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They were still new together, cautious around each other. This unspeakable thing that curled around them, in between them, through them, now had a name. But naming it was only one step in a greater dance. A dance they learned together with gentle, halting steps forward.
+
Sam watched Dean hang his flannel on the hook near the door inside the bedroom. They chose this room without speaking about it, without giving the idea a voice. This room was theirs now even though neither had shed the privacy of their own bedroom. Each moved in slowly; a shirt here, a book there, until they came here almost every night. Sleeping was still the primary activity, both understanding the other needed some time to adjust to the new dimensions of their relationship, as if watching a map unfurl on a table and showing regions previously hidden.
Dean took his time, making sure the arms draped the way he wanted before moving to the bed. Soft pants and a soft shirt draped over hard muscle from a life of hunting, and hiding the softness of his tummy from newfound rest. Sam lifted the sheet and they curled together like commas, Sam tight against Dean's back. Dean reached out and turned off the table lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
Here, in the silky dark, was when confessions came out. Here, in the inky blackness, either could say something that would never be repeated anywhere the light existed. Here, now, Sam spoke, softly. "If you don't want to tell me, you can show me."
The muscles on Dean's back bunched and his breath hitched. He acknowledged the statement with the smallest nod, the briefest tightening of his hand over Sam's, the smallest sound of acquiescence.
+
Some days later, Sam watched Dean fuss with wet dishes. An electric eel slipped through Sam's belly at Dean's movements. He knew his brother well enough to know Dean wanted to say something but couldn't, wouldn't, not yet. Only in his own time. Sam took the wet plate from him and pushed the towel over it, waiting, breathing, pretending he didn't see the pinkness of his brother's cheeks, the darting of his eyes, the licking of his lips.
The last dish washed, Dean drained the sink and took the towel from Sam. "You get the laundry," Dean said, voice rough, eyes determined to remain away from Sam's face, "I gotta make a run."
They didn't need any shopping done. Sam knew that. "Sure," he said and hung the towel as Dean dipped out of the kitchen. Sam counted to one hundred, slowly, without moving from his spot near the sink. When he finished he took a deep breath and went to the garage, just to check, just to see.
Baby was gone. A whisper of exhaust filled the area. Sam nodded to himself and went to the laundry room.
Dean had patterns. He liked things done they way he wanted things done. Today was laundry day, yes, but it was usually finished long before dinner. That last load was started late. Sam flicked the light on to see both machines quiet, their cycles finished. The laundry basket rested at the base of the dryer, ready and waiting to receive the clothes as they spilled from the dryer. The washer door gaped open - Dean's way of ensuring no mould or mildew built up - the cavity dark and empty. Sam opened the dryer and pushed the clothes into the basket, deliberately keeping his eyes off the flowing fabric. He hefted the bin, turned the light off, and moved to the shared bedroom, electricity bursting inside his belly and fuelling the short journey.
In the room, he dumped the basket and gasped. Underwear mixed with soft jersey knit pants that tangled with flannels, all dull colours, all washed until furry, all highlighting a slash of satiny pink.
One hand reached into the pile and flicked the silky pink until it was on top, displayed prominently over nondescript clothes. They were obviously not new, they'd been washed a few times. One finger traced the soft edge, near the bit that would drape over the front, cradle the heaviness, pull against any bulging.
Sam decided quickly. Clothes were hung, underwear folded, pants put away. He left what he wanted on the bed, left the light on, and went to wait in the kitchen for Dean to come home.
+
Dean bustled in, two bags dangling from his hands, and set them on the counter. Sam waited until one was empty before crowding up behind Dean, using his height and breadth to cover his brother. He braced his hands on the counter in front of Dean, caging him in. "I left something for you," he murmured in Dean's ear. Dean shivered then, down his spine and crossing the distance between them like a gentle shock. "Put it on. Wait for me."
Sam pulled one hand off the counter to give Dean an escape route. Dean took it, dashing from the kitchen, his bright cheeks illuminating the hall. Sam put the groceries away, slowly, carefully, giving Dean some time to adjust, then he headed for the bedroom.
There Dean stood, chest moving rapidly, feet shoulder width apart, face ablaze, hands loose at his sides. His nipples poked out in the gentle warmth of the room. The only sound the soft huffing from his lungs.
Sam took him in, eyes greedily sliding over Dean's naked chest, down, down, down, to the waistband of the soft jersey knit pants slung low on his hips. There, barely peeking over, was the pink waistband. Contained inside was a bulge, one of desire, one so recently secret, one so newly familiar.
No words were needed, so Sam gave none. Instead he let Dean watch as he took his shirt off, then his socks, and placed them in the basket, its new emptiness broken already by Dean's clothes. His tongue slid out dragged over his lips as he opened his jeans and moved behind his brother.
Dean's increased breathing filled the room. A secret never told, one Sam uncovered once, twice, three times, was how Dean liked having Sam press in from behind. How he liked having Sam's palms skim over his chest, down his abs, from behind. How he liked Sam's big hand reaching down to stroke, from behind.
Sam let his hands flutter onto Dean's shoulders and drag a path down his arms as he put his hot mouth on Dean's neck, from behind. A gush of air left Dean's lungs then, along with what might have been a whine or a whimper. Sam took Dean's wrists and pulled them back, anchoring Dean's hands behind him.
No restraints were ever used. Both had been tied up, made immobile, in the worst circumstances. Both knew, without discussion, that restraining the other was off limits. Here, Sam simply crossed Dean's wrists and laid them on his lower back, then wrapped his own long fingers around the join. Dean could leave, Dean could pull away, Dean could unbind himself with ease, if he chose to. Sam's hand was a mere reminder, a gentle order, that Dean's participation was not required, not demanded. For he had done enough by indicating what he wanted. Now, now it was time for Sam to explore.
His mouth kissed and sucked at Dean's neck where it sloped to his shoulder. One hand remained anchored in place, the other moved slowly, cautiously, with all the time in the world, it slipped over Dean's chest. One thumb dragged over a nipple as Sam's mouth closed over an earlobe.
Dean gasped, strung tight, breathing unevenly, in Sam's hold. A plea whispered from his mouth, a plea heavy with want, a plea desperate with need.
Sam obliged, but only on his terms. His hand caressed a path down Dean's side and onto his hip. His lips lifted off his brother so he could moan as he felt the pants slip-slide over the satin panties embracing his hip. Fingers curled of their own accord, pushing into the front of Dean's pelvis. The fabric dragged and bunched slightly, the sound a soft whisper barely heard over Dean's harsh panting.
Sam inhaled to regain composure, then let his open mouth fall on Dean's vertebrae. Dean startled and ducked his head down, an open invitation to his brother's mouth. Sam released his brother's hands, trusting Dean would keep them still, and put his free hand on Dean's other hip.
Oh, how badly Sam wanted to pull Dean back and push into him. Oh, how badly Sam wanted to grind into Dean. Oh, how badly Sam wanted to feel Dean with another rigid part of him. Desire burned a pool in his lower belly as he lifted his lips enough to say, “Stay,”, remove his hands, and step backward.
Dean startled but stayed, a small question, a sweet “Sammy,” sighing from his mouth.
Sam shucked his pants and underwear without once ever blinking, without once ever wavering his gaze from the line of pink peeking from the top of the pants, without once ever considering what he was going to do, what he wanted to do.
One breath to calm the rising swell of desire and Sam stepped forward. One hand wrapped around Dean's wrists and untangled them, a silent order to let them fall by the side again. Dean's hands fell away from the small of his back, one floated to the front of his pants and hovered there, trembling slightly, before curling and pulling back to dangle.
A huff pushed out of Sam, a huff that spilled over the base of Dean's neck and tumbled down his back. “So good for me,” Sam murmured, unaware he had the power to speak much less the desire to do so.
A reward was deserved, so one was given. Sam ran his palms up Dean's soft stomach and over the planes of his chest, leaving a path of goosebumps and heaving breath. Nipples scraped Sam's palms as his fingers sought them out to twirl, pinch, and fondle them while his tongue and mouth found Dean's neck once more.
But oh, resistance fell away. Warm air of the room curled around Sam's nudity, slid into private places, whispered over the bareness of him. With a soft gasp Sam closed the distance between them, his hands dropping to Dean's hips once more, and pressed himself close.
Dean gasped, loud and needy, and pushed backward. Sam, unable to stop, unable to think, dragged his pelvis against Dean and felt the knit pants slip over the satin underneath. His hips rotated and thrust, firmly, slowly, as his fingers dug into Dean's pelvis. Blood rushed and pooled, hot and churning, low in Sam's belly, leaving him lightheaded and grunting softly against Dean's neck.
One hand scraped to the waistband, pulling it down over the satiny pink. The pants dropped to the floor and puddled around Dean's ankles. With a soft moan Sam positioned himself better, to let the tip of himself slide down between Dean's satiny cheeks, to the secret place underneath, to the warmth between Dean's legs, to poke out from under Dean's panties.
Dean let out a guttural cry. His hands whipped back and clamped on the sides of Sam's upper thighs, holding Sam firm, keeping him there. Sam, hips already rocking, slid one hand to Dean's chest, the other to finally, finally, finally, slide over Dean's length, wrapped in satin.
Sam felt Dean give him his weight, as if his knees buckled, and Sam took it. He held his brother with a strong arm around his torso, rolling a nipple between a thumb and forefinger, and with a hand caressing his rigid length. Dean's head fell back onto Sam's shoulder. Sam took advantage of the exposed column and tipped his head to suck and lick the throbbing vein while his hips rocked, rocked, rocked and his hand dragged, gripped, caressed, and cupped, occasionally catching the tip of himself. When he did he slipped the pads of his fingers over the wet tip, slid the precome around, played with the bundle of nerves just under the head while pressing up into the satiny heat.
Dean, so good at staying still, so good at giving himself over, so good at letting Sam play, started rocking his own hips as if desperate for more. A keening slipped from his throat as Sam's hand engulfed his length through the satin, dragged over the tip, palmed down over his balls.
Sam couldn't breathe, couldn't inhale enough oxygen. Heat rushed between his legs, filled him, made him desperate for relief. As he rocked back and forth he felt Dean tighten, felt it first under the satin, then in the muscles pressing against his pelvis. Dean's back arched, his fingers gripped, his legs shook.
Sam, gasping, grunting, moaning, felt Dean pulse under his hand, felt wetness shoot from the tip and spill into the fabric. His hand froze on Dean's chest, too overcome to do anything but hold on. His other hand clamped over the panties, cupped the tip of himself just beneath his brother, and allowed the release to crash through him, to surge from him, to pulse, pulse, pulse, until empty.
Slowly, breathing eased. Slowly, awareness returned. Slowly, aftershocks receded. Sam cradled Dean and felt him soften under his palms. Dean's hands relaxed hold and fluttered to cover Sam's. A soft mention of a mess arrived with a shy chuckle. Sam kissed Dean's neck, then released him long enough to reach for a towel and wet it with warm water from the sink in the nook of the room. He stripped, washed, and redressed Dean in clean clothes, then led him, finally, to the bed, where they curled up together like loose parentheses, Sam against Dean's back.
Dean reached over and turned off the side table light. The room plunged into darkness. Sam tightened hold over Dean's chest and murmured, “Thank you.”
A gush of air left Dean's lungs. After a breath or two he huffed a laugh and murmured, “Didn't do nothin'. Just stood there.”
Sam smiled against the softness of Dean's hair, pressed a gentle kiss to the crown, and fell asleep to the lullaby of Dean's heartbeat.