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Grand Forks, North Dakota
Sam Winchester needs to jerk off. Rub one out. Clean the pipes. In a life where pretty much the only thing he can count on is that the unexpected is right around the corner, his daily session to take care of his inevitable morning wood is one of his only constants. That, and that Dean will always raise an eyebrow when he comes out of the bathroom having taken a shade too long. Whatever. Masturbation is a normal part of life. And Sam needs to masturbate. Like, right now.
Except the magical invisible handcuffs currently keeping him two inches from his brother are making that impossible.
Story of his life.
***
Twelve hours earlier
“Sammy, rise and shine!” Dean’s yelling in his ear for some reason. Sam twists his head away from the blare of his brother’s voice. He tries to put his head under the scratchy motel pillow, but Dean swipes it away.
“What the hell?”
“I have an idea. Come on, we gotta haul ass if we’re going to catch this witch in the act.”
Sam sighs, pushes up on his elbows to peer at Dean, already dressed and rummaging through Sam’s duffel. He pulls out a gray shirt, a purple flannel, and a clean pair of jeans, then walks over and drops them on Sam’s lap, as if he’s a three-year-old who needs his clothes picked out for him.
“What’s the rush?” They’d stayed up until two in the morning unsuccessfully trying to figure out how to stop their suspect from killing any more substitute teachers, splitting a sixer of El Sol in the process. This morning, Room 16 at the Grand Forks Motor Inn smells like cheap beer and desperation.
“Last night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking we missed something when we searched the witch’s apartment.” Dean sits on the edge of Sam’s bed, his ass dangerously close to Sam’s morning wood. Sam, grateful now for the pile of clothes in his lap, tries to focus on what Dean’s saying.
Dean points to his temple, then snaps his fingers. “And then I had a brainwave. The bedroom in that place was tiny—like smaller than a jail cell small. What if we missed a secret room or something? She could have had it walled off. If we find something—a spell or a clue, anything—maybe we can nip this killing spree in the bud. Maybe we’ll even find her.”
Sam thinks about the apartment of Portia Miller. The twenty-five-year-old witch had reportedly skipped town, but the third victim died yesterday, after she supposedly left. Now that Dean mentions it, the bedroom was oddly small, especially in comparison to the room next to it. “Worth checking out,” he says on a yawn.
Dean grins, pats Sam on the shoulder, stands back up. “Get dressed, dude.”
Sam feels that pat on his bare shoulder like a brand. Dean doesn’t even go all that far away, just waits a foot from the bed, watching as if he turns away for even a moment, Sam will disappear.
It’s been like this in the week and change since some deranged hillbillies got the drop on Sam and caged him like an animal. It all worked out, more or less, a sobering reminder that sometimes humans are more monstrous than the things that go bump in the night. But ever since, Dean’s stuck to Sam like he’s a piece of chewed gum and Sam’s the sole of a tennis shoe.
Sam loves it and hates it in equal measure. It’s not like he minds the tangible reminder that Dean cares about him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel better knowing his brother was always at his six, the most dependable backup he could ever ask for. But the fact that Dean’s more or less been hovering over him like a bee keeping a close eye on a pollen-filled flower for over a week is driving Sam more than a bit crazy. Dean's given up on the concept of personal space. Sam doesn’t think he knows he’s even doing it. But the casual touches, the reassuring weight of his brother at his side as they stride through the doors of a diner, or the way Dean won’t even let him take a leak at a gas station bathroom without standing guard outside the door—Sam’s noticed.
He can’t not notice Dean.
And that means he’s been half hard for days because when he notices Dean, he notices all the ways Dean’s face, his mouth, his knuckles, his goddamn bow legs are all specifically designed to drive Sam into a state of semi-permanent arousal. His morning jerk-off session has been more important than ever. He needs that moment of release just to get through the day with Dean up in his business, close enough to touch, but never close enough to take.
“Yeah, just give me a couple minutes.” Sam slides out of bed holding his fresh clothes strategically to hide his unflagging erection. Four minutes in the bathroom would be enough to take care of things, dress, maybe run a comb through his hair.
“No, Sam, seriously, we need to get over there now. School starts in like twenty minutes. We don’t have time for your beauty routine.”
Sam wants to make a cutting comeback, but he knows Dean’s right. Each of the other victims died right after the opening bell. He sighs, turns his back to Dean, and gets dressed as fast as he can, tucking his stiffy into the waistband of his jeans. His morning routine will just have to wait.
***
They park the Impala a block away and approach Portia’s building on foot. It’s not a high security place, just four units with exterior access. They let themselves into her apartment with a credit card between the door and the jamb. The place seems as deserted as last time they were there, but they draw their guns just in case. Dean takes the lead, swooping into the bedroom, Sam following behind. All clear. There’s a clothes closet in the far wall, the wall that seems too close to the twin bed. Now that Dean’s pointed it out, Sam wonders that it wasn’t obvious before that the room is disproportionately small.
It doesn’t take long before prodding the interior of the closet unlatches a portion of the back wall. It slides away, a pocket door revealing a dark, narrow workroom with shelves stocked with witchy-looking supplies, and, most importantly, a table with a silver bowl burning with some kind of teal flame. Sam takes a look at the open spell book on the table. It’s a killing spell, all right, and it looks like Portia made some adjustments so that it works perpetually, killing once every twenty-four hours unless something stops it.
“So, how do we short-circuit this spell?” Dean asks, reading over Sam’s shoulder. It’s not a large space, but Dean’s standing so close Sam can smell his aftershave. He subtly adjusts himself in his jeans, steps half a foot away from Dean, and refocuses on the spell book. “It looks like it’s going on autopilot. And we have two minutes.”
“Nothing like a deadline, huh Sammy?” Dean elbows him in the side.
Sam winces, but not because Dean’s jab hurts. He’s still wishing he’d been able to clean his pipes this morning. “She’s obviously not here, so we can’t pull the ‘kill-the-witch, end-the-spell’ move,” he says, dragging his mind back to the life-or-death issue at hand. “But maybe we can disrupt it.”
“Why don’t we just spray water on the flame?” Dean asks.
“I don’t think this kind of fire can be put out with water,” Sam says, pushing down a wave of fondness for the way his brother's mind works. “But maybe we can smother it with something else that has magic.” He glances around the room. There are glass jars filled with different specimens, from your basic herbs to the more exotic—actual bat wings and rat tails. Gross. Then his gaze lands on something that might do the job. A large empty glass jar, bigger than the bowl of flame. It has etchings on the side. “Maybe we can choke it out with that.” He grabs the jar, holds it over the flame.
“Or make an explosion.” Dean doesn’t sound cautionary, more excited at the prospect.
“It’s not actually hot,” Sam says, not feeling the usual heat that would come off a fire that size. “We’ve got no other options.”
“Do it,” Dean says.
Sam drops the inverted jar over the teal flame and bowl. Nothing happens for a second, then the flame starts to shrink, and the glass jar glows yellow. Sam turns away, closes his eyes as the glow gets brighter. Dean’s right—the glass might explode. He hopes his canvas jacket is heavy enough to take the shrapnel. Dean should be okay in his leather coat. But a second later, the brightness behind his eyes fades. There’s no explosion, and when he turns around, the flame is extinguished, and the jar is back to its normal clear color.
“Did it work?” Dean asks.
“We might not know until we call the school.”
“What should we do with all of this witchy shit?” Dean asks.
“Some of it might come in useful,” Sam says, poking at a jar of dried dragonflies. “The spell book we can take to Bobby.”
“Hey, a fridge.” Dean points to a black mini fridge similar to one Sam’s freshman roommate had in their dorm room. “Think she’s got any beer?”
Sam huffs through his smile. “It’s 7:30 in the morning.”
“So? It’s not like we’re getting paid for this gig. We should at least get some perks.” Dean reaches for the fridge door, but there’s nothing inside. “Bummer.”
Sam drags an empty cardboard box from under the countertop. “Here, start putting stuff in here. We can swing by Bobby’s. It’s a straight shot south. Could be there by lunchtime.” He dials the number for the school principal he’d collected yesterday when they were investigating the deaths they’d read about in the Fargo paper. A few minutes later, he gets the good news—no unexplained, sudden deaths at Carver High today.
Dean’s got most of the good stuff and the spell book in the cardboard box. “So, what do you think—we got any leads to track this Portia lady down?” Dean asks as he hefts the box in his arms.
“I’ll take a look at the book on the way to Bobby’s, but I don’t know. She’s in the wind.”
“Sucks,” Dean says briefly.
“Yeah.” They walk out through the secret door, Dean in front with the box, Sam behind. He doesn’t bother closing the door, and they emerge out of the closet at almost the same time. He feels the tug on his wrist immediately, a sharp, unrelenting pressure on his right wrist that has him yelp in surprise. Dean’s letting out a similar noise as he drops the full box on the floor with a crash and a thud. His left hand whips out, hitting Sam’s right. A teal glow encircles both their wrists in a translucent, bright figure eight.
“What the hell?” they say at the same time. Sam pulls in one direction while Dean tugs in the other, and they don’t get far at all. The teal figure eight is as unforgiving as a set of steel handcuffs. He can move his wrist about an inch away from Dean’s before he feels the restraint.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean snarls. He attacks the bond, but his hand just passes right through. “It’s like an invisible pair of handcuffs.”
“Exactly,” Sam says, heart sinking. He thought Dean had been too close to him before. Now they’re attached at the wrist with no way to escape. “The witch must have booby trapped something in there, maybe it was an object, maybe it was the room itself.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Dean’s voice rises, betraying a trace of panic.
“Let me think.” The cuffs snapped on when they left the closet. But they don’t seem to be keeping them in this location—he’s free to walk forward unimpeded, even if he has to drag Dean, stumbling a little, with him. They’re just bound together. Maybe there’s a solution in the spell book. “We’re going to have to crack open that book.”
“And then we’re going to track down that witch and put a stop to her,” Dean says harshly.
“First things first. Let’s get this box in the car, get back to the motel. We can call Bobby, get his take.”
“This is just peachy,” Dean complains. “Why can’t we have one clean win? We saved some poor guy’s life this morning and this is the payment we get?”
Sam bends down to pick up the box, but it’s awkward with Dean’s left arm having to follow his right. “Just help me get this.” Clumsily, he manages to get his arms around it, Dean’s arm hanging limply next to his. Dean’s upper arm brushes against his, his muscles palpable even through the layers of his green shirt and the leather jacket. Sam swallows down a scream. He has to agree with Dean, if only silently. This particular payment from the universe seems designed to torture him specifically. Fantastic.
They manage to get the box back to the car, Dean digging his keys out of his pocket, and they work together to shove the box in the back seat. But when Dean reaches for the driver’s side door, Sam has to laugh. “Dude.”
“What?” Dean snaps.
He raises their joined hands. “Look at us. I’m going to have to drive.”
“Son of a bitch!”
***
“Nothing in the spell book yet, but we’re going to keep looking,” Dean’s saying into the phone. He’s holding it up to his ear with his right hand, while his left hand twitches next to where Sam’s hand rests on the table in the motel room. Sam’s turning the spell book’s pages with his left hand, which feels odd, but he supposes it’s not the worst thing to be exercising his non-dominant hand. They’d arrived at the motel without incident, even though Sam had to demand that Dean keep his snarky comments about Sam’s driving to himself.
“We’ll keep you posted. Yep. Thanks, Bobby.” Dean snaps the phone shut with one hand, looks at Sam glumly. “He’s got no bright ideas. Just said it sounded like some kind of booby trap, and since we don’t have the witch, the spell book is our best bet.”
Sam turns to the next page, his heart rate kicking up when he catches the words written on top. “Infinity Bracelet,” he says, reading aloud quickly. “To restrain an enemy until such time as he can be dealt with.”
“Well, we’re definitely this bitch’s enemy,” Dean grumps.
“There’s a list of ingredients, and then an incantation.” Sam scans the recipe. “It looks like Portia wrote in an additional piece of the spell which means it can be triggered remotely.”
“Girl loves cursing from a distance, doesn't she?”
“But look, Dean, ‘until such time as he can be dealt with’—there’s clarification about what that means here. ‘For a period no more and no less than twenty-four hours.’ That’s good news!”
“How, exactly, is that good news?” Dean asks, eyes hooded and mouth pinched.
“It means one way or the other, the infinity bracelet should come off twenty-four hours after it went on.”
“Great. Only”—Dean turns his left wrist over and brings it to his face, jerking Sam’s hand along with it—“twenty-three hours, twelve minutes to go.”
“It does seem like a long time,” Sam admits, as it sinks in what this means. Twenty-four hours literally attached to Dean. Touching him. Breathing him in. If he thought Dean was being smothering before, that being near him activated all his worst instincts and desires, well, this was going to be worse. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck,” Dean agrees glumly. “And we don’t even have any beer left.”
Double fuck. “We better make a beer run.”
“Now you’re talking, Sammy.”
“I still have to drive.”
“Son of a bitch!”
***
The liquor store is next door to the diner where they had breakfast the day before. Sam suddenly realizes he’s starving.
“Breakfast first?”
“Hell, yes,” Dean says, sliding out of the driver’s side door awkwardly, but less awkwardly than the first time they’d done it. They’re sort of getting the hang of being attached at the wrist. “Wait, how are we going to explain the glowing blue handcuffs?”
“Yeah, I have a theory.” Sam looks around the parking lot. A couple of elderly women are getting out of a silver hatchback one parking spot over. He waves and smiles at them with his free hand. The teal cuffs glow as brightly as ever between him and Dean, but the ladies just smile and wave back.
“I don’t think anyone else can see them but us,” he says. “So as long as we don’t act like we’re handcuffed together, no one should notice a thing.”
Their arms are brushing each other’s; they’re standing too close together. They look, if not supernaturally connected, then at least like a couple. Sam swallows hard as he pictures what they must look like to everyone else.
Dean seems to come to the same conclusion. He rolls his eyes. “Great. We just look like two gay dudes out for breakfast.”
Sam smiles faintly, pushing down the complicated well of feelings in his chest. “Well, I’m hungry enough not to care. What about you?”
Dean doesn’t answer, just stalks forward, yanking Sam with him. They find a rhythm, walk through the diner door at the same time. Actually, this part isn’t all that different from the way Dean’s been hovering since Hibbing.
“Counter or booth?” the lady at the front asks.
“Booth,” they answer in unison. Sam winces at her raised eyebrow as she takes in their proximity to one another. Oh well, it’s about to get worse, because when they get to the booth Dean stops and swears under his breath.
Sam supposes they could sit on opposite sides, as long as they keep their hands together either under or over the table. Which is less weird?
“Just get in,” Dean grumbles, pushing Sam into the booth first, then scooting in next to him. Their hands fall between them, the back of Dean’s hand brushing Sam’s thigh.
Sam sighs, wills down his semi, and looks at the menu.
***
Eating with his left hand kind of sucks. Avoiding the stares of the patrons who see two big guys squeezed into one side of a small booth is annoying. And Dean—Dean’s right there. Every second. His fingers brushing Sam’s thigh. Sam can turn his head and see Dean’s face, the sweep of his eyelashes, the curve of his mouth as he eats his eggs.
They look like a couple to everyone else—how could they not?—but this is just torture to Sam. He’s trapped, literally, on the inside of the booth against the wall. He doesn’t taste his breakfast as he bolts it down as fast as he can, the coffee scalding his left hand when he jostles it picking it up. He hisses in pain.
“Dude, are you okay?” Dean says. “You want to chill out a little?”
“This is a nightmare.” Sam moans, shutting his eyes against Dean’s perfect profile, against this ridiculous situation seemingly designed to drive Sam nuts.
“Yeah,” Dean says flatly. “A nightmare.”
Sam opens his eyes to see Dean gazing at his coffee mug, corner of his mouth turned down.
“So, uh,” Dean says, “I gotta take a leak.”
Somehow, Sam had avoided thinking about this part, even though some hind part of his brain must have considered it. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Me too, I guess.”
Dean pulls out some money from his wallet to cover the bill, then scoots out of the booth, Sam trailing in his wake. The bathroom’s in the back of the diner, a single. Not even a stall where they could have a semblance of privacy, albeit with a hand hanging under the partition.
“Well. It is what it is,” Dean says, and goes for his belt buckle. Sam’s right hand goes along for the ride; he tries desperately to keep it from any accidental touching.
“Dude, do you have to use both hands?” he hisses. “Jesus.”
“Come on, it’s not a big deal. We’ve peed in front of each other before.”
“When?” Sam’s incredulous. They might essentially live out of a car, but Dean would go ballistic if they peed inside her—he always pulls over if there’s an emergency situation, and they give each other privacy. And when they share motel rooms, they close the door. They’re not cavemen.
“Dunno—when we were kids,” Dean says. He steps up to the bowl, aims. Nothing comes out. “Stop looking.”
“I’m not looking,” Sam says. And he isn’t. His eyes are specifically trained at the pockmarked ceiling with its suspicious brown patch in the corner. Water damage. “Just do it.”
“I’m trying,” Dean says. He takes a deep breath. Sam can sense him relaxing. Then the sound of the stream hitting the bowl that goes on for what seems like forever. It’s awkward but, like Dean said, it is what it is.
Sam holds his hand rigid the whole time, carefully not thinking about the fact that he’s inches away from touching his brother’s dick. He’s probably overcompensating, but whatever. Finally, Dean finishes, and he tucks himself away, zipping his fly and buckling his belt.
“Your turn, Sammy.”
Sam echoes Dean’s motions, unbuckling, unzipping. Dean’s hand is so close to his dick that it’s distracting, but Dean’s careful and doesn’t touch him either. It takes a second to get going, but he manages it. He’s buckling up again when Dean says, “Not sure what we’re going to do when we have to take a shit.”
Sam groans and then they wash their hands sort of all at once in the small bathroom sink. They speed walk in tandem out of the diner and out to the car. This time Dean doesn’t even try to take the wheel.
“Only twenty-two hours to go,” Dean says bleakly as Sam, Dean’s hand dangling beside, turns the key and starts the engine.
***
They get beer, ignoring the smirk of the guy behind the counter when they walk up together and deposit two six packs on the counter. Baby needs gas, so they fill her up. Unwilling to repeat the diner booth debacle, they get sub sandwiches and chips to take back to the motel with them and pay for an extra night. Then, it’s just a matter of waiting.
“Watch some TV?” Dean asks.
Sam shrugs. “I’ll just read.” He goes to grab the spell book, but Dean reaches for the TV remote and they each strain against the bond. They glare at each other, then Dean trudges closer, so Sam can get the book, and Sam goes with him to get the remote.
“Your bed or mine?” Dean asks.
“Whatever.”
Dean leads them to his bed, and they get on, scooting backward until they’re resting against the wall, pillows at the smalls of their backs. Sam’s warm, but he can’t take his jacket off, or at least not all the way. He pulls his left arm free, shoves it down the other arm until it’s bunched up between him and Dean. Dean does the same with his leather jacket. They take off their boots, helping each other with the laces with minimal bickering. Dean finds a Smokey and the Bandit rerun while Sam pages through the spell book. He’s reading with only half his brain, the other half hyper aware of Dean, his smell, the way he laughs with his whole body at some dumb thing on the TV.
Sam loves his brother so much. Too much. And maybe they’re in this mess because the magic the witch used can sense it. After all, it seems like everyone else knows, too. The secret Bloody Mary sniffed out. The infidelity the Woman in White hinted at. And now Portia Miller, small-time witch. Sam Winchester wants his brother, and it’s got to be written on his very soul because every supernatural creature they come across seems to be able to use it against him.
And yet, he can’t imagine ever not wanting Dean.
The minutes tick by. They eat lunch, drink a beer each, take awkward pisses in the motel bathroom, wash their hands again. Dean finds Mission: Impossible on the tube, nurses another beer. Sam finishes the spell book without any clues to Portia’s current whereabouts. She seems to have been a pretty advanced witch for her age, but maybe she’s older than she looks. He shuts the book and sighs.
“You been sighing a heck of a lot there, Sammy.” Dean mutes the TV as a commercial for toilet paper flashes on.
Sam stifles a sigh in response.
“Look, I know this sucks. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe.” Dean lets out a sigh of his own. “I’m going to grab some shuteye.”
“Sure.” If they manage to sleep, that’ll make the deadline come up faster. Sam sets aside the spell book, scoots down the bed as Dean does the same on his side. They don’t really fit on the double bed—Sam’s feet hang off the end—but it’s a small concern in the big scheme of things. He closes his eyes.
***
Sam can’t believe he actually fell asleep. Then again, he was woken up at the crack of dawn. Thing is, his body must think it’s morning again because he’s hard. Like, all the way hard. Fully engorged, almost painfully so. It’s just something that happens to him, his particular physiology. And it doesn’t help that Dean, the object of his most intense fantasies since he was fifteen years old, is snug against his side, snoring lightly on Sam’s shoulder.
He’s wearing jeans, so the tenting isn’t that apparent, but still, he’s uncomfortable and he wants to get a hand on himself badly. He shifts a little, just to get some friction. His free hand comes up, hovers over his crotch.
Sam’s never needed to jerk off this intensely before. But he knows if he tries, Dean’ll wake up.
Then again, Dean didn’t get much sleep last night, either. Maybe Sam can chance it. He took off his belt when they made their last trip to the bathroom, so he doesn’t have to deal with that. He hasn’t come in his pants in years, but he’s so hard right now it feels like it won’t take much to blow his load. And god, does he need to take the edge off.
Slowly, he lowers his hand to his crotch, then grips his shaft through the layers of fabric. It’s good, not great, but he thinks he can get there.
“Must-a had a good dream, little brother.” Dean’s voice in his ear again, startling him so bad he actually lets out a little yelp, dropping his hand to his side as if there’s a hope in hell Dean doesn’t know what he was doing.
He turns his head and Dean’s smirking at him. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not long. Looks like Sam Junior’s awake, though.” Dean glances down. “Although Junior might be the wrong name for that thing.”
Sam puts his hand over his eyes. He’s embarrassed, he can’t get away from his brother, and he’s still fucking hard. He groans, and then pulls the pillow from under his head, puts it over his face, and screams into it. He considers leaving it there for half a second, then lobs it across the room in anger.
“Jesus, Sam.” Dean scrambles to sitting. “Look, we’re halfway through this nonsense. We can make it a little longer.”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam says because what other choice does he have? He very deliberately does not look at his brother as he adjusts himself in his jeans.
“Besides, you don’t have to stop on my account.”
“What?”
“You know, you look pretty uncomfortable there. Go ahead. I don’t judge.”
“I’m not doing that in front of you,” Sam says coldly. It doesn’t matter how hard he is, he’s got to hold on to a shred of dignity.
“It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”
Sam stills. “What?” he says, once he can breathe again.
“Yeah, uh, remember that time after that graduation party we went to? You were really drunk on like one shitty beer and we were watching midnight reruns of Baywatch and you—”
“Oh yeah.” Sam really had forgotten, but now that Dean mentions it, he remembers the party and the beer and the Pamela Anderson of it all. He’d gotten hard and squirmy and Dean had laughed and just told him to take it out and get it over with. He’d done it because it was Dean telling him to, and it was Dean that made him hard, anyway, not a girl in a too-small bathing suit. “That was just me, though.”
“Yeah, no, I, uh. You passed out and I rubbed one out. Tiffany Amber Thiessan was so hot.”
There’s something odd about the tone of Dean’s voice, but Sam’s too keyed up to figure it out. All he knows is Dean’s giving him permission, and maybe it’s fucked up, but Sam doesn’t care anymore. He knows intellectually that blue balls aren’t a thing, but it still feels like the lack of release is messing with his judgment.
“You won’t make fun of me later?” he asks, which is as good as saying he’s going to do it.
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” Dean says.
Sam reaches for his zipper before Dean even finishes talking. A moment later, his bare dick is jutting out of the gap in his boxers and he’s stripping it dry like it’ll bring about world peace. “Ahhhh.” Just the friction feels so good, he squeezes hard. Again, it’s kind of annoying to do it just with his left hand, but he’s getting closer. Almost, almost—
Sam tries to forget Dean’s right there. Maybe it’s not as fucked up if he doesn’t actively think about his brother while he touches himself. But Dean’s making it hard to ignore him.
“You need help?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly gruff.
“Do I need help?” Sam repeats disbelievingly.
“Just, you know, you’re not a lefty,” Dean says.
Finally, Sam turns his head and looks at his brother full on for the first time since he’d been caught groping himself through his jeans. Dean’s face is a little pink, and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth. He’s sitting, hunched over, while Sam’s lying on the bed and from this angle he can tell that Dean’s trying to hide the fact that he’s hard, too.
Sam doesn’t think, he just says, “Yeah, I could use a little help.” He brings his right hand over, the hand that’s attached to Dean’s body, and wraps it around his length, letting his left hand wander down to cup his balls. Dean goes along with Sam’s motions, letting Sam bring him along for the ride. He’s not touching him, he can’t really touch him from that position. Except Dean’s other hand is suddenly on Sam’s cock. Dean strokes along with Sam, and there are three hands on his junk and one of them is his brother’s and Dean does a thing where he teases just under Sam’s crown and then it’s all over, Sam graying out a little, spunk blowing everywhere from the geyser of his dick.
“Holy shit, you always jizz this much?” Dean asks, wiping his hand on Sam’s jeans.
Sam doesn’t bother answering, just sinks into the mattress, feeling lighter than he has in days. “Fuck, I needed that.”
Dean shifts, making the bed shake, and Sam looks at him again. He’s even pinker than before, an unmistakable bulge in his jeans. Sam doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows his brother just helped get him off and it would be selfish not to offer. “Your turn,” he says, not even caring that his voice is post-coitally low.
“I’m good,” Dean says, but he sounds strained.
“Seriously, Dean, it’s fine.” Sam twists, his free hand reaching for Dean’s zipper. It’s like his body is moving without his brain’s permission. Well, Sam feels too good to deny himself this now, even if he’ll hate himself later.
“I don’t—” Dean’s denial dies as Sam opens his fly. Then it’s an encore performance for both of them, Dean’s hands on his own engorged cock, Sam’s cuffed hand uselessly along for the ride while his other holds Dean’s sac, tugging at it, rolling his balls around in his hand, distantly aware that he’s helping Dean jerk off—he’s helping Dean come, messy and wet and just as hard as Sam.
Dean doesn’t bother cleaning himself up or putting himself away, he just flops down on the mattress and Sam finds himself going with him.
“Good?” Sam can’t help but plead for a little reassurance.
“Damn, Sammy.” It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no.
They breathe in the stillness of the motel room. It’s going on dinnertime but Sam can’t think about food, his stomach suddenly a collection of all of Dad’s most difficult knots. Thinking about Dad isn’t a good idea right now. Instead, Sam examines the brown stain in the corner of the ceiling. Does every building in Grand Forks have water damage?
“So,” Dean says when the silence starts to become oppressive, “you think that witch knew that would happen because of her little handcuff spell? What does infinity bracelet even mean, anyway?”
“It’s a dumb name,” Sam agrees.
They’re silent again but it’s not so charged this time. Maybe Sam will get away with it. Maybe they can be brothers who jerked off together once when they were magically tied together and it’s not a big deal.
“Sorry about all this,” Dean says, and that’s not what Sam was expecting to hear.
“Uh—”
“I just kind of feel like it’s my fault that we ended up with this stupid thing.” He lifts the hand in the cuffs, pulling Sam’s along with him.
“It wasn’t you, it was the booby trap,” Sam says. “It would have happened to anyone who broke into her secret room.”
“Yeah, but, I don’t know. I know I’ve been kind of…clingy…lately. This feels like the universe is punishing me for it.”
Sam’s shocked. Dean actually acknowledging that he’s being clingy—he never thought he’d see the day.
“You did sort of seem to forget the meaning of personal space after what went down in Minnesota,” he says, pushing up on his elbow so he can look Dean in the eye, but Dean avoids his gaze, taking his turn to stare at the ceiling.
“I just—you don’t know what it was like, Sam. You were gone and I didn’t know how to find you.” Dean's face is a picture of anguish. Sam’s heart is twisted because it feels good knowing Dean was so worried about him.
“I knew you’d find me,” Sam says firmly. It’s true. He’d been so damn happy to see Dean walk into that hellhole, but what he hadn’t been was surprised.
“But what if I couldn’t? What if those crazy bastards had—”
“They didn’t. I’m okay. I’m right here.”
Dean looks at him then. And Sam looks back. Really looks back. He thinks about what just happened, and he thinks about personal space, or lack thereof. About everything they’ve been through since Dean broke into his apartment looking for a beer and Sam’s life started over again.
He puts his free hand on Dean’s chest, over the amulet that tells Sam his brother loves him, even if he doesn’t say the words. “I’m right here, Dean, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Sam.” Dean sounds wrecked, like he’s about to cry. It gives Sam a sick sort of hope.
“Dean. Do you—I mean—” Wait, what the hell is he doing? Just because Dean offered…just because he let Sam touch him once. It doesn’t mean to Dean what it means to Sam.
And then Dean puts his hand over the one Sam’s resting on his chest. The weight of it, hot and a little sticky, and the fact that Dean’s trapping Sam’s hand between his and the amulet—Sam’s wanted Dean every day for years and maybe today has forced Sam to show his cards a little. But maybe Dean’s holding a few of those same cards, too.
“Dean,” he tries again. "What we just did, have you wanted that? Before these cuffs stuck us together?”
Dean bites his lip again. There’s terror in his eyes, which makes Sam so, so happy. He nods, hopes Dean can see the encouragement on his face. Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Sam, it’s—just you. For me. Always has been. Always will be. Sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Now it’s Sam’s turn to sound tremulous. Like he might cry. Maybe he will. He doesn’t care anymore. “It’s you for me, too, you big jerk.” He twists his hand as far as he can in the infinity bracelet so he can lace their fingers together. He’s holding hands with his big brother and it feels better than any sex he’s ever had.
Dean’s eyes get bigger than Sam’s ever seen before. “It—it is? I mean, I am?”
“Yeah. Let me prove it to you.” Sam leans over and kisses him on the mouth.
***
This time, Sam wakes up not to Dean’s voice in his ear, but instead to his hot, sour breath on his neck. He turns away, finds he can turn away. The magical handcuffs are gone. But Dean’s still tucked up against his side, breathing on him. Drooling on him a little, too. Sam grins.
“Mmm…Sammy?” Dean comes awake slowly, and Sam revels in the weight of him now. It’s not smothering. It feels like home. He rolls toward Dean, and Dean looks down.
“We’re free!” he exclaims, rubbing his wrist. “Wow, is that a baseball bat in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
Sam realizes what Dean’s talking about a beat later. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Yeah. I kind of get morning wood.”
“Morning petrified forest, more like.” Dean licks his lips, smiles devilishly. Sam’s erection pulses. “You want a hand with that?”
“Hell yes.”
The End