Fic: On the Way Down (Dean/Sam) Part 2
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 17,300
Warnings: Weecest (Sam is 15), wing!fic, all sorts of UST, barebacking, mild gore
Notes: See Masterpost for all of my thank yous, notes, and a link to the fantastic art by reapertownusa
Summary - The Winchesters have been subjected to a lot of things in the name of hunting, but the result of a spell-gone-wrong on their latest case is still pretty high on Dean's weird scale. While their father is out searching for a way to undo the magic, Dean's stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, trying to deal with his bitchy teenage brother and his own increasingly un-brotherly feelings toward him. Who'd have thought Sammy growing a pair of giant bird wings would be the least of his problems?
Back to Part 1
***
Dean pushes his fingers in deep through the feathers again - there are all kinds of technical names for the different ones, but he can’t really remember them right now - down until the tips meet warm skin. It’s a trippy feeling, silky little feathers and stiff, slim quills and this weird, not-exactly damp feeling of the oil that’s supposed to keep them clean and neat. A soft noise ekes out of Sam but he doesn’t tense up and he’d said it didn’t hurt, so Dean doesn’t stop.
Dean’s always had kind of a thing about touching, he’ll admit that, but a big part of it’s always been about Sam. The kid’s so damn responsive, always has been. When he was little, the easiest way to keep him from crying was to keep a hand on him, just some little touch so he’d know he wasn’t alone. That’s probably the thing out of all the bitchy teenage bullshit that gets under Dean’s skin the most; he could handle the attitude and the fights and the little comments, but the way that Sam just can’t seem to stand to be touched anymore, that’s what makes him crazy. It’s so much worse than when Sam tells him to leave him alone, because pulling away makes it seem like he means it, like he really doesn’t want Dean around him.
But not right now. Now he just sits there and makes that little sound again while his wings spread out like permission, giving Dean more room to work.
He hadn’t gotten a chance the really read through the whole passage in the book, but he’s pretty sure he got the gist, combing the oil down through the feathers, spreading it around in small circles with his fingertips, straightening out any stray or misturned feathers. It’s not like Sam would be able to reach these on the back anyway, especially not the ones close to his body, so Dean’s really just getting a jump on doing it. Not, like, obsessing over the way it feels or anything.
He has to get on his knees to get to the lower layers, sinking to the floor with the heat that radiates off of Sam’s back warming his skin. Here some of the feathers are more messed up, probably from how they dragged the ground those first couple of days before Sam’s muscles got strong enough to hold them up properly. Dean’s still pointedly not thinking about how fast Sam’s body seems to be adapting to the new additions, mainly because he’s grown very fond over the years of not hyperventilating like a little schoolgirl. If Dad says he’s onto something, then he’s onto something and this will all be over with soon. In the meantime, he just has to stay calm and get these stupid feathers to fall in the right places.
“Ow! Watch it!” Sam jerks as Dean tries to arrange a stubborn ruffle of feathers, and a small, tawny bit of fluff comes free in his hand.
“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes immediately, soothing over the spot with gentle fingers, a small dot of wetness against one fingertip where a tiny drop of blood forms in place of the plucked feather. Before he even thinks about it, he’s leaning in to press a kiss to the space between Sam’s shoulder blades.
It’s the same thing he used to do when Sam was little whenever he’d have to wrestle the kid down and brush his hair. Sammy was always tender-headed, all those baby-fine waves that would get kinked up around each other. Sam would whine and whine that Dean was hurting him and then turn around and snivel and burrow into Dean’s arms afterward so Dean could kiss all over the silky, hopeless mess - so blonde back then; nobody used to doubt that they were brothers - and ‘make it better’. He’d always thought Sammy would want to get his hair cut short as soon as he could but the kid’s kept it long, probably just to piss Dad off; that damn obstinate streak of his.
Dean’s not really sure how long he’s been sitting here with a grin pressed up against Sam’s skin.
With a shake of his head that doesn't do nearly enough to clear it, he says the first thing that pops into his mind to distract him, get him away from wherever his brain was going with all of that nonsense. “Do you think you could fly?”
Instantly he regrets saying it, the mental image of Sam taking a giant leap and spreading his wings out, disappearing up into the sky makes Dean want to clamp his arms around his brother’s middle and anchor him on the spot.
Sam just huffs though, something like a laugh and mutters, “With my luck they’d probably fall off as soon as I got up in the air.”
Dean actually feels the thought hit his brother, can all but see the gears turning as he sits up straighter, muscles twitching, ready to go tense and then Dean really does sling his arms around that too-skinny waist, using the leverage of his position to pull Sam back down when he brother makes to stand.
“No! Do not even think about it,” he growls against Sam's neck, another, far worse image of Sam sprawled out on the forest floor bleeding, arms and legs at unnatural angles, replacing the first in his mind. And like hell Sam wouldn't do it too; go fucking try to fly just to get rid of the damn things. No point in both of them getting killed because, fuck no, no way would Dean ever let Sam take that plunge by himself.
Sam struggles for a second, just one, rebelling like a reflex just because Dean told him not to - because he's fucking fifteen and how could he possibly be wrong? Dickwad. With obvious reluctance, he relaxes back into Dean's hold. He gives another huff, sullen now, and Dean doesn't need to see the pout of his lip to know it’s bitchface number five he's wearing.
“Lame. I finally grow wings and you still won’t let me jump off the roof.”
Dean laughs a little, only a tiny edge of hysteria creeping in - and doesn't even think about letting go just in case - he has played this game before - warm feathers and awkward juts of bone digging against his chest.
***
Sponge baths are the worst things ever. The end. No matter how long he takes or how thorough he is, Sam never really feels clean. That’s the worst part of the whole situation though, which, considering that Sam has completely unnatural bird wings sticking out from his back, he guesses he ought to be grateful for the relative level of comfort. Being shirtless all the time is still weird, but it’s Dean so it’s not exactly like Sam’s got a lot that his brother hasn’t seen a zillion times and there’s no real choice to the matter anyway. It makes everything a little more awkward, each little contact seeming like a bigger deal than it is because it’s all bare skin, but still, it could be a lot worse.
Summers usually and uniformly suck for Sam; without school he’s got no leverage to protest about his Dad moving them into a new motel every week, a new town in their tail lights before Sam’s even had a chance to memorize anyone’s names. Not that he gets much a chance to get to know anyone anyway since most of the time he ends up being Dad’s research bitch or else doing weapons practice with Dean. It’s different now, here, and not just because they’re standing still for once.
He’s heard all of the clichés about growing up in each other’s pockets and it’s as true for them as it’s not. As kids, yeah, they were practically conjoined - one part Sam’s hero worship, tagging along behind his brother everywhere he went and another part Dean’s inherent protectiveness, never wanting to let Sam out of his sight.
It honestly hadn’t been an issue because even though Dean was older, the playing field was level, they were both kids. Then Dean hit puberty and rocketed through all of these things that Sam couldn’t even fathom let alone keep up with. Dean wasn’t a little boy anymore; couldn’t be the playmate and best - only - friend Sam had always known because he was ‘too big for that stuff now’. By the time Sam had started going through the same thing, Dean was already over it, punching out of puberty on the other side just as Sam was getting his feet wet. It seemed so unfair that the only good thing Sam could ever remember having in his life had to be taken away too, all because of the few stupid years between them.
He can’t even put it all on Dean either, because once the hormones started raging, Sam was the one pulling away, even if it was for their own good. The feelings he has - he refuses to put a name on them, terrified to make them real that way - aren’t the kind he’s supposed to get, but it isn’t like he doesn’t understand why. Dean’s been everything for him, always; brother, father, friend, protector. It’s not entirely a shock that some lunatic part of his brain would latch onto that stability and love, try to twist one more label out of it.
The only solution, he thought, - the only cheap, ineffectual balm for this wound; not a cure, but something to take away the symptoms - was to get some space for himself, open up to new possibilities, let someone else - someone he’s not related to - fill up that misguided space within him. Easier said than done when his life is a set of rotating names and faces, Dad and Dean the only constants. And yet, as much as he knew he needed that distance, he’s hated it right from the get go. Hated that he had to turn his back and say no when Dean wanted to watch a movie or hang out instead of hitting a bar for once, couldn’t allow himself the comfort he’d always found in simple contact or talking about his problems with his brother because these are things Dean should never know. Dad and the hunts and girls and school had already put so much room in between them and Sam had forced himself to wedge another little bit in there, aching every time.
But here, for once, it’s just the two of them, nothing in the way, nowhere to go, and even if Sam’s knows he shouldn’t, he’s got a good excuse not to hold Dean at arm’s length. He needs Dean’s help, to go into town and get supplies, to deal with Dad and his erratic, vague updates, to reach the parts of his wings and his back that he can’t get at when he needs to be cleaned up. It's a terrible idea because it's not going to make anything easier down the road, but Sam feels better this way than he has in a long time.
That doesn't mean it's not strange.
They're both pretty clearly aware that things are different here, and Sam guesses he’d assumed that Dean had picked up on the whole distancing thing before, it just never really occurred to him that his brother would react like this to it being gone.
Dean's clingy. Like, very. Not quite to the point where Sam can say anything about it, because there's always a reason, but still. His hands seem to land on Sam all the time - not even like he's doing it intentionally, more like their drawn to some Sam-centric gravitational pull. And yeah, Dean's checking on him and taking care of him - making sure he doesn't actually try to jump off the roof, even though it probably really would work, knowing the way Sam's life works - but he's always right there in Sam's space. Ok, true, the cabin only technically has the three rooms - including the bathroom - so there wouldn’t be a lot of privacy in the cards regardless but Dean totally shadows him anyway.
Then there's the preening thing. Dean's developed some kind of obsession about it, insists on doing it at least every other day - even though it usually works out to be every day when his brother 'gets caught up' rearranging one feather and starts running his fingers through them. Sam's not actually trying all that hard to dissuade him either. It feels good, the preening, the touching, the attention.
Dean's always paid attention to him, mother-henned him to freaking death nearly, but it's different like this, being the sole focus, not for learning or to correct him, but just for physical care. He remembers the feeling from being a lot smaller, turning toward it like a flower seeking the sun. But now it's all mixed in the touching and the alien new sensory information he gets that ends up flooding to place it shouldn’t, giving him ideas.
The thin skin under his feathers is bizarre but also susceptible to pleasure in the weirdest possible way. The flesh around the main joints is even worse - better - so sensitive it's almost overwhelming when he feels the warm pressure of Dean's fingers there. He actually came in his pants once from it - and thank God he leaned how to get off quietly years ago or else that would have been awkward central.
So far, he's managed to control himself since then, but his body remembers and it's none too happy about holding back, especially since he barely has time to take care of matters privately with Dean hovering all the time. The last thing he needs is to explain to his brother why he's spending so much time in the bathroom without the shower for an excuse; there is nothing but conversations he doesn't want to have in that bag of tricks.
So Sam goes on, lets the days pass; relaxes into it like a warm bath and pretends, just for a while, like he doesn’t realize that one way or another, this is going to end badly.
***
There are a few very stark downsides to having the vast majority of your sexual education come from the 4 minute porn previews in cheap motel rooms, and one of those downsides is, apparently, you develop a fucking dirty mouth. It’s a pain in the ass really; Dean would love to be able to shut the hell up and jack it like a normal person, but it’s like he’s got this mental block or something and if his mouth isn’t running, he can’t get there.
It’s always ridiculous crap, exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to hear in some scripted $2-a-view flick with cheesy synthesizer in the background; all ‘yeah baby’ and ‘make me come’ and ‘fuck you so hard’ which, for what it’s worth, actually works with chicks. It’s kinda creepy when it’s just his hand though, and more than kinda creepy when he’s lying in bed with his little brother while he’s spouting it.
Sammy’s used to it by now, is even over the phase where he felt compelled to give Dean hell about it - helped that about that time in his life, Sam started coming in his shorts in the middle of the night so he didn’t have a lot of leverage - and now he pretty much ignores it when Dean starts mumbling filth to the drag of his own fist.
Next to him, Sam shifts in his sleep and the wing moves right along with him, silky feathers dragging over the wet head of Dean's cock while a whuff of the body-warm air trapped between them washes over him. It smells thickly of both of them - night sweat, and summer heat and the thick smell of solo-sex - but more so of Sam; that heavy, slightly musky scent that a couple of years ago edged out the baby-soft aroma Dean grew up with. It's heady like this, much, much stronger than the way Sam smells normally; rich and earthy and ever so slightly dirty, driving his mind back forcefully to nights falling into motel beds with his ass practically numb from days-long drives, looping his arms around his little brother's body and burying his face in the shade of Sam's hair even though they're both grungy and in desperate need of a scrub down.
It shouldn't make him even harder, shouldn't make him want to feel the softness of Sam's waves twining through his fingers right this second. It shouldn't remind him how Sam's feathers are even impossibly softer and how easy it would be to rub up against them. Shouldn’t but it does, and he's letting the head drag back and forth through soft plumage before he even realizes that's what he's about to do.
"Pervert," Sam grumbles, soft but close enough to nearly send Dean into cardiac arrest. His eyes are just barely slitted open, still sleep hazy across the pillowcase, but not angry or disgusted. It's just a jab, just like they take at each other all the time, and he hasn't got a clue how close to the mark he's hitting.
Still, it's better if Dean plays along, plays his part. "Hey, man, it's molesting me."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, wing freak," Sam sighs, not awake enough to put in the effort to fake sounding pissed.
Dean feels the soft brush of Sam's leg against the outside of his own as his brother hikes it a little higher on the mattress, feels the bed gently rock as he starts rubbing himself against it. And it's not like Dean can blame him, he's sitting here with his own - if anything, more interested - dick in his hand and he does vividly remember what it was like to be fifteen. And it's not exactly like Sam can turn over and jerk off with the wings and all. Not that Dean wants him to, because then he'd see Sam's hard-on and that's not something he wants. At all. Really.
The soft scrape of Sam’s hand skating up the sheets grabs his attention. The kid’s fingers have gotten so long, spidery but strong, tiny little nicks of scars along the length of them from knives and hot, spent casings. They clench, going bloodless white at the edges as they grip at the bottom sheet, probably looking for traction. Not finding it, they skid a little and this quiet, frustrated grunt comes out of Sam that he doesn’t even seem to be aware of, eye shut tight as he rocks down slowly.
So fast it’s a shock, Sam’s wings flex, extending out as far as the walls will allow, firm pinions xylophoning briefly over the tip of Dean’s cock before it slots back into the feathers deep, tip resting against the soft inner skin. Sam loses another sound and all of a sudden his hand is settling on Dean’s shoulder, hanging on to him for leverage. His palm is sweat-damp, clinging just a bit to Dean’s skin, so hot it feels like fire kissing his skin.
Dean’s own is flying over his shaft, short jerky movements that make the crown drag along downy afterfeathers, little bits of fluff clinging ticklishly to the precome slicking up the slit. He’s burning up between the heat of Sam’s hand and his wing and the warm, musky scent of him all over the place, the feel of his breath ghosting against Dean’s neck. Dean’s voice is rough in his own ears, breaking up like thin ice in the sun. He’s babbling something that he hopes to God is nonsense about "Fill you up, make you take it," and Sam’s muttering “yeah, yes, yes,” and the inside of Dean’s skin is tingling from it.
His whole body is tightening up, skin shrinking a size all on its own. It’s like he’s burning alive on the inside but his flesh has been smeared with menthol, prickling-cool with every tiny bit of sensation. Adrenalin riding him so hard he can barely see straight.
Sam’s hand clutches at him, warm lines of pain bursting in the wake of blunt fingernails, and Dean can tell it’s just hard enough to leave tracks for later. He hears his brother hiss out something that never really turns into a word and rolls his head to the side just in time to watch Sam’s mouth make the switch from nibbling on his own flushed lips to hanging open on a silent moan, all the bright, slick pink inside catching the light.
Somewhere between blowing his wad spectacularly all over the inside of Sam’s wing and remembering how his lungs work well enough to actually suck in some air, it hits Dean like a sledgehammer how really, really badly they need to get rid of this damn curse. Because this, right here? Looking at Sammy across the space of six inches of heated breath and shared pillow, with his wings spread out all over Dean, warm and soft and so full of the mixed-up scent of home and sex, dawn light catching on the random blond strands in his hair and turning them gold? It makes Dean ache for things he doesn’t even believe in, things his mother promised him back when he was little enough to have faith in them just because she said so.
Because if there really were such things as angels, there’s not a fucking one of them that could hold a candle to his little brother right now. And that is the scariest damn thing Dean’s ever had to feel.
***
There’s no real way to clean up Sam’s wing but to wash it, which Dean does with a washcloth soaked under the tap even though Sam keeps telling him it would be easier to just stick the one wing under the showerhead for a second.
Dean ignores him and keeps right on with what he’s doing; down on his knees on the bathroom floor, gently rubbing the wet cloth over each individual feather again and again until the come un-sticks and wipes away. It’s the same meticulous care he gives to guns and knives and the Impala and practically nothing else in the whole world. Sam stands there and fidgets as he tries to convince his dick that there’s nothing about that thought that’s even remotely hot as hell.
It’s a pointless battle, he supposes, because his body might be stupid, but it's also self-aware; it knows the feeling of Dean messing with his feathers, remembers how well that can turn out. His wet boxers are molded to his skin, making every little twitch obvious through semi-transparent fabric because being fifteen, like everything else about his existence, sucks metaphorical balls and he can get it up again at the drop of a hat.
It would help if ‘on his knees’ hadn’t recently become some kind of default position for Dean, of which Sam’s cock thoroughly approves. Or if it wasn’t Dean’s come that’s getting cleaned off of Sam - which should reasonably be really sick and instead is just kind of scorching for reasons Sam can’t begin to understand. Or if the inside of his wing didn’t feel like that when Dean’s fingers accidentally brush over it - like the crook of his elbow or the inside of his thigh or that soft little patch of skin just above the nest of dark curls around his dick. Or if his brain wasn’t all too ready to supply the sense memory of what it felt like when it wasn’t Dean’s fingers that were rubbing at his wing but something much thicker and wetter and - God help him - sexier. Or if maybe, just maybe, absolutely everything about his brother didn’t make him think about boning like a big pervy pervert.
But it does and his dick jumps, thinking really hard about getting really hard again, and Dean sees. Sam knows Dean sees because, for one, he’s eye-level with it and it’s sort of hard to miss, and for two, as soon as it happens, his brother’s gaze gets stuck right there. All of a sudden Sam feels like a bug pinned to a specimen board, except it’s dark green eyes instead of steel holding him in place. His wings twitch fitfully, snapping Dean’s rapt attention - which is not doing anything at all to discourage Sam from chubbing up - back to them for a second. His brother blinks a couple of times like he can’t remember what’s going on, then shoots a look up at Sam that’s almost a smirk but doesn’t quite make it.
“Probably outta take those off. Gonna get gross.” He flicks another glance between Sam’s legs where he’s obviously more than a little interested. Even more obviously when his cock jerks like it needs to wave hello.
Dean doesn’t make a move to actually pull down Sam’s underwear, just hovers close enough that Sam can feel the whisper of breath on his hip. It’s almost like a dare and almost like something else he doesn’t quite understand, but he can’t really say no, not without explaining why - and just no, not ever is that going to happen. So with fingers that keep wanting to tremble on him, Sam drags the sticky cotton down until it slips free to pool around his ankles, rush of air on wet skin making him gasp.
Being naked in front of Dean shouldn’t be that big of a deal, he keeps telling himself. Hell, his brother had helped pull him out of the shower a week ago so it’s not like there’s anything going on there that’s gonna be a newsflash. And they did just get off less than a foot from each other - Dean’s cleaning his own come off of Sam’s body! - so being kinda, sorta, almost all the way hard with Dean’s gaze all over him like sticky fingers shouldn’t be such a big thing. It all probably qualifies under Dean’s ‘it’s not gross because it’s you’ policy anyway but… just but.
The touch of the washcloth to his throbbing-hot shaft makes him startle, wings flapping, unsettled, sending dust bunnies running to the corners for cover.
“Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, “Cold.”
“Oh, right.” Dean nods back, something just a little glazed in his expression. He leans in a little closer - leans his face in a little closer to Sam’s dick - crinkle of wiry hair brushing against Dean’s cheek when he looks up one more time, eyes locked on Sam’s, and Sam has just enough time to realize the reason his chest is burning is because he’s been holding his breath for who knows how long before the air all punches out of him as Dean’s tongue flashes out and laps at the base of his cock.
If it weren’t for his arm reflexively shooting out to catch himself on Dean’s shoulder, Sam’s fairly certain he would have crumpled just then, knees not so much turning to mush as flat out disappearing on him. Dean’s hands clamp around his hips, helping him keep his balance as his wings shift restlessly against the wall no matter how hard he tries to make them stay still. His brother is still right there with his lips all soft-looking and full and parted just a little bit, just breathing onto the slowly drying come all over Sam’s cock.
God, Dean’s tasted it, Dean knows what it tastes like and that just shouldn’t be hot but it is; so much so that Sam feels like he’s going to crawl right out of his skin because it’s too much, it’s too good. And maybe Dean gets that because then he’s doing it again, quick, soft laps at Sam’s stiff flesh, tiny kitten-licks that are going to make him lose his freaking mind.
He’s not really sure when he gets a hand on the back of Dean’s head, isn’t even aware of it at all until his fingers tighten there at the top where the hair’s a little longer and Dean gives up this moan that vibrates straight into the shaft. He switches fast to these sucking, open-mouth kisses all the way up the length, punctuated with hard swirls of tongue. It’s the most beautiful, insane thing Sam’s ever felt; the first time he’s ever had somebody’s mouth on him and it’s his big brother’s which shouldn’t make it better but does. It does. It’s so good.
Dean’s hand, big and rough in the perfect way, wraps around the base, holding him steady and working him at the same time, rhythmic squeezes like he’s going to milk the come right out and Sam’s body seems to be on board with that plan. The swipe of Dean’s tongue around the head, dipping beneath to clean up the underside, nearly kills Sam. Like flat out, honest to God, almost murders him with pleasure and that’s all before Dean starts talking.
It’s the same crap he always says, except for how it’s not. All “yeah baby,” and “c’mon,” and “come so hard for me,” but it gets mixed up with “such a good boy, my good boy,” and “my baby boy,” and “love you so much.” Sam’s wings are curving in and around and he’s not even sure how they’re doing it but he can feel them, tips sliding up and out so that they cross against Dean’s back, pulling him in closer to Sam the same way he can feel his brother’s breath hitch - hot-cold rush - when the feathers touch his skin. Dean shudders and makes this noise like something maybe kind of important inside him just broke loose and he’s shoving his face against Sam’s hip, burying it there as he teeth dig in hard and brutal at the crease of his thigh. And Sam’s just gone, one hand hanging onto Dean’s hair for dear life, forcing him to stay right where he is as his vision sparks at the edges and he pumps gobs of white heat all over his brother’s hand and shoulder and chest.
Dean looks up at him from the feathered cradle of Sam’s wings with something that feels like worship and Sam lets his own eyes close to savor it as the aftershocks rock his body.
***
They avoid each other for most of the rest of the day, as much Dean’s fault as Sam’s. He just can’t seem to make himself sit around and watch the same three fuzzy satellite channels and talk shit when all he keeps thinking about is leaning back against the bathroom door after he shooed Sam downstairs and licking his little brother’s come off of his skin.
He spends his afternoon outside, splitting a mess of chopped logs that have been stacked out back since they got here. It’s fast approaching mid-summer, so it’s not like they need a fire, but at least it gives him something to do that’ll maybe wear his body out before he has to go back inside and face Sammy.
The problem is, Dean knows himself too well to pretend that it’s all going to end here. This wasn’t the first time he’s ever thought of Sam while getting off. Before he’s always managed to keep it reasonably impersonal; keep the thoughts focused on a tight hole and a warm, familiar body and pretty pink lips. Now he’s had an actual, literal taste, gotten his hand on Sam’s dick and seen what he looks like when he comes apart because of nothing but Dean.
There’s no way he’ll ever be able to get enough space back between them to get over that; probably couldn’t even if there was a whole fucking continent keeping them apart, let alone when they’re going to go right on sharing motels rooms and benchseats and beds. He’s going to want it, want more, want it all, and he’ll do everything he can to push it down and push it away until it’s all he sees every time he looks at Sam, and crawling into bed behind him every night is his own personal hell.
Sam’s too observant not to see it and too damn pushy just to let it go once he notices something’s up and Dean’s too damn stupid not to get drunk some night and go aiming for another round. One way or another, it’ll all come out and Sam will either crawl into his lap - out of some messed up want Dean’s forced on him or some fucked sense of obligation - and doom them both forever or else tell Dean he’s sick and wrong and how he hates him. Until then, it’s not going to end, so forgive Dean for not being too excited about going inside and getting the show on the road.
When the steady strain of his arms and the shunk of wood splitting doesn’t do a damn thing to make him quit wondering what it would be like to make Sam sit on his face and get his tongue up in that tight little body, Dean packs it in and wanders off into the trees to jack himself to the thought of Sam blowing a wad all over his face.
It’s not even close to over.
On to Part 3
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17 -- Wordcount: 17,300
Warnings: Weecest (Sam is 15), wing!fic, all sorts of UST, barebacking, mild gore
Notes: See Masterpost for all of my thank yous, notes, and a link to the fantastic art by reapertownusa
Summary - The Winchesters have been subjected to a lot of things in the name of hunting, but the result of a spell-gone-wrong on their latest case is still pretty high on Dean's weird scale. While their father is out searching for a way to undo the magic, Dean's stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, trying to deal with his bitchy teenage brother and his own increasingly un-brotherly feelings toward him. Who'd have thought Sammy growing a pair of giant bird wings would be the least of his problems?
Back to Part 1
***
Dean pushes his fingers in deep through the feathers again - there are all kinds of technical names for the different ones, but he can’t really remember them right now - down until the tips meet warm skin. It’s a trippy feeling, silky little feathers and stiff, slim quills and this weird, not-exactly damp feeling of the oil that’s supposed to keep them clean and neat. A soft noise ekes out of Sam but he doesn’t tense up and he’d said it didn’t hurt, so Dean doesn’t stop.
Dean’s always had kind of a thing about touching, he’ll admit that, but a big part of it’s always been about Sam. The kid’s so damn responsive, always has been. When he was little, the easiest way to keep him from crying was to keep a hand on him, just some little touch so he’d know he wasn’t alone. That’s probably the thing out of all the bitchy teenage bullshit that gets under Dean’s skin the most; he could handle the attitude and the fights and the little comments, but the way that Sam just can’t seem to stand to be touched anymore, that’s what makes him crazy. It’s so much worse than when Sam tells him to leave him alone, because pulling away makes it seem like he means it, like he really doesn’t want Dean around him.
But not right now. Now he just sits there and makes that little sound again while his wings spread out like permission, giving Dean more room to work.
He hadn’t gotten a chance the really read through the whole passage in the book, but he’s pretty sure he got the gist, combing the oil down through the feathers, spreading it around in small circles with his fingertips, straightening out any stray or misturned feathers. It’s not like Sam would be able to reach these on the back anyway, especially not the ones close to his body, so Dean’s really just getting a jump on doing it. Not, like, obsessing over the way it feels or anything.
He has to get on his knees to get to the lower layers, sinking to the floor with the heat that radiates off of Sam’s back warming his skin. Here some of the feathers are more messed up, probably from how they dragged the ground those first couple of days before Sam’s muscles got strong enough to hold them up properly. Dean’s still pointedly not thinking about how fast Sam’s body seems to be adapting to the new additions, mainly because he’s grown very fond over the years of not hyperventilating like a little schoolgirl. If Dad says he’s onto something, then he’s onto something and this will all be over with soon. In the meantime, he just has to stay calm and get these stupid feathers to fall in the right places.
“Ow! Watch it!” Sam jerks as Dean tries to arrange a stubborn ruffle of feathers, and a small, tawny bit of fluff comes free in his hand.
“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes immediately, soothing over the spot with gentle fingers, a small dot of wetness against one fingertip where a tiny drop of blood forms in place of the plucked feather. Before he even thinks about it, he’s leaning in to press a kiss to the space between Sam’s shoulder blades.
It’s the same thing he used to do when Sam was little whenever he’d have to wrestle the kid down and brush his hair. Sammy was always tender-headed, all those baby-fine waves that would get kinked up around each other. Sam would whine and whine that Dean was hurting him and then turn around and snivel and burrow into Dean’s arms afterward so Dean could kiss all over the silky, hopeless mess - so blonde back then; nobody used to doubt that they were brothers - and ‘make it better’. He’d always thought Sammy would want to get his hair cut short as soon as he could but the kid’s kept it long, probably just to piss Dad off; that damn obstinate streak of his.
Dean’s not really sure how long he’s been sitting here with a grin pressed up against Sam’s skin.
With a shake of his head that doesn't do nearly enough to clear it, he says the first thing that pops into his mind to distract him, get him away from wherever his brain was going with all of that nonsense. “Do you think you could fly?”
Instantly he regrets saying it, the mental image of Sam taking a giant leap and spreading his wings out, disappearing up into the sky makes Dean want to clamp his arms around his brother’s middle and anchor him on the spot.
Sam just huffs though, something like a laugh and mutters, “With my luck they’d probably fall off as soon as I got up in the air.”
Dean actually feels the thought hit his brother, can all but see the gears turning as he sits up straighter, muscles twitching, ready to go tense and then Dean really does sling his arms around that too-skinny waist, using the leverage of his position to pull Sam back down when he brother makes to stand.
“No! Do not even think about it,” he growls against Sam's neck, another, far worse image of Sam sprawled out on the forest floor bleeding, arms and legs at unnatural angles, replacing the first in his mind. And like hell Sam wouldn't do it too; go fucking try to fly just to get rid of the damn things. No point in both of them getting killed because, fuck no, no way would Dean ever let Sam take that plunge by himself.
Sam struggles for a second, just one, rebelling like a reflex just because Dean told him not to - because he's fucking fifteen and how could he possibly be wrong? Dickwad. With obvious reluctance, he relaxes back into Dean's hold. He gives another huff, sullen now, and Dean doesn't need to see the pout of his lip to know it’s bitchface number five he's wearing.
“Lame. I finally grow wings and you still won’t let me jump off the roof.”
Dean laughs a little, only a tiny edge of hysteria creeping in - and doesn't even think about letting go just in case - he has played this game before - warm feathers and awkward juts of bone digging against his chest.
***
Sponge baths are the worst things ever. The end. No matter how long he takes or how thorough he is, Sam never really feels clean. That’s the worst part of the whole situation though, which, considering that Sam has completely unnatural bird wings sticking out from his back, he guesses he ought to be grateful for the relative level of comfort. Being shirtless all the time is still weird, but it’s Dean so it’s not exactly like Sam’s got a lot that his brother hasn’t seen a zillion times and there’s no real choice to the matter anyway. It makes everything a little more awkward, each little contact seeming like a bigger deal than it is because it’s all bare skin, but still, it could be a lot worse.
Summers usually and uniformly suck for Sam; without school he’s got no leverage to protest about his Dad moving them into a new motel every week, a new town in their tail lights before Sam’s even had a chance to memorize anyone’s names. Not that he gets much a chance to get to know anyone anyway since most of the time he ends up being Dad’s research bitch or else doing weapons practice with Dean. It’s different now, here, and not just because they’re standing still for once.
He’s heard all of the clichés about growing up in each other’s pockets and it’s as true for them as it’s not. As kids, yeah, they were practically conjoined - one part Sam’s hero worship, tagging along behind his brother everywhere he went and another part Dean’s inherent protectiveness, never wanting to let Sam out of his sight.
It honestly hadn’t been an issue because even though Dean was older, the playing field was level, they were both kids. Then Dean hit puberty and rocketed through all of these things that Sam couldn’t even fathom let alone keep up with. Dean wasn’t a little boy anymore; couldn’t be the playmate and best - only - friend Sam had always known because he was ‘too big for that stuff now’. By the time Sam had started going through the same thing, Dean was already over it, punching out of puberty on the other side just as Sam was getting his feet wet. It seemed so unfair that the only good thing Sam could ever remember having in his life had to be taken away too, all because of the few stupid years between them.
He can’t even put it all on Dean either, because once the hormones started raging, Sam was the one pulling away, even if it was for their own good. The feelings he has - he refuses to put a name on them, terrified to make them real that way - aren’t the kind he’s supposed to get, but it isn’t like he doesn’t understand why. Dean’s been everything for him, always; brother, father, friend, protector. It’s not entirely a shock that some lunatic part of his brain would latch onto that stability and love, try to twist one more label out of it.
The only solution, he thought, - the only cheap, ineffectual balm for this wound; not a cure, but something to take away the symptoms - was to get some space for himself, open up to new possibilities, let someone else - someone he’s not related to - fill up that misguided space within him. Easier said than done when his life is a set of rotating names and faces, Dad and Dean the only constants. And yet, as much as he knew he needed that distance, he’s hated it right from the get go. Hated that he had to turn his back and say no when Dean wanted to watch a movie or hang out instead of hitting a bar for once, couldn’t allow himself the comfort he’d always found in simple contact or talking about his problems with his brother because these are things Dean should never know. Dad and the hunts and girls and school had already put so much room in between them and Sam had forced himself to wedge another little bit in there, aching every time.
But here, for once, it’s just the two of them, nothing in the way, nowhere to go, and even if Sam’s knows he shouldn’t, he’s got a good excuse not to hold Dean at arm’s length. He needs Dean’s help, to go into town and get supplies, to deal with Dad and his erratic, vague updates, to reach the parts of his wings and his back that he can’t get at when he needs to be cleaned up. It's a terrible idea because it's not going to make anything easier down the road, but Sam feels better this way than he has in a long time.
That doesn't mean it's not strange.
They're both pretty clearly aware that things are different here, and Sam guesses he’d assumed that Dean had picked up on the whole distancing thing before, it just never really occurred to him that his brother would react like this to it being gone.
Dean's clingy. Like, very. Not quite to the point where Sam can say anything about it, because there's always a reason, but still. His hands seem to land on Sam all the time - not even like he's doing it intentionally, more like their drawn to some Sam-centric gravitational pull. And yeah, Dean's checking on him and taking care of him - making sure he doesn't actually try to jump off the roof, even though it probably really would work, knowing the way Sam's life works - but he's always right there in Sam's space. Ok, true, the cabin only technically has the three rooms - including the bathroom - so there wouldn’t be a lot of privacy in the cards regardless but Dean totally shadows him anyway.
Then there's the preening thing. Dean's developed some kind of obsession about it, insists on doing it at least every other day - even though it usually works out to be every day when his brother 'gets caught up' rearranging one feather and starts running his fingers through them. Sam's not actually trying all that hard to dissuade him either. It feels good, the preening, the touching, the attention.
Dean's always paid attention to him, mother-henned him to freaking death nearly, but it's different like this, being the sole focus, not for learning or to correct him, but just for physical care. He remembers the feeling from being a lot smaller, turning toward it like a flower seeking the sun. But now it's all mixed in the touching and the alien new sensory information he gets that ends up flooding to place it shouldn’t, giving him ideas.
The thin skin under his feathers is bizarre but also susceptible to pleasure in the weirdest possible way. The flesh around the main joints is even worse - better - so sensitive it's almost overwhelming when he feels the warm pressure of Dean's fingers there. He actually came in his pants once from it - and thank God he leaned how to get off quietly years ago or else that would have been awkward central.
So far, he's managed to control himself since then, but his body remembers and it's none too happy about holding back, especially since he barely has time to take care of matters privately with Dean hovering all the time. The last thing he needs is to explain to his brother why he's spending so much time in the bathroom without the shower for an excuse; there is nothing but conversations he doesn't want to have in that bag of tricks.
So Sam goes on, lets the days pass; relaxes into it like a warm bath and pretends, just for a while, like he doesn’t realize that one way or another, this is going to end badly.
***
There are a few very stark downsides to having the vast majority of your sexual education come from the 4 minute porn previews in cheap motel rooms, and one of those downsides is, apparently, you develop a fucking dirty mouth. It’s a pain in the ass really; Dean would love to be able to shut the hell up and jack it like a normal person, but it’s like he’s got this mental block or something and if his mouth isn’t running, he can’t get there.
It’s always ridiculous crap, exactly the kind of thing you’d expect to hear in some scripted $2-a-view flick with cheesy synthesizer in the background; all ‘yeah baby’ and ‘make me come’ and ‘fuck you so hard’ which, for what it’s worth, actually works with chicks. It’s kinda creepy when it’s just his hand though, and more than kinda creepy when he’s lying in bed with his little brother while he’s spouting it.
Sammy’s used to it by now, is even over the phase where he felt compelled to give Dean hell about it - helped that about that time in his life, Sam started coming in his shorts in the middle of the night so he didn’t have a lot of leverage - and now he pretty much ignores it when Dean starts mumbling filth to the drag of his own fist.
Next to him, Sam shifts in his sleep and the wing moves right along with him, silky feathers dragging over the wet head of Dean's cock while a whuff of the body-warm air trapped between them washes over him. It smells thickly of both of them - night sweat, and summer heat and the thick smell of solo-sex - but more so of Sam; that heavy, slightly musky scent that a couple of years ago edged out the baby-soft aroma Dean grew up with. It's heady like this, much, much stronger than the way Sam smells normally; rich and earthy and ever so slightly dirty, driving his mind back forcefully to nights falling into motel beds with his ass practically numb from days-long drives, looping his arms around his little brother's body and burying his face in the shade of Sam's hair even though they're both grungy and in desperate need of a scrub down.
It shouldn't make him even harder, shouldn't make him want to feel the softness of Sam's waves twining through his fingers right this second. It shouldn't remind him how Sam's feathers are even impossibly softer and how easy it would be to rub up against them. Shouldn’t but it does, and he's letting the head drag back and forth through soft plumage before he even realizes that's what he's about to do.
"Pervert," Sam grumbles, soft but close enough to nearly send Dean into cardiac arrest. His eyes are just barely slitted open, still sleep hazy across the pillowcase, but not angry or disgusted. It's just a jab, just like they take at each other all the time, and he hasn't got a clue how close to the mark he's hitting.
Still, it's better if Dean plays along, plays his part. "Hey, man, it's molesting me."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, wing freak," Sam sighs, not awake enough to put in the effort to fake sounding pissed.
Dean feels the soft brush of Sam's leg against the outside of his own as his brother hikes it a little higher on the mattress, feels the bed gently rock as he starts rubbing himself against it. And it's not like Dean can blame him, he's sitting here with his own - if anything, more interested - dick in his hand and he does vividly remember what it was like to be fifteen. And it's not exactly like Sam can turn over and jerk off with the wings and all. Not that Dean wants him to, because then he'd see Sam's hard-on and that's not something he wants. At all. Really.
The soft scrape of Sam’s hand skating up the sheets grabs his attention. The kid’s fingers have gotten so long, spidery but strong, tiny little nicks of scars along the length of them from knives and hot, spent casings. They clench, going bloodless white at the edges as they grip at the bottom sheet, probably looking for traction. Not finding it, they skid a little and this quiet, frustrated grunt comes out of Sam that he doesn’t even seem to be aware of, eye shut tight as he rocks down slowly.
So fast it’s a shock, Sam’s wings flex, extending out as far as the walls will allow, firm pinions xylophoning briefly over the tip of Dean’s cock before it slots back into the feathers deep, tip resting against the soft inner skin. Sam loses another sound and all of a sudden his hand is settling on Dean’s shoulder, hanging on to him for leverage. His palm is sweat-damp, clinging just a bit to Dean’s skin, so hot it feels like fire kissing his skin.
Dean’s own is flying over his shaft, short jerky movements that make the crown drag along downy afterfeathers, little bits of fluff clinging ticklishly to the precome slicking up the slit. He’s burning up between the heat of Sam’s hand and his wing and the warm, musky scent of him all over the place, the feel of his breath ghosting against Dean’s neck. Dean’s voice is rough in his own ears, breaking up like thin ice in the sun. He’s babbling something that he hopes to God is nonsense about "Fill you up, make you take it," and Sam’s muttering “yeah, yes, yes,” and the inside of Dean’s skin is tingling from it.
His whole body is tightening up, skin shrinking a size all on its own. It’s like he’s burning alive on the inside but his flesh has been smeared with menthol, prickling-cool with every tiny bit of sensation. Adrenalin riding him so hard he can barely see straight.
Sam’s hand clutches at him, warm lines of pain bursting in the wake of blunt fingernails, and Dean can tell it’s just hard enough to leave tracks for later. He hears his brother hiss out something that never really turns into a word and rolls his head to the side just in time to watch Sam’s mouth make the switch from nibbling on his own flushed lips to hanging open on a silent moan, all the bright, slick pink inside catching the light.
Somewhere between blowing his wad spectacularly all over the inside of Sam’s wing and remembering how his lungs work well enough to actually suck in some air, it hits Dean like a sledgehammer how really, really badly they need to get rid of this damn curse. Because this, right here? Looking at Sammy across the space of six inches of heated breath and shared pillow, with his wings spread out all over Dean, warm and soft and so full of the mixed-up scent of home and sex, dawn light catching on the random blond strands in his hair and turning them gold? It makes Dean ache for things he doesn’t even believe in, things his mother promised him back when he was little enough to have faith in them just because she said so.
Because if there really were such things as angels, there’s not a fucking one of them that could hold a candle to his little brother right now. And that is the scariest damn thing Dean’s ever had to feel.
***
There’s no real way to clean up Sam’s wing but to wash it, which Dean does with a washcloth soaked under the tap even though Sam keeps telling him it would be easier to just stick the one wing under the showerhead for a second.
Dean ignores him and keeps right on with what he’s doing; down on his knees on the bathroom floor, gently rubbing the wet cloth over each individual feather again and again until the come un-sticks and wipes away. It’s the same meticulous care he gives to guns and knives and the Impala and practically nothing else in the whole world. Sam stands there and fidgets as he tries to convince his dick that there’s nothing about that thought that’s even remotely hot as hell.
It’s a pointless battle, he supposes, because his body might be stupid, but it's also self-aware; it knows the feeling of Dean messing with his feathers, remembers how well that can turn out. His wet boxers are molded to his skin, making every little twitch obvious through semi-transparent fabric because being fifteen, like everything else about his existence, sucks metaphorical balls and he can get it up again at the drop of a hat.
It would help if ‘on his knees’ hadn’t recently become some kind of default position for Dean, of which Sam’s cock thoroughly approves. Or if it wasn’t Dean’s come that’s getting cleaned off of Sam - which should reasonably be really sick and instead is just kind of scorching for reasons Sam can’t begin to understand. Or if the inside of his wing didn’t feel like that when Dean’s fingers accidentally brush over it - like the crook of his elbow or the inside of his thigh or that soft little patch of skin just above the nest of dark curls around his dick. Or if his brain wasn’t all too ready to supply the sense memory of what it felt like when it wasn’t Dean’s fingers that were rubbing at his wing but something much thicker and wetter and - God help him - sexier. Or if maybe, just maybe, absolutely everything about his brother didn’t make him think about boning like a big pervy pervert.
But it does and his dick jumps, thinking really hard about getting really hard again, and Dean sees. Sam knows Dean sees because, for one, he’s eye-level with it and it’s sort of hard to miss, and for two, as soon as it happens, his brother’s gaze gets stuck right there. All of a sudden Sam feels like a bug pinned to a specimen board, except it’s dark green eyes instead of steel holding him in place. His wings twitch fitfully, snapping Dean’s rapt attention - which is not doing anything at all to discourage Sam from chubbing up - back to them for a second. His brother blinks a couple of times like he can’t remember what’s going on, then shoots a look up at Sam that’s almost a smirk but doesn’t quite make it.
“Probably outta take those off. Gonna get gross.” He flicks another glance between Sam’s legs where he’s obviously more than a little interested. Even more obviously when his cock jerks like it needs to wave hello.
Dean doesn’t make a move to actually pull down Sam’s underwear, just hovers close enough that Sam can feel the whisper of breath on his hip. It’s almost like a dare and almost like something else he doesn’t quite understand, but he can’t really say no, not without explaining why - and just no, not ever is that going to happen. So with fingers that keep wanting to tremble on him, Sam drags the sticky cotton down until it slips free to pool around his ankles, rush of air on wet skin making him gasp.
Being naked in front of Dean shouldn’t be that big of a deal, he keeps telling himself. Hell, his brother had helped pull him out of the shower a week ago so it’s not like there’s anything going on there that’s gonna be a newsflash. And they did just get off less than a foot from each other - Dean’s cleaning his own come off of Sam’s body! - so being kinda, sorta, almost all the way hard with Dean’s gaze all over him like sticky fingers shouldn’t be such a big thing. It all probably qualifies under Dean’s ‘it’s not gross because it’s you’ policy anyway but… just but.
The touch of the washcloth to his throbbing-hot shaft makes him startle, wings flapping, unsettled, sending dust bunnies running to the corners for cover.
“Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, “Cold.”
“Oh, right.” Dean nods back, something just a little glazed in his expression. He leans in a little closer - leans his face in a little closer to Sam’s dick - crinkle of wiry hair brushing against Dean’s cheek when he looks up one more time, eyes locked on Sam’s, and Sam has just enough time to realize the reason his chest is burning is because he’s been holding his breath for who knows how long before the air all punches out of him as Dean’s tongue flashes out and laps at the base of his cock.
If it weren’t for his arm reflexively shooting out to catch himself on Dean’s shoulder, Sam’s fairly certain he would have crumpled just then, knees not so much turning to mush as flat out disappearing on him. Dean’s hands clamp around his hips, helping him keep his balance as his wings shift restlessly against the wall no matter how hard he tries to make them stay still. His brother is still right there with his lips all soft-looking and full and parted just a little bit, just breathing onto the slowly drying come all over Sam’s cock.
God, Dean’s tasted it, Dean knows what it tastes like and that just shouldn’t be hot but it is; so much so that Sam feels like he’s going to crawl right out of his skin because it’s too much, it’s too good. And maybe Dean gets that because then he’s doing it again, quick, soft laps at Sam’s stiff flesh, tiny kitten-licks that are going to make him lose his freaking mind.
He’s not really sure when he gets a hand on the back of Dean’s head, isn’t even aware of it at all until his fingers tighten there at the top where the hair’s a little longer and Dean gives up this moan that vibrates straight into the shaft. He switches fast to these sucking, open-mouth kisses all the way up the length, punctuated with hard swirls of tongue. It’s the most beautiful, insane thing Sam’s ever felt; the first time he’s ever had somebody’s mouth on him and it’s his big brother’s which shouldn’t make it better but does. It does. It’s so good.
Dean’s hand, big and rough in the perfect way, wraps around the base, holding him steady and working him at the same time, rhythmic squeezes like he’s going to milk the come right out and Sam’s body seems to be on board with that plan. The swipe of Dean’s tongue around the head, dipping beneath to clean up the underside, nearly kills Sam. Like flat out, honest to God, almost murders him with pleasure and that’s all before Dean starts talking.
It’s the same crap he always says, except for how it’s not. All “yeah baby,” and “c’mon,” and “come so hard for me,” but it gets mixed up with “such a good boy, my good boy,” and “my baby boy,” and “love you so much.” Sam’s wings are curving in and around and he’s not even sure how they’re doing it but he can feel them, tips sliding up and out so that they cross against Dean’s back, pulling him in closer to Sam the same way he can feel his brother’s breath hitch - hot-cold rush - when the feathers touch his skin. Dean shudders and makes this noise like something maybe kind of important inside him just broke loose and he’s shoving his face against Sam’s hip, burying it there as he teeth dig in hard and brutal at the crease of his thigh. And Sam’s just gone, one hand hanging onto Dean’s hair for dear life, forcing him to stay right where he is as his vision sparks at the edges and he pumps gobs of white heat all over his brother’s hand and shoulder and chest.
Dean looks up at him from the feathered cradle of Sam’s wings with something that feels like worship and Sam lets his own eyes close to savor it as the aftershocks rock his body.
***
They avoid each other for most of the rest of the day, as much Dean’s fault as Sam’s. He just can’t seem to make himself sit around and watch the same three fuzzy satellite channels and talk shit when all he keeps thinking about is leaning back against the bathroom door after he shooed Sam downstairs and licking his little brother’s come off of his skin.
He spends his afternoon outside, splitting a mess of chopped logs that have been stacked out back since they got here. It’s fast approaching mid-summer, so it’s not like they need a fire, but at least it gives him something to do that’ll maybe wear his body out before he has to go back inside and face Sammy.
The problem is, Dean knows himself too well to pretend that it’s all going to end here. This wasn’t the first time he’s ever thought of Sam while getting off. Before he’s always managed to keep it reasonably impersonal; keep the thoughts focused on a tight hole and a warm, familiar body and pretty pink lips. Now he’s had an actual, literal taste, gotten his hand on Sam’s dick and seen what he looks like when he comes apart because of nothing but Dean.
There’s no way he’ll ever be able to get enough space back between them to get over that; probably couldn’t even if there was a whole fucking continent keeping them apart, let alone when they’re going to go right on sharing motels rooms and benchseats and beds. He’s going to want it, want more, want it all, and he’ll do everything he can to push it down and push it away until it’s all he sees every time he looks at Sam, and crawling into bed behind him every night is his own personal hell.
Sam’s too observant not to see it and too damn pushy just to let it go once he notices something’s up and Dean’s too damn stupid not to get drunk some night and go aiming for another round. One way or another, it’ll all come out and Sam will either crawl into his lap - out of some messed up want Dean’s forced on him or some fucked sense of obligation - and doom them both forever or else tell Dean he’s sick and wrong and how he hates him. Until then, it’s not going to end, so forgive Dean for not being too excited about going inside and getting the show on the road.
When the steady strain of his arms and the shunk of wood splitting doesn’t do a damn thing to make him quit wondering what it would be like to make Sam sit on his face and get his tongue up in that tight little body, Dean packs it in and wanders off into the trees to jack himself to the thought of Sam blowing a wad all over his face.
It’s not even close to over.
On to Part 3