Archive of Our Own ^beta

He isn't Dean Smith, or even Hunter Corp Dean. Corporate pen pushers who get a semi from water cooler talk and from spouting numbers related to revenue and return on investment.

No, Dean is wired to be on his feet, to think fast, to improvise in life-or-death situations. These endless days and days of research, double and triple checking lore, it is driving him up the wall.

Sam and he have settled into a mundane, boring routine born out of necessity. Sam goes for a run, comes back glistening with sweat, and rubs that towel across the nape of his neck before he jugs an entire bottle of Gatorade. Sam tilts his head to do so, stretching that throat out of his nicely, while Dean stares at him, mesmerized by the movement of it, and watches the muscles move as Sam swallows big gulp after big gulp.

Sometimes, he cracks a joke about how disgusting he finds Sam when he's dripping in sweat; it’s the obligatory big brother jab. At other times, like today, he’s glad to have a table to hide the tenting in his pants.

The first few days of Sam doing this, yes, it is a new thing. Dean, after keeping up the normal facade for the requisite amount of time, sprints off to his room to rub one out. The image of Sam trying to put the Coca-Cola advertising model from the 90s out of business with how sensual he makes drinking something look is becoming too much. Dean imagines what else Sam could swallow and wrap his pink lips around other than the opening of a plastic bottle. How would it taste to lick down the side of his neck, salty, hot, and all Sam? Those are the thoughts he spills into his hand to.

However, even that has lost its spark after a week of it. Like a conditioned response, Dean still gets semi-hard in his pants whenever it happens. That isn’t really a shock, though, because there are many things that Sam does that make Dean hot and bothered. But then, even those short respites, in their very boring and mind-numbing existence right now, fail to spark true enjoyment or excitement in Dean. In fact, as the days wear on, 8-hour research shifts at a time, Dean starts to lose his ability to concentrate for more than about 5 minutes at a time. He's starting to bury himself in guilt for not carrying his weight researching and doubles down with a bucket load of shame and self-flagellation for even feeling about Sam the way he does.

After reading the same passage five times, he slams the book shut and sees Sam jump beside him, blurry in his periphery. He knows the kind of look that would be on Sam's face right now, brows knitted, eyes a little wide as he gets over the surprise, caring so fucking much all the time. Dean wishes that that could be enough that brotherly protection, empathy, and care would be enough to soothe the maelstrom of emotions within him. The sick hunger he has had for more of Sam, for far too long, to be ever able to admit to out loud.

“What's gotten into you the last few days?” Dean feels bad the instant he responds, nearly biting Sam's head off. This isn't his brother's fault, this insane new apocalypse driven by a network of power-hungry witches, collaborating with packs of werewolves and vampires across the US. They can’t just go in swinging, but then is it really the case that has him all strung out, or is it something else entirely? He squashes the thought at inception.

Dean wants to roll up with a flamethrower for the vamps and guns full of special bullets for the wannabe witches and warlocks who filled the power vacuum that Rowena left behind by taking up the mantle as Queen of Hell. He'd also bring silver-nitrate-filled shotgun rounds to take down the weres. He voices none of this to Sam.

“My butt hurts from sitting so much, my concentration is shot, I sleep like shit, and instead of smiting them out of existence with a proverbial snip of their fingers, neither Cas nor Jack are doing a lick to help us.” Dean stands and starts pacing the room. Sam's gaze is heavy on him like a tangible touch, and he wants Sam to get angry, to be as riled up as he is. He wants, oh Jesus does he want, but another gaggle of vitriol-filled words struggles around the lump at the back of his throat. Sam just looks at him, studying, unreactive.

Dean realizes in shock that he's just so fucking done, burnt out, nothing left to give, he stumbles a bit as his vision goes blurry and Sam's strong, ridiculously long arms wrap around him, his chest to Dean's back. “Come ‘ere, Dean. No, no, not the chair, to your room. Now.”

Dean doesn't fight, has none left in him as his not-so-baby brother brings him along and down the hall. The grounding touch and feel of body heat from Sam's hands on him feels like the one thing trying to hold him together when all his aching mind wants to do is fall apart.

“Here, sit down, take your shirt and pants off, keep your boxers on.” Dean pulls at the hem of the dark green Henley ineffectually, fingertips shaking, though he's not sure from what. The loud crack of a water bottle opening makes him jump, and he drinks a few swallows when Sam holds it up to his lips.

It goes down like exactly what it is, room-temperature water, where he wishes it would be the burn of some high-percentile alcohol, and yet it takes the edge off. Like he can wash the emotional ache sitting in his throat and disperse it like cotton candy in water.

The thought makes a manic giggle zip across his lips, and Sam's right there, witnessing it all, as Dean breaks into pieces.

“Dean, we need to get you back down into your body, you hear? Breathe with me.”

Sam demonstrates how and takes a long, deliberate inhale through his mouth, holds it, and breathes out for a count of five seconds. Dean mimics him, much less relaxed and centered than Sam is right now.

"Why are we doing some kind of meditation mumbo-jumbo? And why are you asking me to get almost naked?” Dean has to ask because while the words registered, neither of them were beat up or anything so he didn’t see the point behind Sam saying he should go down to his boxers.

“Have you ever heard of burnout?”

Dean looks at Sam and realizes he has no clue where Sam is going with this. fortunately he continues without Dean having to admit to his confusion.

“Remember how, when you were Dean Smith? You had all of these routines and habits you kept up like a religion?”

“That wasn’t real.”

“Of course not, but I think you’re stressed by this hunt. By the fact that those ghouls nearly ate me for breakfast a few weeks back. And you, yourself, nearly kicked the bucket twice in as many weeks, and for the past week we’ve been in research hell, which is hard on you at the best of times.”

“I’m not some pen pusher who needs an intervention, Sammy. Don’t come at me with this crap. Can’t exactly take stress leave from hunting, can I?” Dean snaps back at him, feeling sorry the instant he does.

“And you’ve been irritated with me for the past couple of days. Far more than your normal humorous way of dealing with things. I’m not proposing a break from hunting; I propose that we try a few things that I think will help you get that brain of yours back on an even keel.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Dean tries, he really, really tries to keep the derisive bite out of his words, but doesn’t quite succeed.

“Trust me?”

“Always.” No hesitation from Dean.

“Okay, here, let’s get your jeans and shirt off. No funny business, I promise.” Dean knows that Sam is referring to brotherly funny business, such as pranks, but of course Dean’s brain is elsewhere.

“Could be a little funny.” Dean jokes and luckily Sam doesn’t call him on the implication.

“Lie down on your stomach, I wanna see if I can give you a dopamine boost. It doesn’t make the situation we’re in out there go away, but it should give you some temporary reprieve. You know, take you out of that snarky spiral you’re in.” Sam smiles at him, dimples dancing across his cheeks, eyes sparkling.

“You’re snarky,” Dean responds lamely and pulls his shirt and jeans off and does as he’s told, settling in on his fuzzy, warm blanket, a gift from Sam the Christmas prior that is laid across his bed.

“Stay, I’ll be back in two minutes.”

Dean huffs impatiently but doesn’t protest. He folds his arms underneath his face and lets the tension flow out of his body as best he can. He doesn’t do very well at it, though; all his nerve endings are on edge, brain going a mile a minute, cycling and recycling the leads they’d found but couldn’t pursue further. He’s about to get up and walk off back to the map table room, but Sam is back holding a few things in his hands.

“Whatcha bring, Sammy?” Dean asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Massage oil and three towels, one for you, one for my hands, and a spare one.” Sam’s voice does a little twitch on the end of his sentence that Dean notices but doesn’t mention.

“Hehe… is there gonna be a happy ending? That would send my dopamine levels off the charts.”

“Are you asking for one?” Sam responds, his brow smooth, eyes focused on Dean’s intently as he waits him out.

Dean gets flustered and can practically feel the skin on his neck flame up with embarrassment. The thing is, he’d protest it on principle, because he should, they’re brothers, but he’s not opposed to the idea at all if he’s being honest with himself. Plus, Sam joking about him asking for one doesn’t help him feel any less about it.

“Push up on your elbows,” Sam instructs, and flattens out the large white, fluffy towel under Dean’s torso. “Now lift your hips.” Dean goes into a plank position and feels the towel brush against his half-chubbed cock and hopes that Sam doesn’t notice. By the time he’s done, the towel spans from just below Dean’s hips past his head and out on each side by about half a foot. He didn’t even know they had such humongous towels in the bunker. Sam’s been holding out on him. So soft and fluffy too.

A soft instrumental song starts playing in the room and he can hear Sam adjust the volume of it.

The squirt of the small bottle of oil is almost jarring against the gentle sounds and followed by the squelch of it between Sam’s palms as he spreads out the slick liquid. He’s glad to be on his front, his cock pressing against the soft fabric of his boxers and the fluffy towel beneath.

Sam’s hands start out at the small of his back, skin-warmed and smooth as he glides them up on either side of Dean’s spine all the way to his shoulders and the back of the neck. He repeats the motion a few times, and Dean can feel himself zero in on the sensation, letting go of the fluttering, nervous energy of his thoughts about their outside-world problems.

The knotted muscles on the side of Dean's neck are next and Sam makes a point of rearranging Dean's hands to beside his hips. “It may hurt more than help if your arms are up like that,” Sam explains pragmatically, his voice softer than usual.

The pads of Sam's fingers are calloused, part and parcel of the gun handling and weapons training that comes with being a hunter. The power behind them is controlled and precise as he rubs with even pressure at first, as if investigating the complicated network of muscles beneath Dean’s freckled skin.

There are a few spots that are incredibly painful, and Dean grits his teeth through most of it, but there's that one spot on the side of his hip. Sam thinks it’s his hip flexor, too much sitting, driving, and not enough stretching. A stupid joke is swallowed by the groan that Dean can’t hold back when the muscle finally releases with Sam’s focused attention to it. How does he even know about massaging someone? Dean wonders absently, but the longer it goes on, the more relaxed he feels, his mind utterly locked in on the next touch.

The grunts of effort from Sam above him, as he really puts his full strength and body weight into it, are music to Dean’s ears, his cock clearly misinterpreting everything, but who cares? He can’t see. He jumps at first when Sam starts going south to work on Dean’s legs, intent on turning his entire body into a pliant, relaxed heap of brother.

***

“Dean? Dean!” A hand grabs his shoulder and shakes it gently. “You with me, man?” Dean wakes with a start. He vaguely remembers how perfect Sam’s hands felt down the back of his thighs and on the soles of his feet, releasing every bunched-up muscle along the way, making Dean feel limber and mellow.

“Yup, I’m up. Where did you learn all this?” To his own ears, Dean’s voice is raspy and hoarse, and his eyes are blinking in an attempt to get used to the light.

“Self-taught while at Stanford.” Sam shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

“That felt amazing, Sammy. Should we hit the books again?” Dean’s surprised he actually means it, but Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, only half done, turn over on your back for me?” Sam asks. There it is again, that weird tonal change at the end of the sentence.

“Erm… sure.” Dean does without thinking.

“Huh, you really are asking for a happy ending,” Sam quips, teasing little brother tone as he waits for Dean to get in position, the tenting in Dean’s boxers obvious.

Dean’s cheeks blush bright red at that, and he doesn’t even have a good comeback, just covers his face with his arm as if that would make it any less embarrassing, as he groans. He lies there waiting and nearly clocks Sam in the face with how he jerks at the touch that comes next.

Sam’s mouthing at his cock through his white boxers, hums in appreciation when he licks across the precome-soaked fabric at the head. “Sammy, what… ngh.” Dean lifts his arm to see, and the look Sam gives him is pure fire.

“Can I?” Sam asks, words huffing against Dean’s cock, and Dean clears his throat before nodding.

Warm fingers pull at the waistband; the cool air makes Dean shiver before those pink, perfect lips wrap around the head of his cock. Sam licks along the head of it and looks up at Dean the entire time, unashamed, confident, and Dean thinks he’s about to combust just from that look alone.

His head falls back onto the bed, mouth opening on a gasp, eyes fluttering closed when he feels the hot, tight clench of Sam’s throat around himself. Dean feels him suck and swallow, hungry, and so damn perfect. Sam’s hands, which are still slick with massage oil, map out Dean’s stomach and rib cage, slide up to his chest to knead his pecs. He rubs his thumbs across both of his nipples, and that’s it for Dean.

His orgasm hits him like a tidal wave, unstoppable, building fast and furious, washing over him with a mind-blowing intensity that makes his entire body flush with euphoria. His hips roll up into Sam’s willing mouth, and his back arches off the bed as he comes. Sam splutters and coughs, pulls off, but lets him come all over his face and hair, works him through the orgasm with his curled fist until Dean whimpers, oversensitive and spent.

“Come ‘ere, Sammy,” Dean prompts with his eyes locked on the drips of his come on Sam’s face and in his hair, with gentle fingers wrapping around the nape of Sam’s neck once he’s close enough. He licks his load right off of Sam’s cheek and kisses him rough and dirty, swallowing up every one of Sam’s moans against his lips.

Dean can feel Sam rutting against him where he stands, awkwardly leaning over Dean. “Nuhu, big boy, none of that. Put that thing where it counts.”

Sam looks at him, pulls his head back enough for his face to come into focus for Dean.
“You mean…?”

“Yeah, fuck, been wanting this, wanting you.”

The bright, dimpled smile Sam gives him, lights up the room like sunrise as he clambers off of Dean and undresses.

The End.