Fic: Mirror, Mirror | NC 17 | Sam/Dean | kink
Title: Mirror, Mirror
Author: girlguidejones
Rating: NC 17 | Sam/Dean | 2800 words
Warning: kink
Notes: Written for the TV Guide Photo Shoot Challenge. This is a semi-sequel to this story from the amazing tabaqui. wendy (and the rest of the known SPN universe!) wanted porn focused on Sam's gigantic hands. Proceed with caution; unbeta'd, with kink ahead.
The plum-colored spots are changing color on his hip-bones, darkening to concord-purple, little grape-stains scattered in not-so-random patterns amongst the stray freckles. If anyone saw them, they'd know them for exactly what they were, and the thought makes Dean's face bloom pink in the jury-rigged bathroom mirror.
Which is stupid, and that is exactly he tells his reflection.
"You're an idiot."
His reflection doesn't answer, seemingly unconcerned with the contradiction between the exhibitionism of yesterday afternoon in front of the open blinds and the tell-tale flush on his face at the thought of Sam's gigantic hands practically spanning Dean's pelvis.
The mirror had relinquished its spot above the sink long before the Winchesters had arrived. It was poorly hung in the first place, with a finishing nail that was destined to work its way loose eventually instead of the drywall screw and wall anchor that would have held it through the apocalypse. Dean had tsk'd when they checked in.
"Gotta have the right tool for the job, Sammy," he'd said, repeating a classic John Winchester mantra, and Sam had (predictably) just snorted at Dean's sage wisdom. The chipped looking-glass is now jammed in behind the faucet, tilted sharply against the peeling drywall. Sam bitches about it every time he has to wash his hands, busting his knuckles against it in his vain attempts to save the planet by ensuring the complete shut-off of a single hot water faucet.
It's an ill-wind, as the saying goes, and Dean has now discovered the one advantage to the dysfunctional amenities: while he can't see the top of his head without bending forward (and wetting his belly against the porcelain, because Sam's a pig and can't wipe up when he brushes his teeth)--he can see his entire groin instead.
The smudge-bruises from Sam's grip on him fascinate Dean; he tries to cover them with his own fingers, placing pinkies first, left then right, then his ring fingers follow. He pauses, distracted because the spinner ring on his hand catches the light. It looks out of place and it throws him off. If those were Sam's hands the fingers would be bare. He stops and slides the ring off, tucking it behind the mirror for safekeeping, and starts again.
Pinky, ring finger, pinky, ring. He presses a little, imagining it's Sam and Sam's hands making those marks, and the purple spots ache just enough to make it feel real. He feels his cock begin to fill, sense-memory he guesses, but refuses to look at it until he's got everything aligned. He saves it for the end, like the center bite from a filet mignon; it'll be a reward for when he gets it right. But when he tries to line up the middle fingers things start to get a little off-track.
His fingers aren't quite long enough. He can see the very tips of the dark ovals showing, peeking out from where his own fingers are too short to reach the right spot. He splays his hands wider and the tendons ache with the effort (like his thighs last night when Sam kneed them open, and Dean strained to stay wide for him). The pointer fingers don't even begin to cover their corresponding markers. A good half of Sam's fingerprints (Dean stares, suddenly wondering if the little aches are so bone-deep because Sam left imprints of his very whorls on Dean's skin) are still showing.
"You're cheating."
Sam's a sneaky motherfucker when he wants to be, and Dean's always been conflicted about that, both proud that he learned so well and irritated that it gets used against Dean, often as not. Dean tells himself that he maintained his control and chose not to react, but in reality he's frozen in place. Sam's surely turned into a sorcerer and he's got some sort of fucked up alchemy going on in here because Sam's voice is a thing, alive and skittering icy-hot down Dean's spine.
"It's okay, baby," Sam says. Dean hates that (loves it). He can't stand it when Sam calls him baby. (All his synapses fire at once and it's like there's no more gravity and he doesn't know which way is up). "I don't think you meant to," Sam pauses, laughs a little. "This time, anyway."
Dean sees Sam's hands moving in the mirror (because he can't look him in the eye yet, too soon, too soon) and hears the clink of Sam's belt falling open. Aside from that Sam's still fully dressed, while Dean's jaybird-naked with his shower-towel puddled at his ankles. Realizing that finally galvanizes Dean. He scrounges up a smirk and meets Sam's gaze in the mirror as he steps closer behind Dean, reaching for Dean's hands, still splayed on his own hips.
"Got me at a little disadvantage, dontcha Sammy?" he asks, intentionally giving his hips a little hitch when Sam laces fingers with Dean, lifting his hands up and off. "You lookin' for the old get-blown-in-the-bathroom rountine? 'Cause we can pretend I'm your hooker if that's your itch..." Dean's trying to make it smart-assed, but his voice loses the swagger-factor half-way through and it ends up sounding almost eager instead. Sam must have heard it too, because his eyes smile at Dean's and he just shakes his head.
"Nah," Sam says, soft and easy, raising Dean's hands up and turning each palm to face backward, toward Sam. He leans over each of Dean's shoulders to kiss them, a humid press of his lips against first one lifeline and then the next, eyes never leaving Dean's.
Dean's feels something leap and flail in his chest. Something's going to happen, Sam's got to stop this, he has to break or Dean thinks he might instead. He thinks he must be hard, but he can't look away from Sam and he's just not sure. Everything else feels so swollen and big and tight inside him, his skin taut over his body, and if his cock is hard then it's just in the same situation as the rest of him. Just then Sam opens his mouth, and Dean thinks this is it, this is it thank God, and Sam is going to say something smart-assed and then Dean can breathe again.
But Sam doesn't do that at all.
Sam swallows Dean's left thumb, down to the ball of it, and Dean's throat makes a sound he doesn't recognize himself when Sam pulls back to lave it thoroughly, eyes glinting at Dean. Sam gives it one last suck that Dean feels behind his balls, and guides Dean's hand back to its former position...this time carefully lining Dean's thumb up on some invisible pinpoint on his own ass. He does the same with Dean's right hand, and when he presses down it aches. That's when Dean realizes what he's doing.
"You've got such a tell, Dean. Your eyes always get so wide and green when you figure out something," Sam says, hooking his chin on Dean's shoulder and smiling indulgently at him. "Now try it." Dean bites his lip, torn between watching Sam and looking down to his fingers, which are more or less back where they started.
It's less, actually. Dean's fingers don't even come close to Sam's marks now, the inky spots his brother left him with yesterday entirely visible beyond the furthest stretch of Dean's hands, now that their thumbprints are aligned on his backside.
"Can you see it?" Sam's voice is a husky whisper, sibilant and dangerous in Dean's ear. "Can you see how much bigger I am?" Dean nods, swallowing and shivering, and that's gotta be wrong, something's really fucked up because it's hot in here, he's sweating and can barely breathe in the heat and there's no way he could possibly be cold. He leans fully into Sam, feels the brush of Sam's cock against the base of his spine and then? Vertigo. Sam's lifting him, his hands covering Dean's and raising him up with a grunt that vibrates against Dean's shoulders. He sets Dean's ass down on the edge of the pedestal sink, half-way in it, really, his package hanging obscenely in the well of it and his thighs dangling off either side.
Dean wonders if the sink is fastened better than the mirror was.
He knows his cock and balls are on display now, he can feel them full and heavy, is certain they have to look utterly vulgar in the cracked mirror and every porn cliche ever runs through Dean's mind but he doesn't actually look. He can't, because he can't stop looking at Sam's hands on his. Sam's thumbs are mated with his own on the dimples of his ass, and Sam's fingers are spread over Dean's, extending out past the ends of his to match the placement of Sam's prints without discrepancy. Cinderella and her slipper, it's the perfect fit.
He gets a brush of bare skin against his lower back, because of course fucking Sam is fucking tall enough for his belly to rub against Dean even on his new perch. He leans back just to be perverse, relishing the hiss he feels against his ear when he presses against Sam's cock. He glances up at Sam's face in momentary triumph, but it dissipates just as quickly when he sees the direction of Sam's gaze.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam breathes. "Look at yourself, all up close and exposed."
Dean looks. He can't not, not with Sam's voice in his ear, so velvet-thick with awe and pure, dirty want. The faucet's reflection is right where his cock would be, seemingly springing forth from his balls; he can feel the chill of the chrome radiating out toward his sac. It'd be ludicrous-looking, except for the profane visual of his cock upright in the mirror as well, achingly stiff and dabbing itself uncontrollably against his belly.
Dean can see the gleam where his precome is leaking on himself, framed perfectly by the span of Sam's hands holding his down. Shiny, sticky strings of it keep anchoring and then snapping themselves at the next jerk of his dick. Dean glances up in time to see the tip of Sam's tongue just disappearing back into his mouth, as if gathering up imaginary threads from Dean's slit.
"Look how wide you're spread for me," Sam gasps, slips in a bite to the tendon at Dean's neck and shoulder. "What a dirty, nasty slut." Sam's tongue dips in Dean's ear, a wet and slippery pantomime. "You'd say yes to just about anything right now, wouldn't you?" He squeezes down hard on Dean's bruised hips, and as much as it hurts, Dean still groans with want.
"Yes."
"Yeah?"
"JesusfuckingChrist Sam, yes. Yes, okay? Just gotta come."
Dean knows he's close to begging now, knows and doesn't care that he's a gibbering mess. He drops his head back, banging it into Sam's clavicle hard enough to snap it, but it only seems to turn Sam on even more.
"Wanna use you," Sam growls. "Gonna use you, make a nasty mess."
"Need to come, Sammy. God. Anything you want, 'kay?" he pleads. "Fuckin' let you do anything, just get me off..."
Sam is right; he's spread obscenely wide but God help him, Dean'd go wider if he could, he'd do nastier things and be even sluttier if he could just think how, anything if it just keeps the hot gravel of Sam's voice from stopping, anything if he could just have some sweet pressure on his cock for just a minute, if Sam would just touch him for a second...
"Fuck, Dean, fucking hottest fucking thing I ever--" Sam stops, his breath catching and Dean feels Sam's hand leave his hip and scrabble at Dean's back, for the first time since they started this, first time in an hour, surely, it must be at least an hour since Sam's let go of him? No, not an hour, years, it's fucking years he's been hard in that mirror, dripping and...
Dripping. He hears it first, then Dean feels Sam's cock sliding up under his balls and then it's warm. Warm and wet, but it can't be come, too long and too steady to be come, he hears the stream against the porcelain and into the drain, feels it wetting him, trickles streaking up the insides of his thighs and back across his hole as Sam slips forward and back slowly beneath him. He thinks maybe the faucet, Sam and his giant hands must have hit the faucet....
Then he's coming.
He knows what it is and he comes...fucking bastard Sam's hand is finally on his cock, now that he doesn't even need it anymore, just because Sam fucking likes it, likes the power trip, likes watching Dean come apart, likes jacking him while he jizzes the mirror and the faucet and every fucking thing, likes watching Dean get off because his baby brother is pissing up his crack.
Dean has to bat his hand away finally, done coming before Sam's done pissing, but not by much. It's only a few moments after that when Dean feels Sam again, harder and more urgent, grunting and pushing desperately at the soft skin behind Dean's balls with his cock for just a few rough strokes before he's wetting Dean down again. Sam tangles one hand in Dean's hair, palming his head with it while he groans out his orgasm into the meat of Dean's shoulder. Dean's dick gives a sympathy twitch but he's got nothing left to give, just hangs on while Sam rides it out.
Eventually it really is the faucet. Dean feels like he musta whited out for a minute, two tops, he thinks, but Sam's got the water on for real now, standing like Gibraltar at his back, one arm strong around Dean's middle and the other busy covering Dean in soap from waist to thighs. So maybe it was longer. A little. Maybe.
"So good, Dean. You were so good."
Sam sounds like he's hushing Dean, like maybe Dean would argue if he didn't convince him but Dean can't remember saying anything, or what he could possibly want to argue about ever again. He watches Sam in the mirror, but he's not looking up at Dean, his concentration on the task at hand, focused on the objective. When Sam slips the bar of soap up into his crack Dean squirms, face heating again but Sam's having none of it, shushing him again with nonsense words that Dean only partially catches.
"Shhh...hey. Hey baby...I got you. Got you, Dean."
Dean wants desperately to be away, wants desperately for it to go on forever. Sam's had his fingers, his cock...hell, his tongue in Dean's ass before today, but having his huge, soapy hands slipping into Dean's crack and around his balls with no sexual heat behind it at all is way more intimate, more terrifying than anything Dean's ever felt. It's overwhelming; overwhelming and terrible and amazing and Dean wants to crawl into that and never come out.
"Gonna take care of you," Sam promises, sluicing warm water over Dean to wash the soap away and lifting him down. Dean hopes Sam can carry him; he's not sure what happened to the bones in his legs but they've been misplaced.
"They better get the other guy," Dean mumbles as Sam tucks into the sleeping bag behind him. The floor was hard, but they'd taken one look at that mattress earlier and without a word had grabbed their bags from the trunk and zipped them together.
"What other guy?" Sam's staring down at him with his indulgent-face, which Dean is used to seeing after Sam gets spectacularly laid but it doesn't mean he's not going to milk it later. Their morning coffee ain't gonna get itself.
"When they fix the mirror," Dean answers cryptically, rolling onto his side and little-spooning back into Sam without complaint.
"The mirror..." Sam parrots quizzically, curling in behind him.
"They oughta get the guy that did the sink."
Author: girlguidejones
Rating: NC 17 | Sam/Dean | 2800 words
Warning: kink
Notes: Written for the TV Guide Photo Shoot Challenge. This is a semi-sequel to this story from the amazing tabaqui. wendy (and the rest of the known SPN universe!) wanted porn focused on Sam's gigantic hands. Proceed with caution; unbeta'd, with kink ahead.
The plum-colored spots are changing color on his hip-bones, darkening to concord-purple, little grape-stains scattered in not-so-random patterns amongst the stray freckles. If anyone saw them, they'd know them for exactly what they were, and the thought makes Dean's face bloom pink in the jury-rigged bathroom mirror.
Which is stupid, and that is exactly he tells his reflection.
"You're an idiot."
His reflection doesn't answer, seemingly unconcerned with the contradiction between the exhibitionism of yesterday afternoon in front of the open blinds and the tell-tale flush on his face at the thought of Sam's gigantic hands practically spanning Dean's pelvis.
The mirror had relinquished its spot above the sink long before the Winchesters had arrived. It was poorly hung in the first place, with a finishing nail that was destined to work its way loose eventually instead of the drywall screw and wall anchor that would have held it through the apocalypse. Dean had tsk'd when they checked in.
"Gotta have the right tool for the job, Sammy," he'd said, repeating a classic John Winchester mantra, and Sam had (predictably) just snorted at Dean's sage wisdom. The chipped looking-glass is now jammed in behind the faucet, tilted sharply against the peeling drywall. Sam bitches about it every time he has to wash his hands, busting his knuckles against it in his vain attempts to save the planet by ensuring the complete shut-off of a single hot water faucet.
It's an ill-wind, as the saying goes, and Dean has now discovered the one advantage to the dysfunctional amenities: while he can't see the top of his head without bending forward (and wetting his belly against the porcelain, because Sam's a pig and can't wipe up when he brushes his teeth)--he can see his entire groin instead.
The smudge-bruises from Sam's grip on him fascinate Dean; he tries to cover them with his own fingers, placing pinkies first, left then right, then his ring fingers follow. He pauses, distracted because the spinner ring on his hand catches the light. It looks out of place and it throws him off. If those were Sam's hands the fingers would be bare. He stops and slides the ring off, tucking it behind the mirror for safekeeping, and starts again.
Pinky, ring finger, pinky, ring. He presses a little, imagining it's Sam and Sam's hands making those marks, and the purple spots ache just enough to make it feel real. He feels his cock begin to fill, sense-memory he guesses, but refuses to look at it until he's got everything aligned. He saves it for the end, like the center bite from a filet mignon; it'll be a reward for when he gets it right. But when he tries to line up the middle fingers things start to get a little off-track.
His fingers aren't quite long enough. He can see the very tips of the dark ovals showing, peeking out from where his own fingers are too short to reach the right spot. He splays his hands wider and the tendons ache with the effort (like his thighs last night when Sam kneed them open, and Dean strained to stay wide for him). The pointer fingers don't even begin to cover their corresponding markers. A good half of Sam's fingerprints (Dean stares, suddenly wondering if the little aches are so bone-deep because Sam left imprints of his very whorls on Dean's skin) are still showing.
"You're cheating."
Sam's a sneaky motherfucker when he wants to be, and Dean's always been conflicted about that, both proud that he learned so well and irritated that it gets used against Dean, often as not. Dean tells himself that he maintained his control and chose not to react, but in reality he's frozen in place. Sam's surely turned into a sorcerer and he's got some sort of fucked up alchemy going on in here because Sam's voice is a thing, alive and skittering icy-hot down Dean's spine.
"It's okay, baby," Sam says. Dean hates that (loves it). He can't stand it when Sam calls him baby. (All his synapses fire at once and it's like there's no more gravity and he doesn't know which way is up). "I don't think you meant to," Sam pauses, laughs a little. "This time, anyway."
Dean sees Sam's hands moving in the mirror (because he can't look him in the eye yet, too soon, too soon) and hears the clink of Sam's belt falling open. Aside from that Sam's still fully dressed, while Dean's jaybird-naked with his shower-towel puddled at his ankles. Realizing that finally galvanizes Dean. He scrounges up a smirk and meets Sam's gaze in the mirror as he steps closer behind Dean, reaching for Dean's hands, still splayed on his own hips.
"Got me at a little disadvantage, dontcha Sammy?" he asks, intentionally giving his hips a little hitch when Sam laces fingers with Dean, lifting his hands up and off. "You lookin' for the old get-blown-in-the-bathroom rountine? 'Cause we can pretend I'm your hooker if that's your itch..." Dean's trying to make it smart-assed, but his voice loses the swagger-factor half-way through and it ends up sounding almost eager instead. Sam must have heard it too, because his eyes smile at Dean's and he just shakes his head.
"Nah," Sam says, soft and easy, raising Dean's hands up and turning each palm to face backward, toward Sam. He leans over each of Dean's shoulders to kiss them, a humid press of his lips against first one lifeline and then the next, eyes never leaving Dean's.
Dean's feels something leap and flail in his chest. Something's going to happen, Sam's got to stop this, he has to break or Dean thinks he might instead. He thinks he must be hard, but he can't look away from Sam and he's just not sure. Everything else feels so swollen and big and tight inside him, his skin taut over his body, and if his cock is hard then it's just in the same situation as the rest of him. Just then Sam opens his mouth, and Dean thinks this is it, this is it thank God, and Sam is going to say something smart-assed and then Dean can breathe again.
But Sam doesn't do that at all.
Sam swallows Dean's left thumb, down to the ball of it, and Dean's throat makes a sound he doesn't recognize himself when Sam pulls back to lave it thoroughly, eyes glinting at Dean. Sam gives it one last suck that Dean feels behind his balls, and guides Dean's hand back to its former position...this time carefully lining Dean's thumb up on some invisible pinpoint on his own ass. He does the same with Dean's right hand, and when he presses down it aches. That's when Dean realizes what he's doing.
"You've got such a tell, Dean. Your eyes always get so wide and green when you figure out something," Sam says, hooking his chin on Dean's shoulder and smiling indulgently at him. "Now try it." Dean bites his lip, torn between watching Sam and looking down to his fingers, which are more or less back where they started.
It's less, actually. Dean's fingers don't even come close to Sam's marks now, the inky spots his brother left him with yesterday entirely visible beyond the furthest stretch of Dean's hands, now that their thumbprints are aligned on his backside.
"Can you see it?" Sam's voice is a husky whisper, sibilant and dangerous in Dean's ear. "Can you see how much bigger I am?" Dean nods, swallowing and shivering, and that's gotta be wrong, something's really fucked up because it's hot in here, he's sweating and can barely breathe in the heat and there's no way he could possibly be cold. He leans fully into Sam, feels the brush of Sam's cock against the base of his spine and then? Vertigo. Sam's lifting him, his hands covering Dean's and raising him up with a grunt that vibrates against Dean's shoulders. He sets Dean's ass down on the edge of the pedestal sink, half-way in it, really, his package hanging obscenely in the well of it and his thighs dangling off either side.
Dean wonders if the sink is fastened better than the mirror was.
He knows his cock and balls are on display now, he can feel them full and heavy, is certain they have to look utterly vulgar in the cracked mirror and every porn cliche ever runs through Dean's mind but he doesn't actually look. He can't, because he can't stop looking at Sam's hands on his. Sam's thumbs are mated with his own on the dimples of his ass, and Sam's fingers are spread over Dean's, extending out past the ends of his to match the placement of Sam's prints without discrepancy. Cinderella and her slipper, it's the perfect fit.
He gets a brush of bare skin against his lower back, because of course fucking Sam is fucking tall enough for his belly to rub against Dean even on his new perch. He leans back just to be perverse, relishing the hiss he feels against his ear when he presses against Sam's cock. He glances up at Sam's face in momentary triumph, but it dissipates just as quickly when he sees the direction of Sam's gaze.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam breathes. "Look at yourself, all up close and exposed."
Dean looks. He can't not, not with Sam's voice in his ear, so velvet-thick with awe and pure, dirty want. The faucet's reflection is right where his cock would be, seemingly springing forth from his balls; he can feel the chill of the chrome radiating out toward his sac. It'd be ludicrous-looking, except for the profane visual of his cock upright in the mirror as well, achingly stiff and dabbing itself uncontrollably against his belly.
Dean can see the gleam where his precome is leaking on himself, framed perfectly by the span of Sam's hands holding his down. Shiny, sticky strings of it keep anchoring and then snapping themselves at the next jerk of his dick. Dean glances up in time to see the tip of Sam's tongue just disappearing back into his mouth, as if gathering up imaginary threads from Dean's slit.
"Look how wide you're spread for me," Sam gasps, slips in a bite to the tendon at Dean's neck and shoulder. "What a dirty, nasty slut." Sam's tongue dips in Dean's ear, a wet and slippery pantomime. "You'd say yes to just about anything right now, wouldn't you?" He squeezes down hard on Dean's bruised hips, and as much as it hurts, Dean still groans with want.
"Yes."
"Yeah?"
"JesusfuckingChrist Sam, yes. Yes, okay? Just gotta come."
Dean knows he's close to begging now, knows and doesn't care that he's a gibbering mess. He drops his head back, banging it into Sam's clavicle hard enough to snap it, but it only seems to turn Sam on even more.
"Wanna use you," Sam growls. "Gonna use you, make a nasty mess."
"Need to come, Sammy. God. Anything you want, 'kay?" he pleads. "Fuckin' let you do anything, just get me off..."
Sam is right; he's spread obscenely wide but God help him, Dean'd go wider if he could, he'd do nastier things and be even sluttier if he could just think how, anything if it just keeps the hot gravel of Sam's voice from stopping, anything if he could just have some sweet pressure on his cock for just a minute, if Sam would just touch him for a second...
"Fuck, Dean, fucking hottest fucking thing I ever--" Sam stops, his breath catching and Dean feels Sam's hand leave his hip and scrabble at Dean's back, for the first time since they started this, first time in an hour, surely, it must be at least an hour since Sam's let go of him? No, not an hour, years, it's fucking years he's been hard in that mirror, dripping and...
Dripping. He hears it first, then Dean feels Sam's cock sliding up under his balls and then it's warm. Warm and wet, but it can't be come, too long and too steady to be come, he hears the stream against the porcelain and into the drain, feels it wetting him, trickles streaking up the insides of his thighs and back across his hole as Sam slips forward and back slowly beneath him. He thinks maybe the faucet, Sam and his giant hands must have hit the faucet....
Then he's coming.
He knows what it is and he comes...fucking bastard Sam's hand is finally on his cock, now that he doesn't even need it anymore, just because Sam fucking likes it, likes the power trip, likes watching Dean come apart, likes jacking him while he jizzes the mirror and the faucet and every fucking thing, likes watching Dean get off because his baby brother is pissing up his crack.
Dean has to bat his hand away finally, done coming before Sam's done pissing, but not by much. It's only a few moments after that when Dean feels Sam again, harder and more urgent, grunting and pushing desperately at the soft skin behind Dean's balls with his cock for just a few rough strokes before he's wetting Dean down again. Sam tangles one hand in Dean's hair, palming his head with it while he groans out his orgasm into the meat of Dean's shoulder. Dean's dick gives a sympathy twitch but he's got nothing left to give, just hangs on while Sam rides it out.
Eventually it really is the faucet. Dean feels like he musta whited out for a minute, two tops, he thinks, but Sam's got the water on for real now, standing like Gibraltar at his back, one arm strong around Dean's middle and the other busy covering Dean in soap from waist to thighs. So maybe it was longer. A little. Maybe.
"So good, Dean. You were so good."
Sam sounds like he's hushing Dean, like maybe Dean would argue if he didn't convince him but Dean can't remember saying anything, or what he could possibly want to argue about ever again. He watches Sam in the mirror, but he's not looking up at Dean, his concentration on the task at hand, focused on the objective. When Sam slips the bar of soap up into his crack Dean squirms, face heating again but Sam's having none of it, shushing him again with nonsense words that Dean only partially catches.
"Shhh...hey. Hey baby...I got you. Got you, Dean."
Dean wants desperately to be away, wants desperately for it to go on forever. Sam's had his fingers, his cock...hell, his tongue in Dean's ass before today, but having his huge, soapy hands slipping into Dean's crack and around his balls with no sexual heat behind it at all is way more intimate, more terrifying than anything Dean's ever felt. It's overwhelming; overwhelming and terrible and amazing and Dean wants to crawl into that and never come out.
"Gonna take care of you," Sam promises, sluicing warm water over Dean to wash the soap away and lifting him down. Dean hopes Sam can carry him; he's not sure what happened to the bones in his legs but they've been misplaced.
"They better get the other guy," Dean mumbles as Sam tucks into the sleeping bag behind him. The floor was hard, but they'd taken one look at that mattress earlier and without a word had grabbed their bags from the trunk and zipped them together.
"What other guy?" Sam's staring down at him with his indulgent-face, which Dean is used to seeing after Sam gets spectacularly laid but it doesn't mean he's not going to milk it later. Their morning coffee ain't gonna get itself.
"When they fix the mirror," Dean answers cryptically, rolling onto his side and little-spooning back into Sam without complaint.
"The mirror..." Sam parrots quizzically, curling in behind him.
"They oughta get the guy that did the sink."