rivers_bend

Title: Secret Place Inside my Head
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~6,000
Enticements/Warnings: too much tequila, questions of consent, pushy!Sam, bottom!Dean.
Spoilers: none (set mid-late S1 but no canon references)
A/N: pinch hit for dreamlittleyo for spn_j2_xmas. I tried to get in as many of your likes as I could, but Dean had some ideas of his own, too. He's like that.
Summary: Sam has a good reason not to get drunk. Grabby hands are one thing when your girlfriend thinks it's cute, but quite another when the person you want to be grabbing is your brother.



The morning after
Sam wakes up much more slowly than usual, with his head feeling like he somehow slammed it in the Impala's trunk while he was sleeping. He's pretty sure he didn't, but when he searches through the memories poking at the edges of his brain, there is not a lot to help him identify what might have happened instead. Punched by a god? Thrown into a wall by a poltergeist? Not that he can remember. He's pretty sure they weren't even on a hunt. That they're—

They're between hunts. And Dean told Sam he needed to lighten up. Lightening up in Dean Winchester's book often includes more beer and tequila than your average person thinks is a good idea. Sam said no. He's sure he said no. But then there might have been goading, needling, badgering, poking, and namecalling. Sam is pretty sure there was at least some namecalling.

Jesus, he's hungover.

Very carefully, Sam opens one eye. The room is dim enough that he risks opening it a little more. The what-the-fuck-is-that wall hanging that looks like a disco ball flattened by a semi is still there, with Dean's duffle on the dresser underneath it, which means Sam is in his own motel room. That's good. The dresser and disco ball are a little to Sam's left rather than a little to his right, which means he's in his own bed. That's good, too. Really good. Because it's been getting harder and harder and harder—pun so totally intended, Christ—to keep his hands off his brother when he's sober, lately, and so it's actually some kind of miracle that he kept his hands off Dean when he was drunk.

Sam closes his eye again. His shoulders are all tensed up, which might be contributing to the headache, so he gingerly, without moving his head too much, stretches his arms out to the side. And hits something warm, and hard, and body shaped. This time Sam opens his eyes not carefully at all, paying for it with shooting pain, but he hardly notices the needles in his forehead, because the warm, hard, body-shaped thing in bed with him is Dean. Topless Dean. Topless Dean with a string of hickeys on his neck and shoulders like he might get from someone who liked to bite if that person were, say, fucking him from behind.

The sheet and bedspread come up to the middle of Dean's ribs, so theoretically it's possible that he's got his boxers on, hell, maybe even his jeans, but Sam looks again at the hickeys—fresh, deep red and purple, some with teeth marks still obvious around them—and he is pretty sure clothes are not what he'd find if he lifted up the covers.

Sam doesn't even try to convince himself that it wasn't him that did this to Dean. They're in the same bed, and now that Sam's a little more awake, he can feel his nuts glued to his thigh with jizz. Ugh.


Gently, Sam reaches down and tries to disengage his sensitive bits from the bits that are going to be required to move if he wants to walk across the room and get a washcloth. Or a shower. Or—Ow, that really hurts. Dean still hasn't budged. Sam looks again, trying to blur his vision a little so he can't see the hickeys quite so clearly, and checks to make sure Dean is breathing. He is. Sam climbs out of bed, and, forehead pinched between fingers and thumb, picks his way to the bathroom, holding on to passing chairs and walls.

The washcloth method of cleanup is a total joke, and they're actually in a motel with decent water pressure, so Sam starts up the shower, and once it's hot, closes the drain, climbs in, and sits in the tub under the spray. He's torn between wanting to remember what the hell happened last night, and never ever wanting to remember it, ever.

The night before
"Close the damn laptop, Sammy," Dean said. "You've been looking for a new case for half the day, and if you haven't found one yet, I don't think it's going to happen."

"You're the one who keeps telling me we need to carry on hunting while we look for Dad." Sam didn't really care that much about finding a hunt; he'd mostly been focused on his computer all afternoon because Dean had been walking back and forth to the motel's laundry room wearing nothing but an old pair of too-short, too-tight sweats, because everything else they owned was filthy. Sam had learned five or so years ago to not look at Dean too closely when he was only half dressed, but while he was at college he got out of practice. Which hadn't been a problem so much when missing Jess was still raw and constant. Lately, though, Sam had started falling back into his old routines with his brother. Old routines that included wanting things from Dean that no little brother had the right to take.

"Keeping hunting doesn't mean every second of every day," Dean interrupted Sam's thoughts. "This town has three strip joints, and there's no reason why we shouldn't kick back for one night. Relax. Have a little fun."

"Strip joints and fun don’t really belong in the same sentence for me, Dean."

"I'm not saying you have to have a lap dance—though, Sammy, come on, lap dance—but you need to get your mind off of things. Don't think I haven't noticed you sulking today."

Sam didn't point out that there was a difference between sulking and trying to keep your eyes off your brother's abs, or away from his hipbones that angle down below his waistband seeming to point right at his dick which you really shouldn't be thinking about wrapping your hand around. Instead, he said, "I wasn't sulking. I was trying to do research."

"Well, now we're gonna research which club has the classiest broads."

"I'm pretty sure we stopped calling them broads sometime before you were born." Dean generally respected women, Sam knew. He just seemed to have serious trouble showing it with his vocabulary.

"I don't think so, Sammy." Dean shot him a look that said Sam was talking crazy. "You've got a whole pile of clean clothes here to put on. Let's go." Dean flapped his hand in the hurry-up motion which always made Sam want to move as slowly as possible. Sam had learned, though, that moving slowly didn't actually get him anywhere, so he just shut the laptop, found jeans and a shirt that smelled less like he'd worn them running through the woods after something that thought carrion was a tasty snack than the ones he was wearing, and headed towards the bathroom to change.

He was still half hard from Dean's careless display of flesh earlier, and he figured Dean would find that more remarkable than Sam suddenly wanting privacy to get dressed. At least the remarks he made would be more obnoxious. He'd probably use it as evidence that Sam needed a lap dance after all.

As he was shutting the bathroom door behind himself, Sam volunteered to be the designated driver, which would cut down the number of drinks Dean tried to force on him. But Dean pointed out that the farthest club was four blocks away, and they didn't need to drive at all. Still, Sam was totally going to resist any wheedling Dean did, because alcohol and having a serious hard-on for your brother—not a good mix.

From the time he was little, Sam had had a possessive streak a mile wide. When you didn't have much of anything to call your own, you wanted to hold on to what you did have. Mostly, it wasn't a problem. Dean tended to cater to it, giving Sam whatever he wanted, and Dad mostly looked at it as an easy way to get Sam to take care of his own belongings. He got pissed sometimes if he thought Sam was being too clingy with Dean, but by the time Sam was old enough to care, he was also old enough to be careful, because by then what he wanted to do with his brother would be a hell of a lot less okay with John Winchester than staying up an extra hour to watch movies together.

At Stanford Sam learned to temper the possessiveness, because in the dorms the rule seemed to be share and share alike. But he couldn't share everything, and he found when he and Jess were out drinking, if he had one too many, all the pent-up possessiveness came out at once. When other guys tried to flirt with her, he put them off with arms around her waist, hands in her hair, kisses to her neck or her jaw or her lips, and anyone who persisted got a glare that sent them scurrying. Since he wasn't generally a jealous asshole or the type of boyfriend who tried to tell his girlfriend where she could go or who she could see, Jess found his occasional bouts of drunken caveman behavior cute. Sam was pretty damn sure that his brother would not feel the same way if Sam started grabbing him.

But he also knew that the growling green-eyed monster living in his blood—the one that wanted to come out when Dean flirted with waitresses, or girls in bars, or guys he was hustling at pool tables—was less likely to stay inside if Sam got drunk. Watching Dean ogle strippers was going to be bad enough.

Dean banged on the bathroom door, startling Sam, making him realize he'd just been standing there staring at himself in the mirror for more than a minute. "What are you doing in there?" Dean shouted, like the door was steel core instead of hollow. "Save the whacking off for after you see the girls, Sam. Fresh jerk-off fantasies are always the best."

If by fresh Dean meant thinking about peeling Dean out of today's sweats instead of his usual jeans, then Sam supposed he was right. But Sam was a fan of his old standbys. Dean underneath him, begging Sam to fuck him—that worked every time. He was pretty sure they weren't going to see anything in the strip joints of Farmington that changed his mind.

The first place they went, which actually shared a parking lot with their motel, was not going to win the prize for classiest anything. The floor was sticky in a way that only years of spilled drinks and no mop could produce. Even Dean, who was not exactly an arbiter of ambiance, looked askance when he had to practically jerk his foot off the floor as they got near the bar. Not that he let that stop him from ordering two bottles of Bud, which was the night's happy hour special, and two shots of house tequila.

"Bottoms up, Sammy," Dean said, tipping back his shot before taking his beer and heading for the action.

With his brother's back to him, Sam left his own liquor untouched on the bar, taking his beer and following Dean to the table he'd found near the dancing pole.

The woman on stage seemed to be some kind of contortionist. Had she been dressed in one of those body suits circus performers wore, Sam would probably be impressed with her skill. As it was, her ability to rest her own shin on her shoulder just meant Sam was seeing parts of her he didn't want to see on anyone he wasn't actually sleeping with. Like, at that exact moment.

Dean, who had always had more Hustler than Playboy taste in porn, looked like he thought his ship had come in.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, "Lily"—Give our Lily a hand, boys—was almost done with her number by the time they sat down. Next up was "Misty," whose sole redeeming feature as a stripper was her pneumatic boob job. She had absolutely no rhythm and took her clothes off like she was changing at the gym and didn't want to be late for her spin class. Sam found himself looking around for a sign that indicated Tuesdays were amateur night, but there was nothing.

He couldn't watch anymore. "Time to go," he said, and, leaving his beer on the table, stalked out, assuming Dean would follow.

"Okay," Dean admitted once they were outside. "Not the classiest."

Sam stupidly took that to mean Dean was admitting defeat. But Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him toward the street when Sam turned to go back to the motel.

"Doesn't mean we're giving up, though," Dean said. "Do we look in one cemetery and if we don't find the right grave just call it a night?"

"That's not remotely the same thing," Sam protested.

"Close enough," Dean said, tugging one last time on Sam's arm, letting go only when he saw Sam was following.

Sam didn't know why he was following.

"Tell you what. Just a bar this time. No nude girls." Dean didn't even look that put out about it, and Sam wondered if he had used the strip joint as a ruse to get Sam to agree to a bar, or if he was just lulling him into a false sense of security and planned to reintroduce strippers into the equation after he had Sam liquored up. Not that it mattered. They were ten feet away from a bar and grill and Sam's feet seemed perfectly willing to follow Dean inside no matter what he was up to, despite Sam's brain telling them it was a really bad idea.

In stark contrast to the strip club, the bar was actually comfortable and welcoming. It smelled of draft beer and fries cooked in oil that got changed on a regular basis, and the floor was polished wood that appeared to glow in the soft light coming from the overhead fixtures. There were several groups at the tables and in the booths around the edges of the room, but there was a free booth over by the small square of floor where a juke box serenaded three couples doing a two-step, who laughed whenever they bumped into each other.

Dean shoved Sam toward the booth and headed over to get drinks. He came back with two beers in frosted mugs, and Sam was relieved not to have to figure out how he was going to get rid of another shot. But then a waitress came over with a basket of onion rings and a bowl of lime wedges to accompany the four glasses of tequila she also had on her tray. "Here, y'are, boys," she said, winking at them.

"Awesome," Dean answered. He picked up the salt shaker that was shoved up against the wall, sprinkled some on the rings, and then licked his hand and salted the wet skin. Which, really? He needed to lick things?

Flustered, Sam forgot that he wasn't drinking and why, and downed his first shot then shoved a lime wedge in his mouth. He figured he was gonna need alcohol to deal if Dean was going to go around licking himself.

"Attaboy, Sammy!" Dean raised his glass, licked his hand again, knocked it back and sucked his own lime.

"I hate you," Sam said. He didn't admit that the beer actually tasted really good on the heels of the lime and tequila, and that Dean had had worse ideas.

After half a beer drunk while watching folks have a good time on the dance floor, and probably because Dean didn't push it, the second shot even seemed like a good plan. This time Sam tried the salt, too. And it was totally his imagination, he was sure, but it seemed like Dean watched him as he licked his wrist. Both times.

Two shots and one beer, especially with onion-ring grease to soak up the alcohol, was not enough to get Sam drunk. But he didn't protest when the waitress brought another round, because if they stayed here, Dean was much less likely to try to drag him to another strip club. After four shots and two beers Sam still felt pretty in control—no urges to reach across the table and lick Dean's hand for him when Dean reached for the salt shaker, anyway. Well. No urges that he couldn't keep in check. It was enough alcohol though, that when more shots appeared seemingly out of nowhere, Sam didn't think to decline. He did, however, need to make a little room.

He nodded towards the men's room sign so Dean wouldn't think he was wandering off, and then stood, weaving his way through the dancers, who seemed to have multiplied since they sat down. The restrooms were down a short hall that also led outside. The door to the back was cracked open, and the hallway was blessedly cool. Sam stood for a minute letting the breeze calm the flush he could feel in his cheeks, and then again on the way back to the table. When he pushed through the saloon doors to the bar, he was feeling good. Relaxed, just like Dean told him he needed.

Then he saw his brother on the dance floor. Dean had one girl pressed against his chest, her left arm slung around Dean's neck, the other hooked behind her own back, fingers twined with Dean's as he held her around the waist. Another girl was grinding with him ass to ass, one hand back gripping Dean's shoulder. She had a guy plastered to her front, too, and he had two fingers hooked in Dean's belt. Dean's other hand gripped the guy's wrist, holding him there. It was one of the hottest things Sam had ever seen. It also made him want to rip someone's face off. He took a deep breath and remembered that Dean wasn't his in a way that would make it okay to go over, pull him out of his dirty-dancing sandwich, and kiss him until everyone knew who Dean belonged to. It also wasn't okay to punch anyone. Not even the guy who now had one finger tucked up under the hem of Dean's shirt.

Sam skirted the dancers, keeping them out of arm's reach, and sat down in front of the two shots of tequila he'd left. Dean's were still there, too. Eyes on the table, and very definitely not on where the girl in the tight jeans and checked halter top was grinding against Dean's thigh, Sam tipped back all four tequila shots, one after the other. No salt, no lime, just the bitter taste of jealousy churning in his gut. And, oh, fuck. Thinking in soap opera-esque clichés was always a sign he'd had too much to drink.

The song ended, and Dean came stumbling back to the table. "Hey," he said. "Where'd my tequila go?"

Sam wasn't going to answer. He wasn't. But then he was standing up, looming over Dean who was just about to sit down, and dragging him toward the hall by the front of his shirt.

"Maybe," he said, shoving Dean up against the wall on the other side of the swinging doors, "if you were watching the drinks instead of having a fucking orgy on the dance floor, they wouldn't have gone missing." By the time he was done talking, he was right up in Dean's space, fist trapped between their chests, his mouth brushing the hair over Dean's ear.

"Sam?" Dean asked. He had his hands on Sam's shoulders, pushing, but not hard enough to make any difference. Not that he had any leverage, the angle Sam had him.

"Is that what you want? A little four-in-a-bed action?" Sam thrust his cock against Dean's hip. Emphasis, instinct, he didn't even know what, but it felt good, so he did it again.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean was squirming, now, making more of an effort to shove Sam away, and managed to get him back far enough so he could look him in the eye. "I wasn't having sex with anyone, but so what if I was? A guy has needs."

"Yeah, Dean. He does." Sam pushed in again, pulling Dean up onto his toes as he did, and kissed him.

It was sloppy and messy and not at all gratifying, until he got his other hand up and around the back of Dean's head so he could hold him still, get the right angle. Dean made a rough noise, discomfort, or protest, Sam didn't know, but whatever it was, Sam couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. He'd had years of wanting this, shoving it down, and there was no place to hide it anymore. Just this. This one thing. He needed it, and he'd take the consequences when they came. He just needed to feel Dean bending under his hands, opening under his mouth, feel his heat, the wet slip of his tongue.

With another noise caught in his throat, Dean twisted and shoved, got his back off the wall, got out from under Sam's arms. "You don't have to do this," he said, voice low and rough. "I'm not going—you don't need to do this to make me—" He backed away another two steps, toward the still-cracked door to the alley.

"Make you what, Dean?" Sam advanced on him. Didn't even mean to, just couldn't bear to have Dean that far away.

"I'm not gonna run off on you. Not like Dad. Not like—" Dean stopped, frozen for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder.

"Not like me?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Sure," Sam said, and grabbed Dean by his upper arms, hauling him close enough to kiss again.

There was a bang from behind them, a cough and an "Excuse me." Sam looked up, but didn't release his brother. It was the guy from the dance floor, trying to get past them to the men's room. He looked a little stunned but not like he was about to start anything.

"You're excused," Sam snapped—clichés and childish retorts. Great. He really should drink more often—and with one hand still gripping Dean's right biceps, he headed for the back door.

Dean didn't protest until they were outside and Sam was still dragging him along like a recalcitrant puppy. "For fuck's sake, Sam. Let go of me."

"No more strip clubs. No more dirty dancing," Sam said, letting go, but standing in Dean's path. Too close for comfort, probably, but he was past worrying about that.

"No kidding," Dean said. "You think I'm taking you anywhere else in this state, you're even drunker than you seem. And I have to say, that's pretty damn drunk."

"You think this is because I'm drunk?" Which was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course it was because he was drunk. Sam didn't make a habit of shoving his tongue in his brother's mouth, and they both knew it.

"I don't actually know what to think, Sam. Let's just get you back to the room, get you some water, and get you in bed," Dean said.

Every fantasy Sam had ever had of getting Dean into bed flashed into his mind at his brother's words. He wanted to grab Dean again, kiss him, turn him around and fuck him right here against the bricks, but he focused on how much more he wanted Dean totally naked, and followed Dean back to the motel.

The fresh air did nothing to sober Sam up, but it did make world feel sharper. He could see the muscles of Dean's ass flexing as Dean strode up the street, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Sam let himself look. He took in the breadth of Dean's shoulders, the way his back tapered to his waist under his t-shirt, the way his arms flexed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Sam was grateful for the warm night which had lead Dean to go out without one of his too-baggy overshirts covering everything.

Sam managed not to touch his brother in the street or in the parking lot, but once the door closed behind them, he stopped restraining himself. Dean opened his mouth to say something—probably something about how it was all okay now, and they could let Sam sleep it off—but before he could utter a word Sam had him up against the wall again, sealing their mouths together.

One of Dean's arms was pinned at his side; the other hand was gripping Sam's shoulder. Sam couldn't tell if it was pushing him away or pulling him closer, but he hoped for the latter. Letting go Dean's pinned arm, Sam got both his own arms around his brother and half carried, half dragged him over to the bed.

Dean landed on his back, and Sam expected to be told to fuck off, but Dean just spread his legs, and looked at Sam with a challenge in his eyes. If Sam had had any scrap of self-control left, that would have killed it. He dove on his brother, kissing his face, his neck, licking him, biting him, shoving his hands under Dean's shirt, trying to get more skin to taste. Dean's fingers tangled in Sam's hair.

They got their clothes off, and finally, finally, Sam got his hand around his brother's cock. It was harder to get a good grip on than he expected, all the wrong angle, but then Dean shifted left and Sam rolled a little and that worked much better. "Gonna fuck you," Sam gasped against Dean's throat. "Gotta fuck you."

"Well, stop—jesus—stop doing that, then. Not much fun getting fucked if you've come already."

Sam didn't want to know how Dean knew that. Dean was his.

Like a switch was thrown, Sam went from wanting to have his brother to needing to touch him everywhere, claim every inch of his skin, make Dean's body forget everyone not Sam who had ever touched it. He rolled Dean onto his stomach, spread one hand over the middle of his back, the other over his ass, and growled, "Mine."

Dean turned his head and looked at him. He didn't deny it.

"Christ, Dean—Fuck—" Sam babbled as he explored Dean's body with his hands, squeezing muscles, tracing scars, leaning in to lick and bite when he got to someplace that particularly pleased him: the dip under Dean's left shoulder blade, the curve where his ass rose from the plain of his back, the top of his thigh, the cut of his deltoid.

The whimpers Dean made as Sam bit him, the way he humped the bed and his legs seemed to open of their own volition, only spurred Sam on. He ended up draped over his brother, mouth fastened to the back of his neck, cock riding the crack of his ass, grinding helplessly, fingers twined with Dean's, their hands knotted into fists shoved under the pillows at the top of the bed.

"Sammy, Sammy, I—" Dean said, breaking off in a cry as Sam bit harder, pulling at Dean's skin like he wanted to swallow him whole.

Sam needed to be inside, needed more, but there was too much friction. He usually jerked off in the shower, used soap to get things slippery, but Dean had spent a lot of time when they were teenagers extolling the virtues of lotion and probably had something.

"Lube?" Sam gasped, pushing himself up.

"Backpack. Side pocket."

While Sam was across the room, Dean got his knees underneath himself, ass in the air. The sight stopped Sam cold when he turned around. He was suddenly sure this was all a vivid hallucination. No way was it really happening.

"Thought you had to fuck me, Sammy. You wimping out now it's on offer?" Dean was looking back over his shoulder, back arched, thighs spread wide in invitation.

Sam's mouth was too dry to even deny Dean's words. But he figured Dean would take the lube-slick fingers sliding down his crack as answer enough.

Sam had never done this before, but he knew the theory. Go slow, lots of lube, make sure your partner was relaxed. Trouble was, Sam wasn't feeling all that patient. Once he got a finger inside his brother though, patience didn't come into it. It felt amazing.

Smoother than being inside a girl, hotter, and holy fuck so much tighter. He almost forgot his goal was to get his dick in there, intent on twisting his fingers in and out, one, then two, then one again, watching Dean squirm.

Dean started jerking himself when Sam got three fingers in up to the last knuckle, reminding Sam what he was doing here. He knelt between Dean's legs, only sliding his fingers all the way out as he started pushing his cock in, loath to not have some part of himself surrounded by Dean's heat.

It wasn't a smooth slide, more like a series of shallow thrusts, Sam pushing forward, Dean pushing back, both of them twitching, but finally Sam was inside, Dean's ass hot on his thighs. Sam's hands were shaking when he grabbed Dean's hips. He could feel Dean jerking himself again, but couldn't take over. Couldn't do anything but hold on.

"You've got to move, Sam," Dean said, voice sounding stretched thin.

Somehow Sam did.

When he couldn't get Dean close enough, jerking him back onto his dick, Sam lifted him up so his back was pressed to Sam's chest and he was essentially sitting on Sam's lap. It put a strain on Sam's thighs, but it meant he could kiss Dean's neck, smell his skin, and coordinate linking his hand with Dean's own on Dean's cock.

"You gonna come with me all up inside you, Dean? Gonna come for me?" he whispered in his brother's ear.

"Yeah, Sammy. Yeah," Dean said, jerking himself faster, spurting over their twined fists.

Sam pitched them forward, crushing Dean underneath him, grinding deep into Dean's ass as he came.

The morning after
The bathtub is full, water gurgling down the overflow, when Sam finally stands up and reaches for the soap. He remembers Dean dancing with half the bar and the insane jealousy that led to shoving Dean against a wall and kissing him. He remembers Dean telling him not to, and he remembers doing it anyway. He wants to sink back down into the tub face first and never come out again. But he also remembers Dean accusing Sam of abandoning him, and Sam has no desire to prove him right. He hopes when he gets out of the shower, Dean will be gone.

That is, of course, far too much to wish for. Just after Sam opens the tub's drain so he doesn't flood the bathroom, Dean opens the door and comes in.

"Gave up on you ever actually finishing, so you're gonna have to share," Dean says, peeking around the shower curtain. "Some asshole jizzed all over me, and made me sleep in the wet spot."

Sam finds himself backing into the corner as Dean climbs into the tub. He feels trapped. Hampered by the water sloshing around his shins, hemmed in by Dean who is now between him and any escape.

"I—" What the hell is he supposed to say? I'm sorry seems ridiculously inadequate, Why the hell did you let me do that? lays the blame on the wrong person, Do you want to leave, or do you want me to? brings up possibilities Sam can't actually bring himself to voice aloud.

"Yes, you." Dean tips his head back under the spray, massaging his scalp with his fingers, making his hair slick against his head.

Sam ducks around Dean's elbow and escapes, not caring that he splashes the whole bathroom as he does. He barely remembers to grab a towel as he flees.

Desperate to not be naked when Dean comes out again, Sam hardly dries himself enough to make pulling his clothes on possible. He has the towel over his head drying his hair when he hears the thump of the water going off. It takes considerable willpower to uncover his face and actually look at his brother when the bathroom door opens.

"You gonna get all emo about this?" Dean asks, nonchalant, like he's not wearing nothing but a towel, and referring to the fact that Sam fucked him and then passed out.

"I'm sorry," Sam finally says, inadequate or not.

"Dick move, not even using a condom. There are at least three right there with the lube."

Sam's face goes up in flames and he feels like he's going to throw up. Hangover plus humiliation equals not a good combination.

"Guess I went a little overboard on the trying to make you jealous front," Dean says.

"You—" Dean was trying to— "On the what?"

"You've been staring at me for months. Driving me crazy." Dean pulls his towel from around his hips and starts drying his hair. "I thought I was imagining things. Jess, and well—this is a really fucking bad idea, anyway. But—I don't know, I just wanted to see what you'd do, I guess."

Sam can't tell if he's finding it so hard to follow Dean because of what he's saying or because he's standing there naked, Sam's teeth marks stark against his chest.

"I never actually thought you'd do anything," Dean continues when Sam just stares at him. Then, "Looking at you now, you can't blame me."

He smirks, and Sam realizes that the whole standing there naked thing isn't casual at all, and that Dean just called him a chickenshit for not taking advantage of it. Dean is only about two feet from the foot of his bed, and it only takes three steps for Sam to reach him and shove him backwards.

Dean lands with an ooof and a grin on his face. Sam follows him down.