, knees bent and open, rolls a condom
on, and lubes up his fingers. There’s something…experienced about the way he
does it.
“It kinda seems like you’ve done this before. Like more than experimental
college blowjobs.” Dean seems a bit nonplussed, and he’s holding very still,
waiting for Sam to answer. “Dude. I was in Rhode Island, without a soul.
Grindr.“ “Fair enough.” Dean’s obviously sort of hurt, but gets it. No soul,
looking for a hookup, sex with men is gonna be a little simpler. “I fucked
three different guys who each looked a little bit like you in a different way
in one night one time.” “Jesus, Sam, tmi- well, except actually that’s kind of
romantic in a really fucked-up way.” “Nobody could ever be as hot as you, Dean.
You’ve been the archetype of desire for me since I can remember wanting.” “Ten-
dollar words!” Dean scoffs, but his body is relaxed again, his hips rocking.
“Have you, done it before?” They’re talking softly now, mouths almost touching.
“Only… with girls. Last few years, seems like every girl has a strap-on. I…when
you were at Stanford, once, when Dad was on a hunt and I was in Austin by
myself. I went to a bar. I got mobbed, Sam! I’m not being a douche, they were
fucking on me! I was like, take a number, dude!” “So what happened?” Sam’s eyes
are on him, tender and curious, distracting Dean from the finger slipping into
his ass. “It was –uhh--so awkward. I just picked the hottest guy and let him
blow me in the bathroom. It was a good blow job, I guess. Mmm. That’s good.
Don’t stop.”
Dean’s hand makes its way down to Sam’s cock, which is great, because that
wide, warm palm goes around Sam like he’s been doing it all his life, thumb
rubbing exactly the right spot through the slick latex. But it’s obviously a
bit of a shock for Dean, who’s apparently temporarily forgotten that Sam is big
all over. “I’m really not gonna be able to walk tomorrow, am I.” “Don’t worry.
You’ve been waiting on me for weeks- least I can do is bring you breakfast in
bed.” Sam decides it’s time to provide incentive, and rubs Dean where it’ll do
the most good with his long, clever fingers. “C’mon, c’mon”, Dean moans,
writhing on Sam’s fingers. Sam watches Dean’s hands claw at the bed and decides
it’s time. He settles between Dean’s legs and pushes in slowly, and Dean locks
eyes with him, nodding a little. Dean’s eyes well up with tears, suddenly, but
Sam understands he’s not hurting his brother. Sam lowers his head and kisses
the tears away from Dean’s temples. He doesn’t need to say anything about them,
or about the warm salt drop that falls down to Dean’s freckled cheekbone.
Neither of them needs to say anything.
Slowly, slowly Sam starts to move. He fucks Dean for a long time, fucking love
and reassurance into him on long gentle strokes, fucking the memory of
desperate teenage desire in short hard thrusts, fucking the grief and
loneliness out of him in waves of pleasure, fucking together in synced
movements that make a lifetime of training together not such a waste of time
after all. They roll and shift positions fast and easy, with artless grace,
like kittens wrestling. They push each other towards orgasm, then pull back,
gauging one another’s breathing, checking each others’ pulses. At the end
they’re on their sides, soaked in sweat, Sam spooned around Dean, almost too
tired to move anymore, one hand on Dean’s cock. “I’m gonna make you come now”,
Sam says, and he works Dean ruthlessly with his hand.
Dean is embraced, impaled, caught in Sam’s arms, and now he’s going to come, he
can’t stop it, he’s going to let go and be completely vulnerable in the grip of
the one person who truly knows him. It’s terrifying. Sam nuzzles his neck, and
just as Dean suspected he would, starts whispering mushy stuff. “It’s ok”, he
says, “you can trust me, just let go, I’m here—“ and then Sam gets the friction
exactly right, pushes his cock even deeper into Dean, and murmurs, “I love
you”. And Dean comes into Sam’s hand, sobbing with relief and the intensity of
it. His shaking body and his hiccupping breaths must set Sam off, because Sam
rides his aftershocks in three hard thrusts and then seizes up, arching and
groaning and somehow still tenderly finding Dean’s hand and grasping it as he
comes.
Afterwards they lie there like they just took out a nest of vamps, a houseful
of poltergeists and a couple of Sumerian gods. The bed is wrecked. “I wish we
could get pizza delivered here”, Dean mutters. Sam slowly pulls out, making
Dean yelp, and ties off the condom, then gets up and puts it carefully in
Dean’s trash can. “Get that bag of M&Ms from my desk while you’re up.” Sam
comes back to bed with a t-shirt to wipe them off and the bag of candy. Dean
stuffs his mouth, then cuffs Sam’s hand away from the bag, and gently feeds
M&Ms between  Sam’s lips, like Sam is a baby bird. “Wait til I get my strength
back. I’ll really show you a good time.” “Dude, you like pretty much rode me
into the ground. Besides, next time you’re the pony.” “Fine by me. Imma check
out those mad Dean Winchester banging skills. See what all the fuss is about.”
“You’re fuss..about…fuss…um, what?” Dean says, and Sam realizes he’s about to
pass out. Sam thumbs a smear of chocolate off Dean’s lower lip, and arranges
them in the bed, hauling Dean’s limp body around with the very last of his
energy, until they’re tangled nicely together. “Night, Dean.” “g’nite, Sammy.”
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