Chapter Text
Here’s the thing about Sam Winchester – He’s not sexually attracted to men. Never has been. It's just not his thing. And he's especially not attracted to his overprotective, overbearing, big brother. He absolutely never catches himself being engrossed in the way Dean’s mouth goes slack while he sleeps.
Never thinks about how those perfect lips would look around his cock.
Except when he does.
Okay, okay. With the work they do, and they way they basically live in each other's pockets, Sam has grown more than accustomed to close quarters living with Dean by now, and he’s adjusted to the fact that his big brother writhes around in his sleep when too much time has passed since he’s gotten laid. And apparently the big guy hasn't had a decent toss in the sack lately, because he’s been a big, wiggly mess of sexual frustration every night for nearly three weeks.
Something like that just doesn't go unnoticed.
Sam can deal with the quiet moans and whimpers that escape Dean’s lips while he’s in these fitful states. It's fine. No big deal. And he has even come to terms with how creepy it might be that he’s perfectly okay with being fine with all of this. But there has to come a time when he draws the line somewhere, right? Or he’s going to lose his fucking mind.
Well, apparently that time comes on a hot, Summer morning in Salem, Indiana, when he realizes he’s developed a Pavlovian response to dean’s sleepy, hand-on-cock action.
“Dean. Dean. Dean! Wake up!”
-------
Dean woke up in the dirty motel room, covered in sweat, panting. Sam, the giant towering above him, face squeezed into something a little less like his typical bitch face, and a little more like something that resembled disgust.
“Dude, come on," Sam sighed. "Can you do that somewhere else? I’m trying to work and it’s distracting,” Sam spat as he motioned toward the lower half of Dean’s body with a flick of his wrist. Dean lifted his head, sleep clouded eyes darting around to locate the source of Sam’s obvious annoyance, and bingo, there it is. His right hand, palming his hard cock.
He let his head thump back against the pillow, closed his eyes, and gave that hot, hard bulge a good squeeze. “Fuck. Sorry, Sammy.”
“No big deal, man. Just, I dunno, cold shower or something, ‘kay?”
“Mmmhmm,” Dean growled, making no effort to get up and do anything of the sort.
Sam gave an exasperated sigh and sauntered over to flop down on his own bed next to his laptop. There was research to be done after all, and if his brother still needed rest, he wasn’t about to deny him that, y’know, so long as the older hunter’s self-grope fest comes to an end before the actual, uh, coming part.
-----
Sam went to work digging for information that might provide him with a link to the six dead people in the town they were currently confined to. He tried to stay focused, he really did, because this thing they were hunting was major league. Six people in three days turn up with missing hearts and not a single scratch on their bodies. Fucking mind boggling is what it is.
Focus, Sam. Focus.
Yeah, okay, his brother's groping had stopped, but Dean’s hand was still there, resting atop a wicked case of morning wood, and occasionally his hips would move up to greet that hand, and while technically it’s no longer considered groping, there’s still some pretty obvious friction going on and it’s still fucking distracting.
He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to scour local articles for any new information that might have appeared since yesterday.
And just when he thinks there’s a chance he can drown out the weird and wrong thoughts of his brother’s hand and cock, there were the telltale sounds of rustling clothes and an old, creaky mattress straining against the weight of a heavy body. Then an “mmmph” and something that sounded entirely too much like “Sammy” that escaped Dean’s throat while his hand moved to work open his jeans just enough to slip his fucking hand inside the waistband.
Oh, God, Sam thought. This. Is. Not. Happening.
The line was drawn, right? He tried to put an end to it. There’s no fucking way his name just fell from Dean’s lips and shot straight to his own groin. Didn’t happen. And he is most definitely not biting his lip hard enough to draw blood in an effort to stifle that strange, mewling noise coming from his mouth.
Get a grip, Sam Winchester. Dean is your fucking brother.
And that’s it. He can’t take it anymore.
“"Damn it, Dean! You could at least go to the bathroom or something. I’m right here, dude. Have a little decency!”
“Too tired to get up, Sammy. Can’t help it. I-I need- oh”
“And that’s my cue to give you some alone time, man. I’m going out to pick up food.”
“No. No. Stay. I- I'm too tired. Can’t-ah- finish anyway. Please, Sammy.”
“Dean, God. I… No. I have to go.”
Sam nearly tripped over his own spindly legs in an effort to escape the hotel room. To escape the desperate pleading for him to stay – to… to what, exactly? Sam had no idea what Dean wanted from him, but he knew if he remained in his presence for a second longer, he’d make the decision for both of them. One that would change everything, and he just couldn't risk that. Not now. Not ever.
What is wrong with you, Sam? he though to himself. “I don’t know!” He shouted aloud, startling the cute blonde girl on the sidewalk. He offered an embarrassed apology and somehow managed to keep walking while fighting the barrage of implications firing away at him from inside his own head. Things like brother-fucking, sick, wrong, and so fucking-hot.