Summary: Dean’s injured on a hunt and really, really needs his brother.
A/N: Written as a gift for yohkobennington for their prompt, “One of them is sick, and the other one takes care of them” for this year’s spnspringfling.
Read It On A03 or below the cut.
Here’s the original post with comments.
“Damn it, Sam, let go of me. I’m fine!”
Sam’s brother is not cooperating.
Which is normal for him when he’s sick or injured, and right now Sam’s pretty sure he’s both. Dean’s been favoring his left hand, the one that got pierced by a rusty meat hook a couple of days ago when they were taking down a vengeful spirit in an abandoned slaughterhouse.
“That fucker really needed to go down,” Dean declared when they’d salted and burned the ghost’s remains. “Assholes who get off on killing animals deserve a special place in Hell. Slow burn ‘em nice and crispy. Maybe an eternity of getting skinned alive.”
“Wow.” Sam huffed out a breath as he dusted off his hands. “Graphic.”
“Just sayin’ it like it is,” Dean mumbled. He limped to his weapons duffel and dug out a bandana, wrapping it around his hand under Sam’s sharp gaze.
“Let me take a look at that,” Sam insisted, but Dean blew him off, insisting he was fine.
But now it’s two days later and Dean isn’t fine. Clearly. He’s flushed and glassy-eyed, sweating in the January cold. Sam had to fight him to drive the car, fight him about stopping for the night at this shit-hole motel, fight him to get into the room and onto the bed. And now he’s fighting Dean to let him look at his hand, which is clearly infected. He tucks the bandaged hand under his other armpit protectively when Sam reaches for it, hunching over and turning his back to Sam.
“Jesus, Dean, you’re burning up,” Sam gasps as he touches Dean’s forehead with the back of his hand.
Dean jerks away and closes his eyes. He curls up against the headboard. “Get offa me, Sam. ‘M fine.”
“You’re not fine! Now, let me look at your hand or I’m calling 911.”
Dean’s eyes go wide. He turns his head, blinks up at Sam, his vision obviously blurred. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” Sam assures him. “Now, let me see.”
Dean curls up again, shaking his head as he hugs the injured hand covetously against his chest. “It hurts.”
Sam sighs. “Damn it, Dean, stop being such a baby. Let me look!”
Sam gives up being gentle. He pulls on Dean’s arm, crawling onto the bed to straddle Dean’s hips for better leverage. Dean resists, wiggles around so he’s practically lying on top of his own hand, and it must hurt like hell because he chokes out a cry that sounds more like a wounded animal than a man.
“Come on, Dean, I just need to see it,” Sam wheedles, panting with exertion. Even with a fever and in obvious pain, Dean’s a strong man.
“No.” Dean’s voice is muffled in the pillow.
Sam sits back, straddling Dean’s hips, and waits. He’ll sit on his brother as long as it takes, he decides. Eventually, Dean will buck him off and Sam can get a grip on his arm again, pull his hand out from under him.
Or Dean will fall asleep and Sam can move him and get ahold of his hand that way.
When Dean starts grinding down into the mattress and moaning, it’s not exactly what Sam expected.
“Love it when you get all grabby, Sammy,” Dean moans, his words slurred and breathy. “Love it when you sit on my ass.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sam’s mouth drops open. “Are you horny?”
“Always,” Dean slurs, his voice going deep and gravelly.
“I don’t know how you can be sick and horny at the same time,” Sam mutters, but he does. They both get off on a little pain. Spending decades in Hell has left them a little twisted in that way. Not to mention the times they got wounded on a job and got off on the sheer relief of being alive, despite the pain.
Dean shoves his ass up, right into Sam’s crotch, and Sam’s dick hardens instantly.
“Come on, Sammy, rub one off on my ass,” Dean coaxes. “You know you want to.”
“Jesus.” Sam gasps, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I’ll let you look at my hand if you get off on my ass first,” Dean offers.
“You’re impossible,” Sam mutters, but he’s already leaning down, giving his dick some friction on Dean’s backside, as ordered.
Dean grins. “That’s it, Sammy. Know how much you love my ass.”
“Gonna kick it when we’re done here,” Sam vows. The last word gets choked off as he grinds down on Dean’s ass, holding his hips so he can get the best angle.
Dean grinds down against the bed, getting a steady rhythm going, letting out some truly filthy sounds that work Sam up almost as much as his ass does, which Dean well knows. Letting Off Steam, as they call this particular brand of brotherly love, has been a staple of their hunting lives for as long as they’ve been hunting together, interrupted only by their separate tours in Hell and Purgatory and Stanford University.
Sam bends down over Dean’s back, gets his mouth on Dean’s neck, and bites hard.
“Shit, Sammy! You gotta give me more wounds?”
“Such a jerk,” Sam huffs against Dean’s skin. He licks over the mark he’s made, sucks and worries it as he grinds down on Dean’s ass.
Dean thrusts up, almost bucking Sam off, and pushes his legs apart so that Sam has to reposition between them. Sam shoves his hands up under Dean’s shirts, caressing soft, smooth skin, grabbing Dean’s dick through his jeans.
“Need to take these off,” he pants as he pulls on Dean’s belt, tugging on the waistband of his jeans.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grunts, lifting his hips to give Sam room to work.
Once he gets Dean’s jeans and boxers pulled down over his ass, Sam sits back to loosen his own jeans and admire the view.
“Hurry up, bitch!”
“Yeah, yeah, you love it,” Sam smirks as Dean wiggles his ass, daring Sam to slap it, which he does, awkwardly because of the angle. “Let’s get these off.”
Dean cooperates as Sam backs off the bed so he can pull Dean’s jeans and boxers all the way off. When he’s naked from the waist down, Dean humps the bed, ass and strong thighs bare and on full display. Sam debates standing at the foot of the bed and jerking off to the sight.
Dean looks back at him over his shoulder, watching as Sam strips.
“Come on, Sammy,” he begs, grinding down. “Need you.”
Sam complies because Dean’s sweating, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright with fever. Sam’s aching for his brother, needs to fuck him but needs him to get better even more. He climbs onto the bed between Dean’s legs and shoves his cock into the crack of Dean’s ass, pushing Dean’s hips down into the bed so that they’ve both got the friction they need. He pushes Dean’s shirts up, sliding his hands up Dean’s smooth, overheated chest till he finds his nipples, squeezing and twisting as he grinds his cock between Dean’s asscheeks.
It doesn’t take long before Sam feels his orgasm build. He bends down over Dean’s back and sucks another bruise into his neck as Dean writhes and moans beneath him. As Sam starts to come he clutches Dean’s hips, knowing he’ll leave bruises on the soft, pale skin. Dean goes rigid as his own orgasm courses through him, then immediately begins to shiver.
“Sorry, sorry.” Sam rolls off, grabbing his shirt off the floor to wipe the mess off Dean’s back and his own chest.
Dean rolls to one side, letting his injured hand fall open on the bed, his eyes drooping as he falls into a post-orgiastic doze.
Sam drops to his knees to examine the hand, which isn’t as bad as Sam had feared. Under the bandage the skin is red and hot, but not oozing pus or blood. Sam suspects Dean’s fever may have more to do with the flu virus going around than potential sepsis. Dean’s just being a big baby for nothing.
Sam pulls on a pair of worn sweatpants before fetching supplies to disinfect and dress the wound with fresh bandages. Then he props Dean up and forces painkillers and antibiotics between his lips, following the pills with water. Dean leans back against Sam’s chest, pliant and unresisting, and Sam can’t resist pressing a quick kiss to his brother’s temple, tasting sweat.
Dean used to do that when Sam was little. Sam will never forget how comforting it was to get that little kiss from Dean when he wasn’t feeling well.
“It’s the way Mom always tested me for fever,” Dean explained with a blush when Sam called him on it, sometime around Sam’s eighth birthday.
Dean never did it again. Sam will always regret that he said anything.
Sam moves them both out of the wet spot and lets Dean fall asleep as he salts the windows and door, then brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed.
“Where’d you go?” Dean complains, blinking in the light from the bathroom when Sam returns to the bedroom.
“Nowhere.” Sam shrugs, shutting off the light as he crosses the room, guided by the streetlight through the window curtains.
“C’mere,” Dean demands when Sam starts to climb into the other bed.
“Dean. You need your sleep.”
“Sleep better when you’re here,” Dean slurs, and Sam can tell he’s still feverish. The painkillers haven’t completely kicked in yet.
Sam relents with a dramatic sigh, pretending he’s put-out by the idea of sleeping in the same bed with his brother, who clearly plans to cuddle.
Sure enough, as soon as Sam’s settled in the bed next to Dean, his brother rolls over and slides his arm across Sam’s chest, scooting in against him. Sam shifts his legs apart under the blanket and Dean slides one bare leg between them, pressing his crotch into Sam’s hip. He’s naked from the waist up now, apparently having stripped while Sam was in the bathroom.
Sam doesn’t think about how Dean might have done that deliberately, knowing Sam wouldn’t refuse the subsequent cuddling.
It’s distracting having Dean naked, warmand curled up almost on top of him, but Sam’s determined to let his brother sleep. Heal. At any rate, they’ll probably end up having morning sex once Dean’s painkillers take the edge off his fever. Sam can wait.
He turns his face into Dean’s hair and breathes in the familiar smell of home.
It’s always this way between them, and Sam’s okay with that.