Open Secrets

It occurs to Dean as he's turning on the hot water that he might need to rethink this whole "shower" thing.

The main problem with a shower is that one has to stand up. Dean isn't sure he can manage that long enough to actually get himself clean. He barely manages it long enough to shuck off his boots, socks, jeans, underwear, and T-shirt and leave them in undignified heaps on the bathroom floor, even with his jeans already unzipped. There's also the issue of overspray, which isn't a very good thing when one has a few fresh bandages covering up a lot of fresh wounds and would like to keep them dry. He kind of sees where Sam's coming from on that one; he just had the damn things put on and he doesn't want to have to change them again already.

So there's a small change in plans; instead of cranking on the shower, Dean flips the little chrome lever that plugs the drain and tries not to think too much about when, if ever, this tub was last scrubbed out. When the water reaches an acceptable level, he shuts it off and sinks into the tub, squishing around until everything between mid-calf and chin is submerged in hot water. He squishes around a little more from time to time, either to lean his head back and wash his hair before the water gets too gross or to soak his aching feet.

And really, this is a lot better anyway, because a prolonged lazy soak in a nice warm tub turns out to be exactly what he needed to chase that residual ache out of his limbs and his back for now. And what little tension in his neck and his shoulders survived the cataclysmic orgasm Sam gave him is no match for a tub full of hot water.

Also, there's that thing where he doesn't have to stand up.

But then there's that other thing, where every tiny movement he makes under the water's surface stirs up little warm currents, most of which flow right over his dick. Which, when combined with pleasant thoughts about his back against a door and Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's hand down his pants and the fact that this wasn't just another one of his fantasies and all of this shit actually happened just a few minutes ago, leaves Dean battling a low-grade hard-on he doesn't particularly want. For the second time that night.

He doesn't hear anything outside the bathroom door. Not even the TV. Sam must have changed clothes and then passed right out, and Dean doesn't blame him at all. And as tempting as the thought is, it would be pretty shitty of him to go out there and wake Sam up just because he's still horny.

Maybe he should just jerk off in the tub. Except there's this other thing where he can't quite work up the energy to do so. Okay, fine, he'll get out of the tub, take a towel with him, crawl into the other bed, wait until some of his bath-robbed strength comes back, and then jerk off. Quietly, of course. Sounds like a plan.

Dean opens his eyes and blinks down at the water he's mostly submerged in. It's cooler than he'd really like it to be now, and it's also taken on the distinct cloudy grayish murk of mingled soap, dirt, and sweat. And come, as his brain ever-so-helpfully reminds him. Crap, that's just making him even harder.

Definitely time to get out.

Dean hauls himself up out of the murky water and flips the drain lever again. The water takes its sweet time draining, and Dean takes an equally sweet measure of time drying himself off and securing a second towel around his waist. Rough terrycloth dragging over his dick is not helping the hard-on situation at all. He ponders the clothes strewn all over creation, knows he should at least pick them up and bring them into the main room, and says "fuck it." Instead, he decides to simply kick them in the general direction of a bed. Much easier.

He opens the door, kicks his pile of clothes toward the bed, takes one step out, and... stops.

And stares.

The lights are still on. And Sam is definitely not asleep.

There's fresh white gauze taped over the claw marks on his cheek. He must have finally dealt with that while Dean was in there marinating in the tub. He's giving Dean this kind of sheepish look and he's all sprawled out on the bed closest to the door, the one he'd plopped down on before Dean dragged himself off to the bathroom.

Sam has also taken off his come-splattered clothes, left them in a sad little pile on the floor... and not bothered to put on clean ones.

No, not even boxers.

And on top of all that, Sam is...

Okay, look. Sam naked? Seen it. All the time. It's kind of unavoidable, close quarters and single-tiny-bathroom motel rooms and all that shit.

Sam naked and hard? Seen it. Once or twice, by accident. That was something Dean always preferred to avoid, partly because it made him think about things he had no business thinking about, partly because seeing Sam in that state was usually followed by Sam turning bright red and yelling and bitching about his privacy and chucking something at Dean's head.

Sam naked, hard, sprawled out on his back, running a lazy hand up and down his cock, and looking at Dean like he wants some help with that, and this happening somewhere other than the confines of Dean's imagination? Does not compute.

"Jesus Christ," Dean chokes, grabbing the bathroom doorframe for support. With the hand that was holding his towel up.

"Uh... hey." Sam looks like he might be blushing a little.

"Guh," Dean replies. He's pretty sure it's physically impossible for him to blush because all of his blood appears to be in his dick at the moment. There damn sure isn't any in his upstairs brain; if there was, he wouldn't be standing here going "guh" at what he's seeing, he'd be doing something about it.

Eventually, it registers that Sam isn't looking him in the eye anymore. He's looking... down. Where there was once a towel.

Where there is a towel no more.

"I was kinda hoping you weren't sleepy yet," Sam says, with a little sheepish laugh. "Are you?"

Dean swallows hard. "Uh. I, uh. I was." He reaches up and scratches the back of his head. Doesn't seem like there's much point in picking his towel up now. "Guess you're not either."

Sam shakes his head and gives him a quirky half-smile. A little less sheep, a little more wolf. "C'mere."

With all that smooth skin and sleek muscle he's been dying to touch and taste for years right here in front of him and Sam giving him the go-ahead to do it, there is no way in Hell Dean can turn that invitation down.

First things first, though. Just in case.

Later, Dean will have no idea how he mustered up the coordination and balance to do this, but he hooks his toes into the waistband of his discarded jeans, lifts them up into grabbing range, and fishes his wallet out of the back pocket.

Sam snickers and says something rude, something to do with monkey feet. Dean snickers back, thumbs something out of one of the pockets of his wallet, drops the wallet back into the sorry heap of his jeans, and flips Sam off. Sam must be in a much better mood now, because all that does is make him snicker even more. "That what I think it is?" he asks, nodding in the direction of Dean's other hand and the thing he just retrieved from his wallet.

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed and lets Sam see the item in question for a second before he leans down and stashes it under the pillow. "Just in case," he says, aloud this time, and while he's down here he can't help dropping a little sneak-attack kiss on Sam's shoulder.

"Mm." Not sneaky enough, though. "Do that again?"

When Sam asks him like that, with that little smile Dean can hear in his voice, how could he do anything but oblige? Dean touches his lips to Sam's shoulder again, smiles as he feels the shiver and the prickle of goosebumps under them, shivers a little himself at the noises Sam makes when he nuzzles his way along Sam's collarbone to the hollow of his throat, makes a few noises of his own when Sam lets his hands wander.

So it's only fair for Dean to shift all his weight onto one elbow and free up a hand to do likewise. His range of motion is a little limited in this position--about three quarters of his ass and one knee on the bed, the other leg kicked out behind him and foot planted on the floor to keep the parts of him on the bed from falling off it, the rest of him kind of sprawled out across Sam's chest at a weird angle. Still, it's enough for him to slide his palm down Sam's chest, over his stomach, down to his hip--

Sam makes a particularly nice noise at that. "Come here," he repeats, tugging on Dean's hip to emphasize that.

"I am here," Dean answers, with a warm laugh against Sam's neck. He doesn't move, aside from his lips and tongue teasing Sam's neck and his palm stroking along Sam's hip. He doesn't really want to move yet. It's nice, just sprawling out here on top of Sam, touching and being touched, all slow and lazy like it wasn't last time.

"No, I mean--" Sam shivers again when Dean's fingertips trace over his hipbone, and that's even nicer. "Nngh." He gets an arm around Dean's waist, gives a mighty grunt and heave, and pulls Dean completely onto the bed, completely on top of him.

That... that's very nice. And suddenly, "slow and lazy" just isn't quite cutting it anymore.

It's almost too much, all that hot bare skin pressed right up against his dick all at once, and Dean almost comes right then and there. Having Sam's hands all over him like this--wandering over his back, his shoulders, his hips, his ass--isn't helping. To make matters worse--or better, depending on how one looks at it--Sam is rocking his hips upwards, long slow grinding thrusts against Dean's hip, and that is totally not helping. Oh, it's definitely helping Sam, but it's making Dean's cock jealous as all get-out.

He tries to distract it, and licking his way down Sam's chest helps for a few minutes. But then his tongue rolls over a nipple and Sam makes this strangled little aah noise. And if that isn't devastating enough, he arches up and hooks his feet behind Dean's calves and rolls his whole body up against Dean's from his chest to his knees. It doesn't escape Dean's notice that there's a slick stripe trailing up along his hip where the head of Sam's dick is sliding against it. He thinks about the way it felt in his hand just a few minutes ago, thick and hard and slick at the tip and... okay, that's not helping either. He untangles his legs from Sam's and rolls up onto one hip, just enough to get a hand between them.

The noises Sam's making aren't helping at all.

He whines in the back of his throat when Dean's fingertips skate down his stomach. When they brush up along the underside of Sam's dick he jerks and hisses like they're burning him, except he jerks up towards Dean's fingers instead of down and away, and the hiss sounds less like an ow hiss and more like an oh fuck do that again hiss. When Dean obliges him and does it again, the hiss is replaced by a shaky, breathy groan.

Dean goes looking for that growl again after that. He figures if Sam's going to lay there and make noise, he might as well make the really good noise, y'know? He finds it at the very tip of Sam's cock, coaxed out of hiding by the pad of Dean's thumb tracing wet little circles around the slit.

Without really thinking about it, Dean brings that thumb to his lips and sucks it into his mouth, his eyes slipping shut as he tastes salt and Sam on it. He hears Sam gasp "Jesus," opens his eyes, and sees Sam staring flushed and wide-eyed at the thumb in Dean's mouth.

Dean's still about as psychic as a golf ball and he can't read Sam's mind any better than he could before all this started, but it doesn't take telepathy for him to know Sam's getting some nice mental images right now. He considers it payback for the tongue-sucking thing. Or he would, if he could think about anything other than fucking Sam senseless. Or Sam fucking him senseless. Or, him, Sam, and fucking, in general. Or--

Sam lets go of Dean long enough to pound his fist into the mattress. "Goddammit, Dean, stop thinking about it and do it already--"

--or the fact that Sam can hear him thinking about all of that.

He's going to get used to this shit someday, Dean thinks. Someday he's going to learn to think quietly. Someday he's going to learn how to do that psychic shield thing--which would be a useful skill to have anyway because if Sam can hear his headbones grinding, who knows what the fuck else could? Someday this'll stop being freaky and start being just one more of a million little Sam Things he doesn't think twice about. Like Sam drinking foofy girl coffee or getting pissy if they go more than a week without doing laundry or making "eww" faces when Dean dips his French fries in ranch dressing.

For right now, he just grins at the realization that he can now drive Sam totally batshit fucking loco without ever laying a finger on him and without saying a single word.

One of Sam's hands suddenly goes missing. One minute, it's clawing at Dean's ass, and the next... gone. Dean looks up just in time to see that hand diving under the pillow. It takes him a second or two to realize that Sam isn't going for the knife under there, and by the time he remembers what else was stashed under that pillow Sam's pressing the little plastic packet into his hand and whispering "come on--Dean, do it, just--come on," into the top of Dean's head.

Dean swallows hard and shivers at the thought of what Sam's begging him for. Plastic crinkles in his fingers as they clench around the condom. He almost says "okay" and goes for it.

Almost.

He shakes his head, and Sam honest to God whimpers.

"Oh fuck, don't even stop now," Sam sputters up at him. "Dean, please--"

"No," Dean says. For one thing, he's pretty sure Sam's never done this. And doing it without hurting him would take far more patience and control than Dean thinks he can muster up right now.

For another...

Before Sam can protest or complain or even beg him again, Dean presses the condom back into Sam's hand.

I want you to.

Sam just kind of... stops breathing for a second. It's clear that whatever he might have been expecting, this sure as hell wasn't it. "Jesus," he gasps again, shivering under Dean, squeezing Dean's hip tight. "You--you sure?"

Dean nods and grinds down on Sam's hip and is sure with every molecule in his body. He rolls off Sam and onto the empty half of the bed, pulling Sam over on top of him as he goes. "Like this," he breathes, and later he won't be entirely sure whether he actually said this or what follows it out loud or not. "Just like this. Want to watch you. Touch you. Taste you." Out loud or not, Sam hears it, shivers again, groans out Dean's name, and nuzzles at Dean's shoulder, plastic crinkling again as his fingers twitch closed tight. Dean starts to wonder if maybe he shouldn't deal with the damn rubber himself, since Sam seems a little too far gone to summon up that much coordination. "Want you in me. Want you to--" Dean is pretty sure he shuts up or is at least slightly muffled when he pries the condom out of Sam's hand and tears it open with his teeth. His out-loud voice, then. "Want--fuck, Sammy--" Definitely his out-loud voice, because it breaks when he reaches down to deal with the condom and Sam mewls and grabs at the sheets and bucks into his hand. "Fuck," Dean gasps again, this time because he's sure he can feel Sam's pulse throbbing in his hand as he strokes slick latex down Sam's cock. "Yeah. God yeah I'm sure."

Sam swallows hard and nods. He opens his mouth, probably to say "okay" or something, but nothing comes out except this airy little yelp when Dean squeezes him on the pretense of getting all the air out of the damn condom.

There's slick stuff on the condom but not an abundance of it, definitely not enough for someone who's never done this. Dean thinks it should be enough for him if they start slow, at least.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, back where Sam can't see, he's kind of ashamed of that.

Dean's fingers tighten around the base of Sam's cock once more, drawing forth another little yelp from Sam and a shiver from himself. He feels two fingertips pressed gently to his lips and he wonders for a second if Sam is trying to tell him to stay quiet.

Sam must have caught that thought, or else the look on Dean's face betrayed him, because he laughs softly and presses a little more until his fingertips are in Dean's mouth and... oh. Oh. Now he gets it. He sucks Sam's fingers deep into his mouth and swirls his tongue around to slick them up as best he can. Sam shivers a little--this must be putting some more nice images in his head, and Dean makes a mental note to ask Sam to share later--and pulls his fingers back halfway, only to thrust them back in and repeat that whole process.

Very nice images indeed. Between that and the faint taste of his own come still clinging to Sam's fingers, Dean starts to fear that he might not make it much longer. He taps Sam on the hip, thinking now at him as hard as he can.

"Is this gonna be enough?" Sam asks, staring down at Dean with an expression that's about half concern and about half sheer naked want; he's practically fucking Dean's mouth with his fingers, and it's obviously taking a toll on him. "I don't want to hurt you."

This time, Dean believes him.

But truth be told, he wants it to hurt. He wants to still feel it tomorrow, maybe the next day too. He wants it to feel like something he's never done before, something he's never done with anyone but Sam. If he'd ever seriously thought that someday, somewhere, he might really look up at Sam and say fuck me and that Sam might actually do it, if he'd ever thought for even one second that this might actually really truly honest to God happen someday, he would have waited.

He almost tells Sam to skip the fingers and then thinks about that one again. Sam is bigger--and harder--than he's used to. Dean does kind of want this to hurt, but he also kind of wants to be able to walk tomorrow.

So he just drags the flat of his tongue along Sam's fingers and nods.

"Okay," Sam replies, pushing his fingers into Dean's mouth one more time and pulling them free with a soft wet "pop."

It doesn't quite hurt when Sam pushes those wet fingers into him, but it's close. Yes, fingers, plural, both at once right off the bat, and that right there is enough to confirm Dean's suspicion that Sam has never done this. Well, he does seem to know how it's supposed to work in theory, but as far as actually doing it goes it's safe to say he's got no real-world experience.

Dean makes an offhanded mental note to tell Sam later that it's generally a good idea to start off with one. Especially if you're working with nothing but spit. Because if Dean hadn't already had some experience here... uh, ow?

But it doesn't hurt. It feels weird, like it always does at first. Maybe a little weirder than usual on account of Sam's fingers being so damn long, and, well, both at once. No matter how ready Dean thinks he is, no matter how bad he wants it, there's always that initial hey wait that doesn't go there reflex that makes him hiss and tense up until he can convince his body to relax.

It's a good thing Dean doesn't have to rely on his out-loud voice to coach Sam through this, because that's not producing much other than the occasional strangled little gasp or click or grunt when Sam's fingers flex and push and pull inside him. It's kind of nice to be able to lay there and think things like slow and easy and more and have Sam pick up on them.

But then Sam's fingers curve just right, hit him just right completely by accident. Sam flinches like Dean's hit him in the head with a baseball bat as Dean yelps and arches up and thinks Sam's name, several random deities' names, the words there and again and yeah, and every curse word Dean knows in every language he knows them in, all at once, all wrapped in lightning and static, loud as an explosion in his head.

"God, Dean," Sam stutters up above him, and then he does it again. The second time isn't nearly as intense but it's still good, good enough to leave Dean clutching at Sam's shoulders, wrapping his legs around Sam's hips, squirming and rubbing his cheek against the pillow like a cat in heat and running off at the brain and the mouth with yes yes yes god fuck yes there god Sammy now please now fuck me now now nownownow until Sam shudders and whines and replaces his fingers with the head of his cock.

Now it hurts, and Dean hisses through his teeth and tenses up all over again, willing his muscles to relax and silently telling Sam to please for God's sake go slow.

Sam is bigger than he's used to. And harder than he's used to, and drier than he's used to. There's no question that Dean's going to feel this tomorrow; right now he can feel every bump, every ridge, every tiny catch-slip of not-quite-slick-enough latex between them as Sam eases into him, opens him up, stretches him wide. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. A clean hurt, like peroxide on a fresh cut and sage smoke in the back of his throat, the kind that burns away bad stuff and will leave him feeling better all over if he just hangs on and rides it out.

His nails bite into Sam's shoulders, and Sam hisses out a curse and twitches forward before he can catch himself.

"Sorry," Sam gasps. Dean just nods and thinks 's okay at him. He concentrates on breathing slow and even (not very easy), concentrates on the sound of Sam's slow but shaky breath (much easier), concentrates on the feel of Sam's warm skin under his hands (very easy).

He's not exactly sure when it happens or who starts it, but after a while Dean realizes that it doesn't hurt nearly so much and that they're moving, rocking against each other without much of a rhythm, just a lazy, careful, kind of awkward back-and-forth while Sam gets his bearings. Definitely his first time on the pitcher's mound. Not that there's anything wrong with that--in fact, Dean's glad to see it.

Sam fucks like he kisses, slow and deep and so sweet it hurts, and all Dean can do is cling to him with all his strength. His legs tighten and shift around Sam's waist as he rocks his hips upward, looking for just the right angle, thrusting against Sam's belly and trying to get more of Sam inside him... and now that he thinks about it, kissing does sound really nice right about now. Except that's kind of hard to do with Sam so far above him, propped up on his hands like that. Dean reaches for his shoulders, tugs downward. "C'mere," he whispers, and Sam laughs.

"I am here." But he shifts his weight onto one hand anyway, rearranges himself and lowers himself down onto his elbows, puts himself in perfect kissing range.

Dean can't help but grin. "Smartass."

Sam just laughs a little more and kisses him, soft and wet just like Dean wants him to, while he shifts around some more until his forearms are under Dean's back, his hands are under Dean's shoulders, until Sam is actually cradling him like that, and that's just so intimate and so sweet and so Sam that it makes Dean's heart ache.

Until Sam moves again and escalates all of this from "sweet" to "hot." Because when Sam moves again, there's a rhythm to it this time. It's still slow and kind of careful, but at the same time there's a hint of a tease there, like Sam's trying to draw this out as long as he can (entirely possible), to drive Dean as batshit crazy as he can (very possible and extremely likely).

And then... and then Sam opens his mouth. And takes this straight from "hot" to "holy motherfucking shit" in 0.2 seconds. Dean never would have figured Sam for a talker. Hell, he thought he'd never hear Sam say "dick" without "you're such a" or "stop thinking with your" in front of it.

But here Sam is, hissing and whispering and moaning the hottest audible porn Dean's ever heard into his ear, this steady stream of God and Dean and tight and hot and good and would have fucked you years ago if you'd just asked, you dumbass--

That last one catches Dean a little off guard. "Wh--" he stammers, and that's as far as that gets because Sam adjusts his angle again and hits him just right, and even his brain can't add the "--at?" because it's too busy yammering thererightthereohgodyes to care about finishing his mouth's sentences.

"You think I've never jacked off in the shower and thought about your hand on my dick?" Sam nips at Dean's earlobe. "You think I've never sat there in the bars and watched you flirt with everything that had tits on it--" He shifts a little on his elbows, the better to keep that angle, slams forward to punctuate this, and Dean muffles a yelp against his shoulder "--and wanted to drag you into the men's room or something and suck you till you couldn't imagine being in anyone's mouth but mine? You think you're the only one that's put way too damn much thought into fucking his brother over the hood of the car, or letting his brother fuck him over the hood of the--oh God, Dean--" That seems to have been brought on by Dean's cock twitching hard against Sam's stomach and Dean bearing down even harder around Sam's. "You--you think you've got a monopoly on bad thoughts?" He laughs then, it's thick and strained but he actually laughs and pounds into Dean again before he can say anything to that. "All this time you--ohgod--you were afraid I'd be pissed off at you, when the only thing I'm pissed off about is that I could have--could have had this--any time I wanted if I'd just fucking asked you for it--"

And that's the truth. That's God's honest truth. If Sam had asked, if he'd ever asked, Dean would have done this for him. He might have balked a little, might have given him the you know this is fucked up, right? disclaimer, but if Sam had asked, he would have.

Because it's always about you.

The words are the same as before, the same as the ones spoken in anger not an hour ago. But now they've had the venom and vitriol stripped away and there's nothing left of them. Nothing left of them but what they really mean. It's all about you. It always has been. It always will be. Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go, anything, anything you want, I'll do anything for you--

Whether Sam actually hears that or not is beside the point. "Come for me," he pants against Dean's lips, right on cue, punctuating that demand with a sharp little nip. "C'mon, Dean, I know you want to come, know you need to, let me see you, let me feel you, c'mon--"

And that, right there, is more than Dean can stand. There's just enough room between them for him to let go of one of Sam's shoulders and wriggle a hand between them, just enough room for him to jerk himself off. It's not pretty, it's not graceful, it's not anygoddamnthing but what his dick wants, and Sam still shudders and gasps when he adjusts his angle again so he can look down and see what Dean's doing.

"Yeah," Sam gasps, slamming down and forward and actually shoving Dean back an inch or two as he fucks him senseless. "God yeah, that's it, come for me, right now--"

That's an order Dean can't possibly disobey. His hand whips down the length of his cock twice more, Sam thrusts into him once more, and then every muscle he owns locks solid and he comes, wet heat splattering all over Sam's stomach and dripping back down onto his own. It's good and solid and tight, slamming into the base of his spine like a punch, but it's not as brain-fryingly intense as the first. Which is fine, and kind of how the second orgasm of the night is supposed to feel, and it's fine. Better than fine.

But then Sam hits that spot again, hits it just right and just when Dean's not really expecting it, and this time he thinks he really is going to come himself to death. He knows he's biting down on Sam's shoulder hard enough to leave marks. He thinks he can taste blood, though whose it is he doesn't exactly know. He's barely aware of the noises Sam makes when another wave hits and Dean squeezes him tight, thick strangled little yelping noises, and by the time Sam comes four seconds later it's all Dean can do to hang on to him, to keep him from jerking them both right off the bed or through the wall or something. God, he can feel Sam coming inside him--well, not exactly, on account of the condom, but he can feel Sam's dick jerking and pumping, stretching him just that much wider with every fresh shudder that passes through Sam, and not only is Dean definitely going to feel this in the morning, he's going to take that image to bed with him for weeks.

By the time Dean remembers who and where he is and why it's so goddamn hot in this room, Sam is draped over him like a blanket. A sweaty, sticky, heavy, gasping blanket that needs oxygen and a drink of water and a damp washcloth. Draped over him, still inside him, and completely fucked out.

Dean would be perfectly fine with sleeping like this. Hell, he's halfway there now. But then Sam grunts and stirs and makes some kind of little "ug" noise and starts trying to get himself upright. Dean manages to work up enough coordination to give him a little helpful push, hisses when Sam slips free of him, barely hears the toilet noises or the sink noises, barely notices when the room goes dark.

He does notice the sudden damp splot noise and the equally sudden wet warmth across his belly.

"You awake enough to handle that on your own?" Sam asks.

"Uh." Dean pokes at the washcloth, can't quite figure out how to make it work. Sam laughs a little, sits down on the edge of the bed, and takes care of that for him. And that wakes Dean up a little, just enough to trace his fingers over the back of Sam's hand. "Do me a favor," he mumbles.

Sam makes one more pass over Dean's stomach, balls up the washcloth, and fires it into the bathroom. It hits something with another wet splat followed by a hollow thud. Must have hit the bathtub. "Sure," he says.

"That listening to my head thing?" That comes out a little hotter than Dean really intended it to. "I mean... it's kinda cool when we're..." He clears his throat. "...uh, doing it... and it could be handy other times, like if I got in trouble somewhere... but could you try to, y'know, not do it the rest of the time? If you can't, just... don't tell me what you're picking up. 'Kay?"

"'Kay," Sam agrees, reaching down to root around in one of the bags for something. "I'll try not to. But if there's something in your head that's, like, life or death I'm gonna call you on it."

"Fair enough," Dean replies. And he's almost asleep again right away, until something smacks him in the chest.

His Zippo... and a two-week-old pack of Marlboro Reds.

"Figured you might be wanting those," Sam explains.

Unbelievable.

Un. Fucking. Believable.

"Sam!" Dean sits halfway up, shaking his head and trying to work up the energy to be pissed off. "Man, didn't I just tell you--"

"What?" Sam doesn't bat an eye. "Dude, I can smell."

Dean blinks a few times. "......oh."

Sam just passes him the ashtray, stretches out against his side, drapes an arm across his waist, and laughs.

---

They're on the road by dawn, making up for time lost in fighting and fucking and sleeping instead of putting as many miles between Chicago and the Impala's rear bumper as they can.

Dean can't quite think of it as time wasted.

Like he has so many times before he cuts his eyes to the right and watches Sam sleep next to him, all scrunched down in the seat so he can lay his head back against the leather, hands curled loosely in his lap, legs crossed left-ankle-on-right-knee.

Like he has so many times before he watches Sam sleep and wants to touch him.

He drives and watches and wants until he remembers that he can.

Sam murmurs something soft and pleased and smiles in his sleep when he does.