Don't Ask, Don't Tell

A/N: 5613 words. For [info]max. Warning: Incest. Sequel to Sleight of Hand. Beta by [info]cee, [info]titta and [info]stef.

The first time, Sam doesn't know what the hell is going on. They haven't eaten in two states; they're hungry and almost out of gas besides. In the hotel, they fight about Dean running credit card scams - if he's going to steal, Sam argues, he could at least make sure he knows when to steal again. Dean flings back that Sam knows how just as well as he does, unless he never paid attention when Dad was talking - wait, what do I mean, unless? They tussle back and forth over it until finally Dean just throws up his hands and says he's going out. He demands that Sam stay in the room, and they argue some more until Sam finally falls onto one of the beds, turns on the TV and refuses to talk anymore. Dean storms out.

Sam flicks through channels aimlessly. He fumes about how Dean's probably going to go out and beat someone up, or con someone out of their money or rob a liquor store or God only knows what, but when Dean finally gets back he just drops a fistful of money on the table. He throws his jacket on the foot of the other bed, goes straight for the shower, and he never says a word. Which, okay, could not possibly be less like Dean, who never shuts up, but at least they aren't throwing stuff into bags and running from the cops with a duffel bag full of cash, so Sam figures that's something. He decides to go gas up the car and get them some dinner, kind of an apology, but when he picks up the money to count it, the bills are all wrong. Five hundred dollars in a rinkadink town like this? Nobody carries around that kind of cash. What kind of scam is he running now?

So he stomps into the bathroom and pulls aside the curtain, mind filled with sweet little old ladies freshly bereft of their life savings, and there's Dean, head down, scrubbing and scrubbing reddened skin with a torn look on his face. It only lasts for a shocked second before Dean's furious and yelling, Jesus, Sammy, have a little fucking respect!, pulling the plastic between their faces. It comes up on Sam like a train, headlights bearing down on him, how Dean got that money; he promises himself he'll eat less and pay more attention to the expiration dates on the credit cards and even run the scams himself. The hell with honor, with the law, with anything that means that his brother has to do anything like that ever again.

When Dean finally gets out of the shower, there's food waiting. Sam brushes past him with a towel and closes the door with a relaxed joke about how no girlfriend he's ever had has taken that long in the damn shower. He comes out again feeling at least a little bit less like a very bad person and finds Dean with his feet kicked up, watching TV and finishing off Sam's fries. Dean calls him a little princess in a glass house who shouldn't throw stones, and everything's at least a little bit okay again.

After that, Sam keeps better track of the cards. He keeps notes and applications in a shoebox under the passenger seat, and now and again, when they're on the road, he'll find an odd job that'll help out. He tells Dean he's going to go get a drink, or whatever, and Dean'll get this sort of hurt look when Sam says he wants to be alone, but only for a second. He never asks about the extra money, and Sam never tells, but God help Sam if he seems to worry about where Dean gets his money.

Dean waits until they're short and then goes out. He comes home with wads of cash, and Sam waits until he's in the shower and then checks it. The folded bills smell like cigarettes and beer, which means he's been sharking, which means he is stupid. But it's only as bad as the credit cards, no worse, which means Sam can at least relax for the night.

So they're up in Canada, cruising around Manitoba's back roads looking for a dead highwayman, there's no luck and it's freezing fucking cold. The old Impala coughs and shudders, just like them, and they look at each other and know there's no way they're sleeping in the car tonight. They make it to Winnipeg and find a hotel. Sam's nervous. This is Canada; there's no drop-off post office box with new cards waiting nearby, just in case. Dean tells him he's being an old woman and breezes off confidently with their only viable card in hand. When he comes back with a fistful of cut up pieces, he slams the car door, and the whole beast shudders.

"We can't stay out here, Dean. We'll freeze."

"Think I don't know that?"

Dean's voice is too quiet, too calm, and Sam's worry level ratchets up. "We could find a shelter..."

"Can't leave the car, not with a trunk full of weapons we don't have permits for." He's right, Sam knows it, and they sit in the car and think. Finally, Dean turns on the engine and pulls out onto the street.

"Where are we going?"

"Hotel. Get your Trustworthy College Boy face on and your ID out."

Sam balks. "Man, are you sure? We can't have a warrant out for us, we'll get extradited. Customs isn't the county sheriff's office."

"Don't worry," Dean says, hands on the wheel and eyes on the road. "We'll have the money by morning."

Sam worries his lip, thinking. "You sure you can rustle up whatever-hundred bucks out of this place?"

"Sammy, please." Dean gives him a withering look as he turns onto a main road. "There's suckers everywhere, even in Canada. I can hook one. Maybe even two."

So they do it like that - Sam makes shy schoolboy eyes at the girl behind the counter and she sets them up with a room, never mind their rough clothes and cold hands. Dean slips out almost as soon as they're in, and Sam's left alone in the room. Hours tick by as he watches TV and hopes Dean's lucky at pool or darts or gopher-racing or whatever the hell he's doing. He stretches his feet out on the coffee table and tries not to think how he isn't good at waiting.

When Dean finally comes in, Sam's just into his fourth cup of coffee. It's so late they're only showing escort ads on the local stations, late enough to be worried, and when the door opens Sam about jumps out of his skin. Dean looks worn and tired. He drops his jacket by the door, kicks off his boots and scratches at the back of his neck.

"Hey," Sam tries. "Any luck?"

Wordlessly, Dean drops a fistful of cash on his way past Sam's table. He just walks right by, heading straight for the bathroom without making eye contact, and Sam's stomach sinks like a rock. "Dean?"

No answer. He checks the money. It smells like a warm house, like someone's sweaty palms. It smells like sex.

Sam sees red and lets the money fall back on the table. He's in a killing rage - if he could find the guy, if he could just find him, there would be, he could, he...

The shower twists on.

Sam's in the bathroom before he can think. "Dean?"

Dean's out of his shirt, fingers paused in the act of taking off his belt. He doesn't look up, but he does turn slightly, so Sam can't see his face. Steam from the shower clouds the mirror, hazes the light, blurs the edges of Dean's tensed shoulders. It's pouring out from the sides of the curtain and the shower's only been running for a minute. Water must be a million degrees.


Sam's heart hurts, too much weight on too-old metal. This should not be.

Sam steps in, a hand out to lay on his brother's shoulder. "Dean, don't do this anymore." When his fingers make contact, Dean flinches away.

"Sammy. Don't."

"Dean..." Sam tries again, taking hold of Dean's shoulder and trying to turn him around, make him show his face. There's a flurry of motion; Sam's back hits the wall hard, the corner of the shower searing a line across his shoulder and neck that'll bruise come morning.

There's not a mark on Dean. He's screaming furious, right up in Sam's face, but he's all right. Only his mouth looks a little bruised, his lips...

"Shut up! Just shut the hell up, Sammy! You don't tell me what to do, you don't take care of us. Just shut up and don't you say another damn word!"

Sam doesn't know what to say, except that Dean smells of salt and sweat and sex, and he isn't about to say that. They stare at each other for a second before Dean turns away. "Go watch TV or something. Better yet, get some shut-eye. Long drive back tomorrow."

Sam's blank, hurting; he turns and leaves the bathroom, following orders on autopilot because he doesn't know what else he should do. Dean almost gets the door closed behind him, and then Sam's barrelling back in, taking his ground back as his brain catches up. "No." He sets his jaw and fixes Dean with the look that means I'm not budging, you'll have to go through me. Dean rolls his eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh, like Sammy's making a big deal out of nothing and Sam's furious with him for lying like that.

"Dean, stop."

The steam pours between them in the tiny little bathroom and Dean doesn't pretend not to know what Sam means. They face off, and there's only the sound of water falling, the soft glow of the lights. Dean's bare chest rises and falls, light hair arrowing down into his jeans, his gold amulet glinting dully. Sam's fists are clenched, his t-shirt shower-damp at the shoulder and back. They watch each other, wary.

Finally something shifts, and Sam knows the answer before Dean says a word. "Fine," Dean tells him, irritable and strident. "Fine, moron, you win. Next time we sleep in a snow bank, and you can carry my toes to the emergency room in a little plastic bag. Happy?"

Sam smiles, because he is.

Dean's hands go back to his belt and it jingles as he pulls it open. He flashes a smirk. "Now unless you're gonna wash my back, bitch, get out of my bathroom."

Sam makes a face and shoves Dean; Dean shoves back, because they fight when they're making up. Sam leaves him to his shower and heads for bed. He tosses and turns until Dean comes in, white towel wrapped around his hips glowing in the darkened room. He's scrubbing a second towel over his head, and when he drops it in a soggy pile on the floor, Sam sees him get that little smirk he always gets when he does something slightly bad and he won't get caught. And then, Sam can sleep.

One little mistake, and it all goes to hell.

Dean takes off that night, says he's going to hit a bar and see if he can't find some nice girl with a bed better than the motel's twin. He grins on his way out the door, patented Dean wolf grin. "Don't wait up, Sammy."

Their money's low, though it's not desperate; the shadow of no place to stay is chasing them, and they're not caught yet, but it's getting closer. Sam spends about twenty minutes thinking how irresponsible Dean is before he clues in to what's going on. He tears out the door, feeling like a world class moron, and practically shakes down the owner of the sleazy motel to figure out where the stroll is in this town. The guy smirks like a son of a bitch, but at least he answers. In a split second's clarity, Sam decides not to punch him and just takes off running.

He flags down a cab ten blocks from the hotel, bribes the guy with a twenty if he can have Sam there in five minutes. The cabbie doesn't smirk, and Sam adds on another ten. There goes tomorrow's breakfast, but Sam doesn't care. He has to get to Dean.

When he spies the Impala hulking in a tiny lot, he drops the money in the front seat and jumps out of the cab in the middle of traffic. Car horns scream at him. He grabs the first working girl he sees; she sneers when he describes Dean, but points him down the road to a club. As soon as he's got the address, he's off, feet pounding on the sidewalk like his heart pounds in his ears.

"Tell your boyfriend Chandra says hi," she mocks his back, and it floats after him down the street, tickling at the edges of his mind like a nightmare. There are crowds out on a Saturday night, dozens of faces and the calm of shock is wearing off - Sam's freaking out completely. He can't keep track of all the faces, can't tell who he's checked and who he hasn't. He's stumbling and frantic and furious, then he turns a corner into an alley and, finally, there.


On his knees.

The man who's got Sam's brother backed up behind a dumpster has his eyes closed, face turned skyward. His hand is curled in Dean's hair and he's sighing blissfully. Dean's head moves slowly, languidly, his hands gripping the man's hips to control the movement.

Sam sees blood and breaking bones.

He stalks up to the guy and grabs him by the shoulder, pulls him off Dean and just keeps walking, dragging the guy with him. He ignores the guy's protests - "Hey, get your own, buddy..." - and Dean's drugged-sounding voice - "Sammy? Sammy, Jesus..." - and pulls the guy straight to the end of the alley, where the dirty, toxic heaps of garbage lurk in shadowed corners. He and Dean have axed many a monster in alleys like this one.

There, Sam beats the shit out of him. He leaves the guy six hundred and forty-two dollars poorer, slumped against a wall that bears a streak of blood. Maybe his conscience tingles a little, but if it does, Sam firmly shoves it back where it belongs. This guy touched Sam's brother, and for that he paid.

When Sam leaves the alley, the Impala's parked by the side of the road. He gets in and Dean throws the car into gear almost before Sam's got the door closed. They tear out onto the street, making people jump and spit curses at them, more cars voicing their displeasure. It's icy silent all the way back to the hotel, staring out the windows, tense and difficult and deeply fucking hostile.

This time, Sam puts the money on the table. It smells like blood.

Dean takes off his jacket and holds it for a second, and then it hits the wall with a thud. "What the fuck was that?" he demands, stalking up to Sam, furious.

Sam rages right back. "That was me kicking the ass of the guy paying you to suck his cock," Sam grits out, flinging the words at Dean like knives. They hit - Dean flinches. "How long?" Sam demands, stepping closer. "Since I left? Before that?" Beat. Sam's voice goes low and sharp, insinuating. "Dad teach you that, too?"

Dean hits like a freight train, his fist slamming into Sam's jaw, spinning him around. Dean's on him in a flash, whaling on him, and Sam throws himself into the fight. They pummel each other, table thumping against the wall, lamp smashing on the ground as they punch and kick and shove. Dean's lost his cool completely: he gets Sam on his back, holds him by the shirt and shakes him fiercely, shouting right in his face. "Why are you such an asshole? Why did you come with me if you hate us so much? Huh? Why are you even fucking here, Sammy?"

Sam dangles from his fists, blinking. Dean's the better fighter, if you really get down to it, but the words hit him more than Dean's fists. He licks the blood off his lip.

"It's Sam."

Then he starts coughing, and Dean just drops him, disgusted. He grabs his jacket and is almost out the door when Sam gets the words out.

"Don't... don't go."

Beat. Dean's paused, framed in the doorway, but he doesn't turn around.

"Dean, I'm sorry." Another wet cough thumps him in the chest. "I didn't mean..."

Dean waits another second, then swats the door closed. He drops his jacket, turns around, stalks back and hauls Sam up off the floor. "You're such a fucking prick," he says angrily, dragging Sam over to a bed and dropping him on it. Sam is not forgiven, not yet. Dean sits down on the other mattress and holds his head in his hands. They are quiet for a minute or two, and then Dean picks up Sam's take and just stares at it, fanning the bills between his hands.

"I'm an ass." Sam lays a palm flat on his own chest, pressing a little to stop the cough. "I didn't mean that about Dad."

The ruffle goes out of Dean's feathers, a little. "Christ, Sammy."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, okay? Really." He tries to show as much as he can that he's sincere. Nothing hurts Dean like when Sam insults their father, unless it's Sam insulting their mother, and he never wants to do that, even when he and Dean are so at odds it feels like they should just fight to the death and get it over with.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. "All right, fine. Whatever. Y'know what, it's late. Let's just get some sleep, and it'll look better in the morning."

Sammy grimaces. That's Dad talking - if something went wrong in their family, John would always want to ignore it, hope it went away on its own. Everyone else, he could charm or sympathize with or talk to, but if Sammy and Dean fought, they should all just get some sleep. If they met a woman who looked like Mom, Dad just cleaned his weapons and that was that. Sam, lying on the bed and feeling the more minor pains from Dean's fists begin to twinge, wonders if he can make Dean hear it just by thinking it really loudly. Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, the Winchester family motto.

It's either wishful or accurate thinking, because Dean says nothing, just hangs up his jacket and starts taking off his clothes, getting ready for bed. Sam watches him like a hawk - when the overshirt's off, the arms it reveals are clear of bruises. Dean lifts the t-shirt over his head, but Sam sees no evidence of anything that'd make him need to go back and kill that guy. Or, there's a bruise on Dean's ribs, yeah, but that's just colouring in - Sam put it there himself.

He feels like an ass.

"I want to say I'm sorry about coming to get you," Sam says, almost a whisper, and Dean pauses in undoing his belt to look over at Sam on the bed. Sam catches his eyes: a little confused, but listening, and clear of drugs or alcohol, or anything else that could have explained this. There's only Dean.

"I want to say I'm sorry," Sam tells his brother. "But I'm not. I don't want you doing that for me. For us." He sits up, leans on his elbow so he can look at Dean straight on. Dean holds his gaze, watching and listening. "We'll find some other way, Dean. Just, please. Don't do it again."

A few long seconds pass, and then Dean nods. "Okay," he agrees, nodding his head.

Sam runs right over him. "This isn't like the before version of okay. This time you actually do it, right? Because I swear to God, Dean..."

"All right," Dean interrupts, irritable. "Jesus." He pulls his belt out through the loops, looks at it in his hands and then drops it carelessly on the floor. He falls into bed with his jeans on, an air of exhaustion about him.

Sam isn't convinced, of course. Dean leans over and flicks off the light, says good night. Sam responds, but there's no way he believes that Dean won't just go right out and hustle again if they get short on money. Sam knows his brother. There's no talking to Dean - he does what he wants, and the hell with what anybody else says unless it's 'because there's a monster behind that door.' But Sam'll be damned if he knows how to force it. He just can't think of anything to say.

So he gingerly sits up and gets ready for bed, taking off his belt and wallet and anything else pokey before he gives up, wincing. He climbs into bed in t-shirt and jeans and lies under the covers for hours, worrying. He tosses and turns and cooks up plans and tactics for keeping tabs on his wandering brother, until he finally passes out.

Dean is on his knees. A knife presses against his throat, then flicks up to cut his lip, and blood drips down his chin. Sam can see the muscles straining in Dean's neck, his clenching fists as he fights to hold still. He calls to his brother, but Dean either doesn't hear him or can't turn his head, and Sam doesn't know which is more terrifying. He wants to get to Dean, to save him, but he can't move.

Cruel fingers press against Dean's chin, against his broken mouth. They pry at him, force him to open, and a second hand comes to clutch around his throat. Sam can see Dean wince with the pain of it, the humiliation, but he goes along with it, opens his mouth and lets those thick, dirty fingers push inside. Sam wants to scream no, tell Dean to fight it, not to let them do this, but he can't hear anything when he opens his mouth. Sam's losing his mind, desperate, and then Dean is naked and his hands are bound behind his back, the ropes cutting him, but he still won't fight, still won't stand up and be Dean, and Sam is screaming with rage and borrowed pain but he still won't get up...

"Dean! Dean!"

"I'm right here, Sammy. Come on, wake up."

Sam jerks awake, his heart hammering so hard that Dean can feel it in his own chest.

There's a moment where Sam just stares at the ceiling, frozen, but then he pulls Dean to him and runs his hands over all the exposed skin. To Dean, it feels like when they're done fighting and he's taken a shot - quick hands, careful as they check for pain, for breaking. "Sammy?"

Sam ignores him and breathes hot against his chest, checks his throat. Dean lifts his chin to make it easier for him. Nothin' wrong, man, it was just a dream. Sam brushes a thumb across his lips and then throws his arms around Dean's shoulders, clutches him like a lifeline. Dean feels useless, but does what he can: holds on tight, rubbing a hand in little circles on Sam's back. "Easy, little brother," he soothes. It's an old, familiar ritual phrase between them - Dean's said it after spooks and spectres and zombies and about everything else. He strokes up and down in longer sweeps, the other hand in Sam's unruly mop of hair, smoothing it away from his temples. "It's okay, buddy. It's okay."

"Why did you let him?" Sam's muffled voice comes from Dean's shoulder, where Sam's got his face pressed against the warm skin. "Why didn't you..."

He doesn't need to finish the sentence, Dean gets it. Sam's arms don't come loose, and he sounds terrified. Dean hopes it's just part of the nightmare, but could fucking hit him for asking, all the same. "It's okay," he repeats, and feels like a jerk.

"I love you," Sam whispers, broken and tortured sounding words ripped from his gut. It makes Dean wince to hear it said that way, like some dirty secret. It's dumb and girly to just say it like that, when nobody's dying, of course, but Sammy shouldn't sound so... ashamed.

"I love you, too, Sammy," he says as gently as possible, mindful that this is post-nightmare and so his brother's probably still a little dippy with whatever endorphins he's on. "Why don't we try to get some sleep? Okay?"

Sam nods, but again doesn't show any signs of letting go. Dean sighs and relaxes into it, resigning himself to spending the night in Sam's bed and consoling himself with the sure knowledge that he'll torture Sam about it tomorrow. "Okay, Sammy. I'm right here. It's okay."

"Dean?" Sam lifts his head and looks down, face deeply shadowed and unreadable.

Dean strokes his head, trying to ease him. "Yeah?"

"Shut up."

And then Sam's mouth crushes against his, and it's as if they've never been apart. In a split second, four years of unnatural separation has ceased to be. Dean tastes the pain and the loss, the crushing loss. He tastes rage and punishment on Sam's lips, he tastes defeat. But Sam's hand brushes over his shoulder and ribs, comes to rest on his hip, and Dean can feel the strength offered there. The solace.

That hand squeezes softly; Sammy edges closer. Dean can't believe there's still space between them; he rolls them so Sam's lying on top of him, so their bodies fit like they should. Sam's open, kissing with his whole soul, breathing into Dean's mouth and bracing one knee on the mattress so he can press his hips down, make the denim scrape. Dean hasn't felt anything even sort of like this in so long. Too long. It just makes him grip harder.

The lean body above him feels different to Dean's hands. Sam is sharper, somehow - Dean pulls at Sam's shirt, drags it off over his head so he can feel the hard bones and muscle press against him. When Sam's soft, cupid's bow mouth bites Dean's jaw and collarbone, it is somehow more jarring than it was when they were young. In the many years since they last did this, Dean has thought a few times of what he would do if it came up again. He has known his answer for a very long time.

He never imagined anything would have changed.

Sam grinds down again, and Dean throws back his head and groans too loud for a motel, but he can't help it. That's the same, anyway. Nobody, not now or ever, can get to Dean like Sam can. Dean's desperate and a little angry and way too fucking hot, but in the last four years he's never felt this safe.

All Sam wants is to know who this is under his mouth, his hands. He wonders if he's still in the nightmare - it's Dean, it's his brother, but Sam thinks there should be raging and pushing and biting, something like the alley. There isn't. He pushes against the hot body underneath him, feeling the hard length of Dean's cock against his own through layers of fabric. He has to know who this is, get inside him, figure him out, because the man he knew before he left for college... Sam was pretty sure that Dean would have sooner shot someone in the face than taken their money for sex. It makes no sense, and Sam hates that big blank question mark where his brother should be.

He's frustrated, and he takes it out on what definitely still looks and feels like Dean's body. He grinds down, but the plan backfires as hot, rough pleasure sparks through him. There's been nothing like this, not in four years - this is not sweet or gentle or kind, or if it is, it's not in any way that someone else would recognize. Sam barely remembers it himself.

Sam explores Dean's body with his hands and mouth. It pisses him off: this is different, too. Dean has tattoos and scars that Sam hasn't really seen, wasn't there for, and that feels wrong. Sam straddles Dean's thighs and slides down to press his mouth to them, taste them, know them. This white line along his ribs, did his snide attitude earn him that? This black one at the centre of his chest, did he have to pay for it? Sam wants to ask, knows Dean would never answer. But as Sam bites and sucks his own marks onto Dean, he can't miss the scent. Salt sweat, laundromat detergent and old, creaky leather settle heavy in Sam's chest and ache there.

"Sammy," Dean groans, and Sam lifts his head to look up Dean's new body into fathomless eyes. Dean tries to pull him up, and Sam resists him for a minute - he really wants to do this, to go lower and pull the buttons apart, follow that scent - but Dean tugs at him again and so he goes. He braces an arm on the pillows and leans down to kiss, but Dean holds him still and forces Sam to meet his gaze.

"Sammy, what are you doing?"

It's a simple question. Dean, of all people, knows that Sam isn't this forward, isn't Mr. Take Control. "What are you trying to prove?" Dean asks, dragging a thumb down his brother's stubbled cheek. He doesn't want to stop, but Sam's actually got him a little afraid, with the nightmares and with all the hurt he feels coming off his brother in waves. He's no psychic, but Dean knows his family.

"Look, I just... just tell me this isn't a nightmare. Tell me it's not some... some pity thing, Sammy, because if it is, I, uh, I don't know what I'll do. But it'll be really violent."

Sam just looks at him, knowing what'll happen if he gives in to the urge to argue. They'll fight and then everything'll be just like it is and nothing will change. And he won't let that be.

He's got one option: he presses his hips down gently, circles and thrusts just right. There's that hot shudder down his spine, that throb in his cock that shuts off his brain and makes him need. He knows it's mirrored below when Dean gasps in a breath. Sam follows the dark line of Dean's jaw with his mouth, whispers answers in time with his hips because it's really getting important that he keep doing what he's doing there.

"It isn't pity. Don't be stupid. Do you really... really... want to talk about this? Now?"

Dean's thrusting up against him, hands digging into his jeans, his ass, groaning and incapable of keeping his eyes open, and Sam knows he's won. He pulls back and kneels up, watches as Dean's eyes follow him opening his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping and shoving jeans down. Dean's not far behind him, eyes all raging lust and need as he kicks off his own jeans, and then Sam's on him and the skin's so hot against his own and it's perfect.

Fucking perfect.

Dean's like wildfire, pressing up and along and against, and Sam has to duck into his rhythm like a shotgun sling. Sam clutches at Dean's hair as their mouths meet again and he catches that scent, thinks he'll never need air again so long as he can breathe Dean. So much has changed, but so much hasn't, and Sam sort of doesn't care right now about why Dean did what he did, about who's protecting who. Right now all that matters is teeth, sweat, the blunt fingernails digging into his back, making him crazy.

They slide against each other's bellies in the slick heat they've made between them. Dean pulls Sam's hair hard enough to hurt and Sam bites his lip; it's shaking breath and burning hot skin, too much to keep up for long. Sam pulls his mouth off his brother's just in time, buries his face in Dean's neck and bucks helplessly as his orgasm tears through him. He hears Dean's breath hissing between his teeth, hears the sound Dean makes that starts low and builds like the Impala's engine until he's shouting his pleasure and shuddering under Sam's body, holding him tight as Death. Sam takes it, clutching his brother's shoulders and just trying to survive it. When Sam finally rolls to the side, they stare at the ceiling and fill the air with the sounds of their laboured breath.

"So," says Sam.

Dean says nothing.

They turn just their heads and look at each other. Dean smiles, just a bit - the mischief lurks in his eyes, in the little flash of his teeth. "No chick flick moments."

Sam can still feel Dean's skin against him. He is covered in Dean's scent and has the essence of him on his belly. He has no guarantees that Dean will not hustle again for money, Dean has offered no explanations and it doesn't look like he will.

Still, Sam feels okay. Like family okay. Able-to-relax okay. I'll-kick-your-ass-if-you-do-that-again okay. He smiles a little and slides his arm under Dean's head.

"Fine. Jerk."

Dean's grin is blinding.